The Last Killiney

by J. Jay Kamp

  * * *

  She felt a little awkward about joining him for dinner. Not because it was in his private apartments—which, perhaps, she should have at least paused over—but rather because of the books he brought to the table with him. The man was indeed obsessed. As Ravenna was served a French-looking appetizer from the hotel’s kitchen, David propped up a country house volume beside his plate; he picked up a fork, and without eating a single bite, he began to read. Out loud.

  It was something about his ancestors, a man named Christopher whose marriage to a commoner was the source of many rumors. Ravenna listened…a little. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning. The French-looking appetizer was calling her name, and as she dug into it greedily, she didn’t care much about Christopher Hallett.

  “So Killiney,” she said, breaking into David’s recitation, “he went on Vancouver’s voyage, right? In 1791?”

  “He died on that voyage, yes.”

  Ravenna stopped chewing. “He died on Vancouver’s voyage?”

  “Somewhere.” Peering down at the illustrations, David added mysteriously, “Maybe James will tell us where.”

  She squished her brows. “What do you mean?”

  “James had a safe. It’s in the library under the wallpaper. You never know what you’ll find when you de-Victorianize a five-hundred-year-old house, do you?”

  “And you haven’t opened it? The safe, I mean?”

  “We’ve only just found it. I’ve got a specialist in antique locks coming next month. Seems we can’t get it open without breaking the thing, so no, we haven’t opened it yet.”

  Ravenna imagined the contents of that safe. Indian artifacts, rare jewels, maybe even the most valuable of treasures, historic information. “You think James wrote about Killiney’s death?”

  “Look,” David said, and he flattened the book firmly, “let me just read this before I answer any more questions, all right? It says ‘Augustus James, Lord Broughton (later fourth Marquess Wolvesfield) was also known for his association with the explorer, George Vancouver. When James accompanied this famous captain to the North Pacific in 1791—’”

  “So this is about Killiney’s death?”

  “Just listen,” David said. “‘Vancouver planned to find the legendary Northwest Passage. No doubt James found this prospect attractive, given his interest in the Royal Society; participating in Vancouver’s voyage would virtually guarantee him fellowship. Indeed, James left behind title and privilege to pursue these interests, for his father died just prior to the expedition’s departure in what would become known as the Armistead Affair—’”

  “Right, Armistead,” Ravenna said impatiently, “but can’t you skip to the part where it talks about Killiney?”

  David shot her an irritated glance. “If you’re going to be that way,” he said, and turning the page in such a fashion she knew she’d upset him, he began again. “‘Lord Killiney of Swallowhill, Dublin, also accompanied Vancouver’s voyage. Although his seafaring experience was, like James’s, limited to touring…’”

  David paused, skimming ahead in the book, and Ravenna found herself asking again, “What about his death? Does it say anything about how he died?”

  “‘Like the sketches he’d made for Vancouver’s journals, Lord Killiney, too, did not survive. While Discovery awaited the return of the Chatham, Vancouver paid a visit to the local Indian village. As Vancouver’s hosts were in every appearance friendly, the captain observed no special precautions in sending Killiney on a hunting excursion following the course of a nearby river. There he and James were ambushed by an Indian group.’”

  “He was killed by Native Americans?”

  David shook his head. “Native Canadians. It says, ‘So it was that while Vancouver partook of the natives’ hospitality only a few miles away, Lord Killiney was shot dead. His body was taken into the forest, never to be recovered. And while James escaped to the Discovery with his life, he did not remain there. He set out on foot for the Spanish fort at Nootka Sound—’”

  “So they were on Vancouver Island?”

  “Somewhere,” David said, “but here’s where it talks about you. It reads, ‘James was accompanied on this journey to Nootka by his elder sister, and indeed, nothing about Lord Killiney would seem half so important without understanding his relationship to her. Elizabeth and Killiney were engaged to be married. It was widely known that James’s sister accompanied the voyage to be with her fiancé, and even conceived of a son shortly before Killiney’s demise.’”

  “A son?” She couldn’t help interrupting him again. “We had a baby? Killiney and Elizabeth had a child?”

  “It’s more complicated than it sounds. It says, ‘A fourth character must be added at this point, for it was never made clear who had fathered this child, Killiney or the rakish Earl of Launceston, for he, too, took part in the expedition. Launceston was known to have escorted Elizabeth from Nootka Sound to the Leeward Islands where, in late 1792, he asked for her hand. She’d barely been Launceston’s wife for two months before bearing him an heir, a son named Elijah Paul.

  “‘This child was probably Killiney’s, or at least Launceston seemed to think as much if one should judge from his letters. And although Killiney’s seat at Swallowhill devolved upon a niece whose husband adopted the name of Henley, his viscountcy became extinct.

  “‘Lord Launceston was not to last much longer,’” David said, and Ravenna leaned over her plate intently. “‘Elizabeth’s son succeeded to the earldom at the tender age of two months when Launceston, having gained a reputation for debt and debauchery, was challenged to a duel and—’”

  “Killed, right?” Ravenna frowned dismally. “But the book doesn’t say who won the duel? Nobody knows?”

  “‘Local legend claims it was Killiney’s ghost. Other sources tell of Elizabeth cherishing the memory of Killiney far more than her roguish husband, driving Launceston mad with jealousy and so inviting an unnamed protector to defend Elizabeth from his abuse.

  “‘Whichever the real story, what is certain is how Lord Launceston died. He bled to death. The seventeenth-century rapier reputed to have delivered the fatal wound now hangs on the wall at Wolvesfield House, the identity of its owner having never been determined.’”

  David snapped the book shut. “And the rest just goes on about James’s travels in Honduras,” he said, stretching his arms, “but that’s all there is about Elizabeth and Killiney. Christian, on the other hand—”

  But Ravenna wasn’t listening. Her host chattered on about Christian’s picture in the National Gallery, about the shortness of Christian’s life, and all the while Ravenna let her thoughts wander. There was something here that begged to be noticed. It was the way David punctuated his sentences with heavy, swift gestures and stabs of his fork, the comfortable sprawl he displayed at the dinner table. As he went on talking, it persisted, this something, unnerving and familiar, coursing through her attention until she couldn’t hear what he was saying anymore, only how he was saying it: “We gave the National Gallery that painting, so why did they take it upon themselves to decide what year it was painted? And Christian, he wasn’t a furniture maker. I don’t know where…”

  His voice, that’s what it was. Laced with complaining and subtle anger, it stirred something in her. She found herself welcoming it, calling it forth. Suddenly she had the strangest impression—that a transparent photograph had been laid over David, his own picture, a portrait of him dressed in eighteenth-century clothes. It slipped over his features with ease, not quite matching, almost aligning, until finally he looked up and the full strength of his soul pierced her like a knife.

  The picture aligned itself perfectly then. Seeing his blond hair dusted with powder, his gray eyes sharp with insatiable need, she realized they were Christian’s eyes, Christian begging her not to forsake him when all the world pressed him to be something he could not.

  She gasped softly. Was her mind playing tricks on her? Her cousin Alia had said people r
eincarnated in groups, but had the diary and her imagination gotten the better of her senses?

  Then she realized he’d asked her a question. “I’m sorry,” she offered, shaking herself out of her transfixed condition. “What did you say?”

  He almost smiled when he averted his gaze. “I said, do you want to go to Dublin tomorrow? To Swallowhill? Find out who’s filling Killiney’s shoes?”

  For a split second, she heard warning bells—this man, this stranger, wanted to take her on an overnight trip? She’d known him for barely an afternoon. It wouldn’t be the smartest thing, and yet she remembered Alia’s words: Everything happens for a reason, Ravenna.