Now she stared at the paints in front of her. What was she supposed to do with this? She didn’t particularly wish to paint pictures, but she didn’t want to upset Mrs. Martin, who was very kind to her. Hesitantly she picked up a brush and dipped it in the blue paint. With the brush dripping she slid it across the clean white paper. As she usually did when she drew, she made a face. Two dots for eyes. A dot for a nose. And a curved line for a mouth. She made the face smiling this time. She dipped the brush in the red. And she retraced her steps by painting over the blue face, covering it in red. It turned the face a purplish color.
Pleased with the effect she created, Mara continued painting smiling faces and mixing different colors. When one sheet of paper was filled with her creations, she pushed it to the side and filled a second. The mix of colors fascinated her. Blue, red, purple. Yellow, blue, green. Yellow, red, orange. Blue, red, purple. Yellow, blue, green. Yellow, red, orange.
She heard Mrs. Martin humming a tune. It was a different tune than she usually sang, but Mara recognized it. She’d heard it before. A long time ago perhaps. It reminded her of Ireland. Of home. As she listened to the vaguely familiar melody, she continued her little paint drawings. Yellow, red, orange. Her swirling lines became thicker, heavier, darker, bolder. Yellow, red, orange.
So lost in creating her pictures was she, she didn’t hear Papa come in to the nursery to see her. Startled to realize he was standing behind her, she dropped the paintbrush and stood up on the chair, wrapping her arms around his neck. He held her close.
“Mara, darlin’,” he whispered. “What are you up to today? Painting pictures? Let’s take a look!”
He released her, and she scrambled back down in her chair, pointing to the still-wet sheets of her paintings. She waited for Papa to exclaim over her colorful efforts. When he said nothing, she looked up at him. A most peculiar expression was on his face.
He turned to Mrs. Martin. “Did you give her these paints?”
Mrs. Martin walked toward them, smiling. “Yes. I thought it might be fun for her. She’s been busily painting for the last half hour—oh, my goodness!” The woman covered her mouth with her hand as she looked at Mara’s paintings.
Papa’s brow furrowed. “I know. It’s odd, isn’t it?”
“Well, perhaps it’s a way for her to express her feelings . . .”
Mara didn’t like that they were discussing her as if she wasn’t there. She stared at the paintings she had created. What was wrong with them? Lots of colorful faces. And she especially enjoyed the blue, red, purple and the yellow, blue, green waves. She had made rainbows, too.
Papa picked up one sheet of paper filled with swirls of yellow, red, and orange, and held it carefully.
“Flames. She painted flames.” His voice was almost a whisper.
Mara stood up on the chair again. She hadn’t painted flames. She didn’t like fire. They were just pretty swirls, petals of bright orange, red, and yellow flowers. At least that was what she had intended.
Papa put the picture back down on the table and grabbed her to him. He hugged her tight, almost squeezing the breath out of her. She hoped she hadn’t upset him. She hadn’t meant to.
He released her, after kissing the top of her head, and asked, “Do you want to go to the bookshop today?”
She smiled and nodded her head eagerly.
Papa said, “You can paint again later if you want, when we come home.”
“Let me get her cleaned up first, Lord Cashelmore,” Mrs. Martin interjected. “You can’t take her out looking like this!”
Obediently, Mara took Mrs. Martin’s hand and allowed her to wash the sticky paint from her fingers. She had tried to be a good girl and be neat with the paint, but she found herself covered in red and yellow. Mrs. Martin made her change her dress, too.
Soon she was skipping along beside Papa on their way to the bookshop and Mara wondered what surprise Miss Hamilton would have for her today. She always seemed to know exactly what kind of book Mara liked. And she would much rather go to the bookshop with Papa than go to visit those dreadful doctors he dragged her to each week. They poked and prodded her with strange-looking instruments, peering into her mouth and ears and asking her silly questions, which of course she wouldn’t answer. Then Papa and the doctors would whisper and talk about her as if she weren’t there.
“What do you think?” Papa would ask each one of them.
“There doesn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with her. She’s been through a traumatic experience to be sure. I would think her problems are more psychosomatic in nature.”
Then they would discuss various therapies. One angry-looking doctor asked Papa to leave Mara there with him, and that he would straighten Mara out soon enough. Thankfully, Papa disagreed. But they left each office with no more information than when they went in.
Sometimes, Mara simply wanted to whisper to Papa to stop taking her to doctors and she’d be just fine. But he never became cross or frustrated with her. He just hugged her and told her everything would be all right. And that’s why she loved him so much.
They entered Hamilton’s Book Shoppe and the bell over the door jingled. The very sound made Mara happy.
She was a bit disappointed when Miss Hamilton was not there at the counter to greet them. A familiar black-haired woman she had seen before stood in her place.
“Welcome to Hamilton’s!” she called to them with a smile. “How can I help you today?”
“We were hoping Miss Hamilton could help us choose a book for Mara,” Papa said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
“She’s not here at the moment. I can assist you though,” the lady offered.
Mara could hear the surprise and disappointment in Papa’s voice as he said, “Oh, we won’t trouble you. Do you mind if we browse in the children’s section for a bit?”
“No, not at all.” She nodded at them. “Please take your time.”
Papa hesitated. “Do you know if Miss Hamilton will be in the shop at all today?”
The lady shook her head. “I’m not sure. She’s with her sister, overseeing plans at the site of their new store.”
“I see. Thank you very much.”
She walked with Papa toward the back of the shop to the children’s section. Mara let go of his hand and scurried to one of the little tables. Some picture books were stacked in the center of the table and Mara chose one. Papa came and knelt beside her. That heavy sad look was in his eyes again. She kissed his cheek and he smiled at her.
“Is this the book you want to read?”
She nodded.
“All right then.” He propped himself on one of the little chairs and Mara climbed onto his lap. Opening the book, he began to read to her, his voice soothing and calm.
“A—Apple Pie and Other Nursery Tales,” he read the title of the leather-bound book. “A, Apple pie. B, Bit it. C, Cut it.”
It was a book about the alphabet and Mara loved learning about her letters. She wanted to try writing them. Maybe she would try it with her paints later when they returned home. In the meantime, she listened to the story. Papa had gotten through the whole alphabet, read about the cats’ tea party, this little pig went to market, the three bears, and was all the way into the story of Red Riding Hood, when Miss Hamilton rushed over to them.
“I was so afraid I’d missed you,” she said, rather breathless. Her blue eyes were wide and she still held her reticule in her hand. Miss Hamilton barely noticed Mara, her eyes on Papa alone.
Papa gently lifted Mara off his lap, set her in her own chair, and slid the book over to her. He moved quickly to Miss Hamilton’s side. That happy expression came over his face and it was the first time Mara associated it with Miss Hamilton. That intrigued her. She had thought the bookshop was making Papa happy, but now she thought it might be Miss Hamilton, too. Mara’s mouth opened in awe.
The two of them whispered low, using voices that Mara knew meant they did not want her to know what they were talking about. But she
could still hear them. She flipped the pages back to look at the pictures of the funny cats wearing suits again, but she listened intently to what Papa and Miss Hamilton were saying to each other.
“I was afraid I had missed you, too,” he said, taking Miss Hamilton’s hand in his. “You look so beautiful, Paulette. I hope you are you feeling well today.”
“I’m wonderful.” She beamed at him, her cheeks turning a warm pink. “Completely wonderful.”
“No regrets about last night?”
“No. None whatsoever. It was truly lovely.”
“I’m relieved to hear you say that. I’ve been worried that you—”
Their voices dropped even lower and they took a few steps away from her, their heads close together. Mara could no longer make out the words, although she could hear the murmur of their voices. It was just as well. They were talking in riddles, as grown-ups often did, about things that didn’t make any sense. Mama had always talked in riddles and she never liked that. That’s what was so good about Papa. He spoke to her as if she understood.
Sighing, Mara flipped the illustrated pages in her book, still surprised by the secret that she had just uncovered.
Miss Hamilton made Papa happy.
Chapter 17
Shadows
“Why should we care what happens to him? He killed our sister,” Deirdre Ryan Hollingsworth uttered with distaste. Her once attractive face was pinched into a bitter frown, making her appear far older than her thirty-five years.
“I thought you might have some interest in what he is doing in London,” Gerald O’Rourke remarked. He and Alice had invited Declan’s in-laws to Cashelmore Manor for the week to see what information they could glean about the investigation. However, Margaret’s two sisters had proven themselves to be as miserable as he had always declared them to be.
But then again, Gerald had always known that.
He had been somewhat fond of Declan’s young wife at the start of it all. Margaret Ryan had been sweet and obliging, and quite nice to look at. But in a surprisingly short amount of time she had grown overly tiresome with her whining and complaining. Gerald had in all good conscience warned his cousin not to become involved with her and her horrid family before he wedded her. The last thing Gerald needed was a nasty set of in-laws to deal with, as well as possible heirs. In any case, Declan was far too young to marry. But had Declan heeded Gerald’s advice or warnings? No. He was too blinded by Margaret’s silvery cool beauty to see any of the negative qualities she possessed. And she had quite a few of them.
So did her sisters, Deirdre and Ellen, sitting there looking more and more like a pair of old crows. They had both been attractive at one time, but it seemed their younger sister had inherited all of the beauty in the family.
“Well, then,” Ellen Ryan Hanlon sniped. Her face was as lined and pinched with bitterness as Deirdre’s. “What do you have to tell us about him? I thought that was why you dragged us back to Cashelmore Manor. To tell us something. I do hope it’s important.”
Gerald and his wife Alice exchanged looks across the elegant parlor where they sat having tea with the Ryan sisters.
Alice asked, “Have you no interest in your young niece?”
“Of course, I do!” Deirdre exclaimed sulkily. “I tried my best to keep her here! I offered to take care of her and raise her like my own. She is poor Margaret’s only child. Of course I wanted her. But he wouldn’t let me have her. ‘There’s no way in hell I would let a bitch like you take my daughter,’ were his exact words to me, if you must know. I haven’t seen or spoken to Declan Reeves since. He was off to London the next day with Mara and I’ve washed my hands of him completely.”
“Yes, what happens to him now is up to the authorities,” Ellen added with a smug grin, folding her long fingers primly in her lap. Her pale blond hair was pulled tightly back from her face and she wore a high-necked black gown, still in mourning for her sister.
“Well, what have you heard regarding Declan’s standing?” Gerald asked, wishing he had some whiskey to settle his nerves. He needed liquor to deal with these women.
Ellen was only too happy to expound the news. “They’re close to bringing charges against him.”
Gerald made an effort to appear worried and anxious and not expose his delight. “That’s shocking! Have you any idea when that will be?”
“It’s not up to us,” Deirdre interjected. She too wore a black silk mourning gown, her ash blond hair piled upon her head. “If it were up to us, he’d be swinging from a rope by now or at the very least behind bars already. However, the authorities assured us that it shouldn’t be much longer. They are just waiting on some new evidence.”
“What evidence?” Alice asked, her sharp brown eyes narrowing.
Gerald didn’t like the sound of that at all. What new evidence could they have come upon? Kenmare House had been all but destroyed by the fire that night. He was lucky to have escaped unscathed himself. There was virtually nothing left of the place. Where could they have gotten new evidence from at this late stage? He tried to calm his quickening pulse. This could ruin everything. God, he wanted a drink.
He and Alice exchanged another knowing glance. His wife was more than aware of the risks involved in their venture to gain the title of Earl of Cashelmore. The title that rightfully belonged to him. At least in his eyes.
Ellen continued, “They’ve been investigating the ruins of Kenmare House for months and they have finally determined that the fire was deliberately set. Not accidental as they first presumed.”
Gerald felt beads of perspiration breaking out down his back. He sipped his tea wishing there was whiskey in it.
“How would they know it was deliberately set?” Alice asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, but they do,” Ellen said. “I’ve known all along that fire was no accident. And who else had a motive to get rid of poor Margaret other than Declan?”
“No one, that’s who!” Deirdre cried indignantly. “But they’ll get him yet. Mark my words. Declan Reeves will be punished for murdering my sweet baby sister.” Deirdre’s hard eyes glittered in triumph.
“They’re sure it was Declan then?” Gerald asked, hoping against hope the final event would happen sooner rather than later. So far there had been no suspicions of his involvement, which relieved him greatly. He wanted Declan in prison before the year was out. That was the plan for now. Then Cashelmore Manor and all that entailed would finally belong to Gerald.
“Of course!” Ellen joined in. “So go ahead and warn your cousin. He can run from the law, but he can’t hide for long. They will bring him in.”
“And once that fiend is in the gaol where he belongs, I’ll finally get Mara,” Deirdre couldn’t help but add with an emphatic nod of her pinched face.
“What else did you have to tell us, Gerald?” Ellen questioned, her expression returning to its usual sour state. “About Declan? Did he say anything to you when you saw him in London?”
“I asked him if he were going to come home, and as you can see with me here overseeing Cashelmore, he is not planning on returning to Ireland anytime soon. I suggested it might be best for Mara if she comes home to be with her family, but he disagreed. He wants to keep her in London to consult with doctors who specialize in this sort of thing.”
“Of course it would be best for Mara to come home and be with her family, instead of alone with him in London amidst strangers,” said Deirdre, her voice dripping with scorn.
“Why would he come home anyway?” Ellen pointed out. “He knows they will take him into custody as soon as he does. In spite of all I say about him, Declan is not foolish enough to do that.”
“Can they demand that he come home?” Alice asked, rising from her seat on the sofa and pouring more tea.
Gerald thought Alice looked as if she were born at Cashelmore, in her fashionable new gown of amber-colored silk. His wife was as beautiful and elegant as any countess, if not more so. She deserved to be the mistress of a home as grand a
s this and Gerald desperately wanted to be able to give that to her.
“If they gather the right evidence, they may very well demand that he return,” Ellen answered.
“It’s coming up on a year now since the fire,” Deirdre said with a petulant frown. “I do wish they would hurry up.”
“It pains me to be the one to tell you ladies this . . .” Gerald began, knowing very well this information would send the Ryan sisters out of their minds. “Sometimes I am ashamed of my cousin. It has been brought to my attention that Declan is . . . consorting . . . with a London shopgirl.”
“Oh, dear God in heaven!” Ellen and Deirdre cried in unison.
Ellen looked as if she might faint. “It hasn’t even been a year since poor Margaret has been in her grave and he’s . . . with another woman,” she added, her voice filled with disgust.
Deirdre slammed her bony hand on the table. “It’s insulting to us and to Margaret! That’s what it is!”
“It’s a sad state of affairs,” Ellen bemoaned, “when a man can murder his wife and then behave as if he hadn’t a care in the world.”
“Men can be that way,” Alice added, shaking her head in feigned sympathy.
Gerald sighed. “Well, you know I feel just dreadful about what happened to sweet Margaret. I loved her like a sister. Even though Declan is my dearest cousin and only living relative, I must admit things look bad for him. Unfortunately all signs seem to point to him as the cause of Margaret’s death. And when I think that poor young Mara might have perished too that night, I become sick to my stomach.”
“As for myself, I feel as if I can’t hold up my head, for the shame that Declan has brought upon our family.” Alice managed to bring tears to her eyes, dabbing at them with a monogrammed handkerchief. Gerald wanted to applaud.
“Well, think how we must feel!” Ellen cried in outrage.
To Tempt an Irish Rogue Page 15
