She had opened her handbag, looking for a hanky to wipe a stray tear, when she saw Frank Kennedy’s tall frame coming through the crowds. She lifted a hand to wave at him, and was shocked at the overwhelming relief she felt when he waved back and came rushing towards her.
“Have you been waiting long?” he asked anxiously, sitting down beside her. His piercing blue eyes took in every inch of her beautiful, but pale face. He felt such a strong, physical stirring just looking at her. No woman – and there had been plenty – had had such an effect on him. She touched every erotic feeling he had in his body, and every fantasy he had in his mind. He swallowed hard. God knows how he would feel when he was finally allowed to touch her
“No,” she whispered, “I just arrived a few minutes ago.”
“Would you like something to eat?”
“No, thanks. I’m not very hungry.”
“You said that this was your first time flying – are you nervous?”
Tara shrugged and gave him a weak smile. “I haven’t really had time to think about it, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
He took the plane tickets out of his inside pocket. “If we check in now, we’ll have time for a coffee or a drink before we board.”
Later, when Frank was at the bar, Tara thought how lucky she was to have met him now. How would she have managed all of this without him? It was amazing how he had walked into her life at the right time. When she thought about the times she had turned him down, been almost rude to him – and yet he had still come back. He was definitely a persistent man, one who did not give up easily.
She looked across the airport lounge at him now. She found herself examining the way his pinstripe suit jacket hung perfectly on his square shoulders. As he turned towards her, carefully balancing a tray, an unexpected warmth ran through her body, and she suddenly realised that in spite of her earlier misgivings, she was actually attracted to him. In fact she was extremely attracted to him. This was indeed a revelation to her, because Gabriel Fitzgerald was the only male who had ever had that effect on her.
“I’ve just been thinking,” he said, putting the laden tray on the table. “Wouldn’t it make more sense if you stayed in Dublin tonight?” Frank lifted a small bottle of red wine and a glass and placed them in front of Tara, then did the same for himself. Then he put a plate with sausage rolls and sandwiches between them on the table. “I don’t think you’ll have much luck getting a train down to Tullamore by the time we arrive in Dublin,” he explained. “I would be happy to run you down. I’m picking up a car at the airport – but unfortunately I have a business dinner this evening and it could be very late by the time it’s over.”
“I hadn’t given a thought about getting down the country,” Tara confessed, her face flushing at the oversight. “Everything has happened so quickly.”
“I’m booked in at one of the hotels in the centre of Dublin,” he told her, “and it will only take a phone call from the airport to book another room. I’m free tomorrow and I can run you down to Offaly then.”
“No . . . that would only inconvenience you,” she protested. “I can catch a train down easily.”
“Have you told your family when you’re arriving in Offaly?”
“No. The priest in Stockport said he would phone back to Ballygrace, and let them know that I would be down for the funeral at some point over the weekend.”
“So they’re not expecting you tonight?”
Tara shook her head. “They’re the sort who’ll just take me when I arrive.”
“Frank Kennedy!” a distinctly Irish accent suddenly boomed from across the airport lounge. A short, portly man was making his way across the room towards them. “Bejaysus, it’s yourself indeed! Is this you off home for the weekend?”
Frank quickly got to his feet. “I won’t be a minute,” he told Tara, his brow suddenly furrowed. He went across to meet the man but, instead of bringing him to join them at the table, he guided the older man towards the bar.
* * *
The Shelbourne Hotel was beautiful. Not wishing to let Frank know that she had never stayed overnight in a hotel before, Tara stood quietly while he organised a single room for her. She again wondered about him. About the great ease with which he did everything. As though he were born into such a gracious lifestyle.
So far, Tara had purposely kept things impersonal but had overheard some of the things he had told Biddy about himself. According to what he had said, he was reared in County Clare, in an ordinary family. And yet, from the casual manner he displayed towards the manager, and the confident way he was signing the hotel register – he looked as though he had been brought up in a family like the Fitzgeralds.
At the thought of poor Madeleine and her father, the dreaded feeling of sadness and guilt washed all over her again, making her feel quite weak.
“Are you all right?” Frank Kennedy held out a key with her room number attached to it.
“Yes,” Tara lied, “I’m grand.” How could she explain to him the guilt she felt about neglecting her sick friend, and the fact Madeleine had died not even knowing where Tara was?
Tara’s bedroom was beautifully furnished and decorated, and spacious for a single room. Frank’s room was right next door. The fact that he was so close did not bother her, and she had not flinched when he told her. Not so long ago it would have bothered her a great deal, but she knew – without a doubt – that Frank Kennedy expected nothing from her at present.
From the first time he had spoken to her, he had confessed to finding her beautiful, sophisticated and intelligent. But she had known all that, even before the words had formed on his lips. William Fitzgerald had opened her eyes as to how men act when they lust over a woman. She had not been mature or experienced enough to recognise it at the time – but she had grown up very quickly, these past few months.
Frank apologised profusely about having to leave her alone in the hotel while he attended his meeting, but Tara told him she would be perfectly fine on her own.
“I’m not very good company at the moment,” she said. “I might have a walk around the city later on, and then I’ll have something to eat.”
“You’re sure?” he checked, knowing that she would cope perfectly well on her own. He found Tara Flynn’s independence quite refreshing. Most of the women he knew – much older, and much more worldly – would not feel comfortable in a hotel or even a cafe by themselves. But then, Tara Flynn was not like any of those other women. And that was the very thing that held his attention. That, and her obvious physical attractions, which put her in a league of her own.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kitty burst into tears when she opened the door and found Tara on the doorstep on Sunday afternoon. When she walked into the cottage, Mick’s face turned a deeper shade of red than usual and when he stood to give her a hug, he almost squeezed the life out of her.
Moments later, the older couple suddenly became very formal, when they noticed Frank Kennedy standing by his black shiny car. In the midst of even the most terrible crisis, they always remembered their place in life. Just by the look of his car and his clothes, they knew that Tara’s companion was a cut above them.
Around four o’clock, after a cup of tea and a slice of Kitty’s home-made apple tart, Frank excused himself, saying that he would drive into Tullamore and find himself a hotel or lodgings for the night. “I’ll call back for you about half-past six,” he told Tara when she came out to see him off.
“Look, you don’t have to come to the church with me,” she said quietly. “You don’t even know the family and apart from me you won’t know a soul.”
“What else would I be doing?” he replied. “I’d like to come with you . . . if it’s not pushing in.”
Tara hesitated for a moment. “That’s fine. I’ll see you at half-past six then.” As she waved him off, she pushed away thoughts of how incredible it was that Frank Kennedy should be in Ballygrace at all. Less than a week ago, she
wouldn’t have given him the time of day, and yet now she felt she had known and depended on him all her life. Not since her granda had another person looked after her the way he was doing now.
When Frank arrived back, Tara asked him to leave the car at the cottage, for she knew that there were so few cars round the village it would only command great attention. Attention she was desperate to avoid.
“I know it’s probably the wrong time and place to say it,” Frank whispered as they walked along behind Mick and Kitty, “but you look beautiful in black – the mantilla really brings out the red in your hair.”
“Thank you,” Tara said quietly. She stared straight ahead, thinking that it was indeed the wrong time to say such a thing. But telling him so would not make the situation any better.
They walked along in silence, then after a few minutes Frank whispered: “Are you all right?”
“It’s very difficult,” Tara said quietly. “It’s just about the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do.”
“The girl – was she a very close friend?”
“Yes,” Tara sighed. “I’ve known Madeleine since I started school, and we’ve been friends since then. I worked in her father’s auctioneering office, before moving to England. Madeleine had been very ill. She was in hospital in Dublin . . . with some sort of mental illness. I had been staying at Ballygrace House just before that, looking after her.” Tara said nothing about Gabriel Fitzgerald. What was there to say in any case?
“I’m very sorry.” Frank sounded awkward for the first time since they had met.
Then they came in sight of the church and the crowds that were lining the streets waiting for the hearses to come from the mortuary in Tullamore. The Fitzgeralds were the most important family in Ballygrace and people from far and wide had travelled for the funeral.
Tara’s heart sank at the thought of having to join all these people – people who had gossiped about her and sniped behind her back. Of course, no one would say a word to her face. That was not the way they worked. She had checked with Mick and Kitty earlier in the afternoon as to whether people had said anything after she had left Ballygrace for England.
“No – not a word – in all honesty,” Kitty had blustered. “The odd one might have asked how you were keeping, and how young Biddy was – but nobody said anything direct.”
Tara had not questioned them any further, knowing that if anything had been said, her uncle and his wife would say nothing, to save her feelings.
Hot tears welled up in Tara’s eyes now, making the crowds of people ahead disappear in a watery blur.
“Here – here you are.” Frank handed her a white starched handkerchief, which had been well laundered by the fussy woman who looked after the domestic side of his life in Stockport. “You can keep it.”
Tara dabbed at her eyes and nose. “I still can’t take it in. I can’t believe they’re dead . . . that I won’t ever see Madeleine again.” Her voice disappeared into a whisper. “I should have gone to see her before I moved to England, or at least written to her. I feel so guilty!”
Frank put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Now why should you feel guilty? You had nothing to do with the accident – nobody had. It was an act of God. Only he knows why it happened.”
After a few moments, Tara eased away from his arm. Then she pulled the black veil down so that it covered her eyes. Apart from her own appearance at the funeral, she knew that Frank Kennedy’s polished appearance, his expensive pinstripe suit and his confident demeanour, would attract the curious eyes. To be seen with a wealthy-looking stranger’s arm around her, would definitely cause a stir among the mourners.
She had noticed the curious looks on Mick and Kitty’s faces when she brought him into the cottage, and as soon as he left, she explained who he was. Tara had elaborated on the fact that he was an important client of Thornley’s Estate Agents, and had then lied, saying that her boss had arranged the lift with Frank Kennedy from Dublin. She said nothing about having arrived in Ireland the previous evening, or about staying in the Shelbourne hotel.
They walked along the road, Tara looking straight ahead, until they heard Mick call to them from the crowd. They joined him and Kitty, and then they waited until the two hearses could be seen coming along in the distance.
As they were unloading the coffins from the big black hearses, the mourners quietly filed into the church. Kitty ushered Tara and the two men in with the first crowd, to make sure they got a seat. There were so many people there, that a large number would spill out into the churchyard.
Tara slipped into a seat at the back of the church, pulling the lace mantilla further down over her eyes. She then knelt down, closed her eyes, and tried hard to concentrate on saying a prayer for Madeleine and her father’s souls. Her efforts proved futile. Every time Tara got halfway through a prayer for the dead, a dreadful picture of a drunken William Fitzgerald formed behind her closed lids.
Later, when the church was full, the congregation stood up and then the organ started to play a slow, mournful hymn. The two coffins were carried in one after the other.
The sight of the coffins and the sad music brought scalding tears to Tara’s eyes. Then, she felt a terrible crushing feeling in her chest, when she caught sight of the familiar blond hair. Gabriel Fitzgerald, tall and dignified, walked behind the polished mahogany procession, supporting his mother on his arm. When they passed her by, Tara’s eyes were wide and stunned when she realised that Elisha Fitzgerald was very obviously pregnant.
Tara’s heart began to beat rapidly and her throat ran dry. Surely Kitty must have known about Madeleine’s mother? Why hadn’t she written and told her?
My God . . . Tara thought. What if . . . what if that dreadful night had resulted in me being made pregnant by William Fitzgerald? What would it have done to this poor, tired-looking woman? A woman who looked too old and too weary to become a mother again. What would it have done to Elisha Fitzgerald’s mind, to have known that her husband had raped a young virginal girl?
Apart from the issue of a possible pregnancy, Tara knew that if Elisha ever found out about the rape, it could quite easily push her over the edge. It could make her mentally ill, especially after losing her husband and daughter. And then, what would have happened to the poor innocent baby Elisha was carrying? There was only Gabriel left in the family to shoulder all that pain, should the truth behind Tara’s disappearance ever become known.
Tara lifted her eyes up now to the altar, in front of which the two coffins were now being placed on metal stands. They would stay there overnight – side by side – in the empty, dark church. She stared at the gleaming, expensive coffins, and thought of the father and daughter encased within.
She thought of Madeleine riding her pony, Madeleine at her eighteenth party, Madeleine ranting and raving about going to the Missions. She thought of the crushed and broken Madeleine in the coffin, ready for her final journey. Then, she thought of William Fitzgerald and how he had cried the night he took her virginity – and how he had cried like a wounded animal the following morning.
Tara looked up above the altar now, to the broken figure nailed to the cross. As she stared at the sorrowful, familiar effigy, Tara vowed that Elisha Fitzgerald would never know anything about that terrible night.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Biddy stared across the kitchen table at the slim, blonde girl. She felt like throttling her, as the girl sipped daintily from a cup of tea and then took a long, dramatic drag on her cigarette. Sally Taylor had only been in her aunt’s lodging house for one night, and yet she was acting as if she owned the place already.
“I’ll have another cup of tea, Biddy, if you’ve any left in the pot,” Sally said in a strong Liverpool accent. Then, without even looking at Biddy, she slid her cup across the table.
“I’m not too sure about all this business,” Ruby said to her niece. “I don’t want your mother coming over here, blamin’ me for you leavin’ home.”
“She won’t,” Sally said, narrowing her eyes against the cigarette smoke. “They’re glad to get rid of me. Now she’s gorra new boyfriend, she’ll want the house to herself.”
“The thing is,” Ruby said, examining her newly painted red nails, “I’m not sure if this house is the best place for you. Apart from Biddy here and her friend Tara – there’s only workin’ lads in the house.”
“You said you liked it here, didn’t you?” Sally said accusingly to Biddy. “You said last night that it was a good laugh here with all the lads.”
Biddy’s face coloured up. Sally Taylor had been introduced to her the previous night, when Biddy had finished a late Saturday shift at the Grosvenor. She had stayed on until around twelve, having a few drinks in the bar with Fred, and then she had walked home. The Babychams she had drunk had made her relaxed and chatty, and she had sat up for another hour, drinking tea and telling Sally how much she loved Stockport and living in Ruby’s house.
Sally had sat quietly, taking in everything that Biddy had to say, and then she announced that she was thinking of moving into her aunt’s lodging house permanently. “She wouldn’t charge me anythin’ until I found a job, and then she wouldn’t look for much – bein’ that me mam’s her sister, like.” She had puffed on her cigarette. “Yeah, old Ruby would let me have the run of the place. I could come and go as I like here.”
From that minute, Biddy started to feel uneasy. She and Ruby got on very well, and Biddy had taken to telling the others in the hotel that the landlady was like the mother she never knew. In fact, living in Sweeney’s boarding house, Biddy was happier than she had ever been in her life. She had her best friend with her, and although Tara nagged a bit she was easy got round, and when Tara was out, she could have a good laugh with all the lads.
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