Muireann finished making her bed, and sat down with Lochlainn and Ciara at the table again for a cup of tea. She could feel her head getting heavy.
Lochlainn looked at her pale face, and tumbled hair, and suggested, "Why don't you go to bed now?"
"No, no, I think I should look at these ledgers first," Muireann said as she took her cup and went over to sit by the fire.
Lochlainn decided to leave her alone for a while to digest the information in her own time. He went into his room to unpack his bag and put away his things, while Ciara cleaned up the supper dishes.
She clattered them so loudly that Lochlainn occasionally looked out to make sure she wasn't smashing ever bit of crockery they owned. She was scrubbing at them so hard it was almost as though she were trying to wash the floral patterns off each dish.
In the end he went over to the basin and, taking up a cloth, removed the dishes one by one from his sister's hands. He dried them thoroughly before putting them back in the oaken sideboard, which was the most impressive piece of furniture in the room, though all of them were of remarkable quality.
Muireann glanced up for a moment to look at the pair, and remarked, "I must say, all of the furnishings are lovely here. Did your father make them?"
"We never knew our father, or our mother. We lost them both when we were very young," Lochlainn said shortly, in a tone which indicated that she had blundered into an area of his life in which she was not welcome.
"As for the furniture, I made it myself. I originally trained as a carpenter, until I decided a proper school education was far more important, and began to learn book-keeping and so on."
Ciara shot her brother a sharp look. Without a word to him or Muireann, she went into her room and shut the door.
Muireann blushed. "I'm sorry, I had no idea." She turned her attention back to the ledgers quickly when she saw Lochlainn's eyes had grown as hard as granite.
He finished drying the dishes, all the while reproaching himself for having been so rude to Muireann, and for having not revealed the whole truth about his parents. He excused this omission by telling himself that he didn't want her to think any less of him than she already did as a result of the poverty of his existence. The word bastard was such an ugly one . . .
But however hard he tried, he couldn't stay annoyed with her blunder, and couldn't keep away from her. He was like a moth compelled to hover around the candle flame. At length Lochlainn approached the hearth and asked, "Can you make heads or tails out of them?"
"Not quite yet, but I think I'm getting a pretty good idea of just how bad things are," Muireann said, briefly glancing up from the book.
"I think we're going to have to hurry up making sense of all this. Once everyone knows Augustine is dead and that you're very young and inexperienced, the creditors will be lining up on the avenue screaming for payment," Lochlainn predicted.
Muireann shut the book with a snap, and returning to the table in the center of the room, took up paper and pen.
"Unless I go see them first. I shall make a list of them tomorrow. But first I shall have to write to my family to tell them the news, and prevent them from coming here on the next boat."
"How do you rate your chances of success in fobbing off any of them?"
Muireann smiled thinly. "I can be very persuasive when I wish to be."
In the end she wrote a quite cheerful letter to her parents, claiming that Augustine's family had welcomed her into their bosom despite the tragedy, and that all the necessary formalities had been arranged discreetly after the terrible accident.
She was stunned to find that the lies rolled onto the paper so easily, but she knew she was fighting for her very survival. If a few falsehoods here and there would help her, fine.
Muireann also wrote to her brother-in-law Neil, telling him of the dreadful state of affairs at Barnakilla, but making him swear not to tell another living soul, especially not her sister Alice.
She knew she was taking a risk, but someone had to know how bad things really were. She found this unbridled outpouring of her heart cathartic, as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Neil would help her keep the place afloat, she was certain.
But though she longed to confide everything in him, she knew she simply couldn't. If she did, Neil would be over in an instant, insisting on her coming home. No, Muireann could never tell another living soul the sorry truth about her dreadful marriage, and the terrifying events which had taken place behind the closed doors of the Gresham until that one pistol ball had at last ended the nightmare. Muireann herself certainly never wanted to think about any of it ever again.
In a final paragraph, she asked about the stocks and shares, and any financial investments in her name, then signed off the letter with a cheerful message to take care of himself and Alice and reply quickly.
She was just sealing this letter when Lochlainn came out of his room.
She glanced up at him nervously as he loomed over her.
"It's very late."
She answered tensely, "I'm just off to bed. Will you show me the house tomorrow? Afterwards we can go into town and see the accountant and the lawyer."
"Of course. But are you sure . . ."
"There's no sense in postponing the inevitable. I'm not a fool, Lochlainn. I've seen Barnakilla in the moonlight, and that was bad enough. Now I need to face up to it in the cold light of day. Besides, you're the one who just finished telling me time was of the essence."
"You're very brave," he said, stroking one curl which tumbled down over her brow.
Muireann stepped away, terrified at the nearness of him, the way she seemed to melt every time he touched her, however gently.
"Not so brave, Lochlainn. I admit I'm frightened at times. But I can't afford to be weak. I can't allow myself to lean too heavily on you. Do you understand?"
Lochlainn stiffened and dropped his hand.
"Yes, Muireann, I do. But you know where to find me if you need me."
She smiled tentatively. "Good night, Lochlainn."
"Good night." He nodded, his eyes never leaving her face until at last he shut his door.
Muireann went into Ciara's room. After unbuttoning the top of her gown, she lay down on the pallet, and forced herself to relax by taking deep breaths. She had wanted Lochlainn to hold her, kiss her. Was it so wrong?
But she sensed Ciara's disapproval of her friendship with Lochlainn, which was obviously growing closer. Lochlainn had touched her hand, arm, or shoulder, sat next to her closely on the bench, indeed, barely ever taken his eyes off her at the meal. Sooner or later people were bound to notice, to gossip.
Muireann could also see how embarrassed he had felt about his poor home, how desperate he had been to make a good impression upon her. The worst of it was, she didn't care about any of those things. But of course to even mention his unease openly would be to risk offending him. She could see he was very proud.
Sadly, Muireann reflected that Lochlainn seemed to assume his accommodations and food weren't good enough. But there were plenty of worse things than a small thatched cottage and rabbit stew, such as being homeless and starving, which was what they would all be if she didn't pull everything together soon.
Muireann rolled over onto her side, and forced herself to think of all the lovely scenery she had passed though on the way from Dublin. All the blue and green of the Fermanagh lakelands. Surely there could be a lot worse places to live. She had seen far bleaker spots in her travels in Scotland over the years. She would succeed. She had to.
Though she tried to block Lochlainn out of her mind, her last waking thoughts were of the torrid kiss they had shared in the coach, and Lochlainn's glimmering gray eyes melding intimately with her own.
CHAPTER NINE
After a restless night, during which it seemed she did nothing but toss and turn, Muireann rose early in the morning. After dressing, she went to the pump for water, and built up the fire with turf from the stack outside the cottage.
She busied herself making porridge for the three of them, and also washed her face and hands once the water was hot.
Lochlainn came out of his room first and scolded Muireann for not staying in bed longer.
"I'm fine, really. I had a very good night," she lied. She was sure if she admitted she hadn't had a good rest that Lochlainn would think it was because she had been sleeping on the floor.
Ciara overheard the conversation through her bedroom door, however. When Muireann had gone to fill another creel of turf, she came out of her room and remarked, "She had a terrible night last night, tossing and turning, moaning in her sleep."
"I know, I heard," Lochlainn admitted, his expression one of deep concern. "But she seems calm enough this morning, and not at all tearful."
"I suppose it must be because it's all so strange for her, being here, so far away from home."
"It's odd, though. She didn't have any nightmares at all the last two nights," Lochlainn remarked absent-mindedly as he ate his porridge.
He only looked up to see his sister's disconcerted face when she exclaimed, "What did you say?"
"After Augustine died, we shared a room so I could keep an eye on her. Besides, it was cheaper, and you know how bad our finances are. It just seemed to make sense at the time," he answered quickly and seemingly innocently, though he could feel an uncharacteristic blush rising to his cheeks. "Muireann appeared fine, but perhaps she was too fine."
Ciara frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I saw Father Brennan while I was in Dublin. He was kind enough to take care of the funeral even though Augustine had died under peculiar circumstances. After the ceremony he warned me that Muireann might try to block things out, overdo things. Make every effort to try to appear normal. He was afraid she might get in over her head here at Barnakilla once she found out the appalling state of affairs, and asked me to be extra vigilant.
"So now I'm asking you the same thing. Will you keep an eye on her, try to befriend her? After all, if Muireann crumbles, we'll be walking the roads with only the clothes on our backs, every single one of us."
Ciara looked gloomier than ever, but she promised her brother she would try. "Poor thing. How she ever married Augustine Caldwell I have no idea." She shuddered, then rose from the table and began scrubbing the dishes frenetically.
"It would be better for her if she had never come here. This is an unhappy place, Barnakilla," she remarked, looking appraisingly at her brother for a few more seconds.
Lochlainn rose from his chair and went into his chamber to wash and shave, wondering what on earth had got into Ciara now.
He came out dressed in a clean shirt, waistcoat and trousers a few moments later, and put his used linens in the laundry pile.
Muireann at last came in with the turf.
He didn't approve of her hauling the creel, but he decided to hold his tongue, and simply took one end to help her carry it across to the hearth.
She sat down to eat her porridge in silence. He could see her face was clouded over. She had no doubt walked around some of the cottages and seen for herself the poverty and squalor many had to endure.
He tried to cheer her by declaring, "Well, we'll have lots to do today, won't we? And Ciara here is going to help you get the big house in order once again. After all, she was housekeeper there for many years." Lochlainn smiled at his sister.
The bowl Ciara had been washing flew from her hands and smashed into pieces on the floor. Ciara began to weep then, and ran into her room and slammed the door.
Muireann and Lochlainn both stared at each other across the table.
Lochlainn made to rise from his seat.
"No, don't! Just leave her," Muireann said, her hand shooting out to grab his wrist.
"But she's..."
"Yes, of course she's upset. We all are. I know it's bad enough for me, having to come here like this and confront the reality of poverty, poverty such as I have never known, and which will get much worse for you all if I can't do something to improve matters here. How much more terrible it must be for you, Lochlainn, remembering this estate when it was once prosperous.
"So consider how difficult it must be for Ciara, who stayed behind and watched Barnakilla decline while you were away in Australia. Everyone here has suffered. Surely you can see that? So please be patient with her. You probably just reminded her of all she has lost."
His eyes narrowed. "You never got upset yesterday when you sold everything you owned."
She shrugged one shoulder. "All people are different, and respond in different ways to a crisis. After I buried Augustine yesterday, I determined to force myself to let go of the past. There's no sense in regretting mistakes, or things we can't change.
"You mentioned the things I sold, the gowns, the carriage. In a sense, Lochlainn, none of those things were really mine. They were all new, for one thing. And in another sense, they belonged to Muireann Graham, feted new bride. Now I'm Muireann Graham Caldwell, poor widow. I have to learn how to fit this new role somehow. So those things don't matter, except for the money they have given us to start again. I'll do my best to wipe the slate clean and rebuild my life as well as Barnakilla."
Lochlainn silently fed the fire again while Muireann cleaned up the broken shards of pottery and finished the last of the washing up. Then she called to Ciara through the door, "I'm going up to the house now. I'll see you there whenever you're ready."
Lochlainn looked down at Muireann, his gray gaze mingling intimately with her own. "Thank you for being kind to her."
"Not at all. She looks like she could use a friend, and so can I."
The sun shone brightly as she stepped out into the lane which led from the cluster of cottages to the mansion. Lochlainn followed along behind, and Muireann commented fairly enthusiastically about all she saw.
"There are some very old trees here, and the land looks quite fertile. There aren't nearly as many rocks and not as much bracken as we would have around our way. How's the pasture land?"
"Good, if we had any livestock, but all of it went. There isn't so much as a chicken around the place."
"But we will need milk, butter, eggs. Do we at least have any horses?"
"Now that you've sold the carriage team, just two cart horses."
"That means we can get into town at least," Muireann said with evident relief.
Lochlainn took her around to the front of the house and let her in through the huge creaking wooden portal with a massive key.
A scurry of mice and evidence of various nests were the first things to greet her in the foyer. She stared in the semi-darkness at the cobwebs, which were about the only furnishings in the place. Going from room to empty room, her heart sank into her boots.
There was nothing left of the once great Barnakilla except filth and squalor, as though Augustine had simply left his rubbish wherever it had landed.
The only rooms which were distinguishable were the small office, which had a sofa with some grimy blankets on it, indicating to Muireann where Augustine had slept during his occasional visits to Barnakilla. The library was crammed full of books, but there were only one or two rickety chairs and a very old sofa remaining. Other than that, all of the reception rooms downstairs were completely empty. Every stick of furniture had been sold.
The kitchen was full of mice and rats as well, but Muireann saw some distinct possibilities for it. It was huge, and in Barnakilla's better days had been bustling. It had several ovens for baking and roasting, a bread oven, and even one for smoking attached to the far end of it. There was a huge copper cauldron with a spigot which hung suspended above a grate and a large tub. Muireann saw it was a water boiler for doing the laundry, with several large sinks nearby, no doubt for the same purpose. Best of all, there were two water pumps close by.
The larders were exceptionally large, stretching from floor to ceiling, and there were some baskets of vegetables and canisters of flour, oats and sugar on the shelves.
Judging from the glass-fro
nted pantry cabinets, Muireann guessed that at least Augustine hadn't got around to selling any of the kitchenware. There were simple sets of plain earthenware dishes, wooden as well as steel forks and spoons, and some good knives. There was even some china in a glass-fronted wooden cabinet inserted into the wall of the corridor between the kitchen and what Muireann assumed must have once been the dining room. No doubt the silverware had all been sold long ago.
In the cupboards under the ovens were some huge cauldrons and pans for cooking and baking, and some more potatoes and vegetables, and even a few bottles of wine. Of course, everything was coated with dirt and grime, but all the same, at least Muireann felt she had something with which to start her new life.
She opened the back door of the kitchen, and was glad to see a small pile of lumber outside.
Call Home the Heart Page 10
