“No, I suppose not. He was someone I knew when I was a boy. He was kind to me, an’ he taught me how to stitch up a wound, an’ how to restart a man’s heart, and how to triage someone bleeding out.”
“I guess what surprises me is that you even knew a British soldier, much less were friends with one. How did you meet him?”
He looked at her steadily and she felt like he was trying to answer something for himself, before he replied. “My father was beating the hell out of me in the fields one day, the soldier happened along an’ had got his directions muddled up, or so he said, when he came across us. He made my father stop. I was twelve, an’ he would check in with me from time to time after that day. He tried to be my friend, but I was as wary as a crossed badger an’ not the easiest child to become acquainted with—still, he taught me things, an’ even then I could appreciate that.”
They were quiet for a bit then, as the aftermath of the night settled in. She felt numb and exhausted and everything had a slight haze around it: the kettle on the Aga, the mugs hanging over the counter, the whiskey bottle glowing amber from its place on the sideboard. She thought about having a drink, just to take away the immediacy of all that had happened. In the window over the sink she could see the two of them reflected, side-by-side, Noah’s eyes meeting hers there in the glass. Even in the night-dark window his eyes were a deep and brilliant blue.
“What will happen to him now? Does he have family that will be missing him?” she asked, looking away from the shared reflection down to the table, uncertain why she was asking. She was digging a thorn under her own skin with the question and they both knew it.
“Aye, he did. I’ll go tell them. He’ll be given a burial with full army honors.”
“And will that comfort his mother?” she said, angry suddenly at the waste of a young man’s life.
“No,” Noah replied mildly, “I don’t imagine it will. If it matters I did try to discourage him from joinin’. I thought he wasn’t right for the life.”
“What qualities make a man right for the life?”
He looked at her for a long moment before answering. “I think ye know the answer to that question well enough.”
Pamela stood and took the dishes from the table. They rattled together as she carried them to the sink, for she was shaking, whether it was with delayed shock or rage, she couldn’t be certain.
She filled the sink and put the dishes in. Her hands still felt like they were sheathed in blood and she thought the warm water might be a relief, that something as routine as wiping up the dishes might return her to some semblance of normality. Noah came and stood beside her, took the tea towel from her shoulder and began to dry the dishes. She thought she might break into hysterical laughter. There was a body in the byre still to be dealt with, and here was the most feared man in the UK drying her dishes as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
She swayed a little, vision going grey at the edges. She clutched the edge of the counter, and Noah put a hand to her back to steady her.
“Are ye all right? It’s the blood an’ the death, it takes some people badly. Blood has a weight to it, an’ it weighs heavier on some than others.”
“Does it, then?” she said with no small sarcasm. “You couldn’t tell by watching you, you’re cool as a cucumber.”
“Ye’re angry with me,” he said, and continued to dry the dishes and place them on the counter, neatly stacking each piece. She could feel the spot on her back where his hand had been.
“Yes and no. It’s not that,” she said, the lightheadedness growing. “It’s… it’s Casey, I…” her voice faltered, she could not say the words, for that terrible black heaviness in her chest was threatening to break apart. She couldn’t allow it; if she did, it would drown her, right here in her own kitchen. She tried to take a breath and found she couldn’t. Then Noah stepped toward her, and she could smell him, his own particular scent—something inexplicable, like fresh hay and also the chill smell of rain clouds just before they released a downpour. He touched her face, smoothing her hair back and then, without warning, pulled her to him and held her. She was too startled to do anything but allow it. And then to her surprise she found it was a relief to be held, to feel another body against her own, another’s flesh and warmth. It did not even seem terribly odd that it should be Noah Murray. Not after the night they had gone through together. She had half expected him to smell of blood, not unpleasantly, just that she had thought he would carry the copper heat of it on him, always. Especially tonight.
She knew she did not have to explain herself to him, he wouldn’t ask, and she did not need to fill the silence with the whys and wherefores, because there weren’t any really, there was just the fear that what had happened to that young man out there—the panic, the blood, the inglorious end on a byre floor with strangers—was in some way the same as what may have happened to her husband. Noah knew it as well as she did.
It was easy to be held by him, perhaps because the man did not need anything of her, did not want her as a man wants a woman, did not have expectations of anything between them. And then memory surged, and she thought of the last time Casey had held her in this kitchen, and how they had danced with their tiny daughter between them, and she stepped back from the embrace. She felt her face flush, even as she looked up to find him watching her, his expression unreadable.
She didn’t quite understand what it was that drew her to this man, to his company. Perhaps it was that the lonely child in her recognized the lonely child in him.
“I’m sorry, that was maybe a bit forward of me,” he said, his voice quiet.
“No,” she replied, “it’s all right. It just hit me that the last person to hold me here in the kitchen was my husband, that’s all. We were dancing together late at night, with Isabelle.”
“It sounds nice,” he said.
“It was.” She flushed again, feeling as though she had given him a glimpse into an intimate corner of her life, something that had belonged only to her and Casey before. She busied herself with wiping the counters down, waiting for the heat in her face to subside. She could feel him watching her and turned once she felt her expression was sufficiently neutral. He had a curious look on his face, his head tilted to one side, tea towel still held lightly in his hands.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s only that I was wonderin’ why is it that ye’re not afraid of me?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “maybe it’s just that I’m not afraid of much these days, unless it’s something happening to my children.”
“Fear is not always a bad thing, Pamela. It teaches us that there are boundaries in the world that it’s best not to cross over. Sometimes consequences, as ye know, are far too permanent. It’s true everywhere, an’ perhaps more so in our wee corner of the world.”
“I know, only I think I am tired of fear. I’ve lived with it too long and it hasn’t stopped me from losing people I love.”
“Aye, I can understand that.”
She put the dishes away in silence. The quiet with Noah was not uncomfortable. It was clear that he neither expected nor indulged in small talk merely for the sake of filling the silence.
He looked toward the door suddenly. There had been no sound, and no indication of movement in the yard. She turned toward him, a brow cocked in query.
“My men are here to take the body away, I’d best go see to them,” he said, folding the towel neatly and hanging it over the rack by the Aga so it would dry. He was a man of details, even in the midst of trauma.
She locked the door behind him. She didn’t want to see the body being removed; she’d had enough blood for one night. Noah was right, blood had a weight, and right now it felt like stones upon her back. She started up the stairs, hoping that she might be able to doze for a bit, before facing a full day with energetic children who, thankfully, had no notion of the previous night’s events. She paused on the narrow landing, where the stairs turned at a right angle before they c
ontinued up to the top floor. Casey had installed a small octagon window here, saying eight was a fortunate number and therefore all views out this window would be happy ones.
The yard below was already empty, the byre door closed tight and no trace of the last frantic hours left upon the land. Everything looked entirely normal, each building snug against the night’s rain, each animal tucked up where it was meant to be.
The haze was still there around her vision, so that the dawn was a rolled pearl coming in across the horizon, touching soft as down upon the weather vane on the byre’s peak, the red door of the shed, the overturned soil in the garden. The view from this window was no longer happy, so much as empty, because she could not expect to see Casey stride across the yard, spade in hand, or axe, or any of the other implements with which he had kept their small homestead running smoothly.
It struck her sometimes, when she was tired and could not push the thoughts away, nor firmly tamp them into place with the nails of sheer will power, how much her life had changed in such a short time. There were times when she hardly knew herself, or what she was willing to do to find any scrap of information that might lead to an answer.
She put her forehead to the glass. Her eyes were burning behind the dome of her lids and bright blossoms of crimson, the same shade as the blood on the byre floor, bloomed across the dark landscape inside her head. Closing her eyes provided no relief, for the night of which she had spoken to Noah rose up in front of her, soft as the dawn clouds, and as painful to her as needles drawn fine through her heart.
It had been the night before he disappeared. Pamela had awakened in the wee hours, breasts tight, slightly panicked that Isabelle had overslept her feeding time. Isabelle was not one to miss her meals. When she turned over and sat up she realized Casey was out of the bed and had been for a bit, for the sheets were cool to the touch.
She had found father and daughter in the kitchen.
The light in the kitchen was low, just the small one over the Aga was on. Casey was singing softly, an old Irish lullaby called Seoithin, Seo Ho. It was, Casey had explained to her the first time she had heard him singing it, a warning to babies to sleep before the fairies could come to lure them away. She peeked around the corner and saw that he was dancing, a slow shuffle, with his daughter over his shoulder. Isabelle was quiet, her daddy’s voice being the most magic of soothers to her. He was barefoot, clad only in jeans that he must have pulled on when he heard Isabelle crying. The contrast between the delicate tiny baby that was her daughter and the big man that was her husband put a knot in Pamela’s throat.
At the end of their dance, he held Isabelle out, one hand on the small diapered bottom, the other hand cupping the back of the fragile skull. Isabelle’s dark eyes were big and round, gazing intently into her father’s face, as he spoke to her in the soft voice he used with her. He always spoke lovely nonsense to the children, tales he’d thought up during his work day, or bits of sage advice that they didn’t understand but took in like they were imprinting each word on their souls. Tonight the vein of his conversation seemed more serious as if something weighed on him which he could only express to someone he loved who could not understand the full import of his words.
“My daddy always said ye could tell a wee one yer heart an’ soul, because they never would judge ye for the contents of either. These days my heart an’ soul seem to be filled with yerself, yer brother an’ yer mammy. I worry about things I never did think to find myself worryin’ about. The three of ye have made the world seem a different place all together, more beautiful, an’ far more terrifyin’ at the same time. All the trouble that I’ve become accustomed to over my life seems so much darker now, an’ I’m terrified of it touchin’ yerself or yer brother in any shape at all. An’ I hate that it has touched yer mammy too many times already.”
Isabelle stretched her chin up toward Casey, her dark eyes fixed to her father’s face and cooed softly as though acknowledging everything he had said. Standing in the shadow of the stairs, Pamela felt tears prickle at the back of her throat. How she loved this man, and the children they had made together from a love which had weathered so much, and come out stronger in the end. More than the house that he had built to shelter them all, this man was her home and the place in this world where she went for sanctuary. She took a moment to admire him, the depth of his chest, the long lines of him, the dark hair that whorled across his chest and down his belly. The brute strength that kept her safe, but was gentle in her service and that of their children.
He was still talking to the baby, who was patting his face with her tiny ivory and rose fingers.
“I want to make the world a clean, beautiful place for ye—aye, ye can purse up yer wee mouth, but it’s true. I wish I could fix it all, control everything that comes yer way. I know that I can’t, an’ that’s maybe the hardest thing about bein’ yer daddy. Let me tell ye wee lady, ye’ll not marry a man like yer da. I’ll chase him off with a shotgun if such a one comes sniffin’ round ye. I tell ye, I don’t know what yer mammy was thinkin’ when she married myself, but we’ll not question that too much then, or she might come to her senses an’ head for the hills, no?”
Isabelle burbled with laughter, as if she thought her daddy was the funniest man who had ever walked the planet. He bent his face down to Isabelle’s and kissed her forehead, nose and chin. “I adore ye, wee girl an’ don’t ye ever forget it. There will always be a man in the world that loves ye, come what may, even if he is yer old da’.”
Pamela crossed the kitchen floor, the wood cool and smooth beneath her bare feet. Casey turned and smiled, as though he had known she was there for a while.
“It was the smartest thing her mammy ever did, marrying that boy,” she said softly, reaching up to kiss him.
“Well, I’m not entirely certain ’twas smart, girl, but I’m glad ye did lose yer senses for a bit at least.” He pulled her to him with his free arm. She reached her arms up around his neck. He began slow dance steps, humming softly in her ear. It was an old song that she had always loved.
‘See the market place in old Algiers…
Send me photographs and souvenirs
Just remember when a dream appears
You belong to me…’
She swayed with him, her body melding to his own, following his steps with ease, and it occurred to her that he was as much a part of her flesh now as her very fingers or the slope of her shoulders. He was essential to her, the scent of him, the feel of him, his heat that always warmed her.
“There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you woman or for our children.”
The words startled her out of the half sleepy state she was in and she looked up at him in alarm. “Why are you saying that?” she asked, with the unsettling feeling that there were words he wasn’t saying, words that he ought to speak but was afraid to.
“Because it’s true,” he said, dark eyes unfathomable in the low light. “I would do anything for the three of ye.”
“I know that, Casey,” she said.
“Aye, but it deserves sayin’ now an’ again.”
“It goes both ways, man.”
He kissed her very gently. “I know, ye’ve proven it often enough in the past. Ye’re a wee bit scary when someone crosses yer family too.”
She kissed the top of Isabelle’s downy head, tears pricking at the back of her eyes again. She always felt terribly fragile for months after giving birth, as if the world were suddenly a porous place where the ground might crack beneath her feet, taking someone she loved without warning.
“I wish I could keep you safe too, man. So while you’re busy protecting all of us, take care for yourself.”
He had kissed her then, silencing her fears and they had gone upstairs together, the baby drowsing on Casey’s shoulder. And then, after she fed Isabelle and they returned her to her crib, they had retreated to their own bed, and he had given her the security of his body, the reassurance of it in that wordless way that spoke so deeply of what lay
between them.
‘I’ll be so alone without you…’
She spoke the words, without a tune, the tone of them broken and fragmented, hearing in her head the song as he had sung it, the soft whisper of his voice in her ear and the final sentence he had spoken that night.
“I’ll keep ye safe, darlin’, that’s my job an’ I take it seriously.”
And now, standing alone at their eight-sided window where the view would never be the same, she wondered if he had taken it so seriously that it had killed him.
Chapter Twenty-three
Dealings With Badgers
“TEA, WHISKEY, SALMON, soda bread and a pie,” Jamie said, handing a box filled with the listed items into Pamela’s arms. “Maggie believes none of us are capable of feeding ourselves, so she’s sent along rations to keep everyone going.”
“They are gratefully received,” Pamela said, taking the box from him so that he could remove his coat and shoes. “Tomas has a moldy block of cheese, milk that went off last week, and a clutch of withered carrots. Kate brought food though and is in there now cooking up a storm, so I suspect we’re going to be spoiled for dinner.”
Jamie straightened from removing his shoes and smiled, taking the box back from her. “Lead me to the kitchen.”
Jamie had done a bit of covert snooping on Patrick’s behalf, and was here to present his findings today. It was a working bee for the lot of them, as Patrick and Tomas prepared to make a run at convincing the courts that Oggie Carrigan deserved an appeal.
Truth be told, she was a bit nervous for Jamie to meet Tomas. Both men meant a great deal to her, albeit in very different ways. She wanted them to like one another, though she could hardly fathom anyone disliking Jamie. Tomas, on the other hand…she sighed. She trusted implicitly in Jamie’s ability to hold his own however, even with someone of Tomas’ unpredictable temperament. She had spent a few evenings here with the children, as well as a Saturday, during which she had given the kitchen a rather fierce scrubbing while Tomas played outside with Conor and Isabelle took her afternoon nap. She felt comfortable in the old man’s company, he was blunt and prickly, but he was also kind under the gruff exterior.
In the Country of Shadows (Exit Unicorns Series Book 4) Page 23
