Fortunate Son

by David Marlett

  “M’lord?” she ventured in a quivering voice.

  James hesitated, then took a deep breath, preparing to say something cordial before standing and moving away. He scooted slightly to his right, away from the aisle.

  “M’lord?” the wrinkled voice came again. He had heard it before but couldn’t place it. Slowly, he turned his head to see Charity Heath, her gaze to the floor. Her bloodshot eyes flicked up at him, her sagging, flushed cheeks streaked with tears. She had appeared disheveled and tired in court, but now James saw her as old and broken.

  “Madam Heath?” he said, his voice cautiously gentle.

  She sniffed, wiping her cheeks with a handkerchief. “M’lord, I did ye wrong in there, in the court yesterday.” She refused to look at him again, keeping her sad eyes down.

  “Aye, ye did,” said James. He scooted left, closer to the aisle, closer to her.

  “They’re going t’ charge me with perjury, m’lord,” she cried. Now she looked up at the glimmering candles, the light reflecting off her wet face.

  “I suppose they will.”

  She hunched forward, fully weeping. He regarded her, feeling sorry for her, sorry that she had fallen into Richard’s snare. She sniffed again, now loudly. “Ye can, m’lord…Lord Anglesea,” she muttered, “you can grant me a pardon. Ye can have me forgiven.”

  James stood and moved across the aisle to sit next to her. He touched her slumped head. “I’ll have to think about that.” He observed a small amber chest sitting beside her, a dull floral print covering its humped lid. It seemed familiar somehow, a deep resonance, a distant memory. Far away, yet intimately close.

  “M’lord?” she whispered.

  “Aye, ma’am?”

  “This is yers,” she said, sniffing, glancing at the chest. She lifted it over her lap and placed it on the bench between them.

  “‘Tis mine?”

  “Aye, m’lord.” She looked up at him, tears coming in a torrent. He waited, silently watching as she collected herself and wiped her eyes. “It is…‘twas yer mother’s, Lady Anglesea’s. She….”

  James glanced at the chest, then back to Charity. “She what?”

  “She wanted me to give it to ye.”

  James felt his heart cave. “And ye kept it all these years?”

  “Aye, m’lord. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I am.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I know not, m’lord. ‘Tis locked, and I never…. I never tried t’ open it.”

  He stared at her, this little breaking woman, and felt only pity.

  “‘Tis just that…I wronged ye, m’lord. I wanted t’ come. Set things right. T’ bring ye what’s yers. I hoped ye might be here.” She stood and he stood as well. As she went, he stepped to let her pass. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, softly crying as she moved.

  “Thank ye,” James murmured, knowing nothing else to say.

  He watched her walk away, her sniffs echoing as she went. Then he sat again and stared at the chest. He ran his hands across its curved back, across the faint images, then touched the keyhole. With a sigh, he reached up and loosened his ascot, then pulled the key from around his neck. As he had done so many times, he ran his thumb over the “B,” though it was now faint. Inserting the key, he turned it, hearing the light click.

  A white damask cloth was folded inside, undisturbed. He gingerly touched it, his mind saturated with the image of his mother. Then he lifted the damask and found more cloth beneath it, then a locket on a gold chain, a pair of silver spoons, a small ring, and on the bottom, a yellowed sheet of parchment. Gently, he pulled out the parchment—a faded sheet of music titled Greensleeves at the top. He smiled, the sound of the melody swelling in his mind. Reaching back into the box, he pulled back a different layer of the cloth and found another piece of parchment, folded and sealed with wax. He held it up to the light, flipping it over, then back again, studying it, then gently broke the seal. Unfolding it, he saw it was a letter.

  My dear Jamie —

  Where are you? I have waited here in the chapterhouse of Christ Church, but you never came. I am so sorry. I do not know what to write. I do not know what I should say to you, my dear boy. I do not know when I will ever see you again. I never wanted to leave you. My heart is broken from our parting at Dunmain. It has been nearly two years and now it seems we may be parted for much longer. I do not know where you are, my Jamie. But I pray you are safe and that you are well.

  I will go now, for England. If you read this letter today, or soon hereafter, I will be sailing to Bristol on the Courtmain. I pray you will be there, that somehow you will find me. But I must go home. I pray you will understand. Please come quickly to Kent, that you may find me there.

  James stopped. So she had indeed been there. Damn. Why didn’t she hear me? God, I yelled and yelled. He read on.

  My Jamie, there is always the chance we may not meet again, and I want you to know I have always loved you. Dearly. My life did not transpire as I would have desired. It has not been a happy one as I hoped it to be. I know yours has not thus far been either. But I hope that will soon change. For both of us. I hope you find happiness, find love, find everything God has to offer us here. All the good. All the peace of His love.

  I must tell you one thing more. You are young now, and may not understand, but I hope someday you will accept the words I will impart. I was married to Arthur Annesley not by my will. In truth, I never loved him. He is buried here, below where I now sit, and yet I feel nothing for him. He has kept you and I parted for these two years. He treated you wrong, and me. He was an evil man who wronged us both.

  Jamie, in the locket enclosed is the image of another man, the man I love entirely. Please find it in your heart to forgive me, but I must tell you the truth. This man is your true father.

  His breathing nearly stopped as he fumbled through the folded cloth and grabbed the gold locket from the chest. He held it tightly as he finished reading.

  I beg you, do not think unkindly of me, for the words in this letter are from my heart. I want you to know the truth, to know your father. I pray you will forgive us both. We pledged to keep this our secret, not to rob you of your inheritance. I do not know if we were right to do so, but please do forgive us. As I am fortunate to be your mother, you are very fortunate to be his son.

  We all err, Jamie, even with those we love most deeply. Please, do come to me, my sweet Jamie, as soon as you can. I must go now, for it is a long journey home.

  Your loving mother,

  Mary

  Mouth agape and dry, eyes locked wide, James set the letter aside. He pulled the locket up, his hand nearly shaking, the chain flopped over. He paused, almost frozen, as if not opening it might change things, might erase what he had just read. He began shaking his head, then suddenly went into motion, frantically fumbling with the catch until it finally flipped open. Staring out at him was the ruddily young, distinctively handsome, unmistakable face of Fynn Kennedy.

  Chapter 41

  To be, or not to be: that is the question:

  Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer

  The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

  Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

  And, by opposing, end them.

  — from Hamlet, William Shakespeare, 1601

  Six Months Later

  Dunmain, Ireland

  As the coach lumbered along, James and Laura sat close together, enjoying the mild spring air gliding through the open windows, slipping over them, delivering the scent of primrose and larkspur in full bloom. He held her hand and turned to her.

  “Will Seán already be there?” she asked.

  “Aye, most likely.”

  Laura’s hair was up under a small, straw hat, and her yellow and white linen dress rustled as she leaned close to James, whispering, “I love ya, husband.” He kissed the back of her hand, then looked out, over her head, watching the verdant countryside
drift by. They left New Ross within the hour and were close now. The coach moved smoothly, the ruts shallow and dry. As they arrived at Dunmain House, James glanced at the giant mansion, its grey walls, the turrets on the corners. Each time he had seen it since the trial, an odd, distracted feeling came over him, making him look away. This time was no different. As the carriage rolled through the main gate, he kept his eyes on the garden walls, noticing they were plush with ivy and ferns. Seán would tend to them, he thought.

  “Whoa, there.” The driver pulled the carriage to a stop on the gravel drive.

  “There he is,” said Laura, pointing to the stable.

  “Aye. I see him.”

  She turned to James, grasping his hand. “Take yar time,” she assured him. “I’ll be inside with Ann.”

  He smiled, reaching across to lightly stroke her cheek with the back of his fingers. They kissed, then he stepped out. Walking quickly to the stables, he looked for Seán, whom now he didn’t see.

  “Cá bhfuil tú, Seán?” James called out.

  “Anseo,” Seán replied, saying he was there. “Tá anseo orm.”

  As James came around a corner, he saw Seán standing in a stall, grooming a horse.

  “Dia duit, Seámus,” Seán greeted him. “I didn’t expect ye so soon.”

  “Dia duit,” replied James. “How are ye my friend?”

  “As fine as can be, I suppose, and you?” Seán stopped brushing the horse.

  “Good.” James patted the horse on the rump, then ran his hand across its back and patted it near the withers. “How’s Bhaldraithe?”

  “Ach, there’s no doubt he’s a splendid animal, Seámus. I can’t thank ye enough.”

  “‘Twas nothing. Besides, he has too much Connemara in him t’ ever leave Ireland.”

  “What do ye mean, leave Ireland?”

  “Ah, well, Seán….”

  Seán stepped close. “That why ye’re meetin’ me here today? To tell me ye’re leaving?”

  “Let’s walk, shall we?” asked James, his voice yielding and kind.

  They walked east along the carriage road, toward the tranquil hills and distant sheltering forests, fern-covered stone fences lining the way. Fynn’s Hill, with its crowning stand of noble ash, was in the opposite direction. James would never go there again. After the trial, he spent one excruciating February morning sitting alone on that silent hill, under those wind-swept barren trees, weeping, wrestling with God, whispering to his father. No, he would never go back to Fynn’s Hill. Certainly never with Seán. Thus they walked the other way.

  “‘Twas good to see Mr. Mackercher at the wedding,” Seán said after a while.

  “Ye remember anything about that night?” James laughed.

  “Let’s see, Mackercher was there, the ale was good, and something about you and Laura.”

  “Ha! Indeed. Laura and I saw him again a few days later, before he left for Scotland.”

  “He returned to Aberfoyle?”

  “Aye,” said James, his eyes to the road, feeling a knot in his stomach.

  “All right, Seámus,” Seán blurted. “We’re walking. Where, I don’t know. So tell me now. Are ye leaving?”

  James looked up, away, out to an open field of meadowsweet in full yellow bloom. “Aye,” he whispered.

  “Where are ye going?”

  James hesitated, unexpectedly overcome with emotion. “This is much harder than I ever imagined, Seán. Telling ye this.” He felt his eyes tighten.

  “The Colonies, eh?” asked Seán.

  “Aye.” He sniffed the tears back, clinched his teeth and for a moment felt better. “We’ll build a farm in Virginia. ‘Tis where we belong now.”

  Seán stopped walking. “What do ye mean, Jemmy? What about—”

  “Ah, ‘tis worthless, Seán,” James said quickly. “The court completed their survey. Seems I’ve inherited more debt than land. The proverbial wind, so ‘tis.”

  “The wind, eh? Perhaps if ye’d been more meek, ye’d have gotten the earth.”

  James smiled, shaking his head. “Ye’re a funny rogue,” he said flatly.

  They chuckled nervously, then fell silent again. After rounding another bend in the meandering road, Seán finally spoke. “What will ye do?”

  James shrugged. “Sell the land. Pay the debts.”

  “And the title?”

  James stopped walking. “‘Tisn’t mine, Seán.”

  “What?” Seán stopped also.

  “Nay. Never ‘twas.”

  Seán came closer. “What the devil do ye mean?”

  James reached in his pocket and pulled out the letter. He unfolded it, then handed it to Seán and looked away. Behind him he could hear the paper fluttering in the breeze. He walked to the stone fence and leaned on it, watching the sheep in the pasture beyond, seeing the wind caress the grass, remembering the Scottish Highlands, remembering Fynn.

  “My God!” exclaimed Seán. “And the locket?”

  James walked back to the road, took the letter, then handed the golden object to Seán. Realizing Seán couldn’t open the locket with one hand, he took it back and popped it open. He held it out for Seán to see.

  “M’God, Jemmy,” Seán breathed, staggering back from the mythic image. “So, this means….”

  “Aye, deartháirí,” said James, gently pronouncing the Irish word for “brothers.” He snapped the locket closed, dropped it in his pocket, then carefully folded the letter along its worn creases.

  “Deartháirí,” Seán repeated, incredulous, his eyes wide. “Does Laura know?”

  James nodded, returning the letter to his pocket.

  As they resumed walking, Seán asked, “And Mackercher?”

  “He had his victory last November,” said James. “The estate was of no concern to him. I didn’t feel the necessity of telling him.”

  Seán looked at James. “Of course Richard doesn’t know.”

  “Nay. And he never will. I’m asking ye to keep this in yer heart…to yerself. Let it remain only between us. If ye tell Ann, it must stay between ye both, as husband and wife. Can I trust ye to that?”

  “Ye have my oath on it. Is Richard still in France?”

  “I suppose he is.”

  They walked for a while without speaking, each immersed in his own thoughts. Until, over the smooth fertile pastures came the toll of a faraway bell, calling evening worship. “Remember being on this road before,” James asked, “when we were wee lads?”

  “Aye. We played in those forests,” replied Seán, pointing off to his left.

  “And Fynn…Da….” He waited for the Seán’s nod. “He’d come fetch us, blowing his hunting horn.” James smiled, remembering him, seeing him riding across the Dunmain meadows. As they trod slowly on, silently crossing their ancient land, the lagging sun slipped behind the trees, its waning light gradually giving way, striping the fields with long reaching shadows.

  “Seámus,” Seán said with a cracking voice, “I could never imagine having a finer brother.”

  “Ah, now,” James muttered. They both stopped. “You were always my brother.” Looking away, he clamped his jaw tight, trying to control his emotions. Then a lone tear fell to his cheek. “Brothers…Deartháirí…I think I always knew that.” He set his gaze to the northwest, across the green hills speckled with red clover. “Da was born just over those hills,” he said.

  Seán turned in that direction. “Aye. The cottage is between here and New Ross.”

  James looked at the setting sun. “And he rests over there…on Fynn’s Hill.”

  “Aye,” whispered Seán.

  James took a measured breath, then spoke forcefully, “This is Kennedy land, Seán—always has been. So it will remain in our family. I’ve ordered the rest of the Anglesea Estate sold. But I’ve kept Dunmain House and these lands around it.” He turned and faced Seán. “Ye’re Ireland t’ me, Seán. And Ireland is you. You should own Dunmain. ‘Tis Kennedy l
and. I want ye t’ have it.”

  “But I cannot possibly pay for—”

  “I give it to ye Seán. Gladly,” James said, cutting him off. “‘Tis yers, deartháir.”

  Seán took a deep breath, then looked in James’s eyes and thanked him, saying, “Go raibh maith agat.”

  “Go meádaighe Dia dhuit,” replied James, nodding with a smile. “Ye’re very welcome, indeed. I hope you and Ann bring life to Dunmain House. A family. Happiness. That’s all I ask in return.”

  “We will, Seámus. We will, indeed.”

  As they resumed their walk, talking quietly, a Gaelic wind whispered over them, through the trees, riffling their infant leaves. Then came the harking screech of a falcon, and James looked up, seeing her there. She floated across that azure sky, calling her young to follow, to stretch their fledgling wings, to let go, to engage their faith, to cling to hope, to trust the unseen air will hold them—out beyond the hills and all the way home.

  Epilogue

  This above all:

  To thine own self be true.

  And it must follow, as the night the day,

  Thou canst not then be false to any man.