Irish Lady

by Jeanette Baker

  Perplexed, Meghann inched the car forward and tapped her horn, hoping the people would disperse. Instead they surrounded the car, shouting, pressing banners painted with horrid slogans against the windows and pounding on the bonnet.

  Two guards rushed out from behind the gate, brandishing billy clubs at the crowd. In seconds they cleared the driveway and Meghann quickly drove through the angry demonstrators. She turned back briefly and stared at the white banner draped below the impressive logo advertising the offices of Thorndike and Sutton. In gaudy red letters three feet high, the words IRA Murderer leaped out at her through the rain.

  Grimly she concentrated on her driving and moved ahead with the traffic. Her press conference had ended little more than an hour ago. The British Broadcasting Networks hadn’t wasted any time. She wondered if Michael would see it or if this, too, would be banned in Northern Ireland.

  Turning down the elegant streets of the Mayfair district where she kept her flat, Meghann drove into her garage, gathered her belongings, and walked through her back door to find Mrs. Hartwell in a state of distress. Although she knew perfectly well why the woman was sitting uncharacteristically idle at the kitchen table with a handkerchief pressed to her nose, the housekeeper’s sense of dignity would be offended if formality was not observed.

  Meghann sighed and set her belongings on the table. “What is troubling you, Mrs. Hartwell?”

  The woman could barely form the words. “Mrs. Fields from upstairs told me but I wouldn’t believe it, not until I saw it all over the telly.”

  “I assume you’re referring to the Michael Devlin defense.”

  She nodded.

  Meghann sat down beside her. “I am a barrister, Mrs. Hartwell. Someone has to defend him.”

  The older woman shuddered and for the first time forgot that Meghann was her employer and the widow of a peer. “But why you? This can’t be good for your reputation or your career.”

  Meghann was very near the edge of her control. She had expected criticism from her associates and the press. The angry mob at the office disturbed her more than she cared to admit, and now her own housekeeper was aligned against her.

  A real tear trickled down Mrs. Hartwell’s cheek. Meghann softened and reached out to cover the woman’s hand with her own. “We’ve been together a long time, Mrs. Hartwell. Surely you know that I never do anything without giving it a great deal of thought.”

  “I cannot bear this, Lady Sutton,” she sobbed into her handkerchief. “I truly cannot.”

  “Perhaps this is a good time for a holiday,” Meghann suggested. “Your sister is in Devonshire. Why not ring her up and tell her you’re coming for a visit?”

  Mrs. Hartwell brightened. “Yes. That’s a marvelous idea. The very thing. And when I return this will all be over.”

  Meghann nodded. “I hope so. In any case, I’ll keep you informed. Take the rest of the day, Mrs. Hartwell. I’m sure this has been a difficult time for you.”

  “Why, that’s very good of you, Lady Sutton. It has been a rather unusual day.” She hesitated. “If you’re sure. What will you have for dinner?”

  “I’m dining out,” Meghann lied and stood up, reaching for her briefcase. “Lock the door and ring me when you reach Devonshire.”

  “Of course I will.” She nodded emphatically. “I wouldn’t want you to worry with everything else on your mind.”

  Twenty minutes later Meghann was relieved to hear the front bolt snap into place. Mrs. Hartwell was gone. She had been David’s choice and, out of respect for his memory and because she knew the woman would have difficulty finding another position at her age, Meghann had kept her on. What she should have done was pension her off long ago. It was a strain living with a person who wasn’t a family member. She’d always been an introvert, a loner Michael had called her, happier with her own company than with anyone else.

  Perhaps it was because she was Irish. The British were accustomed to servants. They thought nothing of discussing the most personal details of their lives in front of domestics as if the men and women who served them had neither eyes nor ears nor feelings. Meghann wasn’t comfortable being waited on by hired help. With their lined faces and rough hands, most of the women reminded her of her mother. She wanted to close the distance between them, sit down at the table and chat over a cup of tea. That was out of the question, of course. Class differences were observed in England. Perhaps she wouldn’t hire anyone at all. Her mother had cared for a family of nine. She’d managed by herself before. Surely she could do it again. In fact she welcomed it.

  With new resolve, Meghann tightened the sash of her robe and marched into the kitchen to open a tin of soup. The tray she carried into the living room looked particularly appetizing. Curling up in a chair near the fire, she sipped her wine and remembered her last day with Michael. Soon, very soon, she would see him again. The thought sustained her. Nothing else really mattered. Once it had all been important, her career, the money, the clothes, the luxuries she’d always dreamed about. But that was before Donegal. Now, she’d give it all up to spend the rest of her life in a cottage by the ocean and listen to Michael Devlin read poetry.

  The warmth, the strain of the day, and the alcohol took their toll. Unconsciously she rubbed her mother’s brooch. Dizziness swept over her, probably the effect of a glass of wine with too little food. She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes.

  *

  Nuala, Tirconnaill, 1596

  Once again Rory and I were blessed with twins, girls this time, healthy and more alike than any I had seen before. Tiny rosebud mouths closed around my breasts, sucking greedily until at three months, when I was exhausted and they were round and plump as Christmas partridges, I brought in a wet nurse and returned to my duties as chatelaine of Dun Na Ghal Castle and countess of Tirconnaill.

  For the first time, Rory was home for my confinement. His look of wonder at the tiny bairns no bigger than the palm of his hand was worth a kingdom to me. Apparently the birth of his daughters had a sobering effect on him. For the length of the season he rested easily at home and he was not so consumed with thoughts of revenge against Elizabeth. When he left Dun Na Ghal to take up arms against the English, it was with great reluctance. Perhaps he had grown soft with the comforts of his home, or perhaps he had a premonition of what was to come. Whatever the reason, he parted tenderly from the children and from me. A fortnight passed before I received his missive telling me he would be delayed a bit longer. My father had insisted on raiding the English-occupied castle at Lorne, and Rory’s men were the best warriors ever to be seen in Ireland.

  I held Brian in my arms on the battlements, marveling at how heavy he was and how much he had grown in the past year. He wanted to see all of Tirconnaill, and I could think of no better place to show him than here at the castle’s highest point, cold and dangerously windy though it was. I pointed west toward the sea, directing my son’s gaze toward the turquoise water under a summer sun, and then north to the wild beauty of grass-covered marshland alive with fowl. To the south was Galway and the Aran Islands where Liam Flaherty ruled like the kings who were his forefathers. To the east as far as the eye could see was farmland colored in shades of palest gold to deepest green.

  My eyes stung with senseless tears. Brian would never rule this land of his ancestors. Rory and I would be fortunate to live out our lives here. Even now the English noose was tightening and time ran short. More and more Irish chieftains were expatriated, their lands forfeit to the surging Protestant tide sweeping across our homeland. We were more fortunate than most. We would survive. I made sure of it. Every harvest season secret deposits of gold were sent to Rome in preparation for our exile. No one knew of my deception, not even Rory, and were the tables to turn in our favor I would gladly donate every crown to Holy Mother Church.

  Brian’s expression was grave for one so young. His eyes, the same brilliant blue as Rory’s, were narrowed and intense. “Does all of this belong to us?” he asked solemnly.r />
  I hesitated, searching for an answer that was true and yet not raise impossible hope. “Aye, for now,” I managed.

  Young as he was, Brian knew me well. “When will it not be ours?”

  Pressing my cheek against his round one, I spoke gently. “Everything changes, my love. Perhaps your destiny lies elsewhere. Would that be so very bad?”

  He looked up at me with his father’s expression and my heart sank. “This is O’Donnell land,” he said firmly. “One day it will be mine.”

  “What of Sean and the girls? Where would you have them go?” Brian puffed out his rounded cheeks importantly. “Sean may stay here or go to Ballymurphy. The girls will marry.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked, astonished. Surely such thoughts were beyond the understanding of a small boy.

  “Da said it. He made me tell him, over and over again, how it would be.”

  I was conscious of a flash of anger so intense that it shook me. Rory should know better than to put such ideas in the mind of a child. It was the strength of my rage that led me to turn my back on the portcullis gate, to carry my child inside, out of the light and down the stairs to the nursery where his maid dozed by a weak fire.

  If I had waited but another moment, I would have seen Niall Garv’s men creep silently over the hills like a scourge of the blight. Without warning they filed through the open gates into the courtyard and surrounded the castle, sealing off all escape routes.

  He found me in my sitting room, wrapped in wool against the chill. I stared into the flames, so deep in thought that I heard nothing of the commotion in my courtyard. Not even the sudden draft stirred me. Not until he walked to the hearth and stood before me, fully within my line of vision, did I realize he was there.

  “You’re too late, Cousin,” I said wearily. “Rory has already gone.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “Again you misjudge me, Nuala. I come to bear you company while your husband is away.”

  His eyes glittered like obsidian in his darkly tanned face, and I was afraid. Still I brazened it out. “Your errand is wasted. I need no company. Rory needs you more than I.”

  “Rory and I no longer fight on the same side.”

  I stood and faced him, pulling the shawl tightly about me. “Surely I misunderstand you,” I said icily.

  He shook his head, his eyes never leaving my face. “I pledged my allegiance to the queen at Falkirk.”

  “Rory will kill you,” I whispered, “and if he does not, my father will.”

  Niall laughed and tossed his bonnet onto a low table. “I think not. I hold his wife and children hostage. Rory is not a fool. He knows that I would not harm you, but I have no such scruples regarding your children. He will not attempt an attack.”

  “You don’t know Rory.”

  He grinned and she wondered, not for the first time, why a man as handsome as Niall Garv O’Donnell would want another man’s wife when any maid in Ireland would be willing to share his bed.

  “I know Rory well enough,” he said. “’Tis you I would know better.”

  “You are a traitor.” I tried to walk past him, but his hand snaked out and grabbed my wrist.

  He spoke through gritted teeth. “I do not give you leave to retire, my lady.”

  “’Tis my house. I leave when I wish.”

  He drew me toward him, circling my waist with his free arm, pulling me against him.

  I refused to show my fear. “Please, don’t, Niall,” I said in a low firm voice.

  “Don’t what?” He pulled me closer until I felt the length of his body through my gown. Bending his head, he brushed my lips. “What is it, Nuala? Shall I not kiss you?” His mouth hovered no more than an inch from mine. “Holy God, you are beautiful,” he muttered, before closing the distance between us.

  I turned my head and felt his lips against my cheek. “Please,” I begged. “’Tis past time to see to the children.”

  He released me so quickly that I stumbled against him. “Go to Rory’s brats, Nuala, but prepare yourself. I will come to you whether or not you are willing.”

  And so began our game, the dance of two strong wills pitted against one another. Niall Garv was a master swordsman. He knew when to feint and pull back, when to parry, strike, and drive straight to the heart. Everything he knew of women he applied to my seduction.

  In those first weeks after his arrival I wondered why he waited so long to finish it. A man with a thousand foot soldiers at his command had no need for a woman’s approval. Later, when I had no resistance left, after I’d bartered my body for the lives of my children, I realized what it was that held him back. His tremendous pride wanted me to want him as I did Rory. The moment he realized it would never be, he ended the game.

  At first he was not so difficult a companion, so solicitous of my health, so patient with my children. If I had come upon him without first knowing the set of his mind, I would have trusted him completely. But I did know him. Even so, I could not help being flattered that it was me he wanted, a woman past the first blush of youth, a woman of twenty-four years who had borne nine children to another man.

  I was ripe for seduction. When a man leaves his wife as often and as long as Rory left me, he runs the risk of losing her affection to another who is more attentive. I refused to dwell on it, but occasionally a dark thought crept into my mind. Was Rory as lonely as I? Did he fight the wanting that months without release inevitably brought? Or did he seek his pleasure elsewhere, justifying his sins by confessing to his priest that he was only a man and his wife was far away? I never asked him such a question for fear of hearing the truth. It was enough that here at Dun Na Ghal he was faithful to me. Perhaps that was all a man could be.

  Day after day Niall kept at his subtle flirtation. I began to listen for the sound of his footsteps in the hall. His frequent shouts of laughter were not at all unpleasant to my ears and the look in his night-dark eyes as he watched me go about my daily business left me breathless. I was constantly wary, every nerve on edge. All through the long spring nights Niall courted me, playing the gentleman, never once pressing his advantage. If I missed Rory and wondered why he did not come to rescue his wife and children from the clutches of his enemy, no word of it passed my lips.

  It was midsummer when the message came. After looking in on the children I retired to my chambers for the night. Earlier, Niall and I had dined alone and I knew by the look in his eyes and the way he pressed his lips into the palm of my hand that he would wait no longer. To my shame, a part of me hoped that he would not. But another part, the woman who was Agnes MacDonnell’s daughter, the woman who had single-handedly ruled Dun Na Ghal for years, the woman who was mother to five of Rory O’Donnell’s children knew better. The risks of adultery were many and the results devastating. The wisest course of action would be to stay as far away from my charming cousin as the walls of Dun Na Ghal Castle would allow. This I intended to do.

  I sat down on a low stool and motioned for my maid to loosen my braids. The sensual pull of the brush through my hair relaxed me and assuaged the ache in my temples.

  A knock at the door startled me. I tensed, believing it was Niall. But when it sounded again, I knew better. Niall would knock boldly if he knocked at all. More likely he would walk in without warning and arrogantly dismiss my attendant.

  She opened the door, and a man with the swarthy coloring of a Romany traveler stepped inside my chamber. Holding his finger against his lips, he handed me a small piece of paper. Rory’s bold script was unmistakable. My heart pounded as I held it under the light to better see the words. I read quickly, and the blood left my head. Gripping the bedpost, I swayed and would have fallen had the stranger not reached out to bolster me with an arm strong as an oak.

  “Are you ill, m’lady?” the serving woman asked timidly.

  I shook my head. “No, Fiona, just tired. Please leave us.”

  Without a word she left the room. I stared once again at Rory’s words and wet my lips
. “How can I possibly manage such a deception?” I asked my husband’s messenger. “We are watched every moment.”

  “Even Niall Garv must sleep,” he replied. “The O’Donnell waits with five thousand men at the mouth of the river. Tomorrow, before first light, you must bring the lads to the south entrance.”

  “What of my daughters and me?”

  “Be ready. Your husband will take the castle in less than a fortnight. Wait for his message, then go to the children and stay with them. Fear not. ’Tis the heir to Tirconnaill that Niall Garv would hold hostage. He’ll not harm you or the lassies.”

  I thought of the cold sculpted beauty of Niall’s mouth and wondered if Rory knew him at all. There was only one way to soften the edges of Niall’s finely honed sense of danger, and it came with a terrible price. Did Rory have any idea what he asked of me? And if he did, would he allow me to finish it?

  That night I slept little, wondering whom I could trust to lead my sons out of the silent castle to the south entrance. I would have taken them myself but I would be otherwise occupied.

  My worry turned out to be groundless. The next morning the O’Neill standard appeared at the gates and my mother was allowed inside. We clung together, Mother and I, and she whispered words of comfort into my ear. After greeting Niall Garv, she thanked him for the care he had taken of her grandchildren. He smiled pleasantly and left us alone for the rest of the day. We played gently with the children, and I told her of Rory’s plan.

  Agnes MacDonnell was no fool. She frowned and asked the question I feared most. “I shall be glad to help you, Nuala, but why not take the children yourself?”

  My cheeks burned. Unable to meet her clear-eyed gaze, I turned away. “Niall must be kept indisposed until after the attack.”

  “How?”

  I stared straight ahead and did not answer. She sighed and took my hand in hers. “Nuala, my love. Women have their own weapons. There is no shame in saving your children.”

  “Rory will never forgive me,” I said bitterly.