“Without your help, a man will go to prison for the rest of his life for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“I have children and neighbors and a life that I love.”
“Does your husband know about Belfast?”
“Of course he does, but I’m sure he wouldn’t wish it spread about the golf club.”
“The Georgiana Reddington I knew would never let an innocent man suffer,” Meghann said slowly.
“The Georgiana Reddington you knew was a desperate fool,” Georgiana shot back.
Meghann knew when an argument was lost. She had spent too long at the Old Bailey to continue hammering when there was no longer the possibility of winning. Georgiana refused to open old wounds. Not that Meghann blamed her, or at least she wouldn’t have if her client had been anyone but Michael. She rubbed shaking hands against the nubby tweed of her skirt. “I understand. I’m sorry to have troubled you. Under the circumstances I think I should leave. Give my regards to your husband.”
“Meghann.” The desperate plea stopped Meghann at the door. “Don’t leave. I’ll speak to Denis. Perhaps there’s another way.”
Meghann sighed. She was in no position to refuse any possibility of help, no matter how small the crumb. Besides, Belfast was two hours away and the house really was lovely. “Thank you, Georgiana. If you really want me and you’re sure it’s no trouble, I’d love to stay the night.”
Georgiana relaxed. “Come along. I’ll show you to your room. You can rest if you like or we can take a walk before dinner.”
Meghann sat on the green satin settee by the window and looked around her room for the night. During her marriage she had become accustomed to the size and splendor of aristocratic country homes, but this one affected her differently. The lemony wallpaper with its flecks of green, the cherry dressing table and matching desk, the massive four-poster bed and the bathroom with its clawed tub and wing-back chair, twice the size of her own master bedroom in London, were lovely but not unusual enough to create the sense of timelessness that now held her in its grip.
Through the window she saw horses, their noses deep in pasture grass. Golden calves lay beside the cleanest milk cows Meghann had ever seen, and down the gravel road, behind a copse of cypress trees in the middle of a muted wood, lay the ruin of the first O’Conor castle, the one that Dermot O’Conor had surrendered to Rory O’Donnell in 1599. How odd that she’d known that. The date had jumped into her mind as easily as if she recited it every day of her life.
Meghann’s eyelids felt heavy. The peat burned cozily in the grate, burning off the room’s chill. Pulling the afghan around her, she leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Her hand moved to the oval at her throat. Behind her lids the flames grew, rising above the mesh screen, throwing an arc of light against the south wall. Shadows danced along the frieze, twisting into figures, first narrow, then wide, then reshaping again until they assumed human form.
Her fingers played with the locket. It was almost over now, her sojourn into Nuala’s life. She’d studied the documents, especially the dates. Nuala had died shortly after the battle of Kinsale.
Meghann wanted to resist, to prolong the finale for as long as possible. There were no happy endings for this story. For some inexplicable reason, Meghann had come to depend on Nuala. There was comfort in their shared conversation and the occasional glimpses into her mind. Once it ended, would the ties between them be broken? Would she ever see Nuala again?
For the first time, here in the antique splendor of Georgiana’s country home, Meghann admitted to herself that she was terrified, terrified of losing her case, terrified of losing Nuala, her one ally, and most of all, terrified of permanently losing Michael.
Andrew Maguire’s reputation in his community was second to none. It was his only claim to the power he wielded more thoroughly than any elected official. Without Georgiana to expose his true character, his testimony would be accepted as gospel and there was every likelihood that Michael would spend the rest of his life in prison with no possibility of parole.
Twenty-Two
Nuala, Tirconnaill, 1599
Despite our differences, I was the countess of Tirconnaill and my loyalties had not changed. When Elizabeth of England sent Robert Devereux, earl of Essex, and his army of sixteen thousand men against the Catholic earls of Ulster, I gathered the strength of my resources to divert them.
It went against all that Rory believed not to meet them in fair combat, but I tried to make him see it was the only way we could win. I urged him to allow Essex to take castle after castle without a fight, leaving his soldiers behind to guard his holdings. Fool that he was, Essex decimated his army, leaving too few men to hold the castles he’d claimed and too few to fight the battle he faced against the O’Neill and his allies. Marching farther and farther into the rain-wet mists of the north country, with only a fraction of the army he’d started with, Essex had no choice but to accept our conditions. The O’Neill was as canny an old fox as any Irishman ever born, and I had inherited some of his gift for strategy.
I was not bothered by stories of Irish cowardice. I was the daughter of a fighter and had learned my lessons well. Knowing when to draw back and when to strike gave Rory many a victory. The Irish wars were wars of the frontier and the forest. The Englishman relied on the fort or castle he had erected against the wilderness. The Gael relied on the forest, his defense the wilderness. If a castle was taken by the British in three days, an Irish army would camp beneath it for weeks, destroy the caravan of provisions sent to fortify the men inside and wait until hunger drove them out. Castles fell without a single shot. The Irish war was a defensive one. We simply waited the enemy out.
Only once did Rory ignore my advice and wage the war of the aggressor. It was in Connaught, that terrible desolate land where Cromwell had driven what was left of the population of Northern Ireland after he’d ordered old men, women, and children to be thrown to their deaths off the bridge of Enniskillen. Richard Bingham, Elizabeth’s lieutenant, held our people in a yolk of oppressive tyranny. It was the only time in two years that I asked to meet with my husband privately.
He came to me in the late afternoon when the mists came up from the boglands, swallowing the trees in lengthening circles of silver-gray smoke. The last vestiges of winter light poured through the large window I had ordered installed in the book-lined room. I sat at the desk, accounts forgotten, fingers stained with ink, staring out at what was left of the day. The familiar ache that I was to forever associate with Rory came over me. My throat moved in an effort to swallow. At that moment I would have handed my kingdom over to Essex to regain what we had lost.
I turned to look at him, and the full force of his gaze moved over me. “You came quickly, Rory. I thank you.”
“Your message sounded urgent.”
“Aye.” I picked up a letter from my desk. “You are accused of the murder of George Bingham. Essex demands your immediate surrender.”
“Aye.”
I rose to stand before him “Is that all you have to say?”
“Essex is a coward. I’d not expected him to demand my surrender.”
“What did you expect, Rory? You put to death every man between fifteen and sixty, sparing none unless they spoke Irish. You burned Longford and returned it to O’Farrell. You returned with the spoils of the Protestants. Not a single settler, farmer, or Englishman living outside the protection of the forts remains alive. When a man leads an army on a rampage of death and destruction, should he expect no more than a slap on the wrist?”
I was coldly, bitterly angry. Rory tried to defend himself. He looked away and mumbled, “’Twas all for Connaught.”
“Connaught was years ago. You have destroyed everything that I’ve worked for, all my efforts of the last decade. While your war was fought for the purpose of keeping your lands and those of the Ulster chieftains, Elizabeth dallied with you. She danced between you and the war hawks in Parliament, satisfying their demand for Irish land. Do you a
ctually believe that she will countenance this one? Holy God, Rory, you have sentenced us to death.”
“That I can live with. I am a Celt, raised on the tales of King Conor and Brian Boru. Death holds no fear for me.”
Standing before him, my back unyielding as Irish steel, I spoke the words that needed to be said. My words were low and calm and filled with unmistakable contempt. “You might have thought of the rest of us. We have no such desire to die before our rightful time. ’Tis a poor chieftain who cares nothing for those who depend on him.”
Without knowing it I’d turned the subject, giving him the lead he wanted. Connaught was forgotten.
“Do you still depend on me, Nuala?”
I rubbed my arms. “Like it or not, I must.” It had been so long since we’d spoken of what stood between us. Had he really consigned Niall Garv to the past?
“My heart aches for you, my love,” he said. “I am nothing without you.”
“’Tis a cold love you offer, husband. If you would have the truth, I would rather be in your bed than in your heart.”
“I would have it both ways, Nuala.”
I looked at him curiously. “Is that true, Rory? Have you forgotten Niall?”
He reached for my hands and drew my slight body against the length of his. Like warm butter, I molded against him, shaping myself to his contours with the familiarity of experience. Although I fought it, my body shuddered with wanting.
“Niall is in the past, Nuala,” he murmured. “I have not forgotten, as you do not forget the bairn that is yours and his. But we must go on, and I would have it be together.”
My arms circled my waist for a brief moment before I pulled away and voiced the suspicion that never left my heart. “I would have us be husband and wife again, Rory, but I will not share you.”
He frowned. “What are you saying? There is no one else, Nuala. You share me with no one.”
“Truly, Rory. Will everything be as it was in the beginning?”
I saw his face and knew that I had misunderstood.
“I cannot bed you, Nuala. To lose you would be to lose myself. I will not risk your life.”
I turned away. “This is not living, Rory.”
***
Meghann woke slowly, regretfully, with a feeling of urgency she wasn’t yet prepared to meet. A persistent, twentieth-century sound invaded her dream, and despite all efforts it wouldn’t go away. Groggily, she forced herself to wake and listen. Someone was knocking at the door.
“Meghann, are you all right?” Georgiana’s voice sounded worried.
“I’m grand, Georgie, really I am.” She sat up and swung her legs to the floor. It was becoming harder and harder to pull herself out of whatever was happening to her. Sometimes she was so very tired and everything appeared to be in such a jumbled mess that it was easier to stay in that other place, in another time, viewing another woman’s life. It was absurd, of course. Involuntarily her hand reached for the locket, but she forced it back down to her side. There was no other woman, just her own very fertile imagination. “Wait a minute,” she called out. “I’m coming.”
Georgiana, slim and splendid in a turquoise skirt and lime sweater, stared reproachfully at her from the hallway. “I thought you’d passed out or something. I don’t remember that you ever slept like that.”
Meghann ran her hands through her hair. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a full eight hours. My mattress is marvelous. Do I have time for a wash before dinner?”
“Of course. I only came up to tell you that Denis is home. We’d like you to join us in the drawing room when you’re ready.”
Meghann stared at her friend’s elegant clothing. “I didn’t bring anything as fancy as your outfit. I hope I don’t embarrass you.”
Georgiana shook her head. How could someone like Meghann be so unaware of her appeal? “You could wear burlap and no one would notice anyone else.”
Meghann looked surprised. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that whatever you wear always looks wonderful. Do hurry, Meggie. Everyone is dying to meet you.”
Georgiana’s husband was handsome, witty, charming and, despite his Irish name and heritage, very much the English gentleman. Meghann’s heart sank. Her judgment of character was usually quite accurate. Denis O’Conor wasn’t a man to encourage his wife’s excesses. Which was why she was completely taken aback when, after pouring her a glass of excellent sherry, he came right to the point. “Georgiana tells me you’ve taken counsel for Michael Devlin.”
“That’s right.”
“Does he have a chance?”
Meghann sipped her sherry. No one would have known that her hands felt like ice and her heart hammered in her chest. “It depends.”
“On—?”
“On what, precisely, you mean by a chance.”
Denis O’Conor laughed, and Meghann decided that it would be possible, after all, to like him.
“I’ve never met Mr. Devlin,” he said, meeting her gaze steadily, “but I’ve read his work and I support his views. He’s a nationalist but not a fanatic. I don’t believe for a moment that he’s a terrorist.”
Meghann released her breath. “You’re quite right, Denis. Michael isn’t a terrorist, but I would be very interested in knowing how you came to that conclusion.”
He took a moment to answer. “I’ve heard him speak. He approved of the cease-fire and argued for decommissioning. In fact, he’s directly responsible for my voting pattern in the last two elections.”
Meghann didn’t realize she was shaking until some of her sherry splashed on her wrist. Denis O’Conor with his gray English eyes, his BBC English, his long, aristocratic fingers, and his fifteen-hundred-year-old pedigree actually believed that he was a liberal. She wet her lips and said what she had driven from Belfast for. “Michael has a chance, but it would be a much better one with Georgiana’s support. Is that possible?”
Denis O’Conor looked across the room to where his wife sat on the Georgian sofa. Their eyes met and held. Meghann held her breath, at first uncomfortable and then envious of the intimacy of their exchange. Finally Denis spoke. “The decision, of course, is her own. Whatever Georgiana does, I will support her.”
Meghann watched as Georgiana bit her lip and downed a healthy swallow of her gin and tonic. Without meeting Meghann’s eyes, she smiled bracingly at her husband. “Well, that’s that, I suppose. The children will be down shortly. Shall we move to the dining room?”
All at once Meghann had no appetite. Denis stood over her chair and held out his arm. “Shall we?” he asked pleasantly.
Meghann stood. “I’m looking forward to it,” she lied. “Isn’t Clonalis on the tour of ‘hidden Ireland’?”
“It is,” he said. “Georgiana put us there. Without her recipes, her knowledge of O’Conor history, and her ability to manage the hundreds of guests who traipse through here every year, I wouldn’t even consider it.”
“She’s changed a great deal.” As soon as they were out, Meghann wished the words back.
“Yes, she has,” he said noncommittally.
Dinner was superb. Salmon mousse, spring lamb with rosemary, fresh garden vegetables, and crème brûlée were served in succession, with enough time between courses to appreciate each one. Georgiana’s children were pleasant, well-informed, confident, and respectful. Meghann envied her.
Not that she wanted Denis O’Conor for herself even if he had been available. He was attractive enough, although a bit soft. Those who were generous would even call him handsome. But Meghann had already married a man whom she considered attractive and never once had he come close to inspiring the kind of bone-weakening lust that she now knew could exist between a man and a woman. Only one man had ever done that for her. That man had blazing blue eyes, sharp-cheeked Celtic bones, and a way of speaking that sounded like music. No one would ever call him soft. Meghann might envy Georgiana her circumstances, but she wouldn’t exchange places with her.
“Would you care to have a go-round at a game of chess after dinner, Meghann?” Denis asked politely.
“Oh, please, Denis,” Georgiana begged. “I haven’t seen Meghann in years. Enlist one of the children.”
Two pairs of identical brown eyes looked up from their plates. “Do we have to, Mum?” Barbara O’Conor appealed to her mother. “The Ellis boys just returned from Dublin and we’ve plans for the evening.”
Georgiana raised her eyebrows at her husband. “Denis?”
He sighed and nodded at his children. “Run along. I won’t keep you from your friends tonight.”
Without the two young people, so remarkably like their English mother, the room felt bereft of energy. Meghann wasn’t the only one who felt it. Within moments Georgiana stood. “There’s a lovely fire in the library. Let’s have our coffee in there.”
Meghann noticed the familiar smell of turf as soon as she stepped into the book-lined room. She inhaled deeply. The bogs of Roscommon produced the richest peat in the world, and the sweet, earthy odor of its singular turf distinguished the boglands of Ireland from those of its Scottish and Welsh neighbors.
Meghann looked around appreciatively. Among the treasures of Clonalis House was its library. Historically the O’Conors produced readers, with each generation adding to the inventory. Their library boasted over five thousand manuscripts, making it the finest private library in all of Ireland. An unusual rolltop desk faced the long, draped windows, and Georgian couches and chairs were tastefully arranged around the fireplace. Georgiana sat beside the tea service and ushered Meghann to a seat across from her.
“I won’t keep you waiting, Meggie,” she said matter-of-factly, her hands folded in her lap. “I don’t think I can help you. I’ll think about it but I won’t promise anything and, quite frankly, my answer will probably be no. I won’t put you off. I’ll need a few days, perhaps a week. I know you’re disappointed in me and I’m sorry. But when this is over, you and Michael will go off somewhere together and I’ll be left with my life and my reputation in pieces. I hope you can appreciate my position even if you don’t agree with it.”
Irish Lady Page 27
