Maiden Voyage

  "I am not surprised. She is an unfortunate girl from Kilkenny who was brutally assaulted last autumn after the Rotunda Ball. It is said that your brother was responsible."

  Fitzwilliam shook his head. "Again Andrew is a target No doubt some clever squireen was attempting to extort a sum of money from me. The fact that I never heard of the unhappy girl's name is proof that Andrew had nothing to do with the incident."

  "The girl died before she could make a statement," Patrick said flatly. "The only reason you did not hear of the event is because you were on a voyage at the time. Had you but read the papers I have given you, the facts would have been all too clear."

  "The papers are in the place we agreed upon already. I had not the heart to read them but made my legal decisions based on the few pages I skimmed." Then he crossed his arms. "If Andrew is truly suspected of harming the Delany girl, then why have the Dublin Castle authorities not even paid me a call? And then why have her parents not come forth to press blame?"

  "They are afraid." Kitty reached for her husband's hand. "Andrew has threatened them with ruin, using both your name and power as his shield. You are well respected, my love, and the Delany's suffered their daughter's loss in silence, for fear you would withdraw your support of the Catholic landowners."

  Fitzwilliam stood in bewildered silence. "I would never do that, never even think of using such a cruel device."

  "You must understand," Patrick began softly. "There are many in the west as well as in nearby counties who are indebted to you for all you have done. Yet by holding their property in your name, protecting all they possess from the anti-Catholic laws, they are virtually beholden to you for their very livelihoods. All they own is under your name simply because you are of the Protestant faith and legally entitled to hold property. Your goodness alone stands between them and destitution, and they know it thoroughly and unequivocally."

  Kitty sighed. "As Catholics they have no rights, cannot own a horse valued at more than five pounds, cannot hold land or a house or enter public office, even joining the military is forbidden."

  "You need not list the injustices, Kitty. I know them all too well, as did my father. That is why I hold these titles and deeds. But it is ownership in name only, a technicality to protect them."

  "But your brother has been using that technical ownership to his own ends for years," Patrick shouted, then calmed his voice. "God's blood, Fitzwilliam, how can you be so blind? I thought you understood. Andrew enjoys his journeys west because he is out of your reach, and no one dares to question his authority. They all believe his commands come straight from you, and who is to contradict his claim? Not me, surely. Not Kitty, although now that she is your wife her voice may be heard in some quarters ..."

  Fitzwilliam's entire posture changed from defiance and disbelief to a sinking defeat. "I need to sit down," he murmured. "I need to think," he said after he had settled in a chair.

  He did not say a word for a long while, only glancing up at the other two with an expression of increasing helplessness and distress, a look that was disturbingly incongruous with features of such strength. Several times he began to speak, and then, as if he already had the answers but had been afraid to recognize them, he would stop himself and drop his head. Finally he spoke, his voice broken.

  "Now it makes sense, terrible sense. I have only addressed the situation in half measures. My God, how could I have let this happen?"

  "Do not blame yourself, Fitz. Andrew has always been thus, and you cannot be faulted." She sat beside him.

  "When I last rode west, I did sense a strange sort of reluctance on everyone's part to entertain me. 'Tis a small thing, I know, but in the past I would return to Dublin exhausted by their lavish hospitality. And do you know what I foolishly thought was the cause of their distance? You, Kitty. I was self-centered enough to attribute their aloofness to our announced engagement. I had been told by so many that I was quite the catch, quite the bachelor prize."

  "Well, that was true. And now your head is swollen beyond all reason, and you are conceited to the point of offensiveness" She kissed his cheek, but he did not seem to notice. "You are my prize, and I have won you. And as I am the victor, you are my spoils."

  He sighed and looked first at Kitty, then at his friend. "Can you fetch me the papers I have so long denied?"

  "I shall be more than willing to retrieve them." "Thank you. You see, only then can I be sure, to satisfy my own mind."

  Patrick nodded. "I am indeed sorry, my friend, to give you this news on this happy day." He bowed once to Fitzwilliam, then to Kitty and he left the room.

  Kitty smiled sadly. "I am so sorry. To hear this today, after our wedding, I fear will bring us ill luck."

  "Kitty." He closed his eyes, rubbing a weary hand over his forehead.

  Together they awaited the return of Patrick.

  And in the next room, Andrew, who had heard all that transpired, clenched his fists in fury.

  She awoke, the room hazy in darkness, not wishing to fully rouse herself. It was too comfortable, too delicious not to enjoy a private rest after a day of such excitement, of such emotional turmoil.

  All would be calm soon, and then they could embrace the happiness they deserved. All would be calm soon.

  He entered the room with such stealth, she did not even sigh in her sleep.

  It was difficult not to congratulate himself on his own cleverness. He had outfoxed them, all of them, and now she would be his. All of his life he had been pushed aside, simply because of the misfortune of his birth. Such a small thing, really.

  Once she had been taken with him, smitten and loving. That he knew. She was a woman of means from a family of considerable fortune. Until the other had turned her head, she had been his, all his.

  It churned his stomach to think of them together. It

  was no longer the money now, although that had been the original reason he had sought her out.

  The money was secondary.

  Because the most vital thing to him now was to win her heart, to get beyond those fools who sought to protect her. When he had her heart, he could thumb his nose at the rest of the world, all those who said he was a good-for-nothing and lazy, because with her heart came the money.

  Of course he should have acted sooner, he should not have let things get so far. But his triumph would be all the greater because it was grasped so late. He had given the lesser man a head start, so to speak. It had been an honorable move, and all who spoke of him would grant him that.

  The way she simpered and smiled with that man would soon be a distant, retreating memory to everyone, including the lady herself. She did not know yet that she was in love with him, and it galled him to see them together, cooing like deranged lovebirds.

  Soon she would coo at him, soon she would forget the other man, for he would be nothing.

  She rolled over in her sleep, and he remained motionless. It would not do to wake her now. Not after all of the planning he had done.

  And there were those who had scorned him, said he would amount to nothing. How they would line up to praise him now!

  Almost over her bed, the only illumination was the full moon. Even the moon had been in his plans, for he had known tonight would be full, with blue beams streaming through the window.

  Was there a noise downstairs? No. It didn't matter anyway. He would be silent, and she would be silent as well. He would offer her no choice. He would be the master, and tonight would be just the beginning.

  Slowly he pressed his lips against hers. She responded fully, deeply, stretching against him like a wanton feline. Then she pulled back. But before she could scream he placed his hands about her neck. He had not intended to do that, but she had forced him. How could he continue if she called out?

  With his hands about her neck, his thumbs pressing down on her throat, he again put his mouth over hers. But it wasn't as pleasant. She kicked and bucked, so he put his body over hers, and she made unappealing sounds, grunts and moans so grea
t as to almost squelch his desire.

  Almost, but not quite.

  For beneath his body he could feel the soft outline of her breasts and the furious pounding of her heart. That was her desire, he knew. She wanted him, too. Never had she desired the other one.

  He lessened his grip on her throat, and she gasped, her chest heaving. No other sound came.

  His hands searched below. He would take her now, for he was ready. He would take her now . . .

  "Help!"

  How had she cried out?

  His hand clamped over her mouth. She would not ruin it, not even in her passion. For that is what her cry meant.

  And then the door burst open, like a thousand splintering thunderclaps. . . . All over her.

  He had her pinned in her own bed, and by the time she was fully awake he had already tightened his hands on her throat.

  Was she alone? She could not remember. She tried to cry out but was not sure how loud her voice had been.

  Now she could feel it, her life ebbing away. Perhaps it would be better this way, far better than to be taken by him. Perhaps she should stop the struggle, just give in and let fate take its course.

  There was a commotion, shouts and calls and footsteps on the steps.

  And that was the last she remembered.

  "Maura! Open your eyes, please."

  Cradled in his arms, she opened her eyes. Donal looked down.

  "Thank God." He held her close. There was a cut on his face, and it was bleeding, but she couldn't think clearly.

  "What happened?" Her voice was a croak.

  Someone else was in the room. "The gardai will be here in two shakes."

  "Charles?"

  "You're safe now, Maura. Thank God, you're safe now," Donal murmured into her hair.

  She closed her eyes, just for a moment, to keep the room from spinning so.

  "You're safe now," repeated the voice. But it was a slightly different voice. And the smells were different, she smelled horses on the man who held her.

  "Fitz?" "Forgive me," he whispered. "Had I not heard you, I cannot think of what might have happened. Andrew is below with Patrick . . ."

  The voices overlapped.

  "Roger is below with Charles . . ."

  They blended into one, and when she opened her eyes she saw Donal, yet over his form, like a vague superimposition, was Fitz. Their words and expressions mirrored with such precision, they acted as one.

  And then he faded. At first she could not see which one was fading, and she feared they both would.

  "Please come back," she cried.

  "I will never leave you . . ."

  The other, his voice growing distant, as if he walked through a narrowing tunnel. "I must leave. She waits. She waits . . ."

  "No!"

  One voice now. "I will never leave you." He held her more tightly. And then she herself seemed to fade out.

  Charles and Donal sat downstairs at the Merrion Square town house, both shaken, both clutching glasses of whiskey, provided by a compassionate garda while their statements were being taken. The whiskey remained untouched for a long while as each man mulled his own thoughts.

  "She'll be fine, Donal. The doctor said all she needs is sleep."

  "It's my fault." He finally took a sip. "I didn't take Roger seriously."

  "I can't believe what I did. Me, Charlie MacGuire,

  the easy target of every bully from the time I could walk, actually injured another man."

  "I have to thank you, Charles. Had you not decided to come over when you did, well... I would have been too late."

  "I don't know what came over me." Charles stared down into his glass. "I never really thought about coming here again, I just did. And when I saw him attacking Maura, I grabbed the first thing I could reach—that old penknife."

  Donal said nothing, but he, too, had seen the knife when the ambulance worker removed it from Roger's shoulder. It was an antique, with the initials P.K. elegantly scrawled on the hilt.

  "The man is insane," Charles muttered.

  "Of course, he is. I can only hope he is defended by an incompetent barrister. No offense."

  "None taken, my lad." Charles drained the contents of his glass in a single swallow. "More of the creature?"

  Donal shook his head. "Something strange has been happening," he stated.

  "I know. You have barely touched your drink."

  "Besides that. Have you felt it, Charles? Have you felt something odd in the air?"

  "I would be lying if I said no." He poured another generous splash into his glass. "In truth, it's herself that brought it on." He tilted his head up toward the bedroom on the third floor where Maura was asleep.

  "When did you first feel it?"

  "The moment I showed her this house. She began to act differently when she walked through the door, as if she had an altogether different purpose than just a Yankee collecting an inheritance."

  "It was as if she belonged."

  "That was part of it," Charles admitted. "But there was something else as well. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but it was almost as if she carried with her a sort of spell, and all of us were under that spell while we were with her."

  Donal nodded. "I thank you, my friend, for your help. All you have done ..."

  The solicitor scoffed. "I did nothing, nothing at all." He seemed to grow more pensive. "But I have had some peculiar dreams."

  "Have you now?"

  "More than dreams, more powerful. In it I was a man by the name of Patrick."

  Donal kept his expression blank. "A common enough name, especially here in Dublin."

  "It must have been my own sense of fancy, but I imagined myself a friend of Fitzwilliam Connolly And the dream would not go away altogether. It was always there, hanging like a mist just waiting to be addressed, waiting patiently to be recognized."

  "Do you feel the dream now?"

  He thought for a moment, swirling the whiskey in the glass as he considered the question. "No. It's gone, at least for now. But I have a feeling it is indeed gone forever. It's like a book—I've finished it, and never again will I read it for the first time. I know the story I can recall it whenever I wish, but it is over for me."

  Donal took a deep breath. He was about to tell Charles his part of the dream, but something in

  Charles's expression caused him to hesitate, then abandon the idea entirely. It would be too disturbing for Charles. He had already done more than his fair share, an unwilling participant. The less he knew about what had happened, the sooner he could return to his world of deeds and wills and everyday things.

  "Well, Donal. I'll be off, if you don't mind. Will the two of you be well here?"

  "Thank you, Charles. We'll be fine. Oh, and I'll come by tomorrow on my way to the factory."

  "Yes. Yes, indeed, there are some lose ends to be tidied up."

  He stood, took one quick gulp of the drink, and reached for his jacket.

  "To Nesbitt's?" Donal raised an eyebrow.

  Charles nodded in bright conformation. "To Nesbitt's. I'm meeting Evie there."

  "Your ex-wife?"

  "The very one. It is the most peculiar thing, Donal, but ever since Maura came into town, Evie and I have, well. . . things have been different between us. Better, I mean. She says I'm the man she hoped I would become, whatever that is supposed to mean. In other words, she fancies me again." He grinned and walked to the doorway with a distinct bounce to his step.

  "That's grand, Charles. Do you think the two of you will get married again?"

  "Married again? Why, there would be no need."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because, dear lad, we were never divorced. Good evening, Donal, and I'll see you in the morning." He tipped an imaginary hat and left, the sound of his jaunty whistling heard clearly through the closed door.

  Donal chuckled and latched the lock.

  And, his back toward the staircase, he knew someone was behind him. Instinctively he knew it was not Ma
ura. She would have spoken. She would have felt differently, not like this, not causing his spine to be traced with an icy finger.

  Slowly he turned. At first he saw nothing. Then, as his eyes remained still, he saw a slow swirl of what seemed to be smoke on the staircase.

  The swirling began to speed up, becoming swifter and thicker with every twirl, faster and faster it spun, and like clay on a potter's wheel, a shape began to emerge from nothing.

  It was tall and solid, the image swirling, and Donal held his breath.

  Finally, on the steps stood the unmistakable, three-dimensional figure of Fitzwilliam Connolly.

  Donal simply stared, unafraid of this long-dead figure, yet uncertain as to what he should do.

  Connolly returned the gaze, taking in the form of Donal Byrne at the foot of the staircase.

  Every aspect of the apparition was vivid and astonishing. His boots glinted in the light. His hair, thick and slightly unruly, cascaded over a broad shoulder. From the expression on his face, he too was appraising the man before him, noting every detail of Donal's appearance.

  He felt as if he knew the specter. An understanding deeper than any he had ever experienced flowed between them, an intimate knowledge of each other

  that was not of any known world, but that was complete and natural and pure. More than that, Donal felt as if a part of him was the man, an invisible part that only he knew of, only he himself and perhaps Maura.

  So Donal did the only thing that seemed right and natural. He smiled.

  At that the other man cocked his head, a silent question, and offered a genuine, unforced smile in return. His arm reached for Donal, as if they could touch, or shake hands. Then the hand dropped in futility, an unspoken knowledge that touching would be impossible.

  And then he did something extraordinary: He bowed. It wasn't just a simple nod, or a sketchy movement forward. It was a deep bow at his waist, a gesture that was at once archaic and utterly universal, a motion offering honor, perhaps friendship.

  Donal did nothing for a few moments, and then he, too, bowed in a forgotten gesture of greeting and respect, paying homage to the man on the stairs. By the time he had straightened, the man was gone.