Maiden Voyage

He knew, Donal did, that he would never see the image again.

  For after two and a half centuries of unrest, he was finally at peace.

  At last it was over. chapter 20

  "So nothing's changed." Maura descended the steps slowly, observing every detail of the town house. The early morning sun beamed in blurred streaks through the dirty windows. The single bare light bulb was hanging with dismal resignation where a brilliant crystal chandelier once sparkled.

  Donal jumped to his feet, any last traces of slumber gone the moment he saw her. "How do you feel?"

  "Tired," she admitted. "Were you here all night?"

  "Of course. Here." He reached for her hand, and as his clasped hers, she paused.

  "Nothing has changed." The urge to cry was almost unbearable.

  "You're wrong. Everything's changed. I was up all night reading your books. They are all different now."

  "Then why am I still here? Why didn't Fitz and Kitty's children get this place?"

  "Come over here and sit down. I'll explain everything."

  Wearily she followed his lead. "Did they both live a long and happy life together? Please tell me that first."

  "No, I'm afraid not."

  She sat beside him on the sofa. "Oh, Donal."

  "It seems Kitty was, indeed, ill. She died in Fitz's arms less than a year after their marriage."

  Her hand flew to her mouth, hoping that somehow Donal had been wrong. Yet she knew what he had said was the absolute truth. Part of her died with that knowledge, as if an empty, hollow core expanded within her.

  "How awful," she breathed.

  "Perhaps. But for that one year they were happy."

  A wistfulness laced his voice, a softness that had not been there before. If it had, she hadn't noticed it until now. He seemed different somehow. The house was exactly the same, every chipped corner and scuffed inch of it.

  But Donal, he had changed. What was it? His voice was unaltered, his movements as swift and sure as

  always.

  Puzzled, she watched his features before she spoke. Perhaps the difference was right there on his face.

  "Did Fitz remarry?" Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized his reaction.

  "No, Maura. He didn't have much of a chance. In 1770 his ship, the Katherine, went down somewhere in the Atlantic during a storm. He was on his way to America to start a new life."

  Her tears began before he had finished speaking. Once they started, she was unable to stop them from flowing. The thought of his early death, of the terror he must have felt as the ship rolled and shattered into pieces, of slipping into an angry sea, knowing he would not survive.

  "Maybe he would have been better off without our intervention," she said as he handed her his handkerchief. "Maybe he would have been better oft" dying here on the steps."

  "How can you possibly say that? Think of Kitty alone, that she didn't suffer his death. My God, he would have suffered far worse, and gladly, to have spared her his death. He always knew that perishing at sea was probably his fate, although he did not relish the thought and hoped to avoid it. And they did have that year together, at least they had the year. Most people don't even get that."

  What a romantic notion for the pragmatic Donal Byrne. How very unlike the man. But he was so absolutely correct. At least they had a year, a rare and wonderful year.

  "You're right." She wiped her eyes. "Of course, you're right. What about Andrew and Patrick?"

  A vague smile traced his lips. "Well, Andrew recovered from his wounds, and his older brother promptly sent him to sea on one of the more miserable routes to South America and Australia."

  "He deserved far worse," she whispered.

  "Oh, not to worry. He got far worse than a lack of suitable tailors—his own men killed him."

  "His own men?"

  Donal nodded. "It seems he attempted to go against his brother's orders by gathering slaves. The

  ship would not hold additional passengers, and the details are sketchy, but it seems a first mate shot him. There was a very brief investigation, but all in all everyone seemed relieved by his death. Don't forget that Kitty and Fitzwilliam were dead by then, so there was no one to mourn. And Patrick shipped himself off to America."

  "Patrick did? Where did he settle?"

  "Well, you can read any of his biographies if you want more details. All I know is that he was a signer of the Declaration of Independence and lived to a ripe old age on a Virginia plantation."

  "That's wonderful." For the first time she smiled. "He deserved to be happy. Did he ever get married?"

  "Late in life he did marry the widow of a friend. He didn't have any children, though, so when he died this house and the factory were left to the heirs of Mrs. Finnegan—the housekeeper—and yours and of Delbert's ancestors."

  They sat in silence for long moments, each pondering the fates of four people who lived and loved and laughed and sorrowed over two centuries before. It hardly seemed possible that they were gone.

  "Well," she began haltingly. "I guess that just about wraps things up."

  "And what about us?" His voice was barely audible, layered with doubt, yet she knew what he had said.

  "I don't know."

  It had reached his eyes now. Always Donal's eyes had been spectacular. Now there was something else there, a depth and kindness and warmth that had been either missing or simply invisible. "But I do know, Maura. I loved you before, yet after what happened last night. . ." He did not complete the sentence. There was no need.

  "Donal, we have so many problems between us."

  "I don't see it that way. We're both alive, we're both right here, right now. What else could possibly matter?"

  "The factory. What are we to do about that?"

  "While you were still sleeping, I gave that matter some thought."

  "I thought you spent all night reading."

  "I'm a fast reader. So after I had finished reading, 1 began thinking about the factory. And I realized what a shame it would be to change the basics of the place after so many years."

  "Something has to be done," she argued. "It can't last much longer losing money at this rate."

  "You're right. The problem is in the expense of the raw materials as well as the labor. If we use less expensive wood and more modern machinery for the primary steps, saving the hand labor for finishing, we would cut the costs and increase production."

  "No. I don't think using cheap materials is the answer."

  "I didn't say cheap. I said less expensive. There's a difference. Look, at the moment we are producing very fine reproductions of antique furniture. Other companies can do it just as well and more efficiently."

  "I realize that, but. . ."

  "Maura, have you ever seen some of the real Irish country furniture, pieces from farmhouses?"

  "Not really."

  "It's splendid, absolutely beautiful. It's made mostly from pine, less expensive than oak and the other woods. In design, the pieces are simple and basic, yet there is a true artistry in the purity of the lines, in the finishing touches."

  His enthusiasm was infectious. "Go on," she urged.

  "Every single man already employed has the skills. They have just not had the occasion to use them. We can get a few new pieces of equipment, hire a few recent university grads, and go from there."

  "Perhaps we could have the finishing work, the more interesting stuff, done in the front room, so people touring the place could see how it's done."

  "Maybe. No period costumes, though, or shoes with funny buckles or pots of gold with fake rainbows."

  "No costumes," she agreed. "No rainbows or anything else that can be found on a cereal box. This will be real Irish artistry. And each piece can be unique, one of a kind. The basic designs will be the same, but the men can add their own touches, a carving here, perhaps stencil work there."

  "Brilliant, absolutely brilliant!"

  She was stunned. "I thought you said I wasn't a good businesswoman."

&
nbsp; "Did I say that?" The smile left his face, and he leaned back, resting his elbow on the arm of the sofa.

  "You most certainly did. More than once you've brought up the failure of Finnegan's Freeze-Dried, and my mishandling of almost any situation that comes my way."

  This was not what she had intended to say, but she couldn't help herself. Everything he had said about her failings still bothered her more than she had realized. With a few cutting remarks, he had managed to undermine her confidence.

  How could she ever be happy with someone who would constantly criticize everything she did?

  "You must think me a wretched article indeed," he whispered.

  She blinked. This was not the reaction she had expected, not at all.

  Closing his eyes, he continued. "I did say those things. Now I believe I know why—I wanted to hurt you, to bruise and harm you."

  "But why? I never did anything to hurt you."

  "Ah, but you did." He opened his eyes, and there was such sparkle and life in the glorious blue that she very nearly gasped. "You made me feel again. And with that feeling came hurt and pain and fear, everything I had been escaping from for so long. I knew you were fragile, and I instinctively knew where to aim. I couldn't target anything else about you, so I targeted the one thing that was not your fault, and that was the faltering of your father's company."

  "But it was my fault." She swallowed, unable to turn away from his compelling eyes.

  "See what a good job I made of it? I am ashamed, Maura. For in truth, I believe the problem with Finnegan's Freeze-Dried has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the product. The wonder is that a company producing nothing but freeze-dried cabbage could survive at all."

  She remained silent, part of her wanting to defend her father's idea, the other stunned that she hadn't

  thought of that before. As if reading her thoughts, he went on.

  "Maura, nobody really needs freeze-dried cabbage. People around the world do not express desperate longing for it. God knows fresh cabbage is bad enough. Do we really need it on hand for every occasion?"

  With supreme tenderness he placed his arm about her shoulder, pulling her toward him. "But you did an amazing thing. You came up with clever ideas to make people think they needed the cabbage. Can you imagine what you could do with a good product? Why"— he kissed her hair—"you could be amazing. You already are."

  "Oh, Donal. How on earth did you just do that?"

  "Just do what?"

  "You've just admitted to saying terrible things to me, but made me grateful that you did by turning all of your rotten words into something incredibly sweet."

  "It's you, my love. You see, you proved me wrong on several counts, something I was quite unused to. But one item in particular has caused me to see everything in a whole new light."

  "What was that?"

  "You proved that we do have souls. Not only do we have souls but they touch and mingle and adore. Otherwise, how could you have such complete command over mine?"

  The first kiss was as light and sweet as an air-spun confection. And then it changed, as sweetness gave way to longing, and at last passion, sharp and deep, became simply need. And sometime before noon, they both agreed that it would be sheer folly to ever again deny that need.

  They stood in the yellow parlor before a faded patch of wallpaper between the two windows.

  "I wonder what we'll find," Maura murmured. There was a sense of awe, of wonder. Finally they would uncover papers hidden for two centuries.

  "I already know what we'll find—the papers proving Andrew's nasty intentions. I'll bet there will be old newspapers and such, maybe all sorts of letters he wrote."

  "We'll soon find out." Donal handed her a damp sponge. "Shall you do the honors?"

  "I'm not sure. Is this place all mine again?"

  "That's what Charles said. Roger's bid on the house was as fraudulent as his background."

  "And his teeth," she added.

  Donal grinned. "And his teeth," he confirmed.

  "Well, here goes. Let's discover what secret papers Fitzwilliam Connolly hid in his own house."

  They worked slowly, deliberately, to do as little damage as possible to the delicate wallpaper. She dampened the paper just enough for Donal to pull strips of it away.

  "There is nothing," she said after they had been painstakingly laying the fragile paper on wax paper so they would be able to replace it later.

  "Wait a second. What's that?"

  A small corner of a piece of paper became evident.

  They looked at each other, realizing that whatever they had just uncovered could very well unlock a

  mystery from the past. Was it proof of Andrew's attempt to kidnap Kitty? Perhaps the false papers he wrote to frame Patrick? Maybe even a confession of some sort.

  "Careful," Donal said to himself as he eased the paper out.

  "What the devil?" He stared at the document, holding it so Maura could see it as well.

  "What on earth is this?"

  He laughed. "It's a receipt."

  "What for?"

  "For some unspecified item from Thomas Read's Silver Shop."

  "But the penknife was already picked up."

  "This is for something else. Wait a moment, there's a note on the back."

  Maura recognized the handwriting immediately. It was written in the distinctive hand of Fitzwilliam Connolly.

  Patrick, Again, my friend, you come to my aid when I need it most. I trust this signifies you and Kitty and the child are well, and for that I am grateful. I also trust that I am merely at sea and not engaged in a voyage of a more permanent nature. Whatever the cause of my absence, convey to her my everlasting love. yours, Connolly.

  "Okay, now I'm completely confused," she said, rereading the letter. "Whose child?"

  "I haven't the faintest notion," he admitted. "At least, I'm not exactly sure."

  "What do you mean? You have an idea what all of this might be about?" "Maura, how would you like to fetch a stroll over to the good Mr. Read's shop? I believe we have neglected to pick up an item for far too long."

  "Sounds swell by me." She took his arm. "You don't suppose we'll owe any money on this, whatever it is."

  "Nah. The receipt says it's all been paid for."

  "Cool."

  "Very cool indeed," he agreed, and they set out in a fine, soft Dublin day to find out what Fitzwilliam Connolly ordered in the spring of 1768.

  The clerk at Read's did not seem at all surprised. It was as if it were the most normal thing in the world to have an order picked up two and a half centuries late.

  "Ah, so you forgot all about it, did you now?" The young man commented with a wink as he looked over the receipt.

  "We did," Donal said. "What with all the recent commotion and all."

  "The commotion?" The clerk looked up for a moment.

  "The world wars, the founding of the United States, the Napoleonic Wars, a moonwalk or two, not to mention our own troubles here with the famine and all." He shrugged. "We were sidetracked."

  "Ah, yes. I can see as to how that would happen. I myself find it hard to pull away from reruns of Dynasty. You know, I think I'm certain the very parcel this is. Lucky for you it's not in the stuck drawer. Twould be lost forever then. Ah, here we go

  now.

  From beneath a counter he pulled a large, oblong package.

  "Are you sure?" Maura asked dubiously.

  "Of course I am. Look—the numbers match."

  He was right—the numbers matched.

  The clerk then produced a leather-bound ledger. Touching the tip of his finger to his tongue, he paged through the signatures. She saw a flash of dates, most from the last century. "Do you mind signing for the parcel?"

  "No. Not at all," she said.

  He scribbled the number of the package, then handed her the pen.

  She turned to him. "Donal, would you rather sign?"

  "No, Maura. This is all yours."

  She
smiled, then leaned over to write her name. When she straightened the clerk stamped it "Received."

  "There we go." He passed the package into her hands.

  "Do you have any idea what it is?" She couldn't help but ask.

  "No," the clerk replied. "But whatever it is, the person who ordered it had no need of it. That's the way it is with most of the unclaimed orders here. The person simply had no need, for whatever reason. And that's where the stories are."

  The package wasn't particularly heavy. "I don't know if I can wait until we get home. Do you mind if I open it here?"

  The clerk raised his eyebrows. "I was hoping you would. I myself am overwhelmed with a desperate curiosity." Maura set it back on the counter. "Scissors?"

  "Take your pick," the clerk offered, sweeping his hand along a display case filled with hundreds of scissors, in gold and silver, some engraved and etched, others plain and functional. She chose a funny-shaped pair with a vine entwined along the blade.

  "Ah, a fine example of Victorian grape shears. Lovely, isn't it?"

  She cut the string and pulled the brown paper wrapping from the package. Beneath the wrapping was a plain wooden box with brass hinges and fixtures.

  "Donal, it's beautiful."

  "Open it," he urged.

  Slowly she opened the box. And inside, embedded in plush green velvet, was a complete set of silver baby dishes and utensils. Engraved on each piece were tiny gold birds.

  "Will you look at that?" The clerk whistled. "The workmanship. It's lovely. And what is that?" He pointed to a small round disk with a wooden lever protruding from the center.

  Maura turned to ask Donal what he thought it was, but he had suddenly become pale. "Are you all right?"

  He nodded once. "It's a pacifier. I need to step outside. Excuse me."

  She turned to the clerk. "I'll be right back." The clerk didn't look up from the box, pulling out rounded spoons and a little cup, all with the delicate bird on the handles.

  Donal was on the winding street next to a rusty black bicycle, leaning his arm against the grayish bricks of an old building, his head down.

  "Donal?"

  He did not respond immediately. Finally he looked up, his eyes damp with tears. "He ordered that to be ready, in case she should ever have a child when he was away. He hid the receipt, for he never wanted Kitty to know how he longed for a child of theirs. And when he realized how ill she was, that a child was out of the question, he was all the more relieved that he had never told her about this. He never wanted her to see the receipt, never. Only Patrick knew."