An Irish Hostage Page 13

  “It’s not important now. He’s here. He’s safe. Everything else can wait. I won’t lose him, not to you nor to anyone else. When he’s well enough, then we’ll see what he can tell us.”

  Major Dawson told me quietly, “She’s probably right. He looks as if he’s at death’s door this morning.”

  He did, but his heart rate was improving, and his color—what I could see of it—was better, and most of all, his body was taking this opportunity to heal, which was a good thing. He needed a doctor, but I had no idea where we might find one, and when I asked Terrence, he just shook his head.

  “Best not. We have no idea who we can trust.”

  By late afternoon, Michael was able to manage a little porridge thinned with milk to make a gruel he could swallow. But I thought it was like feeding a child. When the spoon was presented to him, he opened his mouth and accepted it until he was too tired to go on.

  And that worried me most of all. Was there brain damage from the repeated blows to the head?

  It seemed he hadn’t been fed or given water from the time he was taken, and I thought the tea was helping replace lost fluids.

  Quite early I’d heard Mrs. Flynn come thumping down the stairs, making no effort to be quiet, her cane vigorously striking every step. Apparently she was on her way to Mass, for when I looked out the window I could see that she was properly dressed, with a broad hat to shade her face, gloves, and handbag. Niall was waiting to walk with her.

  The four of us—Terrence, Major Dawson, Eileen, and I—had had almost no rest, even though we’d managed to drop into a restless sleep off and on. I’d have loved to crawl back under my blanket for another hour. Terrence, disappearing into the kitchen, came back in a few minutes with a tray and four cups of tea, which the rest of us accepted gratefully. No one expressed any objection to the spoonful of whiskey he’d added to each one.

  And that was how we passed our Sunday . . .

  At breakfast on Monday morning, Michael appeared to have more appetite, for he ate his porridge with Eileen’s help, finishing the bowl. Then he dropped into one of those deep sleeps of exhaustion, as if even eating was still too much for him. But by Monday afternoon late, he spoke Eileen’s name, and she came rushing to him, holding his hand and brushing at relieved tears.

  I had to wait until I was in the front room alone, when everyone went to the kitchen to eat. Food was plentiful—all the meats and puddings and other dishes prepared for the wedding feast. But Eileen had insisted that the wedding cake must not be touched, and it now rested in lonely splendor on a shelf in the pantry.

  I had volunteered to sit with the patient while they ate, as we had been taking turns going for meals or a brief nap.

  Waiting until I could hear the clatter of utensils and dishes, I dropped to my knees beside Michael, and watched until his eyes opened. They were a little more focused this evening, I thought, and I said quietly, “You don’t know me—I’m Bess Crawford. I’d come for the wedding.”

  There was a pitiful attempt at a smile. “Bess. Britannic.”

  His voice was only a croak, but I was afraid Eileen might hear it and come running.

  “Glad,” he added.

  I returned his smile. “I am also glad I was here,” I told him.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, as if it had taken more strength that he possessed to raise the swollen lids.

  “Who did this to you?” I asked softly.

  He tried to shake his head in alarm, wincing as he did. “No. Mustn’t know.”

  “Who mustn’t know?” I persisted. When he didn’t answer immediately, I added, “Eileen? Terrence? The elder Mrs. Flynn?”

  He managed a brief nod. “All.”

  “But why?”

  “Must get her away. Quickly.” His good hand fumbled for mine and gripped it with such strength he hurt my fingers. “Do it. For me.”

  “I must know why—” I stopped, thinking fast, then went on, “I must know who to trust.”

  “Nobody.” His whisper was urgent now. “Just—go.”

  “Why were you taken? Where is the danger coming from?”

  But before he could answer, the door to the kitchen opened, and Eileen walked in.

  “Is he awake? Michael—” She rushed to his side, and pushed me away to reach him, bent over him, taking his hand and kissing him. “Oh, my darling—”

  “He’s not out of the woods, yet, Eileen.”

  Heedless, she was assuring him that she loved him, asking him if he remembered their marriage, pouring out all her love and fear and worry, struggling to keep him awake and with her.

  But he had used up all his strength. He spoke her name, then drifted away into that half world where he’d spent the last two days.

  She called his name again, but this time he didn’t respond.

  Turning on me, she said, “You were talking to him—what did he say? Tell me?”

  I lied. “When I noticed that he was awake, I asked him what he might care to eat. I told him there was ham and chicken—”

  “You should have called me. He’s my husband, not yours.”

  “Eileen!” I said sharply, losing all patience with her, seeing an unpleasant reflection of her grandmother in her behavior. Were they really that much alike? Or had Eileen lived too long under her spell?

  She was at once contrite. “I’m sorry, Bess, truly. I’m sick with worry, I want to be there whenever he’s awake. I’m jealous of every minute I have to be away from him.”

  “I know,” I replied, reining in what I’d have liked to say.

  After that, we couldn’t persuade her to leave him at all, and although I thought several times that he was awake, there was no opportunity to speak to him. And I had a feeling that he might already be regretting what he’d told me.

  The trouble was, it wasn’t enough. He was afraid that something would happen to her, if Eileen stayed in Ireland.

  I needed to think. And once I was sure that Michael was stable and that it was safe to leave him, I slipped away and left my handkerchief on the stile. It was early, but I couldn’t take another chance of missing the Captain’s flight. Then I went up to Eileen’s room. A handful of bees outside her open window were taking advantage of the fading light as I lay down without changing my clothes. But their whispering, as tired as I was, sent me into a deep sleep. It was rest I needed desperately, although my concern about what Michael was trying to tell me produced uneasy dreams.

  It was dark when I woke up, and the house was quiet. I sat up, surprised to realize how late it must be. Not waiting until I’d collected myself, I hurried to the stand to bathe my face in cool water. It was then that I heard something outside. The sound was familiar, somehow, but I couldn’t quite place it.

  I hadn’t lit the lamp, and curious, I crossed to the window to peer out, knowing I couldn’t be seen.

  There it was again—the soft call of a dove.

  I smiled, about to turn away, remembering that I’d seen doves in the spinney just beyond the meadow where Arthur had landed. It was a comforting sound.

  But it was dark outside—birds would be nesting for the night, wouldn’t they?

  Suddenly alert, I hastily dried my face and hands, then quietly went down the back stairs and stepped into the front room.

  But all was well.

  Eileen was lying on the bedding beside Michael, one hand on his shoulder, and Terrence was asleep on the sofa. In the dim light of the covered lamp on the tea table, I couldn’t see Major Dawson, and I thought he had probably gone up to bed, as tired as I’d been.

  I went back upstairs, relieved. If someone had come after Michael, we were all too vulnerable.

  I climbed into bed once more, drew up the coverlet against the night’s chill, and let myself drift into sleep.

  The window was still open, and I heard the dove again. As drowsy as I was, I thought of the birds I’d watched come and go from the dovecote at the bottom of our garden in Somerset. It stood by the path that
led through the wood to Simon’s cottage.

  Flinging back the coverlet, I was fumbling for my shoes when I heard the kitchen door into the garden bang back on its hinges. A drink-slurred voice demanded loudly, “What the hell are you doing on this property?”

  I thought it was Niall, but I couldn’t be sure. There was a second voice, quite gruff, but I couldn’t hear the reply. Then Niall said roughly, “Be off with you, or I’ll set the dogs on you!”

  The door slammed. And I heard a horse and cart pull away, pots and pans and harness rattling.

  Irish gypsies, by the sound of it. I’d heard they were no more popular here than they were in Britain. Stories of their horse thieving, child abduction, and trickery were legend.

  As I got into bed a second time, I heard Granny’s querulous voice on the stairs, and Niall’s reply as he came up them. “I’ll not have them camping on our property.”

  I lay awake for some time afterward. How did an Irish Traveler know the sound of doves in a Somerset garden?

  Michael was quite feverish the next morning when I hurried back to the house after retrieving my handkerchief, and I was concerned. Eyes too bright in a flushed face, he tried weakly to reassure Eileen, but as I wasn’t in love with him, I took a different view of his situation. I rummaged through Eileen’s bag, but over the years many of the contents must have been used and not replaced.

  After breakfast, while Terrence and I were clearing away, I mentioned my concern. “If there’s no doctor,” I finished, “and he’s going to rely on my care, I’ll need to find an apothecary somewhere and replenish our supplies.”

  “I’m not happy, appearing in the village just now, not so soon after Michael’s miraculous reappearance. There will be questions—bound to be—and a good deal of suspicion. God knows what the guests have told the world and its brother. Can you not wait a day or two?”

  I couldn’t—or rather I didn’t think Michael could.

  “I’ll do my best,” I answered. “But he’s running a fever. That’s never a good sign. I’m worried.”

  “Tomorrow, then.” He sounded relieved.

  Keeping a close eye on the patient, I did what I could for his fever, changed the bandages, and tried not to worry Eileen.

  She, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to what was happening. In her relief to have Michael home again and the wedding over, she doted on him, trying to find something that he might care to eat, bringing cups of tea and cool water, never letting him out of her sight except finally to change her clothes. Refusing to see what any good nurse would have noticed first thing in the morning.

  I realized that she couldn’t face his needing care. She had nearly lost him once, and she wouldn’t hear of a second threat to his life. She told me several times in the course of the day that I was hovering, and I held my tongue.

  But by three o’clock even she had to take notice of the change in him. Anxious, she came into the kitchen where I was making a list of what I would need from the chemist’s and said, “He’s far too feverish. I thought—I put it down to all he’d endured to get back for the wedding. Exhaustion—his wounds. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? He’s having chills, Bess. That’s not just a slight fever.”

  “No. I’ve tried to reduce it, but it’s climbing. And we need supplies. More bandages, ointments, something for his fever—”

  “He needs a doctor! But Terrence won’t hear of it. I got quite cross with him just now. He said tomorrow. Bess, I haven’t got Michael back only to lose him now. Help me!”

  I smiled, for her sake. “As I have been doing all day. I don’t think Terrence wants everyone to know how—how much Michael’s been through.”

  “Well, they could see that in the church, couldn’t they? If they had eyes at all, they would know he’s suffered terribly.”

  “Yes, of course—”

  But she couldn’t listen. “Does Terrence think that they’ll come for him again? Is that why he doesn’t want us to bring in a doctor? He didn’t think I’d seen, but he has his revolver with him now. It was under his pillow last night.”

  “Let’s worry about the moment, Eileen. I was about to make tea. Why don’t you ask your mother if she has a little aspirin we could borrow? There isn’t any more in your kit.”

  This gave her something to occupy her, even though I didn’t expect Mrs. Flynn the younger to have them.

  But she did, and I breathed a sigh of relief myself.

  We took turns watching Michael, and just after midnight, I managed to take my handkerchief out to the stile again.

  Michael’s fever broke at two in the morning, covering him in sweat. We bathed him by a roaring fire, gave him clean nightclothes and sheets, and I took Terrence’s place on the couch, to help watch over the sick man.

  I noticed that Terrence had taken his revolver with him. I had mine, of course, a replacement for the one I’d lost to the authorities in France. It was now in my pocket.

  Pale and exhausted, Michael slept until ten the next morning. He wasn’t out of the woods, by any means, but this was a good sign.

  All the same, I reminded Terrence that we must find a chemist. If not in our village, then another one.

  He was still reluctant, and I wondered for a moment if he was hoping Michael might die.

  It was nearly noon when Terrence and I set out for the village. There was a small chemist’s corner in the general store, but it wasn’t at all what I needed.

  Terrence said, “Are you certain this isn’t sufficient? I’m looking at it myself, and I don’t know what’s lacking.”

  “I’m the nurse,” I reminded him. “The ointments I need aren’t here, and if I take those bottles of aspirin, there won’t be any left for the rest of the villagers. I need more bandages, and you can see for yourself how few they have.”

  I went on with my list, and he said, raising his hands in defeat, “All right. Enough. We needn’t embarrass Mrs. O’Grady. There’s a larger village some miles away. We’ll need the horses.”

  I bought what the shop could spare, and we left. We were starting back toward the house when we heard bursts of laughter from the pub yard. I could see people clustered around a gaudy red and yellow Romany caravan, its patient horse feeding from a nose bag.

  “We ought to see what’s happening,” I told Terrence, and started in that direction.

  “Bess—no—wait.”

  Just then there was a burst of music from a violin, and I glimpsed the thin man who had played before, standing on the steps of the pub, violin in hand.

  I kept going, and Terrence came after me. It appeared that the singer had brought in reinforcements, and that was worrying. What was he up to? And what did a gypsy have to do with the singer? What’s more, why hadn’t Terrence told me this was happening?

  “It’s best to stay away from there. Bess—”

  But short of physically restraining me, he had no choice but to follow me.

  I wasn’t foolish. I stayed well clear of that cluster of men, standing back where a handful of women were also watching. But I didn’t have a clear view. And then someone shifted.

  Suddenly I saw what was causing the uproar. There was a large green parrot in a cage, and I thought surely he must have been owned by someone who had sailed just about everywhere, for the parrot had a vocabulary that would make even a sailor blush, sitting there brandishing what looked like the fried leg of a chicken that someone had given him, eating it and talking at the same time.

  When the violinist started playing, the parrot squawked in sympathy, and people were bent double with laughter.

  Beside me Terrence was saying, “That must be the Romany who stopped by last night to ask permission to camp in our meadow. Niall told him to get out.”

  “Yes, I expect you’re right,” I said absently. Someone was on the far side of the caravan, and whatever he was doing competed with the parrot for attention.

  “Bess—you’ve seen enough. We need to move on.”

  “Not yet,” I said.
Why had the owner of the caravan asked to camp in the meadow, so close to the house? To spy on us? Or was it to do with Michael?

  He put his hand on my arm, intent on pulling me away.

  And then the Traveler came round the corner of the caravan, to remove the feed bag from the horse, and offer it a bucket of water.

  He was tall and had on the most flamboyant clothes, a bit of this or that, more like a mountebank than a Romany, with a hat that would have made a cavalier proud, broadbrimmed and with a feather that swept from the crown with such a graceful flourish that it nearly concealed his face.

  I recognize the hat and the plume. We’d used it dozens of times when I was a child for dressing up and all sorts of theatrics.

  My heart stopped in my throat.

  And then the tall man by the side of the horse lifted his head and said something in a foreign language that sounded like a string of curses that matched the parrot’s.

  And I had all I could do to keep from showing my shock. For the “curses” were intelligible—but only to me!

  “Well, it’s about time you noticed the commotion and came up to find out what it was all about.”

  The words were almost drowned out by another burst of laughter at the apparent inventiveness of the curses, but they were actually Urdu, one of the languages we’d learned in India.

  And he smiled, a flash of white teeth in a very familiar face. For the tall man in the cavalier’s hat was Simon Brandon, looking like anything but an English Sergeant-Major.

  He didn’t appear to be looking directly at me, but I knew he had picked me out of the throng of laughing people.

  Just then the handsome scarred Irishman beside me put his arm around my shoulders and made me turn away.

  And I barely caught Simon’s expression as he watched . . .

  Chapter Eleven

  As soon as I was safely away from the pub and the crowd applauding some new trick, Terrence withdrew his arm.

  “You should never have gone near there. Did you see how he was staring at you?”