Patricia Falvey (34 page)

“Is Frank O’Neill about?” I called urgently.

The boy dropped the bucket and came closer. He wore a sly smile, but his eyes were sullen. “There’s nobody here by that name,” he growled.

“Of course there is,” I said. “Can you find him, please?”

The boy’s smile faded. “And just who would you be?” His tone was accusing.

My temper flared. “I’m his feckin’ sister,” I snapped, “not that it’s any of your business, you wee git!”

“What’s the trouble, Aidan?” a voice came from behind. I swung around. I recognized one of the stable hands from before.

“I’m looking for my brother, Frank O’Neill,” I said.

The fellow looked me up and down. I wanted to lash out and hit him.

“Well, well,” he said, “there’s no Frank O’Neill here at the minute, miss.”

He looked at the boy. They were enjoying a joke at my expense. I was ready to explode. “What the feck do you mean?” I shouted. “You know fine well he’s here.”

The older fellow shrugged. He took a long draw on his cigarette. “Now, if you were to tell me you were looking for a Francis Fitzwilliam, then I’d tell you you’ll find him right enough beyond at the big house. But the fellow Frank O’Neill that used to work in the stables is not here any longer.”

The boy snickered.

“Suit yourselves,” I said, frustrated. I picked up my bicycle and turned on my heel. I wheeled my way toward the house. What the feck were they on about? I wondered. “Eejits!”

I pulled hard on the heavy iron knocker. I supposed I was going to have to face my foul old grandfather after all. I’d been hoping to avoid him. When the door opened, it was a small, bird-eyed woman who peered out from behind it.

“Yes?” she said.

“I’m Eileen O’Neill… er, Conlon,” I said. “I’m Mr. Fitzwilliam’s granddaughter.” Jesus, the words caught in my throat. “Is he about?”

She stiffened. “He’s not up to visitors,” she said.

“Well, actually, I was really looking for my brother Frank,” I said.

“Who is it, Rose?” a male voice came from somewhere behind her.

“A woman who says she’s your sister,” called Rose with surprising force.

“Bring her in, then.”

She stood aside and let me into the dark, musty hall that I remembered. It was still dark, but it smelled now of wax polish and lemons. I walked toward the sound of the voice.

Frank sat at a wooden table in the kitchen, hunched over a plate of meat and steaming potatoes. He looked up and his fork froze in the air.

“What is it you want?” he growled.

“Fine greeting for your sister,” I said, my earlier good mood almost gone. I pulled out a chair and sat down. The woman hovered in the background. Frank waved his hand at her.

“Get her some tea, then leave us alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

I watched in amazement as she set a cup of scalding tea in front of me and quietly left the kitchen. I turned to Frank. “Sir?” I said.

Frank shrugged. “She’s new here. It’s nice being waited on for a change,” was all he said.

He had grown darker and stockier since I had last seen him. There was no trace of a boy left in him. To my horror, I realized he was the image of old Fitzwilliam himself.

“What is it you want?” he said again. “If it’s money, you may as well leave now, because you’ll get none from me.”

I suddenly remembered why I had come. My good mood returned. I laughed and put my hand on his arm. “Och, Frankie,” I whispered, “I’m here to thank you.”

He frowned. “What for?”

“For not selling the Yellow House after all. For repairing it instead. Ah, Frank, I was up there today and it looks grand, so it does. You’ve made me so happy. And Da, too, I’m sure of it.”

Frank’s dark eyes pierced my face for a moment, and then his frown disappeared and a grin of understanding took its place. He put down his fork and laughed.

“Jesus, that’s a good one!” he cried, slapping his knee. “Ah, now, that’s the best one I’ve heard in many’s a day.” He laughed until his face turned red. I stared at him, waiting, while a slow, dull spit began to turn in my stomach.

When he was all laughed out, he shook his head. “Jesus, Eileen. I took you for a lot of things, girl, but never for this much of an eejit. You really thought…” The laughter threatened to erupt again. I stared at him, the sickness growing inside me.

Frank leaned back in his chair. His dark eyes were cold. “Did you not understand what I told you before? I hate the O’Neills. I owe them nothing.” He grinned again. “I even changed my name.”

“What?” I said, confused.

“Aye.” He put out his hand as if to shake mine. “Francis Fitzwilliam, at your service.”

I ignored his hand. What the feck was he talking about? I wondered for a minute if he had not gone astray in the head.

“You see, darlin’ sister, our grandfather began to get frightened that the rebels would come and burn down his house and everybody in it. Of course, I fanned the flames a bit, as you might say—got some of my friends to come up here with torches and scare the daylights out of the old bastard.”

He kept talking as if I weren’t there.

“In time I got him convinced I was the only one could save him. I told him I hated the Catholics as much as he did, and wasn’t I a Protestant at heart and by blood just like himself. He took a bit of persuading, but he gave in. Signed everything over to meself as long as I would change my name and my religion. Small price to pay, wouldn’t you say?”

I stared at him. He had gone astray in the head. I was convinced now.

“After all,” he went on, smiling to himself, “there was nobody else for him to leave it to. Ma’s only sister died young and she had no brothers. I assured him I would keep the Fitzwilliam line going and his fortune intact. Ah, I have the devil’s tongue on me, so I do. You’d almost think I was an O’Neill. Are you not proud of me, Eileen?”

I could not take in what he was saying. Frank had connived his way into owning the Fitzwilliam estate? He had turned Protestant?

“Don’t be looking at me like that, Eileen,” he sneered. “Ma was a Protestant. You’re half a one yourself, no matter how fine a Republican you think you are.”

“You’re a bloody turncoat,” I hissed at him.

He shrugged. “I have no interest in either side. They’re all the same as long as it means money for me. And as for fighting for the bloody Cause the way you and your husband do—that’s for eejits altogether. If you’re going to lie and burn and kill, you may as well do it for your own profit, not for some feckin’ vision of glory! Look at what it’s done for you—a slave beyond at the mill, and your husband with a price on his head.” He grunted. “At least I have land to show for my actions. What have you?”

I was growing weary. I wanted to jump up and beat him with my fists and yell and scream. But all the energy had drained out of me.

“What did you do with the Yellow House?” I asked, my voice flat.

Frank’s face broke out in a wide grin. “Ah, now that, my girl, was a masterstroke!” He laughed aloud. “Ah, that did my heart good. I sold it indeed, Eileen, and you’ll not guess in a thousand years who I sold it to.”

I waited.

“Och, be a good sport, Eileen. Go ahead, guess.”

I said nothing. He stopped laughing, but the sly grin remained.

“I sold it to Owen Sheridan,” he crowed. “Isn’t that a good one? I sold it back to the people the O’Neills stole it from in the first place. Isn’t that the greatest joke you ever heard?” He was cackling now, an evil, awful sound. “I took the O’Neill legacy and I shoved it up their arses.”

I don’t recall how I got home that night. My eyes were a blur of tears. My mind was numb with confusion. I felt no emotion—not fear, not anger, not sadness. It was as if the very core of me had been ripped out and all that remained was flesh and bone.

IN THE DAYS
after my visit to Frank, I feared I would lose the last threads of my sanity. My money was gone, the Yellow House was gone. What had I left? It was Terrence who helped me hold on by stoking my fury. When he heard what Frank had done, he turned into a man I had never seen before. Gone was the sitting and staring into the fire on long quiet nights. Instead he paced the floor, cursing Frank and the Sheridans and James and anybody else he could name. He scared the daylights out of poor Billy so much that he fled up the stairs with Aoife in his arms and would not come down.

“He’ll pay for it, Eileen. Mark my words, Frank will pay for his sins! He should burn in bloody hell for this.”

The strength of Terrence’s anger shocked me. He had always been such a quiet, thoughtful man—no matter that I always sensed there was something passionate burning deep down inside him. What surprised me was that it was Frank’s actions that had unleashed that passion in him. I’d always thought Terrence secretly admired my ma, but what Frank had done made no difference to her. The world could blow up around her and Ma would be none the wiser.

No matter. I seized on Terrence’s anger like a drowning woman and let it light my own passions. My fury grew, and as it did it suffocated the fear that stalked deep down inside me. Since I could not stand to go near Frank again, my anger turned toward Owen Sheridan. I marched into Joe Shields’s office and asked him outright where Owen was. He gave me a queer look.

“Not that it’s any of your business, missus, but he’s away to England these three weeks.”

“When will he be back?” I demanded.

“How the feck should I know?” he said. “I’m not his feckin’ secretary. Now get yourself back to work.”

So I had to bide my time. May came and went, and June dawned with the promise of a mild, wet summer. Theresa finally allowed me to make amends to her. I realized that she saw me as a rich source of information to fuel her need for gossip, and that outweighed my bout of bad temper toward her. She had let me cool my heels long enough. I smiled to myself. Poor Theresa was so innocent, you could read her like a book. I was glad for her company, though, since the other women still would not talk to me. I told her about how Frank had sold the Yellow House out from under me, and she seemed genuinely sorry.

“It’s bad enough my brother stole your money,” she said, “but for Frank to do that to his own sister…” Her eyes turned bright. “You say he turned Protestant? Changed his name and all?” I could see her excitement building. This was great gossip altogether.

ONE FRIDAY IN
early July, I sat by myself at lunchtime on the wall that ran along the river near the mill. Theresa was out that day, nursing her ma, who thought she was dying. Old Mrs. Conlon had a bout of dying every few months. Theresa was made to stay home from work, the priest was sent for, and funeral arrangements were begun. But as they say, it’s hard to kill a bad one, and the oul’ bat always recovered. She would outlive the lot of us, I thought.

“Hello, Eileen.”

The voice came out of nowhere, interrupting my thoughts. I jumped so that I nearly lost my balance on the wall.

“Christ almighty, would you not creep up on a body like that? I nearly fell in the feckin’ river.”

I looked up and saw it was Owen Sheridan himself. I choked into silence. I suppose, looking back, it was just as well I didn’t see him at first, because I had no time to consider how I would react. He smiled down at me, his eyes glinting in the sun.

“Well, I am glad to see that you are doing well.”

“And why wouldn’t I be?” I snapped.

“Of course. It’s a beautiful day, and I’m sure you are looking forward to your weekend.”

“Aye,” I said, finding my voice now. “I’ll be kicking up my heels as soon as the horn blows tomorrow, dancing and carrying on until Monday rolls around again.”

He ignored my sarcasm, sat beside me, and took off his cap. He wore his uniform, and I was grateful for it. The uniform put the distance between us—British soldier, rebel’s wife—and it allowed me to set aside my earlier gratitude and vent my fury on him.

I stood up and towered over him, my hands on my hips.

“Haven’t you the neck on you to be sitting down here beside me nice as you like and making small talk as if there wasn’t a thing in the world wrong?”

He stared up at me in confusion. I thought I saw a fleeting smile, and it annoyed me more.