Kilpara Read online

  Rider and horse came galloping toward Morrigan, the rider’s brown riding habit clearly visible as she drew nearer. I recognized her as the woman who had argued with Sloane at the stables. She came at the speed of someone either on a mission or completely out of control. Unaware of any danger, Morrigan was directly in the rider’s path.

  I shouted “watch out,” but she couldn’t hear me, my words fading away on the wind. At the same time, I pulled my horse into action. He obeyed out of surprise, not having time to decide if this was something he cared to do. I moved into the path ahead of the charging rider. All at once Morrigan saw us both descending upon her and stood rooted, terror registered in her face. I reached her first, slowing down just long enough to grab her by the waist and hoist her against my thigh until we reached safety. The dark-haired woman rode on past, then slowed her horse down and turned around.

  I dismounted and tried to calm a shaken Morrigan. The woman pulled her horse beside us and looked apologetic.

  “Are you all right, Morrigan darling?” she asked. “I’m frightfully sorry. This beast of a horse was completely out of control.”

  “I’m fine; really, “Morrigan said, embarrassed.

  “I’ve never ridden this horse before,” the woman explained. “He belongs to Charlie. We became separated from the hunt. He took fright suddenly, and I couldn’t get him to obey my commands. I’m terribly ashamed. You might’ve been injured if it wasn't for this handsome stranger.” She leaned forward and held out a gloved hand; eyes as dark as her hair bored into mine. “Lady Daphne Thornton. I'm indebted to you, sir.”

  I shook her gloved hand. “Always glad to assist,” I said, deliberately withholding my name.

  She looked at me demurely. “You must be the handsome American visitor everyone’s talking about. Are you with the hunt?”

  I laughed. “Yes, but my horse thinks otherwise.”

  Daphne smiled. “They can be stubborn, can’t they?” She turned back to Morrigan. “Darling, forgive me for frightening you.”

  With the danger over, Morrigan though still shaken, appeared calmer. “It's quite all right,” she said.

  “I must get back to the hunt, before Father misses me and begins to worry,” Daphne said. “I’ll see you at dinner this evening?”

  “Yes,” Morrigan agreed.

  “You too, handsome stranger?”

  I nodded.

  A smile played across Daphne’s lips as she rode away.

  I was suspicious of the dark-haired Daphne, remembering that only a short while ago she had referred to her horse as a ‘dilapidated old slow poke.’ Had she arrived here by accident like she professed or had she something more sinister in mind?

  “She's very beautiful,” Morrigan said, as we watched the woman depart.

  “Most would agree,” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I feel a bit foolish for not moving out of the way when you came galloping at me like that. I was petrified.” Her eyes shadowed. “You see, I encountered a near mishap when I was a child that left me terrified of horses.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’d been on a riding-school outing, trotting my pony along with other pupils close to the racetrack at Ballybrit, when a small animal, possibly a hare or a fox, crossed our path. The pony reared up and I would’ve fallen off if it hadn’t been for a jockey who saw the whole thing. He ran over, grabbed the reins and calmed the animal down. I was never comfortable riding after that. You must think I’m a terrible coward.”

  If she could read my thoughts at that moment, she’d know I wasn’t thinking she was cowardly, just charming and desirable. I had to fight the temptation to pull her into my arms and kiss away the frightened look on her face.

  She stared at me anxiously.

  “You’re not a coward,” I said. Her face relaxed and we started walking in the direction of Kilpara. “Everyone’s afraid of something.”

  “I’m sure you’re not.”

  She was so serious that I laughed. “I am, but I hide my fears well.”

  She smiled at that and I wished she’d go on smiling forever.

  “Tell me about America,” she said. “Is it truly as big and uncivilized as people say? Are there cowboys and Indians?”

  “It’s a large country compared to Ireland,” I said. “There are cowboys out West who herd cattle in large open spaces. These days more people are traveling out there and staking land claims. New settlements are interfering with native Indians who’ve owned that territory for centuries.”

  “How do the Indians feel about these migrations?”

  “They're determined to keep strangers out. But the white man has more sophisticated military methods. So it's likely they'll lose eventually.”

  “What will happen if they’re overcome?”

  “Difficult to say. A treaty maybe, confining them to a reservation.”

  “How sad,” she said. “To capture one’s freedom and land is like stealing one’s heart and soul.” She said this with such fervor that I wondered if she suspected who I was. Growing up at Kilpara, she must have heard about the O’Donovans and known how they were forced into exile. Or maybe she was referring to Ireland’s conflict in general. Possibly I was mistaking her fervor for regret. I found myself wanting to trust that she held a genuine sense of fairness. That I could beseech her to convince her father Kilpara had seen the sweat of O'Donovans for hundreds of years and it was my father and mother's birthright to be buried there among their kin. As I glanced sideways at her delicate features, I wavered. My request could have the opposite effect and evoke her anger instead of the kindness I hoped for. What then? No, I wasn’t sure enough of her temperament to comfortably take such a risk. I must take my argument to Purcenell and hope for understanding. The sooner the better.

  We had arrived at Kilpara and I was reluctant to let Morrigan go.

  “Where are my manners,” she said suddenly. “Since you saved me from a terrible accident, I should introduce myself properly. Morrigan Purcenell. This is my home.” She pointed unnecessarily to the structure before us.

  “Will I see you again this evening?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Yes, I’ll be at Larcourt with my father.”

  She thanked me again and ran lightly up the steps. I stood gazing at the house long after she went inside. Reluctantly, I mounted my horse and rode back to Larcourt.

  While Kilpara sat some distance away from Lough Corrib, Larcourt sat close to its banks. Later that afternoon when he guided us around the premises, Sloane proudly told his guests it was built in the sixteenth century. Several portraits of Queen Elizabeth hung in a gallery. He pointed out that she had been a regular visitor at Larcourt during her reign nearly three hundred years ago. He named paintings by foreign artists that filled many of the rooms, along with suits of armor and imported Asian rugs and furniture. I surmised this was a family who had made their fortune as traders.

  As Sloane led his guests toward the gardens, I lingered behind to admire the stone archway curving around the front door, the concrete benches with claw-like legs bordering each side of the outside platform, the granite steps widening fanwise to the path below, edged by balustrades on either side for assistance. Spreading out from the bottom of the steps were manicured flowerbeds amid green lawns with arrangements of scented delphiniums, irises, peonies, violas, and other flowers I didn’t recognize.

  Following the path behind the powerful stone structure, small woods stood off to one side. Windows overlooked a rear lawn flocked with daisies that spread to a private dock where stone steps led down to moored rowboats. I gazed at guests pursuing their favorite pastimes. Some rowed out to the middle of the lake while others played croquet on the lawn or watched from tables sipping tea.

  I found my assigned dressing room where my evening clothes had been laid out. From the window, I glimpsed the lake’s smooth surface broken by a dollop of small islands, its opposite bank overshadowed by craggy mountains. A chambermaid arrived with hot water and
emptied it into a basin. She placed fresh towels next to it, then excused herself. I relaxed in a heavy armchair before washing in lukewarm water and dressing for dinner. Events crowded my mind beginning with Sloane and the dark Daphne Thornton and ending with the incident by the river. It was obvious that Sloane intended to marry Morrigan, but it appeared the mysterious Daphne had other ideas. I was curious to know what Morrigan's feelings were for Sloane. Was she as fascinated with him as he was with her?

  Many of the visitors were already sipping drinks in the gallery when I arrived downstairs. A comfortable looking couple was the first to greet me. The man introduced himself as Sir William Wilde. He was tall and stately with long white hair and beard, a high forehead and straight nose. His estate was several miles away he told me, built on what he called ‘the magical site of a mythological battle.’ He entertained me with stories of ancient Irish races until the dinner bell sounded.

  After we were seated at the long dining table, I saw Morrigan again. She sat to the right of Sloane looking naively beautiful in a deep purple gown. Her hair that had been loose earlier was held high in a comb and dangled at the nape of her neck in thick curls. I assumed the man who sat on Sloane’s left was Thornton. He was a tall, distinguished man with a long, thin face and piercing dark eyes set against black hair with graying temples. A thick mustache covered his upper lip. The mysterious Daphne sat next to him and I presumed she was his daughter because of the striking resemblance. She had his dark looks. But where her father’s eyes held a cheerful expression throughout dinner, Daphne’s eyes smoldered each time Sloane smiled at Morrigan.

  Ligham’s wife sat next to Purcenell and Ligham next to her. She kept Purcenell amused throughout the meal. Sloane’s parents commanded the other end of the table, distinguished and looking fit for an elderly couple. Various family members were scattered among other guests at the dinner party. I listened listlessly to two surgeons whose conversation revolved around surgical theatre procedures. I was relieved when a woman on my right, an American, rescued me from this monotony. Hearing her voice, I realized how starved I was for American company.

  “I’m Delia Parnell,” the woman introduced herself. “But I must confess I haven’t been back to the States in ages. How are things since the War?”

  “Recovering,” I said.

  “I’m longing to visit and hope to go back soon, but for now, I'm content with Paris, a nice change from Ireland. Have you been there?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You should visit sometime. I first met Sir Sloane and his pretty young wife there. That was before her tragic accident.”

  “Wife? Accident?” I repeated.

  “Yes, the accident happened soon after they were married. She was such a pretty young thing. So Irish in her nature, unlike Sir Sloane, who finds the common Irish barely tolerable. He’s not at Larcourt very often you know. He prefers his estates in Dover or London, and of course, Paris. He owns several shipping properties throughout Europe. They’ve been in his family for centuries.”

  “And his wife,” I reminded her.

  “Anglo-Irish. Brought up in Derry. By no means a strong swimmer. She went out on Lough Corrib in a rowboat one day with friends and it sank somewhere near the middle of the lake. The water was choppy that day. The others with her in the boat tried to save her but couldn’t reach her. They eventually gave up and swam ashore. Poor little Fiona. Very tragic. Sir Sloane has been in mourning ever since. It’s good to see him finally entertaining again.”

  “Why did the boat sink?”

  “I’m not sure.” Mrs. Parnell looked doubtful. “Something to do with a faulty bottom. Such a terrible tragedy. Tell me, has New York changed much? I do love the shops there. And the theatre.”

  After the meal, the women moved out into the gardens and the men congregated in the library. Talk turned to politics. I quickly lost interest and glanced out the window, searching the women seated around a table until my glance fixed on Morrigan's face. She didn't see me watching her as she engaged in animated conversation with her companions. The evening wore on and the number of guests dwindled, until all that remained was Sloane, Thornton, Ligham, Purcenell, Wilde and a surgeon named Austin. That’s when Sloane invited us into a private room. Here was a round table much like those found in any saloon, except it was made of heavy oak and smoothly polished. In the middle stood a pile of chips and several unopened decks of cards. Low comfortable armchairs were set around the table. Beside it stood a billiard table, the first one I’d seen since arriving in Ireland. I would’ve liked to try it out, but the other men were already claiming their places at the table.

  A young houseboy stood close by ready to serve drinks to the card players as the game got underway. The players quickly became absorbed in the task at hand, allowing me the opportunity to openly assess each man’s ability.

  Austin was a man who appeared to enjoy the company of his peers and played for diversion but didn’t really focus on the game well. He had little confidence in his playing ability and dropped out each time the bets rose too high, although I was sure he held a hand that was potentially a winning one. Wilde was a conservative player, analyzing the odds, betting only when he thought he had a better than average chance at winning. Thornton played much the same way; they were both predictable. Purcenell was an excitable player, making errors and allowing himself to be continually baited by Sloane who liked to bluff. Purcenell became furious and confused whenever he was caught by Sloane’s deceptive maneuvers. Ligham was also excitable but controlled it better than Purcenell. He showed his nervousness by continually touching his mouth and running his hand through his hair. When he had a good hand, his eyes locked with each player in turn and held a plea in them. He was on edge until the players threw down their cards and he claimed the pot.

  Throughout the evening, I was cautious not to attract attention, allowing each player to identify himself by the way he played his cards. Then came the hand that I could tell from the onset was going to be different. Sloane was intent on beating Purcenell. I decided to come to Purcenell’s rescue. I hoped he would notice this and thus gain favor, enough that he would feel obligated to reciprocate.

  Ligham dealt the cards. We picked up our hands and assessed them. Sloane opened the bidding. A smile played on his lips, his eyes lighting up in obvious pleasure with his deal. He looked around the table inviting challenge; his gaze rested on Purcenell. I called his bet, raised it five pounds, and motioned Ligham for one card. Sloane looked at me warily, satisfaction leaving his eyes as they narrowed.

  “I hear the Fenians are rampant in America,” Thornton said, continuing the conversation that had been ongoing. “Trying to avoid arrest and get support for their damned cause. Bloody Irish never realize that they’re better off under the Crown.”

  “Who are the Fenians?” I asked, feigning ignorance. In the midst of tying up loose ends for Emmons, I had heard rumors of a large sale of ammunition. The business partners had discussed among themselves the notion that the government sold guns to Irish Fenians who planned to attack Canada and hold it ransom for Irish independence. The plan seemed too outlandish to be true so I didn’t give it much credence. No one else seemed concerned this action would ever amount to much. I wondered now if an attack had been carried out.

  “The Fenians are nothing more than a bunch of Irish ruffians,” Sloane answered. Turning to Thornton, he said, “You’re presuming Stephens made it to America. Reports say he escaped to France and that’s where he is now.”

  Thornton looked at Sloane, called the bet, and passed Ligham three cards for three new ones.

  “If that’s where he is, why hasn’t he been caught?” Purcenell asked. “Of course, he’ll get caught. The Irish are fools to commit treason against the Crown.” His eyes grew excited when he picked up two new cards after calling the bet. He moved nervously in his chair.

  “O’Donovan Rossa is not doing well at Dartmoor prison,” Austin said. “Poor rascal. Treated worse than a common thief, he is.
Has to eat with his hands chained behind his back.” Austin held onto his cards, counted out the number of chips then threw them onto the growing pile.

  “He deserves severe treatment,” Thornton said. “Let it be a lesson to the other rebels. The law will prevail when insults are committed against the Crown.”

  “The Irish want self-government,” Wilde said. “They’ve never accepted British lordship and never will.” He looked idly at his cards, called the bet, and accepted all new cards but one.

  “Self-government be damned,” Ligham said, agitated. He looked to be struggling with his next decision. “O’Donovan Rossa is a troublemaker. He and other bastards like him deserve to die for the trouble they cause.”

  “You’d have a different opinion if you were native Irish,” Wilde said.

  Ligham scowled at Wilde. “I may not be a native, but I’m a landowner here. I treat my tenants fairly. They have food and shelter. I’ve yet to throw anyone out of their home, though God knows I should. I treat them better than I do my English tenants. But the blasted Irish don’t know when to be grateful.” He threw his chips down with conviction. “Call,” he said.

  Sloane raised the bet. I called and raised him. Sloane’s eyes locked with mine. I met his look with a grin. Thornton declined and threw in his hand.

  Purcenell hovered indecisively. “The Irish are conniving bastards. Always have been,” he said, stalling for time.

  Listening to this discourse, I forced myself to ignore the biased opinions of my fellow card players, concentrating solely on the game. They regarded the Irish as serfs whose only purpose was to serve their masters. I wanted to challenge Purcenell and his counterparts who sat in perfect comfort, their bellies full, never knowing what it meant to miss a meal. They drained every resource from common people, yet wanted them to accept their pitiful living conditions without complaint. Resentment made my temple throb and words ready spill out in defense of the Irish predicament trembled on my lips. Fighting back this urge, I forced my thoughts toward my real purpose; to gain Purcenell’s trust. I fidgeted as I attempted to recover control.