Kilpara Page 4

  Scrambling to my feet, I jerked his hat away and slapped him with it. I was still seething over his interference in Mother’s room. His offer to take her to her Godforsaken island had only made matters worse. He could afford to be generous. Mother would never allow him to leave Stonebridge for so long. Couldn’t he see she was better off here in the care of competent doctors, instead of fueling her notion to undertake a dangerous journey that would surely kill her?

  He grabbed for his hat. I pushed him, and he pushed me back.

  “Why in hell did you offer to take Mother to Ireland?” I snapped.

  “Any fool can see she’s determined to go back there,” Mark shot back. “You’re not willing to leave your fine life in Baltimore. Somebody has to take her.”

  “I was trying to change her mind. If you’d kept your mouth shut, it might’ve worked.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. If you were here, you’d know that. You don't care what’s happening to her. You never bother to come home anymore.”

  “That has nothing to do with what’s best for Mother.”

  “Yes, it does. You can’t just waltz in here after not showing your face for two years and think you know what’s going on. Get it through your thick skull, she’s dying. Does that even mean anything to you?” He turned his back to me. “Sorry, I forgot, whoring and money are all you care about.”

  He started to walk away. I grabbed his shoulder and brought him round to face me. “I care about Mother as much as you do. So don't push me, Mark. I'll whip your ass.”

  Mark’s face contorted with rage and he puckered his mouth as if to spit. Instead, his words spat with anger. “You want to whip me? Go ahead. Try. You don’t have the guts to fight. You proved that during the war. Stayed all safe and cozy holed up in your office. Us—Dan, Francis, me—we were out there in the middle of arms, legs, bodies getting blown to bits. We saw men spill their guts. You think you can take me. Come on. Give it your best shot.”

  He raised his fists, positioned himself to strike a blow. I moved into a fighting stance, my feet set apart, my fists clenched. We circled each other ready to punch. Dan and Rengen quietly got to their feet and moved aside.

  “I wasn't afraid to fight. I chose not to,” I said. “You know Father depended on me to get a fair price for the horses. I saw to it that Stonebridge survived. And now I'm the one forced to take Mother to Godforsaken Ireland, all because of you. You—and your misplaced loyalties.”

  Mark moved away from the fire and closer to me. “Misplaced loyalties, be damned. All you care about is yourself. Who are you to say anything about Mother? Or the war?” He jabbed, and I ducked. “Look at what she did for you? And you never as much said thank you. Dan and I stayed put. We watched this sickness take hold of her a little each day. She waited for you to come home. But not you, not the big city gentleman. That'd be too much to ask.”

  I struck at him and missed. “Nobody told me.”

  “What for? To force you into coming back? Not a chance.” Mark jabbed and caught my left jaw. Pain shot through my face. “Mother would never make you come home. She wanted you here of your own free will. She waited and waited until finally—”

  I moved in closer, threw a punch and caught Mark’s left shoulder. He followed with a right jab straight to my chest. I winced. We locked arms and fell to the ground, rolling dangerously close to the fire. Dan and Rengen moved in and pulled us apart. Dan slapped our hats back on our heads, then grabbed each of us by the shoulder and steered us toward the horses.

  “Fighting won’t solve anything,” he said.

  We mounted in silence, Dan still in the middle, and rode back to Stonebridge. With a terse “goodnight” I went to my room and sat numbly by the window, looking out onto blackened hillsides and the path that led to Lilah’s hut.

  The next morning my jaw and chest ached. Eileen and her husband Seamus looked at me curiously as they fussed over my departure. I escaped their inquisitiveness by mumbling that I needed to see Mother before I left.

  Mother smiled at me when I entered the room. I kissed her cheek.

  “How soon can you be ready to leave for Ireland?” she asked, her eyes searching my face for reassurance.

  “As soon as I tie up loose ends and make arrangements for my possessions. In about a week. I’ll send a telegram.”

  She nodded. “I’ll begin making the necessary preparations.”

  We discussed more details until she began to tire. I kissed her forehead and promised to return quickly. She sank gratefully into the pillows and closed her eyes.

  Outside, I found my brothers near the stables already saddled and ready to ride out to Stile Valley. Mother’s resolve to carry out her plan weighed heavily between us as Dan bade me goodbye and rode off. Mark lingered.

  “About last night—” he began.

  “Forget it,” I said.

  He let the reins slide through his fingers loosening then tightening them. “It’s just that I can’t stand to see Mother like this.”

  I nodded my agreement. “She should be here where she’ll be looked after, instead of embarking on this excursion.” I waited, expecting his anger to flare up again, but it didn’t happen.

  “She won’t change her mind. Not unless—only if she becomes so ill that she can't—” Pain flooded his voice and was etched in every feature of his face. His unspoken words wiped out our disagreement of the previous evening.

  “I know,” I said quickly, not wanting my mind to be pulled into that dark abyss where death lurked.

  “I would’ve taken her to Ireland, you know. If she wanted me to.”

  I nodded. “It’s impossible to refuse.”

  “You’ll do the right thing, Wiz?”

  “It’s decided,” I said.

  “Good.” He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and galloped out to meet Dan who waited at the top of the hill. They paused before riding out of sight. I watched them disappear over the hilltop, thinking how unfair it all was. If I were to refuse Mother, I would appear selfish in her eyes and in those of my brothers and their families. It was true that my brothers were needed at Stonebridge House to deal with the daily business of overseeing the farm. They considered my career a minor issue, of little consequence, in the large scheme of family responsibilities. I was doomed to be the dutiful son, bound by honor to grant Mother her dying wish. My life was about to be turned upside down.

  Morosely, I went to where the carriage waited. Feeling the need for fresh air, I climbed up on the dickie beside Seamus instead of riding inside where the interior was more comfortable. He shook the reins and we retreated from Stonebridge House, its dominating silhouette slowly disappearing out of sight as we descended the long avenue.

  The horses moved forward at a steady pace as we set out for Hagerstown, ripening countryside unfolding with each mile. Seamus’ chatter fell into rhythm with the sound of horses’ hooves. He was one of those nondescript men who blended into the landscape. Compared to Eileen’s height and plumpness, he was short and thin with an elf-like face and a gritty voice. But to hear Eileen talk about her husband, one was left unprepared for Seamus. She obviously saw something in him that escaped the rest of us.

  He was a talker who gabbed away at any ear he managed to hold captive.

  “Aye,” he said, over the reins. “‘Tis a strange country this, seen its share of war; ruins a country that, you know. Thank God it’s over and we’ve seen the last of that bloody battle. ‘Twas only a year ago, men straggled these roads clad in uniform, crippled, many of them without their God-given limbs.” He waved a hand at the newly ploughed fields, resurrected fences and budding orchards. “‘Twas devastation, sheer devastation. And Master Francis lost to us all for good. And for what...?”

  “For what,” I echoed.

  The wheels scraped against the road. Seamus’ voice grated into a vacuum as the gap slowly closed between Stonebridge House and Hagerstown.

  “Your grandparents were fine people,” he said.

  “I only kn
ew them through the letters they sent,” I said.

  “Our families worked for them. Eileen’s and mine,” Seamus continued. “That's how we met, ye know. It was after Lord Purcenell moved into Kilpara, and your grandparents were forced to live in the tenant cottage on the edge of their own property.

  “I was betrothed to Eileen, but there was no work to be had anywhere. Many were starving, the potatoes having failed ye see, and losing their homes because they couldn’t pay the landlord’s rent. Left to roam the countryside they were, with nary a roof over their heads or a bite to eat.

  “We had barely enough food to go round, and your grandparents gave us everything they could afford, but it wasn’t enough. So they wrote to the Mister and Missus about the state of affairs. Sure, himself and herself were struggling too, but they offered Eileen and me a home, nonetheless.”

  Seamus stopped talking. The carriage ground to a halt and he jumped down.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Road’s rough. Got to walk the horses over it.”

  He pulled on the harness, guiding horses and carriage carefully over ruts and around potholes. He talked on, looking at the road, then at me.

  “We didn’t want to leave Ireland, Eileen and meself. But there was nothing at home for us, so we got married, said goodbye to our kin, and came to America. Only we didn’t live at Stonebridge in those days. Himself and herself lived in that small log cabin of theirs.” He paused, retreating to this pivotal moment in his life like a homing pigeon returning to its point of flight.

  “You were only a wee one then, so ye don't remember us coming.” Seamus glanced at me hopefully. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind his words retrieved memories of a party, lots of laughing, crying, music, and dancing. For the most part Eileen had always been a part of my life, but Seamus remained somewhere on the periphery, like an invisible fixture.

  “I remember,” I said, my words surprising Seamus.

  “Aye,” he said, happy to have evoked a response. “‘Twas a grand time for us all. A small piece of home, right here in the wilderness. There was lots of hard work to be done in those days. It was a tight squeeze in that tiny cabin, with himself, herself, the childer, Eileen and meself.”

  We passed over the rough section of road, and Seamus returned to his position behind the reins. He cracked the whip and yelled “gee-up.” The horses picked up speed and so did Seamus.

  “Things changed after Missus Frichard went to her heavenly demise,” he said. “She had the gout, ye see, and no childer of her own to nurse her—the woman was barren. Her mister had already passed on, and your mother took it upon herself to look after the old lady. Mrs. Frichard was very grateful.”

  “She willed the land to Mother,” I said, thinking back to my childhood and the times when Mother left to tend to Mrs. Frichard.

  “Aye. None of the old lady's family ever visited, and she didn’t like them much anyway. No one was surprised then, except the Missus, when the woman left her everything. The Frichard family was none too pleased about it, but they were too far away to kick up a fuss, and already rich in their own right.”

  He shook the reins. “The Mister and Missus decided to build Stonebridge House. ‘Twas easy to believe I was back in Ireland after that. Looks exactly like Kilpara, ye know. “

  I looked across at him. His eyes filled with sadness and in a trembling voice he said, “‘Twill be a sorry day when the Missus leaves us. ‘Tis a good woman she is. Taken care of Eileen, meself, and the childer all these years.”

  I groaned. Seamus turned his sad expression on me. “Are ye all right, Master Ellis?”

  “Yes,” I answered glumly.

  Seamus cracked the whip and the horses lurched forward.

  Hagerstown was filled with people going about their business. The town was a mixture of old and new. Buildings scarred in one form or another by the war had been repaired and received fresh coats of paint. New businesses had moved in and evidence of recent hostilities was being pushed aside as shopkeepers decorated storefronts with bright awnings and smart colors. It was an attempt to bury the terror, the morbidity, the anguish, along with the past.

  I bade Seamus farewell in the public square and went to the Commonwealth Club where I ate a light dinner, after which I walked to the railroad station. Activity here resembled that of any busy metropolis as I boarded the evening train for Baltimore. I settled into the comfort of an executive compartment, the velvety-down seat feeling even softer after hours spent on the dickie. I reveled in my own company, glad of this short reprieve from Stonebridge House and its problems. The next few days would demand all my attention if I was to prepare for what lay ahead.

  The locomotive inched forward out of the station. Puffs of smoke began to stream past the window as it gathered speed. I opened the Tribune to catch up on current events and was so absorbed in the news that I didn’t notice the compartment door open. It wasn’t until I heard my name that I glanced up from the open page. I stared in disbelief at the figure squeezing through the door.

  “Er, hello Mas’, er, Ellis,” Maureen said in a timid voice. I don’t know what shocked me more, her appearance in my compartment or her familiarity. I was agitated by both.

  “It’s me,” she said, unnecessarily, and moved to the seat opposite me, clutching a small travelling bag to her abdomen. “Please, please, don’t send me back. My mind’s made up. I’m going to the city and nothing’ll stop me.”

  “You can’t. How can you?” I stammered. “How did you get here?”

  “I rode one of the horses, watched Father drop you off at the square then followed him when he went to the mausoleum on the edge of town. He was in there a long time. I might’ve missed the train if he hadn’t come out when he did. After that, he drove over to the telegraph office. When he went inside, I tied my horse to the carriage and ran to the train station. I left him a note—” Her gushing stopped abruptly. She gulped back air, her anxious gaze never leaving my face.

  “He’ll be furious when he finds out you’re gone,” I said cautiously. “You must return. On the next train back.”

  “No!” Maureen was adamant. “I’m not going back. If you refuse to help me, I’ll do it on my own.”

  “You can’t, the city’s no place for a young lady. Besides, how would I explain to your parents that I allowed you to roam the streets unattended?”

  “Then help me—please. I promise not to be a burden. You’re acquainted with important people. You can find me employment. That’s all I ask. You can forget about me after that.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “They don’t care. They won’t listen. They want me to stay in that dark, dreary house in the middle of nowhere for the rest of my life. There are no parties anymore, not since...” She bit her lip as if to hold back the words. But I knew she wanted to say that life had all but stopped at Stonebridge House after Francis and Father died. I didn’t entirely blame the girl for wanting to get away. With death clinging to the house like a dark web, its atmosphere would wear on anyone as young and eager as Maureen.

  Tears of frustration floated about her eyelids. “Mams and Pa will force me to marry some wrinkled old farmer if I stay there, someone I’ll have to care for in his old age. Or worse, they’ll make me marry a cripple from the war.” She wiped away tears with the back of her hand.

  “Don’t cry,” I said, handing her a kerchief. “It’s not as bad as you say. There’s lots of young beau just waiting to ask for your hand. They’ll come around when the time is right.”

  “You don’t know that. You haven’t been to Stonebridge in ages. You don’t know how horrible and depressing it is. If I have to stay there another minute, I’ll go stark raving mad.” She threw her hands in the air and began crying in earnest. Her loud bawling made it difficult for me to be firm. I hated when women cried; they were unreasonable when they were emotional.

  “All right, all right,” I said. “You’ll have your chance, but only if you do as I say.”
>
  Maureen dabbed at her eyes and looked expectant.

  I thought quickly. “You may stay with me for the short period I’m in Baltimore. To allay people’s suspicions and assumptions, I’ll say you’re my Irish cousin. If anyone asks, I brought you along to help with preparations for my journey to Ireland. Then when we get back to Stonebridge, I’ll help you sort this whole mess out with your parents. Will that do?”

  “Yes.” She sniffed, and twisted the kerchief between her fingers. “You’ll find me work, then you’ll tell them why I won’t stay at Stonebridge. You understand, don’t you? I don’t want to hurt Mams and Pa, or anyone...”

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said. “That’s settled then?”

  Maureen nodded and appeared satisfied for the moment; she would have her adventure. The locomotive rocked along the tracks toward its destination, and the strain of her decision along with the long ride took its toll. Slowly her head sank to the cushioned seat and she fell asleep curled up with her bag. I studied her while she slept. She had the face of a common country girl, cloaked in innocence and showing all the signs of becoming a voluptuous young woman, a caterpillar about to become a butterfly. She had an earthy kind of beauty that would easily attract some young man. I had to agree that such vivacity clamped in the vise of an old man, as she obviously feared, would be a shame. But her notion of finding happiness in the city— I had my doubts.

  We approached Baltimore; I studied her costume. No one would believe she was my cousin in her peasant mode of dress. I would have to enlist Astelle’s help to take care of that first thing in the morning.

  The train pulled into Camden Station and I woke a groggy Maureen. Shanley stood ready with the carriage outside the station and opened the door when he saw us. Maureen looked at him and the carriage in surprise as I helped her inside.

  “Hello Sir, Miss,” Shanley said, polite as always. He stood stiffly until we were comfortably seated before closing the door. Tall and thin with a receding hairline and small, thick-rimmed oval glasses, he was valued by Mr. Emmons for his diplomacy and his discreet lack of interest in his employer’s personal affairs. He never commented on his own life, which was as much of a mystery as he was. But he was reliable and always available when either Emmons or I needed him. He was the only one, besides me, who knew that Emmons had moved his agency from Washington to Baltimore under the guise that it was closer to where the cavalry corralled their horses. In truth, Emmons had taken a mistress and had located her in Baltimore where they met in secret. Their affair had been ongoing for years unbeknownst to his wife, whose life revolved around their daughter, bridge, piano recitals and sewing clubs. In all that time, I never saw any hint in Shanley’s expression or manner that he knew or cared about Emmons’ indiscretions.