As Death Draws Near (22 page)

“He's my brother.”

I stiffened in shock.

“Well, my half brother.” Her voice was resigned. “We have different fathers.”

“Thus your different last names,” I murmured, still trying to absorb this new information. I knew her last name was McEvoy, and that by the rules of decorum I should be calling her that, but when I met her, she had still been an upstairs maid known by her first name, and so I'd never switched when she officially became my lady's maid.

“Aye.” Her voice tightened with remorse. “I wanted to tell ye. But when I saw him that first time, ootside the constabulary, he shook his head at me, makin' it clear he didna want me to say anythin'. So I decided to keep my mouth shut, least until I could find out why.”

That was why she'd looked as if she'd seen a ghost, because, in a way, she had.

“So you didn't know he was here in Rathfarnham?”

She shook her head. “Nay. Nor that he was a constable. What I told ye afore was the truth. I'd no' heard from him in years.”

“Did you recognize him among the riders last night as well?” I pressed, having realized while I watched them argue why one of our midnight visitors looked familiar.

She frowned. “Aye. And if I coulda, I woulda skinned him alive then and there. He's always had a way o' findin' trouble, and draggin' me into it. 'Tis why I didna ken if I wanted to write to him before I realized he was already here.”

“You could have said something when I asked you if you could identify any of them.”

“Aye. But then I wouldna had a chance to find oot what he's up to.”

I arched my eyebrows. “Did you?”

Her feet shuffled the loose earth. “Nay. Though I do ken whatever it is, they're anxious for you no' to find oot aboot it. And I dinna think it's only aboot the murders.”

“The tithe protest,” I sighed.

She nodded. “I asked him aboot it, and he got verra angry. Told me to let it be.”

I scowled. It seemed to keep coming back to that. Though the tithe protest was supposed to be peaceful, so why all the violent opposition to us finding out?

“There's more,” she admitted somewhat hesitantly. “He asked me to put poison in your and Mr. Gage's tea.”

I gasped in outrage.

“No' enough to kill ye,” she hastened to add. “Just enough to make ye ill.”

“How kind,” I replied drolly.

“I refused, but someone else may no'.”

I looked up into her eyes, grasping the implication. What were we to do? Hire someone to taste our food before we ate it? I pressed a hand to my brow at the worrisome thought.

“I'm sorry, m'lady,” she pleaded. “I ken I shoulda told you sooner, but . . . he's my brother.”

In words it sounded like the feeblest excuse possible, but in reality I knew how complicated the ties to our family could be. Even those you hadn't seen in years. Even those who were nothing but trouble.

“I told him that whatever it is he's involved in, you and Mr. Gage will figure it oot. I begged him to come clean afore it's too late. But I dinna think he will listen.”

I searched her eyes, wanting to believe her, wanting to think it was that simple, but the memory of past betrayals reared its head, making it all so much more complicated. “That's all you told him?”

Her forehead furrowed in confusion.

“You didn't tell him anything about me, or my past, or the investigation . . .”

“Nay.” She spoke quickly. “O' course not. I would ne'er do that.”

Her indignation seemed genuine, so I nodded even though my stomach swirled with uncertainty. My eyes slid to the side to stare up toward the house, where I could now see candles burning in two of the windows, showing me
which direction to walk. “I won't need you tonight,” I said carefully. “I need some time to think.”

She clasped her hands before her, her voice heavy. “O' course, m'lady.”

“I shall see you in the morning,” I murmured, setting off toward the lights without looking back.

•   •   •

G
age was waiting for me when I strode through our bedchamber door, propped up in bed in his burgundy dressing gown, a piece of paper dangling from his fingertips. “I was just considering whether I should dress and come find you,” he remarked lightly, and nodded to the potted violet in my arms. “I see you were still in the gardens.”

I frowned down at the plant and then absently set it on the corner of the dressing table. “Yes. I . . . I got distracted by the sight of Bree speaking with Constable Casey.” I whipped my shawl off my shoulders and turned to see his reaction.

“Where?” He leaned forward. “Here? In the garden?”

“Yes.”

Gage's mouth flattened. “So much for our cadets.”

I tugged at the fingers of my gloves, feeling aggravated he was more concerned about what this meant in terms of how effective our guards were than how Bree had possibly betrayed us. “He's her half brother.”

“Really?” I could hear the speculation in his voice. “What were they discussing?”

“I couldn't hear. But she appeared to give me an honest accounting of it when I confronted her.” I thrust my gloves at the dressing table, laying them on top of the shawl. “I'm afraid I was too cross with her to see her again tonight, so you shall have to play lady's maid.” I turned my back to him, waiting for him to rise from the bed and cross the room. I heard him set the letter he'd been reading down on the table by the bed. “What was that?”

“I finally received a response from Miss Lennox's family,
who have absolutely nothing useful to add. In fact, I would rather not have read their careless, scornful words.” He sighed. “But the less said about that, the better. Now, Bree. What did she say?”

While his long fingers fumbled with some of the tiny buttons, I recounted what she had told me, including Casey's request to her. “Can you believe he wished to poison us?” I snapped in indignation as my dress gaped open in the back. “That he still might attempt it?”

He reached inside to undo the fastenings of my corset. “We'll just have to be careful what we eat and drink,” he replied almost absently. His voice had deepened.

“And what of the staff here? Do you think they can be trusted not to accept a bribe or work in concert with him?”

“Yes. When I tell them we're aware of his intentions, and that we want them to be vigilant. If they realize we know, none of them will take the risk.” His hands slid up my bare back as he bent his head to press his lips to the place where my neck met my shoulder.

“And what of this matter he's so desperate to conceal from us? Do you think it has to do with the tithe protest?” I shivered as his mouth skimmed up my neck to the spot behind my ear which he knew was sensitive.

“Likely. Kiera, can't this wait until tomorrow?”

“No.” I squirmed around to face him. “It cannot.” I pointed toward the bed. “Over there. I've more to tell you. Tonight.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward, but he complied, crossing the room to relax back against the pillows as I pulled my arms from the sleeves of my gown. He gestured to me as a courtier might do to the king. “Pray continue.”

I raised a single eyebrow at his teasing before draping my gown over the back of a chair. “Bree was not the only one I spoke with in the garden.”

“Oh?”

I ignored his overawed tone, turning to face the mirror as I began to remove the pins from my hair, and explained
who Homer Baugh was and what he'd informed me. Though it became increasingly difficult to overlook his half-lidded eyes staring at me in the reflection. Regardless, I could tell the information about the tunnels interested him.

“I suppose that's how Casey disappeared after eavesdropping on our conversation with Chief Constable Corcoran.”

I swiveled around to face him. “I'd forgotten about that. He must have darted through the tunnel at the old church. To warn the others?”

He shifted position in bed. “Most likely.”

I considered the matter as I combed my fingers through my hair, searching for pins I'd missed. “Did I tell you Mr. Baugh said part of the Rathfarnham Castle estate had been used as a dairy farm a short time ago?”

His eyebrows arched, but I knew only half his attention was on the inquiry. “Did it now?”

I dropped my arms. “Sebastian, stop looking at me like that.”

His eyes lifted to my face. “Like what?”

“Like
that
.”

“My dear, what do you expect me to do when you're standing there in only your shift with your hands in your hair?”

I glanced in the mirror behind me, noticing for the first time how fine the lawn of my shift was. I flushed, wrapping an arm across my chest. “Oh.”

“No reason for embarrassment,” he replied in gentle amusement. “You are my wife, after all. But I think you can grasp how distracting you are.”

“Yes, I see.” I stood stiffly, uncertain what to do. If I removed my shift to put on my nightgown, would that not be even more distracting? Should I reach for my dressing gown?

Gage chuckled, clearly divining my internal struggle. “Come here,” he murmured, staring steadily into my eyes. “Kiera.” He reached out his hand to me.

Had he dropped his gaze for even a second, I think I might have faltered, but he did not. Not even after he took
hold of my hand and pulled me down to sit on the bed with him. The pale blue of his irises had deepened to that smoky color I'd become quite familiar with in the past two and a half months.

His hand slid upward to caress my cheek. “You are so beautiful.”

My skin warmed with pleasure and my breath began to quicken, but before I could surrender to him, I still had to ask. “What about Constable Casey and the tunnels?”

“I think that will all keep until tomorrow,” he replied, brushing his callused fingers over my skin. “Unless you propose we go stumbling through these pitch-black passageways now?”

I smiled. “No.”

“Then I suspect we can also give Constable Casey at least that long to come to his senses and seek us out to share what he knows.”

I nodded.

“Now, is there anything more you wished to tell me tonight, so I can avoid another rebuke? Though I have to say, I rather enjoyed you ordering me about.”

“No, you didn't.”

His eyes gleamed in challenge. “Try it.”

“Kiss me,” I demanded.

And he did.

•   •   •

L
ater that night, I couldn't sleep. Something had woken me, though at first I didn't know what. Until a cramp tightened my lower abdomen and I realized it was my courses. I rose to find the necessary supplies I knew Bree had packed, careful not to wake Gage, and checked the bedding. Then unwilling to lie back down, I went to peer out the window up at the bright moonlight shining down on the carriage yard.

It was true, the cramps still twisted inside me. I could ring for Bree and ask her to fix me a remedy. But that was
not what had unsettled me, or caused this oddly hollow ache in the center of my chest. One I didn't want to examine, didn't want to analyze, and yet it couldn't be ignored.

I wished Bree had never said anything. That she'd never raised the prospect. Before our conversation, I'd not truly considered the possibility that I might be expecting. My courses were never a reliable distance apart, so I'd anticipated them to arrive any day within the next week. But her words had made me face something I had not yet been ready for, I'd not yet wanted to stir up inside me.

We were wed, and Gage was attentive. I knew it was only a matter of time. But somehow the thought of my having a child made it difficult to catch my breath. By all accounts I should have been relieved to see my courses had begun. But I wasn't. I didn't understand that. How could I be panicked by the prospect of having a child one moment, and then unaccountably sad that I wasn't the next?

I wished my sister Alana were there to talk to, but she was hundreds of miles away in Scotland. I could write to her, but it would take days if not weeks for my letter to reach her and then just as long for her response to return to me. Besides, I wasn't certain I wanted to commit this all to paper. It was too thorny, too difficult.

I sighed, lifting my hand to feel the cool glass of the window, the shock of its chill against my warm palm somehow bracing and comforting all at once.

That's when I saw her.

It was the woman from the garden. The one I'd followed, but been unable to catch. I was almost certain of it, though I'd never seen her face, and still couldn't do so from this vantage. I realized now how young she seemed. She stood at the edge of the carriage yard, staring up at the house almost wistfully, though I didn't know how I could tell that. I wondered if she could see me, and what she was doing there.

Memories from last night's disturbance flooded me and I turned to wake Gage. But something made me hesitate, and when I looked back, she was gone.

I stared at the spot where she had been standing. Had I imagined her? Perhaps she had been a mere trick of the shadows.

I shook my head. No, someone had been there. Just as someone had been in the gardens. But who? And why was she watching this house?

A
t breakfast the next morning I asked Dempsey if one of the maids might have been out in the gardens or the carriage yard the previous night.

He straightened as if he'd been slapped. “I should hope not,” he replied almost in affront. “Did ye see one o' dem?”

Gage set down his utensils as I described the woman I'd seen to him as well.

The butler gathered up a plate to be removed from the table, making a credible effort to appear unconcerned, but the pleated furrows of his brow gave him away. “Ah, now. 'Tis likely just Miss Gertrude.”

“Miss . . .” I blinked. “You mean the girl who fell from the window?”

“That's her. She's buried in her da's favorite spot in the garden.”

“I've seen her grave,” I admitted.

“She likes to hang about the place. Shows herself to those who be sad or lonely, like her.”

I stared after him in some amazement. I didn't completely discount the existence of ghosts—I was half Scottish, after all—but I found this claim to be a bit difficult to swallow.

I turned back to find Gage watching me, his eyes warm with consideration. He didn't speak, waiting for me to say something
first. What there was to say, I didn't precisely know, so I offered him as reassuring a smile as I could manage and returned to my breakfast.

•   •   •

T
he Catholic Chapel was a rather unassuming building which stood a few hundred feet from the Yellow House, downstream of the Owendoher River. Compared to the Anglican Church next to the constabulary, it was almost severely plain and austere. Something I found surprising given the fact that it was the Roman Catholics who had built and worshiped in most of the great cathedrals of Europe, and certainly in Britain—Canterbury, Salisbury, York. That is, until Henry VIII stripped those cathedrals and much of the rest of their property away from the Catholics and made them part of the Church of England. Even so, I couldn't help but remark on its simplicity to Father Begley when he came forward to greet us.

“Ah, now, but yer forgettin' the penal laws o' the last century. Catholic mass was outlawed, and so those who kept the faith were forced to worship in secret in makeshift mass houses. Some o' which were naught more dan tents. There was one here in Rathfarnham, close to dis very spot, but nearer to the river. Once the laws were repealed, the people built dis chapel, but could not be affordin' to construct anything more ornate. Nor would they be inclined to do so. Not when it could be taken from dem again.”

“That makes sense,” I replied, somehow feeling ashamed that all this had happened to them, even though none of it had been my fault. Not directly.

Father Begley's eyes were kind. “Don't trouble yerself o'er much. The Lord still watches o'er His flock.” He gestured toward a trio of pews, waiting while we took our seats before he sat in front of us. He shifted his black cassock so that he could turn to drape his arm over the back of the pew to look at us.

I heard Bree settle into the pew behind us, quiet and solemn, as she'd been that morning. Matters were awkward between us, and as I still didn't know what I wished to say to her, we both remained silent except for the usual communication between a lady and her maid. Anderley was off at the Yellow House or somewhere else, assigned to his normal task of attempting to blend in and listen for information that might be useful to us. Efforts that thus far had proved ineffectual.

“Now, what is it I can be doin' for ye?” the priest asked. He was younger than I'd expected, closer to Gage's age of thirty-three than the Scullys' contemporary, with close-cropped hair of sandy brown and sharp hazel eyes, which softened with a gentle, almost bemused smile.

Gage glanced to me, allowing me to take the lead. “You are aware of the investigation we're conducting into the deaths of Miss Lennox and Mother Mary Fidelis?”

He nodded. “Reverend Mother Mary Teresa wrote to me on yer arrival, and asked me to do all dat I could to help ye.”

“That was kind of her. We've been given reason to believe that you might possess information that could assist us. Mrs. Scully, you are familiar with her?”

“I am.”

“She said there were ‘going-ons' in town that she feared Miss Lennox had gotten herself involved in, and dare I say, Mother Mary Fidelis, too.” His expression tightened with concern. “She would not tell us more, but she suggested we speak to you. That you would be able to explain.”

“I see.” He turned away, staring up toward the altar, and the gold cross that held pride of place. “The reverend mother has been tellin' me she has great faith in ye,” he said, sounding almost as if he were ruminating to himself. “She believes the Lord has sent ye to us.”

I felt a tingle along my spine at this pronouncement, wondering at the reverend mother's conviction.

Father Begley's gaze swung back to us, studying our faces.
Whatever he saw there made him nod. “And so I will put my faith in ye as well.” He tapped his fingers against the wood of the pew. “As Mrs. Scully put it, there are ‘going-ons' in town.”

“The tithe protest,” Gage guessed.

The priest's smile was humorless. “It appears the reverend mother's trust in ye is well founded. It is the tithe protest. Or the tithe war, if ye prefer. Depends on who ye are talkin' to as to how they wish to phrase it. A large number o' the farmers here in Rathfarnham have refused to pay their tithes. A number o' dem have herded their cattle together an' attributed dem to me, so as to avoid the tithes since, as a clergyman, I don't pay.”

“Like in County Kilkenny?” I asked.

His expression turned grave. “Our bishop encouraged us to use creative methods o' circumventin' the law. But after hearin' o' the violence that broke out o'er that attempted collection and the one in County Wexford, I've been fearful the same will happen here.” He shifted in his seat, his voice becoming more strident and animated. “'Tis supposed to be a peaceful protest. No resistin' seizure. But the men have become riled. Some o' 'em seemed to be stirrin' for a fight. Not all,” he assured us. “But some.” He scowled. “Enough.”

I curled my fingers around the smooth edge of the pew beneath me, inhaling the scents of wood and beeswax. Had Miss Lennox been right in what she told Mr. LaTouche? Were some of the protestors planning open rebellion? Is that why she was killed? To keep her silent? And Mother Fidelis as well?

“And Miss Lennox and Mother Mary Fidelis?” Gage prodded. “How do they fit into all of this?”

The priest leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him. “I did not learn o' dis until a few weeks ago, or else I'd have put a stop to it, to be sure. Apparently Mother Mary Fidelis has been helpin' the men for some time. They keep the cattle at the castle. There used to be a dairy there, and there's equipment left o'er from dat time.” He sat tall again, meeting our gazes. “There's also several tunnels leadin' to it
and plenty o' places to hide, should they be needed.” His eyes narrowed. “But ye already know this, don't ye?”

I glanced at Gage. “We guessed.”

He nodded. “A couple o' months ago Miss Lennox followed Mother Fidelis through the tunnel and uncovered their secret. She begged to be allowed to assist, and seein' no alternative, they let her.”

No alternative
then
. But had they found one since? Something more drastic.

“How exactly did they help?” Gage shook his head in vexation. “Forgive me, but it seems an odd undertaking for a nun.”

The priest lifted his hands. “I don't know, sure I don't. But he might,” he added, nodding toward the man who had just strolled through the doors and stood blinking as his eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight to the dim exterior.

Gage rose to his feet, prepared to give chase if Constable Casey fled. However, any thought he might have had of running seemed to be obliterated in the face of his fury. He stomped up the aisle, curling his hands into fists while his face flushed an alarming shade of red next to the green of his uniform jacket. “Of all the rotten, underhanded,
traitorous
 . . .” He broke off with almost a growl. “You're talking to them!”

The priest held up his hands, trying to calm him, but Bree talked over his soothing words. “Calm yerself, Mick. They'd already figured it oot. Didna I tell ye they would? Father Begley and I were just confirmin' some details.” She eyed him disapprovingly. “Noo, stop bein' a fool, and tell 'em what ye ken.”

“You great eejit!” he swung on her to exclaim. “They're not to be trusted. Didn't Granny teach ye better dan dat?”

Bree arched her neck, staring down her nose at him. “Granny taught me to measure a person by the worth o' their actions. Same as she taught
you
. And I'd say I ken my employers a sight better 'an you do. They're fair and reasonable.” Her eyes narrowed. “And willin' to overlook the fact
that ye wished to poison 'em. So I suggest ye put yer prejudice aside, and start talkin'.”

Rather than chagrin, his eyes flared with spite. “Do they know yer a Roman Catholic, just like us? Or would ye be hidin' that like the cross tucked inside the neck o' yer dress.”

Bree pressed a hand to her collar, presumably where underneath her cross lay, as some of her anger drained away in the face of her brother's nastiness. Indignation flared inside me. Had we been different people—the people he thought us to be—his careless words could have cost Bree her position, and her livelihood if she'd been dismissed without a reference. For a brother, even a half one, to say something so thoughtless infuriated me.

“We know,” I bit out, pinning him with my glare. “And we don't care.”

The corners of his whiskey brown eyes, so like Bree's, tightened in mistrust, glancing between Bree and Gage and me. Seeing our ire and Bree's silent astonishment, his anger began to thaw toward befuddlement. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Gage replied steadily for us.

Casey turned away, scrubbing at his pale hair in thought. For a moment, he seemed just as likely to stride out the door as tell us anything. What made up his mind in those seconds, I don't know, except that he gave an exasperated grunt and tossed his hat into the pew beside his sister. “All right. I'll talk. Seems I've no choice. What is it yer wantin' to know?”

I glanced at Bree as Gage quickly relayed everything Father Begley had just confirmed for us. The light shining through the thick leaded glass windows created a fiery halo around her strawberry blond hair. Her eyes were fastened on the floor while her fingers continued to fiddle with the necklace beneath her dress. I wondered how I'd never noticed it before. She had it on under the high collar of the dress she currently wore, but not all of her bodices were so concealing. Seeing as I wore my mother's amethyst pendant always, I normally noted other people's jewelry, no matter how simple,
wondering if it held any significance. But in Bree's case, I'd never marked it. Of course, at a young age ladies were taught not to notice their maid's appearance, to almost look through them as the maid flitted about, dressing and undressing them. Perhaps, without realizing it, I did the same, even if the rest of my interactions with her were far from conventional.

I turned back to Casey as Gage reiterated the last question he'd posed to Father Begley. “What I'm curious about next is how Miss Lennox and Mother Fidelis helped you? Did they care for the cattle?”

Casey scowled at the floor and reluctantly began to speak. “When needed. But their main task was to be helpin' us from the outside. Gatherin' information we could never be gettin' from the mother superior on our own. Word of what the bishop—a great friend o' hers—and O'Connell be sayin', and what the protesters in other parts o' the country be doin'. They always knew more than the newspapers reported.” He sank down in the pew beside Bree. “When Miss Lennox came, she told us she had an uncle highly placed in the government. That she could be gettin' information from him. Didn't tell us it was Wellington himself, though,” he muttered under his breath.

Gage and I shared a look, and I could tell he wondered just as I did whether Wellington had been aware of his cousin's duplicity. If, in fact, any of this was true.

“How did she propose to contact him?” he asked.

“She wrote to him.”

I frowned. Then why hadn't we found any of this correspondence? Had she hidden it somewhere we hadn't thought to look? Somewhere elsewhere in the abbey. Or maybe she'd burned the letters, afraid they would fall into the wrong hands. If we considered that possibility, then we also had to contemplate its counter. That someone had found the letters and taken them, either before or after Miss Lennox's death. Their discovery, in fact, could be partially the motive for her murder.