Kilpara (25 page)

“
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.

“
Bad hand, Arthur?” Sloane
prompted.

Purcenell counted out his chips and grinned at
Sloane as he laid them on the pile. I waited for Austin to throw in
his cards and was surprised when he called. Wilde reluctantly threw
in his chips. Ligham’s hand kept rushing to his mouth.

“
Make your decision,” Sloane
snapped.

Shakily, Ligham called. Sloane’s eyebrows shot
up.

“
Is Pandora ready to race against
Guardian tomorrow?” Sloane asked Purcenell. It was an attempt to
goad the older man and it worked.

“
You’ll see for yourself, so you
will,” Purcenell retorted sourly.

I had enough and decided to make my move. I
called the pot and raised it fifty pounds. This caught Sloane and
Purcenell off guard.

“
That’s hardly a gentleman’s bet,”
Sloane said. “We play friendly poker here.”

I nodded toward the pot but said nothing. If
game rules were set among these men, they were unwritten ones. I
knew I was taking advantage of this and feigned beginner’s
ignorance.

“
I’ll play along,” Sloane said
after some thought. He threw his chips onto the pile and grinned
slyly at Purcenell who frowned. Very deliberately, Sloane raised
the pot another fifty pounds.

I expected Purcenell to throw in his cards and
felt a sense of satisfaction when he called the bet and stayed in.
The man was a fool. Sloane had provoked his pride and he would not
be faced down. A smug smile spread over Sloane’s face.

Austin and Ligham threw down their
cards.

I guessed Sloane had a decent hand but not an
exceptional one. I called his bet and raised him one hundred
pounds. He was about to remind me this was a gentleman’s game, but
thought better of it when I stared straight at him. Purcenell
groaned and slammed down his cards.

Had I managed to persuade Sloane I held a
winning hand? I wasn't sure. He picked up his glass, downed the
liquid then handed the glass to the houseboy for a refill. Relief
shot through me when he smiled a conciliatory smile and threw his
cards into the middle of the table. “I concede,” he
said.

The pot was mine.

“
That’s the biggest pot ever, of
course, it is,” Purcenell said, admiration in his voice.

“
May I see your hand?” Sloane
asked.

I didn’t answer, just grinned and casually
threw my cards onto the discarded pile.

Sloane said offhandedly, “I say, would you
care to make a one hundred pound wager on tomorrow’s
race?”

“
I would gladly oblige—” I said
hesitantly, watching a sly grin spread across Sloane’s mouth, “—if
I had a chance to observe both horses.” The grin froze on Sloane’s
lips and his jaws tightened.

The rest of the hands were uneventful. After
staying long enough to give the players a chance to win back some
of their losses, I rose to leave. I thanked Sloane, whose response
was cordial but cool. Purcenell let his admiration show. He slapped
me on the back and reminded me of my commitment to attend the race
the following day. I had accomplished what I set out to do. I had
gained favor with my family's adversary. Riding on this wave of
camaraderie, I had to find the right moment to convince him my
parents should be buried at Kilpara. Even as I contemplated this,
Aunt Sadie's nagging words crept into my mind that I was on the
losing end of such a quest.

Not yet ready for sleep when we returned to
the convent, I bid Gully Joyce goodnight and quietly slipped into
the stables. Brazonhead nickered when I put the bridle over his
head. Guided by the stars and a full moon, we trotted through the
silent streets of Galway. I had no particular plan in mind until I
saw a light blinking in the priest’s house at St. Augustine’s
Church. I had met Father Matthews on one of his frequent visits to
the convent and liked him. On impulse, I went up to the door not
stopping to consider what I would say to whoever answered. I was
relieved to see the tired pleasant face of Father Matthews stare at
me in surprise when the door opened.

“
Mother Superior’s nephew, right?”
he asked, sighing.

“
Yes, Father.”

He opened the door wider. “Come in. The
kettle’s on the boil. Join me in a cup of tea?”

I followed him into the warm
kitchen.

“
I’ve just come from administering
the last rites to one of my parishioners. ‘Tis the saddest part of
my calling.” He took two cups from a cupboard. “Is it because of
your mother that you’re here?”

“
No,” I said.

He paused to look at me. “No?”

“
I’m not here about my
mother.”

“
What else would bring you out at
this late hour?”

I emptied a bundle of bills and coins on the
priest’s kitchen table.

He looked at me with shocked eyes. “What’s all
this?”

I knew he would refuse the money if I told him
I won it gambling so I said, “A gift for the people of
Brandubh.”

“
Then why are you bringing the
money to me? Where did you get it? Is it stolen, or from some
illegal society?”

I raised a hand to stop him. “It’s from a kind
benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous, hence the late hour. He
wants it distributed among the tenants of Kilpara, Larcourt and
other local lordships. Most of them attend the church at Brandubh,
but I don’t know the priest there, which is why I came to you. Each
family should receive an equal portion.”

The priest stood speechless for a moment. “Why
would some benefactor show kindness to the people of
Brandubh?”

“
He’s an Irish
sympathizer.”

The priest smiled sadly. “That’s never
happened before.”

“
You’ll do it then?”

The priest looked at me for a long moment.
“Yes, as long as the money hasn’t come from ill-gotten
means.”

“
It hasn’t.” I smiled to myself. It
comes straight from the landlords themselves.

“
Then I’ll consider it a blessing
from God. It will go a long way to ease the difficulties of those
poor people.”

“
One more thing. You must agree you
never saw me tonight. I have to protect the benefactor, so we never
met.”

The priest nodded. “I only saw an angel who
delivered a gift of generosity.”

It wasn’t a good day for a race. Clouds hung
low and moved swiftly westward as if pushed by an invisible hand.
The carriage fought against the blustery wind and along the way
small bursts of blue occasionally broke through the heavy overhang.
Gully Joyce had risen early to polish and ready the carriage. Once
a jockey himself, he skipped about outside with the excited
anticipation of a child expecting presents under a Christmas Tree.
When we got underway, he hummed tunes all the way to the racetrack,
undaunted by the harsh weather.

With the carriage safely parked behind a row
of others, I dismounted and walked toward the worn patch of ground
where the crowd had gathered. Drops of rain fell slantwise,
smacking my face like tiny darts of ice. I paused to watch Gully
scamper off to greet a small man who wore the official referee
cap.

“
You’re here,” Purcenell said,
walking toward me. “Of course, you are. You want to see Pandora
race. She’s in fine form today. There’ll be no problem with her
winning, so there won’t.” His words were spoken more to convince
himself than me. “Use the whip on her early, Edward,” he ordered
the jockey who came over to receive last minute instructions.
“You'll get more speed out of her that way.”

Edward raised the whip in acknowledgement at
the same time Kilpara’s grooms came over leading Pandora. Her eyes
turned wild at the sight of the whip and she reared up in protest.
I fought down the urge to snatch the whip from the jockey’s
hand.

Sloane and Thornton stood beside a long-legged
brown and white stallion. The animal showed dislike for the
slanting rain and strong breeze. He snorted, sneezed, turned this
way, then that way, in an attempt to find a comfortable stance. The
jockey mounted the horse and together they rode round in circles.
Thornton and Sloane continued to give instructions as the jockey
positioned his body into one of control. He leaned forward,
tightening the rein in his grip, a whip held ready in his right
hand.

Ligham joined the small group and talked
amiably with Sloane. They walked over to where Purcenell and I
stood, as Edward mounted Pandora. Horse and rider moved toward the
starting line.

“
Get ready to call me son-in-law,”
Sloane taunted Purcenell.

“
You’ll never marry my daughter, so
you won’t,” Purcenell said, shaking his head. “But I won’t object
to taking the five hundred pounds from you after the race. No, I
won’t say nay to that.”

“
You know my marrying Morrigan
would be a blessing, Arthur,” Sloane said. “Kilpara is falling into
ruin and you need better control of your tenants.”

“
I don’t need your help,” Purcenell
snapped. His hands at his side doubled into fists.

Sloane smoothed the corners of his mustache
and made “tut, tut” noises. “We’ll see about that.”

The referee came over and collected written
agreements from Sloane and Purcenell. With these in hand, he
crossed the track and stepped into the box close to the starting
line. In a sober voice, he shouted through a megaphone, “The race
will consist of three consecutive laps. The first horse and rider
to pass over the finish line will be declared the winner.” Wind
tugged at the jockeys’ colored jerseys and raindrops lingered on
their billowed caps as they waited for the signal. The referee held
up two green flags that immediately flapped in the breeze. “On your
marks! Get set! Go!” The flags went down and the horses and jockeys
took off.

It was clear almost from the onset that
Guardian was the better horse, but he had difficulty dealing with
the elements and the rough track. He was obviously accustomed to
smoother racecourses. After a couple false starts, then hesitation,
he almost balked. The jockey used his whip to gain control and
forced the horse into the unyielding wind. He struck out
reluctantly, his stride longer than Pandora’s. I groaned inwardly
as thoughts plagued me about the inevitable outcome should Pandora
lose this race. Morrigan would become Sloane’s bride. I pushed the
notion aside while observing that the mysterious Morrigan had taken
possession of my waking thoughts and invaded my sleeping ones,
too.