Never Call It Love (47 page)

Joyful
as their reunion was in that Philadelphia inn, they had still felt the shadow
cast by Colin's death. As a suicide, he could not be buried in consecrated
ground. And so, the morning after Patrick's arrival in Philadelphia, he and
Elizabeth in a hired carriage followed his brother's coffin, borne by a wagon,
out to a potter's field at the city's edge. They had stood beside the grave
while all that remained of Colin Stanford, lonely and isolated in death as in
life, was lowered into the ground.

It
was on their way back from potter's field that Patrick first mentioned
returning to Ireland. "Parliament has passed this Act of
Settlement..."

"I
know about it. In fact, I asked Colin if he might return to Ireland because of
it. He seemed determined upon going to the West Indies."

"No
wonder," Patrick answered dryly. "He was afraid I might turn up in
Ireland."

"And
do you want to go back there?"

"I
think so if you do, my darling. Oh, not that this Settlement Act means that
Ireland is free. It may take centuries for Ireland to become free and united,
if it ever does. But the English have made concessions, enough of them that I
can take their oath in good conscience."

"And
the house and land in New Canterbury?"

"I'll
write to Wentworth and tell him that after he has sold the property to his
cousin, he can send the money to Stanford Hall. I don't imagine," he said
wryly, "that you want to see New Canterbury again."

"No,"
she said, although now that he was beside her, his big warm hand clasping hers,
it was hard for her to remember the suffering and fear of the past winter.

Their
passage across a smooth midsummer sea had been without incident. Three days ago
their ship had docked at Dublin. And late this morning they had arrived at
Stanford Hall, where those who were left of the former staff—Mrs. Corcoran,
Gertrude, Rose, Clarence, and
old Joseph—had greeted them with embraces and
tears. Young Rose and Caroline had taken to each other immediately, so much so
that Elizabeth had not hesitated to place her child in the little maid's
charge.

What
matter that during Elizabeth's long absence the huge crystal chandelier in the
entrance hall had grown grimy and dull, and gilt picture frames had tarnished,
and drapery hems unraveled? She was back now, in the house that would be home
to her for the rest of her life.

Patrick
came in carrying a bottle filled with wine of almost the same shade as her
gown. He sat down, filled two tiny glasses of etched crystal, and handed her
one. She took an appreciative sip and then reached over to brush a bit of
cobweb from his coat sleeve. "It is delicious, Patrick. But all that
poking around in the cellar, just for a bottle of wine..."

"I
wanted you to have the best tonight. Nothing less would do." His gaze went
over her serene face, her slim shoulders, the swell of her small, high breasts
above the red velvet. "Oh, Elizabeth, you're so beautiful!" His voice
roughened. "And what suffering I've brought you, when always you should
have had nothing but the best, when always you should have looked as you do
now."

Not
answering, she smiled at him. Yes, it was good to be warm, and safe, and richly
gowned. But what he did not know, and never would, was that she had never felt
greater tenderness for him than when she stood cold and half-starved and
shabbily dressed at the wood's edge, and heard his harsh voice pouring out his
anguish and his guilt and his love for her.