The Last Killiney (17 page)

And all while I’m risking my life
, he thought grimly. In the darkness, feeling for the bottommost step before he turned into the passageway, he indulged that mantle of fear settling over him, those demons he’d kept for fifteen years. He’d
have
to go on this voyage, wouldn’t he? He was being coerced, set up in a big way. God knew he couldn’t live four years without Fiona. That he’d never reach her, that Belfast was catching up with him and God wouldn’t mess about this time around, these things meant little. Paul had to go and God knew it. That was the joke.

OK
, he thought.
All right. So I’m the guy in the gilt-framed painting on the wall at home, the one who snuffs it on the river bank. I don’t like it, mind you, but I suppose if you’ll promise it’s me who gets killed and nobody else, then I’ve no choice, do I?

He knew he didn’t, and still he was grumbling,
four and a half years
…

Making his way toward the light he saw at the furthest door, he tried to think rationally about his predicament. What were his options? If he had to be shot, how best to meet his fate? How to get back home to Fiona, that was the real issue, and if he meant to reach that river bank at all, not to mention the potion, he’d have to make certain the ship got there safely.
James and this Captain Vancouver had better know what they’re doin’, yeah?

And wondering if they did, Paul stepped into the candlelit room.
Music room
, he thought to himself, for James sat with his boots propped up on an antique piano. When the guy saw Paul, instead of giving out about Killiney’s strange behavior, instead of insulting him, James merely smiled; he put his feet down in a swift, sudden movement, though he didn’t bother to sit up from his slouch. “My friend,” James said.

That was all he said.

Paul was suspicious, because he knew what sort of grin James sported, and he didn’t like it—it made Paul nervous. Yet no matter how obvious and knowing James’s expression, however apparent that he knew about his sister’s and this fellah Killiney’s love affair, still James said nothing. He pointed to the stack of papers on the piano. “Shall we?”

When Paul approached, he saw they were charts. On the ship that day, he’d watched James studying them, and in witnessing the guy’s ignorance about the simplest facts such as whether there was a waterway through America or not, Paul had forced himself to bite his tongue. Of course there wasn’t a waterway…unless you counted the Panama Canal.

Now, as the man gestured toward the charts, Paul got an idea. “You’re wanting to discuss the voyage, I’m guessin’?”

“Is there something you’d rather we talked about?” James regarded him with blatant amusement. “Because I am open to a change of subject. Women, perhaps.”

“No,” Paul said, picking up a chart, “no, let’s talk about the voyage. Let’s talk about…Somalia, maybe the coast of Kenya, I’m not sure which. I think it should be said I know more about these places than I’ve let on in the past. Maybe I ought t’be telling you? Would that help Vancouver get us where we’re goin’?”

James frowned a little. “What have you been reading?”

“I’ve not been reading, I’ve
been
there,” he said. “I can see you won’t believe me. You’ve been slaggin’ me all day about bein’ daft and losing m’mind or whatever, so I’m just gonna tell you: I’ve been to Africa. Now if Vancouver’s going anywhere near the place, it’s best if you ask me what I know.”

James’s brows quirked in amazement.

“Well?” Paul demanded.

“Africa is not the problem.”

“What is, then?” Setting the chart back down, Paul picked up another from the top of the stack. “No, I don’t recognize this one. Where’s this? West Africa?”

Handing the paper over to James, Paul saw the man peruse the sketch with only half of his intimidating attention; the other half he kept firmly on Paul. “San Diego,” James said at last.

“California? That’s the problem?” Paul stepped closer, peered over his shoulder. “Because I’ve been there as well. Not for a few years now, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I knew something a bit helpful, even if it’s not directly related to sailing as such—”

And throwing himself into pointing out whatever he could about the California coast, soon Paul found himself completely consumed in geographical issues. Gone was that nagging voice in his head, the one that spoke only of the girl upstairs who so obviously, generously cared for him.
Four and half years without Fiona
. How would he resist her? How could he ignore Ravenna’s sensitivity for his feelings, the artless way her eyes revealed everything and how she couldn’t keep her hands off him, no matter how hard he pushed her away?

But in James’s company, he forgot these things. He lost himself in nautical charts, and so the hours passed.

Chapter Eleven

Paul was gone for so many hours that Ravenna began to get curious about it. What were they discussing that it took all night? The clock adorning her mantel said it was getting close to midnight, and she was having more than a little trouble keeping herself awake. She wanted Paul to come back and talk to her. She wanted to make everything right between them before she let herself fall asleep.

So creeping down the main staircase, she followed the echo of masculine voices to the end of the passageway. The door to the music room stood open. The dim glow of candles fell on the polished floor just outside, and listening carefully, Ravenna backed against the wall of the corridor and tipped her head just far enough to see into the room.

James and Paul were hard at work. On the floor, James had spread out sheets of paper until there was no space left to walk between them. Setting one of the sheets on the piano, James studied it, mumbled under his breath. Paul seemed equally consumed by the document. Ravenna couldn’t follow the thread of their conversation; their voices were too low, but every now and again James would make an outburst. Then Paul would pick up a different sheet and show the man something, explaining his point with gesturing hands.

This went on for perhaps ten minutes until, eventually, a servant approached her in the corridor.

Slowly, silently, she edged away from the open door. She went to meet this man down the passageway, hoping James wouldn’t hear her, but the servant’s loud voice shattered her hopes. “Is the household settled for the evening, my lady?”

Uneasily, Ravenna glanced toward the door. “I think they’re in for the night, yes.”

“Very good, my lady.”

And then what Ravenna feared most occurred.

James appeared.

“Mr. Scott,” he said, “send Mr. Bowen to speak to me, please. And bring some food, maybe that apple tart if there’s any left?”

The uniformed man was quick to retreat, taking the servants’ stair to the basement. Ravenna turned to defend herself, but James spoke first. “I know Killiney appreciates your tomboy antics,” he whispered, “but try to be a lady, will you?”

Before she could reply, James had turned toward the music room door. Not knowing what else to do, she followed him, but contrary to what she’d expected from his warning, she wasn’t asked about Killiney. Instead, she saw that those sheets on the floor were maps, navigational charts and rough sketches of unnamed coasts. James eyed her suspiciously. “You know what these are?”

She nodded, although she didn’t like the way this man towered over her, awaiting an answer. “They’re charts,” she said cautiously.

“Of what? What else can you tell me about these charts?” She started to kneel down, the better to get a good look at the things, but he stopped her, motioned toward Paul. “Because he says you know more about them than I do. Now how is it that on the subject of New Georgia, you’re more knowledgeable than I?”

“I said she
might
know—”

“Let her speak, for if she knows but one thing, I’ll marvel.”

Why would Paul tell him this?
Ravenna knew nothing about New Georgia—wherever that was—but daringly she asked, “Show me, then.”

Paul gave her the chart out of his hand, which she didn’t recognize at all until James pointed to its straight coastal view. “There lies Nootka Sound. Beyond that, you’re on your own.”

This was the coast of the Pacific, she realized, glancing around her at the papers on the floor. At her feet was a chart containing what looked like part of California, for she recognized the Baja Peninsula at the bottom. On another, she saw Alaska with its Aleutian Chain. A third chart seemed to show New Zealand, but she couldn’t be certain.

Studying the sheet Paul had put in her hand, she saw now that this was Vancouver Island, the westernmost coast of British Columbia. The ink traced the shoreline as if it were the continent, for to the people of this time, Vancouver Island had not yet been discovered to be separate from the mainland—Vancouver hadn’t sailed there yet. Ravenna had to remind herself, and hoped Paul remembered the same, that she couldn’t call anything by its twentieth-century designation. Except Nootka Sound, these places for the most part had never been named, never been visited, and she didn’t think it wise to influence the future.

But as she struggled with what to tell James in that moment, he laid a brown finger on the chart. He picked out the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the waters of her island home, though on the chart there was nothing marked but an inlet—most of the strait and Puget Sound were as yet unexplored.

“See this?” James asked. “Maybe you could tell me if it passes through the continent? Killiney thinks it’s an inland sea, that it’s blocked by mountains, but he’s claimed you’ll be more familiar with the region.”

Her brain worked frantically. How could she respond without giving too much away? Whatever she told him would surely reach Vancouver, so she couldn’t merely tell him the truth, that there was no Northwest Passage as he thought of it, for obviously this was what James sought. To reveal this information might change the course of Vancouver’s voyage. She’d have to placate him with tidbits, things Elizabeth might have learned from Killiney or Vancouver himself, but exactly what was known and unknown to people in the eighteenth century? Had they seen the Coast Ranges? Had they seen the Cascades?

Yet James was talking again. “No? Not more familiar? You mean Killiney was wrong about your vast geographical knowledge?”

She glanced at Paul then, reprimanding him for having revealed such things. Still she knew if she were going to get herself on the voyage, she’d have to prove herself valuable at some point; they wouldn’t just take her out of the goodness of their hearts. If she influenced the future along the way—if she altered history—that was just something she’d have to risk.

“Very well,” James said, and before Ravenna could utter one piece of prophecy about what Vancouver would find in Puget Sound, he turned away.

At that moment a man came into the room, a servant. James called him closer. “My lord, here—,” James waved a hand toward Paul, “—suffers from a memory loss of some sort. He’ll require looking after in the next few days, understand? You’re to humor him. Play along as he likes.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

The man waited for his signal to depart James’s presence, and seeing this, Ravenna followed his lead. Another moment, and who knew what sort of mess she might get herself into? Visions, love affairs…what did it matter when James apparently ruled the house? “It’s late,” she said, nodded toward Paul where he sulked across the room. “Lord Killiney’s tired. Can’t we save this for tomorrow?”

James took the chart from her, rolled it up slowly, and she found herself waiting for his consent just as the servant had. Watching her, sizing her up, finally James gave it. “Until tomorrow, then,” he said, and added more privately, “Lie to me if you must, but I know what you’re on about. And there’s still plenty of time before potential husbands set sail for America. Don’t take the bull by the horns just yet.”

And with the chart still in hand, he walked out of the room.

Ravenna sighed. Where Paul stood before the fire, he too looked relieved to be escaping James’s questions. Bedraggled, with his hair in his eyes and his shirt untucked and hanging to his knees, Paul kicked at one tall boot with the other. It made Ravenna think of how her own feet hurt, but Paul’s pain had nothing to do with shoes. He was exhausted. He missed Fiona, and after a day spent floundering in James’s company, he seemed about ready to drop where he stood.

Even though she knew he wouldn’t tolerate it, she went to him anyway. She didn’t flirt with him. She did her best to hide her attraction, to ignore it, for with the way he swayed so wearily before her, she wanted only to give him a hug.

Yet before she could do it, he went to the door, whispered only a half-hearted goodnight. She watched him go, and alone, surrounded by charts, she stood there until the servant came back with the food James had asked for.

* * *

Lord Broughton kept Paul busy all the next day. They looked at charts again, read descriptions from Captain Cook’s journals of New South Wales. Ravenna let them, didn’t try to intrude upon their “men’s business,” as James called it. Instead, she kept her distance and kept her silence when James was near.

Things changed in the evening. James had her sent for. When she joined them, found Paul talking mirthfully about some adventure he’d had in being lost in the desert, Ravenna was astonished. It wasn’t just his entertaining story that affected her. In telling it, he described how he’d stopped at every town, seeking directions from the Spanish-speaking locals; he even faked a Mexican accent, but what astounded Ravenna was that he was having
a good time
. She warmed with the enthusiasm she heard in his voice, melted at the sight of his stunning smile…until finally it dawned on her what he was saying.

Desert towns, blacktop highways and gas station attendants from Chihuahua—he was describing
Arizona
, and he was speaking Spanish to boot.

She looked at Paul in alarm. She tried to get his attention discreetly and prevent his making another mistake.