Nineteen

Kate wanted to make the journey into Thurles almost at once.

Plans for riding were abandoned anew after finding the troublesome cinch. The murderous cinch? Kate didn’t know how to think of it. Evan took it from the saddle and tucked it into his pocket.

But it was there, and they couldn’t forget it.

Instead, they walked. Kate wrapped herself in a gray cloak, a shapeless garment that fell over her like a blanket. How long ago it seemed since she’d worn a blanket and shared a cheroot with Evan on a set of narrow stairs.

Just when she thought she was ready for something new, she was blasted by something that rocked every bit of the familiar.

Coming to terms with the randomness of Con’s fall, only to realize it had probably not been an accident.

Taking Evan as a lover, only to realize how much she dreaded losing him. Then taking him again, with all the vigorous clandestine groping of people who yearn for each other yet fear discovery.

So had they been brave, or were they afraid?

Judging by the harsh line of Evan’s jaw and brow beneath the brim of his hat, the answer was different for each of them.

And now, with the space between her legs still tender, she didn’t know a damned thing except the path beneath her feet.

It was a path that led through pasture and field. Two years ago, when winter settled its weight so heavily, the land had been seared with frost and made barren. Potatoes rotted in the ground, while barley was nipped before it could go to seed.

Now the land was coming back. If Con had not left such debt, good harvests and careful spending would bring healing to the estate coffers. Time was the cure for much.

The path led them through the heart of Thurles, past familiar shops and faces. The medieval lines of Bridge Castle peered down at them, a single fortified tower with blank-eyed windows.

Kate remembered her vow to ingratiate herself with the people of town. To be more than the mournful figure who barked orders from Whelan House.

So many of the English dismissed the Irish as poor and careless. But she was English—or had been? And she knew the people of Thurles to be much like those of Newmarket. Some were wealthy, some lived in poverty, some were skilled with their hands, and some relied on the strength of their backs. Some had large families, and some were childless. Some were happily so.

Some were not.

She had wanted more children herself. When one’s father was always absent, one needed company. Kate had found it in the wrong place. She should have leaned on her siblings instead of seeking a husband. She should have made more friends. Real friends, like Evan, who understood her better than she understood herself.

Which, right now, was not saying the devil of a lot.

She recognized a slight figure with scraped-back black hair, exiting the bakery with a basket over one arm. “Good day, Miss Ahearn,” she greeted the spinster.

The woman peered over pince-nez. “Lady Whelan, good day. And you too, Mr. Rhys.” She paused in her walk. “I must thank you for your suggestion of the mulled wine. Most effective, it is, at chasing away the pains of the day.”

“I’m glad you found it useful,” Evan replied. “As the weather grows colder, you might take a dram of whisky as well.”

Janet Ahearn was newer to Thurles than Kate herself, and gone often to her family in Dublin. Yet she fit better into the town than Kate did, accepted without question despite her pinched features and pinched purse.

Miss Ahearn and Evan continued in this light vein, exchanging comments and gossip—something about pastilles and packets. Their speech fell into a similar cadence, lulling Kate until her name was mentioned.

“I beg your pardon?” Kate asked.

“I said, Lady Whelan,” commented the dry little woman, “that it is good to see you in proper mourning again.”

“Oh.” Kate clutched at the edges of her cape. “I didn’t—”

“And I,” said Evan, “thought the opposite. Good day to you, Miss Ahearn. Enjoy those cakes.”

Kate elbowed him as soon as they had passed out of earshot. “That was our game for Good Old Gwyn. You don’t have to be disagreeable now. I think you gave poor Miss Ahearn the vapors.”

“Disagreeable I might be, but I was also being honest. Miss Ahearn can go take a headache powder if she needs to. You looked fine in color, Kate. There’s already enough gray in the world.”

Gray slate roofs, gray stone pavement, a gray wool cloak. He was right, and yet: “I have few colorful gowns that suit me,” she said. “Everything else was dyed black, or it was from before.”

“Before, before. And what is wrong with before?” Evan gestured expansively as they walked. “Mountains grew and crumbled before. Winter came and went before. Driscoll let his waistcoats out before. In the grand scheme of the world, surely wearing a gown made before is not so much to dare.”

“A fine speech, and one with which I’d agree if fashion were a matter of logic. But it isn’t. It’s about feeling. And I feel different now.”

“Oh? How different?” When she looked at him, his eyes were dark as drinking chocolate, and as warm and bracing.

“I dressed for Con then. Now I want to dress for myself.”

His brows, so readily arched, lowered—and his mouth went soft, curling at one side. “My dear Biggie, how do you do it? I cover you in a blizzard of ridiculous words, and in a few syllables you cut to the heart of what matters.”

She had to look away before she stumbled. “It’s just a gown. A few gowns. Gowns that don’t exist yet.” She shivered inside her cape, as though his quiet compliment were a hand trailed over her bare skin. “And I did notice that you called me Biggie.”

“I hoped it would make you smile.”

“You don’t have to call me by a silly name to make me smile.”

“You’re doing it again.” Evan sighed. “Being all delightful and profound.”

“You’re doing it again,” she said. “Teasing me so I am not crushed beneath worry.”

“Hold to that realization, and that amazing teasing skill of mine, as long as you can.” Evan halted, looking around him. “We must find Driscoll. Where do you think he’d be?”

“It’s nearly noon?” When Evan nodded, Kate said, “He’ll be in the Prancing Pony.”

The town’s inn and public house, it crouched like a fist between the finger-slim shops that abutted it. Not that this was a bad thing, for fists were sturdy and solid. Other than its bowed front window, the Prancing Pony had little of prance about it. It was a great brick slab with a gabled roof that poked above neighboring buildings, boasting a public ground floor and two stories above for travelers and guests.

Evan and Kate entered its hushed depths. Within the taproom, every bit seemed made of wood. Darker than a forest, there was a wood ceiling with smoky wood beams, wood-paneled walls with scraped bits of a lighter brown and time-rubbed darker areas. The tables, the serving bar, were all wood. Behind the bar, lamps lit a brilliant array: bottles of every shape, filled with every drinkable color, and casks hooped in gleaming metal. Besides offering drink, the Prancing Pony was a fine place to get a meal—or so Con had said. When would Kate have had occasion to eat here?

The serving girl, Aileen, came by to greet them—stumbling against Evan, Kate noticed. She decided to change matters. “We’ll sit with Mr. Driscoll,” she said. “And we’ll have the fried potatoes.”

“I like a woman who takes charge,” Evan murmured in her ear after Aileen walked off with the order, cheerful as ever. “And fortunately, I also like potatoes.”

“Who doesn’t? Breathe in that scent.” It blanketed the room: frying oil and salt, something heavy that promised warmth. “When we sit with Driscoll, by the way, you’d best do the talking about the cinch. He has this way of speaking to me, like a kindly old hound who can’t be bothered to obey.”

“And you want me to bring him to heel, do you?”

“Don’t belabor the figure of speech. It was a fine one, but it will only be pushed so far.”

“Fair enough. I shall stop myself while you’re admiring my wit. Ah—your children told me all about the inquest.” Kate gasped. “So I’ll do a not-terrible job of picking through the questions for the magistrate. Look, he’s seen us. By the window.”

All her wondering about how the devil did Declan and Nora know what happened at the inquest had to be halted. Though she could guess. She had listened at a door or two—or a hundred—when she was a child.

Driscoll, clad as ever in a red flannel waistcoat and a great coat of pale biscuit, struggled to his feet from behind a table laden with dishes. “Mr. Rhys, Lady Whelan! Do join me.”

“Are you certain?” Kate simpered. “We wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Not at all, not at all.” The magistrate eased back into his chair, looking doleful. “I was about to take my leave, but—with such good company, I might indulge a little.” He motioned for the serving girl, who had just reappeared in the public room. “Aileen! Another platter of potatoes. And some for my friends.”

“We’ve already ordered,” Evan said. “Fried potatoes, as a matter of fact.”

“You’ll be a happy man. Ah! Here it comes. They had only to dish them up, I suppose.” He beamed with the sort of pride one felt when introducing a friend to something one liked very much. “Simple fare, but sometimes that’s the best.”

Kate didn’t answer. She was too busy inhaling. The potatoes were chopped into wedges, fried until crisp. The scent collared her, making her stomach roar.

“Go on, go on, Mr. Rhys! Eat them with your fingers, if the lady can forgive it.”

“Being a lady,” Kate said, “has nothing to do with being a potato invigilator. But you must both eat your luncheon as you see fit.” And she picked up a wedge, puffing air onto her hot fingertips, and bit off a piece. The crispy exterior yielded to her teeth, shocking her with salt and heat, then a smooth mealy inside.

For a few minutes, there was no sound but that of plates being tugged back and forth, of the occasional hiss as fingers touched hot oil or tongues were lightly burned.

When Kate had managed to stuff herself with an amount of potatoes that made Driscoll lift his heavy brows, she gave Evan’s foot a little kick beneath the table. Get on with the questions.

There was no graceful way to bridge the gap between potatoes and criminality, but Evan did a creditable job. “I thank you for allowing us to join you, Mr. Driscoll. For it’s you we were in search of.”

“Oh? What’s happened?” He turned the disobedient-hound look upon Kate. “Is your boy making false fox tracks outside the tenants’ chicken houses again?”

“What? No—I—wait, again? No, that’s not it.” Kate shook her head, making a note to ask Declan what he knew about fox tracks. “No, it’s because of—well, you remember Lord Whelan’s death, I’m sure.”

The hound grew more mournful, all pouchy eyes. “Oh, yes, yes. I remember.” Driscoll leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his great belly. “He was after falling in the chase. Got a kick to him. Terrible, it was.”

“And why did he fall?” Evan leaned forward, closing the distance Driscoll had opened.

“Why…? He just did.” Driscoll blinked. “Saddle slipped. People fall on the chase course all the time. Horse clips a jump, misses a stride. It puts a dreadful strain on the tack, and—”

“Did anyone look for a reason? Was the jump off?”

“It wasn’t that I know. Other riders took it in stride—before the race was halted, which it was as soon as the cry could be let out.”

“Did you encourage anyone to check the condition of the tack?” Kate broke in. How odd it was to fill one’s mouth with crisp potato, to delight in the taste, and hate the words one must speak.

“Checked it myself, Lady Whelan, but I knew what I’d find.” Driscoll patted his belly, then leaned forward again. “Tragic. So tragic, it was. But it was years ago. Nothing you need to be worried about now. You’ve suffered enough, surely.”

Evan picked up the thread of inquiry again. “But at the inquest, Mr. Driscoll, you implied the groom was at fault.”

Driscoll looked up, seeming to search for answers on the deep wooden ceiling. When he met Evan’s eye, his lined face held great sorrow—even as he busied his fork again in his pile of potatoes. “I did, at that. A regrettable impulse born of my own distress, it was.”

“Or a deduction based on your own skill?” Kate ventured.

Driscoll stopped, mouth open, a potato wedge halfway to it. “What do you mean?”

“What,” said Evan, “if the groom was to blame? And what if the fall wasn’t an accident?”

The older man dropped the potato. “You can’t think you’ve found out something new now, Mr. Rhys.”

“I’m a suspicious sort—it’s why I’m here. My lectures, you know. Fraudulent antiquities. Smuggling.”

“You can’t think the late earl was involved in such matters.” Driscoll laughed again, but his eyes had gone…odd. Rather than a patient old hound, he looked cornered. If his ears could have gone flat, they would have.

You can’t think: twice, Driscoll had used this phrase. It sounded like a warning, and the last bite of potato stuck in Kate’s throat. “I hadn’t thought so at all,” she said. “Why would you suggest such a thing?”

“I didn’t. Mr. Rhys did.” Driscoll moistened his lips, then picked up his tankard and tipped it high to drain the last drops.

“I really didn’t,” Evan said, “but it’s something to think about.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Driscoll was all mournful cheer again.

Kate replied with chill courtesy. “No, I’m aware you’ve been careful to say nothing at all.”

* * *

“Let’s leave the path,” Evan said on their way back to Whelan House. “We can cut from the north and walk through the woods instead.”

Had the errand gone well? He wasn’t sure. He’d never even pulled the cut cinch from his pocket to show Driscoll.

Maybe that was for the best. Something had been odd about that conversation. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach—and that wasn’t the feeling of having gobbled fried potatoes.

No, it might be that Con had secrets not even Evan knew. Fraudulent antiquities…it seemed so unlikely. But why had Driscoll jumped to that conclusion? Had it already been bridged for him?

Evan’s feet hushed over drying fallen leaves. “Your children talked about some of the ruined castles nearby. Loughmoe, is that right?”

“That’s one of them, yes. No one’s lived there for decades.” Kate stumbled over a root, catching herself on Evan’s arm. “Sorry. You think—the sculpted stones?”

“Who would notice if a few went missing?”

“Not my children,” Kate murmured. “They aren’t allowed to go to such places.” Then she added in her normal tone, “But you aren’t thinking of going there now, are you? Loughmoe Castle must be five miles from here, at least.”

“Let’s walk until we get tired of walking.”

“A fine plan, but for one flaw. How will we get back again, if we’re tired of walking?”

He touched the dimple in her chin. Like a kiss, it had always looked to him. “Then we’ll run.”

Trees arched over the path where it continued through the wood, making a sun-dappled tunnel of branch and leaf. Their booted footfalls sounded soft on the path, carpeted with fallen leaves in all shades of yellow and brown.

When the path broke into a small clearing, Evan tipped back his head. Through the dapple of gold leaves and the first bare branches, the sky was like cobalt glaze, translucent and blue, wisped with clouds like thrown cotton.

“Sit with me,” he said.

“Here?” Kate looked around, her hands working at the edge of her cloak.

“Right here.” Evan whisked aside some damp leaves, then stretched out on the ground. He tossed his hat aside, folded his arms behind his head, and looked up.

After a moment, Kate joined him, settling onto the ground in the soft folds of her cloak.

It was easier to think about what was right in a place like this, and have it seem simple. There were no slides, no crowds to convince. There was land to cross, and his hands and eyes to use, and if something seemed gray, then he could look up toward the blue.

“That cloud looks like a wedge of fried potato,” he said.

Kate choked. “Does it? Well, that cloud looks like the expression of shock on your face when I…steal your hat.” With a quick snap, she caught it up and flung it back over her head.

“Minx.” Evan didn’t even budge. “You can have my hat. I’ll only look more handsome if I get a bit of sun on my manly features.”

She laughed, but the tone was a little out of tune. “Are you never serious? How can I know what you feel?”

Listen to me. Look at me.

But there were only so many times a man could be frank, then be left behind. Kate, the one to leave during the night. Kate, the one to take his kisses, then get up from the bed of straw.

“I’m a man,” he said. “You’re not meant to know what I’m feeling. I have this stoic exterior, and within me, muscles and virility.”

“How tempting.” She settled at his side again. Trailed a hand down his chest. “I like the muscles and virility, Evan.”

“Oh, I could tell.”

Her hand rested over his heart. “But in truth I like it all.”

The gray cloak covered her arm, stretching across his body like a fog. And suddenly, he couldn’t bear that there was something so important about himself that she didn’t know.

“You want to know what I’m feeling,” he said. “The truth is, I can’t always put a name to it.” And he told her about the grayness: how it came in a wave, how it sometimes ebbed. But it was like an ocean and a tide. It was always there, and it would always come back. It had always been with him, and it had never been understood, because it was beyond the scope of understanding.

While he spoke, she looked at him—at first. Then she settled into a copy of his pose, her arms folded in a pillow behind her head as she stared up at clouds that shifted.

When he finished, she was still looking into the sky. “It is like grief.”

“It is like some grief.” He traced her profile with a gentle fingertip. “Everyone grieves differently. This is leadenness of spirit.”

Although now that he had told her, he felt nothing but the blue above, reflected within.

“I have not felt what you describe, so I do not understand it,” she said slowly. “But I want to. Does it last?”

“It is always there, faint like mist. Sometimes I forget about it. Sometimes it creeps over everything.”

What is the purpose of it all, Evan? What does it matter?

So asked his mother, once, about his excavation of a midden. About his efforts to learn about the past: one of the only things that mattered to him.

And so what did a question matter? What did it matter what food one ate? What drink passed one’s lips? What did any of the God-damned bits of everyday existence matter?

He didn’t have an answer. But for the moment, he had Kate at his side, and a cloud above that truly did look like a wedge of potato.

Or a smile.

“What brings the color back, when you feel so gray?” Kate asked.

“Sometimes, nothing but time. When I am more fortunate, I can bring myself out of it with an effort of will. Thinking of others. Trying to do something worthwhile in the world.” He raised himself onto one elbow, then dropped a kiss on her nose. “Being with you.”

“Then you’d better be with me.” She crooked her finger into the edge of his waistcoat. “Do your best, Evan, to show me something worthwhile.”

“What’s this, insatiable woman?” He feigned shock, covering the real thump of his eager heart. “Are you asking me to tickle your loveliest bits while you call them terrible names like lumpy?”

“No. I’m asking you to be with me, as I am.” Her eyes were sea-deep and warm, and her lips held a tremulous curve. “I’m not perfect, Evan, but…I think I might be just right.”

“I know you are,” he said. “I have always known that.”

And beneath the blue sky, they banished the gray.