On Sparrow Hill (32 page)

Talie said good-bye and Rebecca hung up. Dana’s sister might not be able to fix anything, but Rebecca guessed she was certainly going to try.

50

* * *

I continue my letter from a very unexpected spot, Cosima—Jobbin’s wagon. You will hardly believe me when I tell you all I have to say. I can only ask you to pray. How can the Lord God abandon me, when the school, I am still convinced, was His plan? Oh, Cosima, is all lost? Have I truly failed so miserably?

When Jobbin stopped the wagon, Berrie peered beyond the canvas only to wish the journey weren’t yet over. At first glance the house appeared little more than a pile of crumbling rocks. Indeed, the entire fence was more rubble than design, and an archway leading to the front door looked so precarious that Berrie felt it would be unwise to stand beneath it. Surely Finola didn’t live here with her brother? On the other side of the dilapidated fence, between the structure and the gate, grew a garden Berrie’s entire family would collectively shudder at upon sight. Overgrown, weed-infested, a jungle in its thickness so that no single plant could be deciphered from another, much less admired. A tree, long dead and devoid of bark, watched over as a testimony of what was to come to the rest of the neglected ground beneath it.

“Wait here, miss,” said Jobbin, and Berrie was only too happy to oblige. She’d worried Mr. Truebody might not welcome her usage of Jobbin’s time or his wagon should Mr. Truebody know, but upon her hesitation Jobbin had assured her it was his own time and his own wagon should the justice of the peace remind him she was no longer his employer. Now she was thankful for him yet again. “I’ll make sure we’ve the right home and be back out here for you quick as that.”

She watched him enter through the squeaky gate; it hadn’t been closed before and refused to close even with his effort. Sight of him was quickly devoured by the garden, only to reappear again on the other side below the deteriorating arch that once might have bidden a friendly welcome to all who approached the tall wooden door. Still, her heart pounded while he stood beneath the arch and rapped soundly at the door. She was certain that all would crumble at any moment if not for the sturdy vines crawling up between the cracks, green mortar lending the archway its last vestige of strength.

Though she heard his knock all the way to the wagon, no one responded. He waited, tapped again, waited. Then, turning round, he walked back outside the archway, disappearing once again into the thick wild growth. She spotted his balding head and he appeared like an odd sort of featherless bird, one that couldn’t fly but could only hop from spot to spot.

He was gone altogether once he rounded the side of the manor, and she settled back in her seat to wait. The day was cool and promised to be cooler still with the setting of the sun. Even if this was the right home, and even if she was able to speak to Finola, it appeared this night would be spent in the wagon. They hadn’t passed a single inn nearby, and she had no idea where one might be found. The wagon floor would be the roughest bed she’d ever known, and she’d sleep on the emptiest stomach, but she didn’t worry about that. It was Jobbin she thought of. He would have to sleep under the stars, or under the wagon itself if stars gave way to rain clouds.

She took the moment of solitude to pray, knowing it would require no less than God’s hand to unveil the truth. She prayed He aided the search for that very thing.

Before long she heard Jobbin’s call, followed by the rumble of the wagon as it accepted his weight.

“All’s well, miss. I’ll pull the wagon up and around. Just a moment we’ll be right as ninepence.”

The wagon lurched forward, and she peeked out to see where they went. A lane curved alongside the wasted manor house, descending to a view of the green Irish landscape more lovely than even around Escott Manor. Trees too often stood in the way there. Here she saw a wide expanse of the sun-streaked horizon, beneath which were endless square pillows of crops and meadows in various shades of green, each divided by the trimmed lace of neat hedgerows.

Jobbin soon pulled the wagon to a halt, and Berrie slid to the other side, where he waited to help her down. Standing on the footboard, she looked at the home before her. This angle offered an altogether different view. Neat brick fairly glowed beneath the orange sunset, with mullioned windows glimmering like so many eyes taking in the view. The lawn was trimmed here, absent of flowers or much fauna, but neat nonetheless. Only the edge, where stones peeked around the corner, hinted at the withering limb that was attached on the other side. Why it hadn’t been demolished and removed, Berrie couldn’t tell.

“I was told the family’s not at home but that we can wait inside,” Jobbin said as they walked closer to the open door. The room proved to be a kitchen with tall hearth, wide wooden table, wash sink, and shelves lining an entire wall. The scent of baking bread made Berrie’s mouth water even as her stomach twisted.

An older servant introduced herself as Moira and went about gathering ingredients to serve with tea, though age slowed her progress. She was similar in years to Dowager Merit, Berrie’s grandmother, but far more sprightly, smiling as easily as the dowager frowned. She chatted about how good it was for Miss Finola to receive visitors, that she’d been sick of heart since returning home and this would surely brighten her spirit.

Berrie wasn’t so sure. She was here to challenge her story, to do nothing less than call Finola a liar and beg her to stop the insanity of a legal battle. She wasn’t going to leave until the truth was known.

Berrie should have refused the warm hospitality Moira offered, if only because she knew the servant wouldn’t present a sip or crumb if she knew why Berrie was here. However her demanding stomach wouldn’t allow a refusal. She watched Moira painstakingly butter bread and press boiled eggs with red tomatoes, making room on a plate of what looked like ginger cake and shortbread waiting nearby. It all looked wonderful to Berrie, but she guessed anything would. She must eat to rid herself of her nervous lightheadedness. But the tea was barely steeped when a boy burst in from the kitchen door, and Moira left the array of food untended on the cook’s table to face him.

“They’re back! Oh—pardon me, miss,” said the boy, dressed in worn brown trousers and a jacket that must have been a castoff from a child of comfortable means some years ago, with its frayed collar and buttons torn from a double-breasted style. He looked at Berrie, then at Moira.

“This is a friend of Miss Finola’s, Paddy. Come to visit.”

The boy’s eyes, nearly as brown as his jacket, went wide. “A visitor? That’s good—isn’t it, Moira? Good?”

“Of course it is!” Her words encouraged, but the wrinkles on her brow deepened.

Berrie watched the exchange, puzzlement growing. Was it so odd to have a visitor in this part of Ireland? or just to this manor house?

There must have been an entry other than the kitchen or the pile of stones she’d seen before, because moments later Berrie heard a commotion from up the stairs leading to the rest of the manor. She stood, prepared to follow Moira to be announced as Finola’s visitor.

“Sit, sit,” Moira said, her voice low. “It’ll be best if you wait just a moment, and then I’ll see about your visit.”

Then she left the kitchen, going slowly up the stairs.

Berrie was tempted to follow and announce herself. But when she moved to do so, the boy called Paddy stepped in her way.

“If you’re Miss Finola’s friend, like you said, it’s best to wait here for Moira.”

“Why is that?”

He tilted his head. “You don’t know Finola very well, do you, miss?”

“Well enough to visit,” Berrie said.

“Then maybe it’s her brother you don’t know well enough.”

Berrie contemplated whether to wait or go unannounced, but there was something on the boy’s face that made her believe it would be best to follow direction. It wasn’t long before the sound of footsteps echoed from the hall up the stairs, and Moira stood there silently, bidding her to come.

“They’re in the upstairs parlor,” Moira whispered. “Though I was at a loss to tell them your name, miss.”

“Didn’t Jobbin—my driver—announce my name?”

Moira shrugged. “If he did, I must have forgotten.”

Berrie followed the maid, seeing walls in need of paint, floors as worn as the carpets trying to hide them. They passed the arch to a dining room, where stood a long table and only three chairs, no sideboard or wall coverings, not even a screen before the fireplace. At least little Conall would have nothing to tempt him to break, but what of keeping him away from the fire?

Moira stopped before a tall wooden door that creaked on its hinges when she opened it. All Berrie saw in the dimly lit parlor was a piano, a pair of settees, and one lamp table. Two tall windows on the far side let in light, but they were so shrouded in draperies that the effect of sunlight was minimal.

“Cecily! How wonderful to see you,” said Finola, stepping forward and grabbing both of Berrie’s hands in hers.

Berrie looked about for the bearer of the name Finola addressed. All she saw was a man, presumably Thaddeus, standing beside the piano. He was tall and thin, his face shadowed in the dim light.

Finola squeezed Berrie’s hands so tight Berrie wanted to wince and pull away, but Finola’s grip was too strong unless Berrie were to make a fuss. Finola’s face warned away such a temptation. Her skin, always so pure and flawless, looked colorless except for circles beneath her eyes. Those eyes were anything but weary; even in the limited light, Berrie saw an alertness that looked strangely fearful.

“You’ve never met my brother, Thaddeus, have you, Cecily?” Her voice was higher pitched than Berrie remembered, and she seemed happier and more animated here than she’d ever been at Escott Manor, where her skin wasn’t marred by fatigue and her cheeks had been rosy. “And we’ve known each other so long, it’s a shame, too.”

Berrie wanted to demand what was going on, why Finola was behaving so strangely and calling her by another name. But she would wait at least a few moments more. It wasn’t only Finola’s odd behavior giving her caution. More importantly, there was something decidedly missing from this picture. Where was Conall?

“Thaddeus, this is my friend, Miss Cecily Ferguson. Cec, meet my brother, Thaddeus.”

Berrie accepted his hand without the slightest attempt to right the wrong name. He hardly looked pleased to meet her. His nose protruded sharply with a resting point made for spectacles, the way the bridge jutted out between his brows. And his mouth was too small, his forehead too broad. Katie would say his face was unsymmetrical, and the thought reminded Berrie of why she’d come and all she was fighting for. And why she must be careful not to overlook anything.

“How lovely to meet you, Mr. O’Shea. Both Nessa and Finola have mentioned you, and now at last we meet.”

“Have they now?” he asked. “So you know Nessa, too. And am I to believe they spoke highly of me?”

“For as often as they spoke your name,” Berrie said honestly, “their opinion of you couldn’t have been more clear. I just came from Nessa’s. She told me you invited Finola back here, so I thought I would visit since I’d missed Finola’s company by only a few days.”

“Is that so? You came out here all the way from Nessa’s just to see Finola?”

“Of course.”

“Then that wagon out there, with the driver waiting for you, is yours?”

Berrie nodded, though her heart went heavy. The ruse was already up, and she knew it. Those who traveled in Nessa’s circle wouldn’t have such humble transportation, nor would she be traveling the hour distance with no one but the driver as chaperone and protector.

Thaddeus took a step closer, far too close for a gentleman to stand. An intimidating distance, if Berrie were easily intimidated. She forced herself to remain where she was.

But her head still spun from the day’s worry and activity and lack of nourishment. “I am a friend of your sister’s, Mr. O’Shea, and I’ll thank you to allow us time to visit.”

There was nothing pleasant in the smirk that might have been meant as a smile. “My sister and I are very close,” Thaddeus said. “She would enjoy sharing your visit with me. Wouldn’t you, Finola?”

“I—yes, of course, Thaddeus. Though I’m sure we’ll bore you within moments.”

“Nonsense. Though it does grow late, and we’ve just dined with a friend, so we have little to offer by way of repast.”

“I’m perfectly content,” Berrie said.

Finola grabbed Berrie’s hand. “My brother brings up a good point.” Her voice was strained, her gaze fixed straight ahead. “It does grow late. I’m so pleased to see you, though, Cecily.”

“Yes, as I am to see you.”

“You’re far from Dublin,” Thaddeus said. “You took a great risk coming here without knowing whether or not you would find us at home.”

“I’m known for my impetuosity, I’m afraid.”

“An impetuous woman is one who learns to live with many regrets. Where, exactly, did you plan to pass the evening if Finola couldn’t be found at home?”

“I was quite impressed by your housekeeper—Moira, I believe is her name. I’m sure she would have found accommodations for me.”

“Impetuous and trusting,” Thaddeus said. “But you’ll forgive me if I add, not wise. A woman without a chaperone, depending on the generosity of a servant? Tsk, tsk, you really must be more careful in the future.”

They took seats on the two settees, Thaddeus across from the women. Finola still hung on to Berrie, having entwined their arms together.

“I can’t help noticing little Conall is absent, Finola. And I so wanted to see him. Where is he?”

Finola’s fingers pressed into Berrie’s skin, and if her fingernails had been any longer or sharper, she surely would have drawn blood. “At a friend’s house,” Finola said. “Just for tonight. While Thaddeus and I were dining.”

“Yes,” Thaddeus said, leaning back, folding one leg over the other. “We don’t like to leave him at home. Moira runs the household, but she’s getting on in years and doesn’t oversee things as meticulously as we’d like. The child is better off under the care of more fastidious staff. You must understand, if you’re familiar with Conall and his clumsiness.”