Call Home the Heart (4 page)

 

 

He glanced at her around the screen, and came out, fastening the
front of his waistcoat. He was surprised at her practicality in the
face of such a loss. "Well, it's understandable that you're upset."

 

 

"I know, but there are also arrangements to be made, and decisions."

 

 

"Decisions?" he echoed warily.

 

 

Muireann looked down for a moment as she poured the coffee. She took
a deep breath before replying,  "Two weeks ago I married
Augustine and thought my life was all laid out before me. Now just a
fortnight later, I'm facing chaos. I honestly don't know what to
do."

 

 

His eyes never left her face as he came to sit down across from her.
"About what?"

 

 

"Well, my life now, for one thing. I'm young, inexperienced, far
more ignorant than I should be, and I haven't even set eyes on
Barnakilla. I know no one here in Ireland except you. One half of me
thinks I should go back home to Mother and Father in Fintry. Back to
the security I know I shall find there. But another part of me is
too proud to go back. I would be cosseted there, wrapped up in
cotton wool, and I would never, well..."

 

 

"Go on, never what?" he prompted.

 

 

"Get the chance to really live," she said in a rush.

 

 

Lochlainn eyed her carefully. At length he observed, "It is early
yet, Muireann. You've only just been widowed. Do you have to make
any decisions now?"

 

 

Her words sounded just too good to be true. He had to be cautious.

 

 

"I suppose there is that. I was thinking, though, that it's easier
to travel back to Scotland from here than to go all the way to
Barnakilla only to find out that I've made a mistake.

 

 

"But I need your help, Lochlainn. I need you to tell me what
Barnakilla is like. And I need your help with the funeral
arrangements as well. I know it will be in the papers over here, but
if we can possibly keep this all quiet, so my parents don't find out
until after the funeral, and I can write to them, I would be very
grateful."

 

 

Lochlainn scowled. "Shouldn't you have your family, the people you
love, around you at a time like this?"

 

 

"No!" she snapped, and then colored. She put her fork down and
nervously folded and refolded her napkin.

 

 

He could see her agitation, and the tears which welled up in her
eyes. He moved his chair closer to hers, and softly held one of the
hands which rested in her lap.

 

 

"I'm trying to understand, but you need to trust me. Tell me what's
going on inside that head of yours. Why don't you want your family
here?"

 

 

"Because I couldn't bear their pity, their kindness. I don't deserve
it, nor do I want it. I would be suffocated. I do love them, it's
not that. It's just, well, I'm twenty-one now. I'm not a child
anymore. True, I've never organized a funeral, but if you'll help
me, then I think we can get through this."

 

 

"We?" he asked in surprise.

 

 

"Well, it affects you too, doesn't it? I mean, I hope you won't
start looking for another employer straight away if you wish to
leave Barnakilla now that Augustine is dead," she said with a sniff.

 

 

"No, I hadn't thought of leaving Barnakilla at all," he said
candidly. "I grew up there, you see. I've been away for three and
half years. I've only just arrived back from Australia. Truth to
tell, I would sooner cut off my right arm that ever leave Ireland
again."

 

 

"Do you have a large family at Barnakilla?" Muireann asked in
surprise. "Or a wife?" she added with a blush.

 

 

"No, no wife or sweetheart," he said, his handsome face darkening.
"But Barnakilla has always been my home, and I for one think it's
the most beautiful place in the world."

 

 

Muireann raised her eyebrows in surprise. "I suppose it's only
natural to feel that way about the place you grew up. I'm sure I
could give you glowing descriptions of my home at Fintry."

 

 

Lochlainn poured her more coffee, wondering how to answer.

 

 

She wrapped her shawl tightly around her as she waited for him to
speak.

 

 

But he remained silent, brooding, avoiding her gaze as he continued
his meal.

 

 

Muireann picked at her food for a few minutes longer. "Well, aren't
you going to tell me about it?" she asked as the silence lengthened.

 

 

"About what?" he asked sharply, his gray eyes glittering.

 

 

She wondered at his quicksilver mood. "About Barnakilla,
Enniskillen. You know, anything you think I ought to be apprised of
if I'm to go there."

 

 

He relaxed then, and smiled. "Anything I told you would be biased by
my fondness for the place. I can tell you it was once the most
prosperous estate in the northwest. The house is splendid, the
grounds, the setting. The hunting and fishing are second to none."

 

 

"Are there mountains, trees?" she asked enthusiastically.

 

 

"Yes of course, and the lough."

 

 

She frowned slightly. "The lock?"

 

 

"Lough Erne. We spell it with a gee aitch on the end, instead of a
cee aitch as you do in Scotland. The eastern side of the property
borders it, and the western side has the mountains and trees."

 

 

Muireann slowly digested this information. It sounded even more
lovely than Fintry.

 

 

"And what do the people do for a living? I mean, where did my
husband's wealth come from?" she asked innocently.

 

 

Lochlainn set his cup down so abruptly that the saucer almost
cracked.

 

 

She jumped, startled at his violent response.  "What's wrong?"

 

 

"I'm sorry, I just noticed the time. I want to see Father Brennan
before he goes off on his parish rounds. You will excuse me,"
Lochlainn said, tugging on his great coat with evident
agitation.  He headed for the door, leaving her staring after
him in amazement.

 

 

"Don't you want me to come with you?"

 

 

He shook his head. "I would say yes, but I think you've had a trying
enough time already. The mountains of snow out in the streets that I
can see from the window would be too hard for you to negotiate."

 

 

"We can go in the carriage."

 

 

"No, really, it would be faster for me on foot given the conditions.
You stay here, read or something. I'll have a good long chat with
you when I get back," he promised, all the while accusing himself of
being a bold-faced liar.

 

 

"How soon can we manage the funeral if the weather is so bad?"

 

 

"I don't know, Muireann. I'll see what the doctor says on my way to
see Father Brennan."

 

 

"Thank you for being so considerate. Well, for everything, really."

 

 

"No need to thank me," he said with a small tight smile, avoiding
her eyes as he wrapped his muffler around his neck.

 

 

Lochlainn headed out into the swirling storm to collect his
thoughts. Coward, he berated himself soundly as he trudged through
the crunching drifts. You're going to have to tell her sooner or
later, aren't you?

 

 

But at the same time, he knew he was right. He had to get Muireann
through the funeral, then he would confront her with the dire state
of affairs at Barnakilla. The last thing he needed was for her to go
running back to her old life at Fintry.

 

 

Of course, it would be easy enough for Muireann to give him power of
attorney to sell the estate, but God only knew who would buy it.
Selfish though it was, Lochlainn couldn't bear the idea of being
replaced, of having to leave his home once a new landlord took over.

 

 

Muireann was young, true, but she didn't seem to be as addlepated as
most girls her age. For example, she had argued quite logically
about wishing to avoid her parents' suffocating concern. She had
spirit, he had to give her that. The fact that she wished to deal
with the funeral alone was proof of it.

 

 

Of course, she could also be drive by stiff-backed pride. That was a
character trait he had noticed amongst the upper classes, the
ability to maintain a brave front in the face of adversity. Yet he
might be able to use this tendency to his own advantage. He was
certain if he convinced her to come to Barnakilla with him, she
wouldn't balk.

 

 

She would have to make some hard decisions, but she would see
through whatever she started, he was sure of that. And he would have
the power to guide her, advise her in her decision-making, so that
he could look after the interests of everyone on the estate,
including his own.

 

 

One other obvious point in Muireann's favor was her wealth, and
experience of life on a grand estate. He had seen the richness of
her dresses, the small case of jewels in her black valise. There was
no doubt in his mind that Augustine had not just married her for
love, but for the injection of much-needed capital she could
provide.

 

 

No doubt her dowry was substantial. Had Augustine put it in his bank
account already? Or had it been in the form of a banker's draft? Or,
due to the haste with which they had married, had the money not yet
been paid out by Muireann's father?

 

 

Lochlainn would have to look in Augustine's small strongbox when he
got back to the hotel. He had ordered all of his late employer's
things to be put in a storage room so as not to upset Muireann. He
had looked through her things and found nothing too flamboyant,
thankfully. She seemed a level-headed woman, despite the fact that
she had married Augustine.

 

 

 He almost wished she did own more jewels. He consoled himself
with the thought that if Augustine's past taste in extravagant
jewelry was anything to go by, he might at least have enough money
to pay for the funeral and the hotel and livery bills if he sold
everything and was able to get a good price. He only prayed she
wasn't too familiar with her husband's things yet. If she did ask
about them, he could always lie and say he had sent them on to
Barnakilla.

 

 

He stopped in the doctor's surgery first, and was informed that the
body was ready to be coffined at any time. The elderly man
recommended a discreet undertaker a few streets away, and Lochlainn
went there to make inquiries.

 

 

Not knowing where the money to pay for it would come from, he
selected the cheapest coffin, and arranged for a minimum of flowers:
one wreath from Muireann, one from the estate workers, and one from
Augustine's cousin Christopher. He was currently residing abroad,
after having run off with Lochlainn's former fiancée Tara,
the estate manager recollected, the bile rising in his throat.

 

 

Lastly, there would be one from Muireann's family, to at least make
the thing look above board in case anyone poked a nose in where it
didn't belong. They had to make the funeral look as decent as
possible, if only to avoid scandal for Muireann's sake, as well as
that of any unborn child she might be carrying.

 

 

Lochlainn thought resentfully of Augustine as he trudged though the
snow to St. Francis' Church. He couldn't help himself. Augustine had
been short, fat, red-faced, loud, vulgar and stupid. Yet he had been
the heir of a rich father, and had got everything his own way.
Lochlainn himself was tall, dark, handsome, well educated and, he
prided himself, well mannered, as well as an efficient manager.

 

 

If Barnakilla had been his, he never would have allowed the
magnificent estate to fall to wrack and ruin. And if Muireann had
been his wife, he would have made love to her until they were both
utterly satisfied. The thought made him quiver from head to toe. He
certainly would never have been so foolish as to shoot himself in
the head on his honeymoon.

 

 

The question had to be asked: had Augustine known the noose was
tightening around his neck? That the debt collectors were howling at
the door? Was that why he had taken his own life?

 

 

When he arrived at St. Francis', Father Brennan was just emerging
from the church after early morning mass. There were few
parishioners out on such a snowy day. Father Brennan hugged
Lochlainn to him jovially, and dragged him inside the tiny but
moderately warm vestry.

 

 

"Well, my son, it's been a long time. I can't tell you how good it
is to see someone from home," the middle-aged man exclaimed,
beaming. He was about average height, with silver hair and sparkling
blue eyes which seemed to observe everything.

 

 

"So, how are you, lad?" he asked in a hearty tone.

 

 

"As you see, Father," Lochlainn replied shortly.

 

 

"Older and wiser by the look of things," Father Brennan commented as
he glanced at Lochlainn's face, noting his gaunt features.

 

 

"I'm afraid this isn't a social visit, Father, much as I've longed
to see you these past four years since you left us. No, I'm afraid I
have bad news. Augustine is dead."

 

 

Father Brennan gasped. "How? When?"

 

 

"He shot himself in the head at the Gresham Hotel last night."

 

 

The priest stared at Lochlainn in horror. "Suicide?"

 

 

He shook his head. "I honestly don't know. It could have been while
he was cleaning the gun. His wife was there at the time. She might
be able to tell us, but it was a harrowing experience for her. I
wouldn't like to upset her further by asking too many probing
questions."