Nell (29 page)

Jillian's voice, low and clearly pitched, cut him off. “No one is leaving the talks until we have reached an all parties agreement. These negotiations will not be dictated by terrorists.” She lifted her chin. “I will not give the Irish Republican Army or the Protestant paramilitaries that kind of power. Good day, gentlemen.”

Reluctant admiration softened the edges of Frankie's anger. Jillian Fitzgerald was no quitter. He had to give her that one. Now, if he could just get beyond the rest of it, the jumbled, warring parts of his brain that called up two different images, the one where she lay on the wet grass beneath him, her face flushed with sun and passion, and the one where she stared, stricken and guilty, caught in her own deception.

He'd lost his father, his sister, his wife. She knew it all, and still she hadn't told him about Cassandra, his niece, all that remained of his blood family except for Connor. If she'd planned it deliberately, she could have found no greater way to hurt him. She hadn't planned it, of course. She didn't have it in her to be cruel, and he wasn't so embittered that he'd lost all grip on reality. But he wasn't ready to forgive her, not yet, not when she still held all the cards.

***

Over the next two days, a drug dealer from Armagh and a loyalist paramilitary leader were shot. The IRA denied responsibility, but public opinion was against them. Jillian refused to discuss expelling Sinn Fein from the talks. Negotiations would continue. The deadline for an agreement was September, and she was determined that it would come from party negotiations, not Downing Street.

Frankie continued to treat her with the same professional courtesy that characterized their first meeting. Her heart ached. There was no other way to describe the sick, helpless feeling in her chest when he looked at her across the conference table as if there had never been anything more between them than the future of Northern Ireland.

She loved him. She always had. It came to her one night, all at once, without warning, as she sorted through old photographs. She found the one she wanted, a badly exposed black-and-white, its subject a dark-haired boy walking through long summer grass surrounded by collies.

Tears rose in her eyes. She blinked them back She loved Frankie Maguire. There was no other way to explain her mad flight from all rational behavior. Her mother had been right, after all. For years, she'd lamented Jillian's preference for the difficult, the exotic, the road less traveled. Her casual disregard for the necessary restrictions of a woman of her class would bring her only heartbreak, Margaret had predicted, and so it had.

Jillian watched Frankie pore over yet another document, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair falling over his forehead, mouth tight with sleepless strain, as he ruthlessly cut through unionist rhetoric, reshaping lengthy, unmanageable language into brilliantly clear, concise proposals, proposals the unionists would do little more than glance at because they were composed by a Catholic from West Belfast.

What
can
the
prime
minister
of
England
do
for
you?
Nell's words came back to her. This time, she knew the answer. Perhaps Frankie Maguire would never feel the same debilitating, stomach-tightening longing that she felt for him, but she could give him back his past.

***

Jillian pulled over to the side of the road and stepped out of the car to stretch her legs and admire the beauty of Lough Erne. County Fermanagh, the unspoiled lake country of Northern Ireland, was empty of crowds even in midsummer. Leaning against the car, she shaded her eyes and looked across the glassy water. Whooper swans dove for roach, perch, bream, and rudd. Dragonflies skimmed across the surface, and somewhere, high above the guano-stained limestone cliffs, a raven cawed, piercing the pristine stillness.

The town of Enniskillen in the heart of Fermanagh was the medieval seat of the Maguires, chieftains of Fermanagh who had policed the lough hundreds of years ago with their private navy of fifteen hundred boats. The origins of the island town were steeped in history in those long-ago days when the nexus was the main highway between Ulster and Connaught. It was also the site of Our Lady of Refuge, Catholic Orphanage for Girls.

Mother Cecily Agnes stood near the window of the richly paneled room that served as her office and watched the well-dressed young woman walk across the car park and up the stone steps. She hadn't seen Jillian Graham in ten years, but they had kept in touch. On the basis of their acquaintance, Mother Cecily had revised her opinion of Protestants.

She would not ordinarily have honored the woman's request, but there was a soft spot in her heart for the little girl with the fly-away curls and the embittered young man who had become a force in Irish politics. Mother Cecily was content with her role as abbess of Our Lady of Refuge. She had no priestly aspirations. Remorseful deathbed revelations did not have the same sanctity as those relayed within the confines of the confessional. She would tell what she knew and perhaps hold out a semblance of hope where before there was none.

***

Thomas Putnam greeted Jillian in the study of his residence at No. 10 Downing Street. It was a masculine room, dimly lit, dark with burgundy leather and mahogany furnishings. “Please, sit down, Jillian,” he said, waving her to a wing-back chair. He noticed what he always did when Jillian Graham entered the room. She moved in an aura of natural elegance that came from generations of aristocratic breeding. She was immaculately coiffed, slim and elegant in a sage-colored linen dress, pearl earrings, and bone pumps. Eschewing the desk, he chose the Queen Anne reproduction across from her. “What can I do for you?”

“Thank you for seeing me,” she began.

He folded his hands. “You've done a marvelous job with the negotiations. Refusing to allow terrorists to dictate your policies was a masterful stroke. Perhaps we'll see some progress now.”

“Are you interested in a true assessment, Tom?”

“Of course.”

She spoke directly, honestly, keeping her eyes on his face. “There will be a compromise. The unionists will keep their council majorities, the nationalists will insist on a north-south referendum, to which I believe we should agree. A type of quota system will be configured in order to promote civil rights for Catholics, and our courts will be filled with affirmative action lawsuits.”

Putnam frowned. “In your opinion, is there a graceful way for England to remove itself from Northern Ireland entirely?”

“The unionists will never allow the North to become a sovereign nation, if that's what you mean. But eventually, the problem will take care of itself.”

“How so?”

“Catholics are outbreeding Protestants at a rate of two to one. In twenty years, they will have the majority vote if we insist on keeping articles two and three of the Irish Constitution.”

“So we wait?”

“Yes, Tom. We wait.”

Thomas Putnam could read people. Jillian's white-knuckled hands and the delicate bruising under her eyes meant something. He leaned forward, his brown mop of unruly hair falling over his forehead. “Tell me why you're here, Jillian.”

She wet her lips. “I need a favor.”

Two hours and three phone calls later, a bewildered Thomas Putnam walked Jillian to the door, locked it behind her, and returned to his desk, where he sank down into the leather chair, leaned his head back against the warm grain, and closed his eyes. He needed a moment or two to internalize what he had just done. Jillian Graham was a force to be reckoned with. Good God. Had he really agreed to such a thing? How in bloody hell would he ever explain it?

Casey squinted at the fading numbers on the peeling door frame of the building that faced the street. The number was the same as the one she'd ferreted from the clerk in the housing office at Trinity. She swallowed, slung her bag over her shoulder, and climbed the stairs. Tim Sheehan was a hard man to track down, but she wasn't giving up.

An older woman with bright black eyes and pink cheeks answered the door. “No, love,” she said when Casey asked for Tim. “He lives next door. But he's not home much since he went down to the Republic. His da should be home shortly. I'm Cora Flynn. Would y' care to wait here?”

“If it's no trouble,” Casey said politely.

“No trouble at all,” replied Mrs. Flynn. “I'll be happy t' have the company. Come in, love. Y' can help me with Connor.”

“Connor?”

“Aye. Himself's wee brother. He's a dear lad but a bit of a handful for a woman my age.”

Casey quelled the sudden surge of her heartbeat. There must be a thousand Connors in West Belfast. “When will he be home?”

“Anytime now. Sit down. I'll make a pot of tea. What did y' say your name was?”

“Casey Graham.”

The door opened, and a child's cheerful voice called out, “I'm home, Mrs. Flynn. Is it time for tea?”

“Aye, laddie,” she answered from the kitchen. “We've a visitor today, so wash y'r hands and mind y'r manners, in that order.”

Connor's eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the room. He stared at Casey, and his blue eyes widened. “Casey?”

“Connor, is it you?” she stammered.

“Have you come to see Da?” he asked.

She improvised quickly. “Yes. When will he be home?”

“I don't know,” said Connor matter-of-factly. “Sometimes he comes late. Mrs. Flynn knows.”

“I see.” Casey bit her lip. This was too much irony to take in at once. Tim, her Tim, must be Frankie Maguire's stepson. “What about your brother?” she asked Connor. “Will he be home today?”

Connor's forehead wrinkled, and he sat down beside her on the couch. “I don't think so.”

Mrs. Flynn set the pot of tea on the table and arranged three place settings. “I've a tasty lamb stew on the stove,” she called out from the kitchen. “There's plenty for all.”

“Please don't go to any trouble, Mrs. Flynn,” Casey protested.

“'Tis no trouble, lass. Sit down now, and tell us how y' know our Tim.”

Casey tucked a springy curl behind one ear and walked slowly to the kitchen table. “We met at Trinity,” she said slowly. “He helped me with mathematics.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Flynn dished a healthy portion of stew into Casey's bowl. “Isn't an education a grand thing? Our Tim was always a bright lad, just like Connor here.”

A firm knock sounded on the door, followed by a voice that made Casey's heart beat quickly again.

“Mrs. Flynn, I'm home. Is Connor here yet?”

“Aye, Danny,” the old woman said. “Come in. We have a visitor.”

Frankie stepped into the small kitchen, and for an instant, his smile of welcome froze on his lips. Almost immediately, it was replaced by a genuine grin of pleasure. “Casey,” he said, holding out his hand. “'Tis a pleasure to see you, lass.”

Casey's face burned. Deception did not come easily to her. She gave him her hand. “Hello, Mr. Browne.”

“She's come to see Tim,” offered Mrs. Flynn.

Frankie's eyebrow lifted. “Tim?”

The delicious stew churned in Casey's stomach. “I met Tim Sheehan at Trinity,” she explained. “He tutored me in mathematics. We became friendly. Until today, I didn't know he was related to you.”

Frankie's mind leaped to a hundred different possibilities. “Is Tim expecting you, lass?”

“No,” Casey confessed miserably. “He has no idea I even know where he lives. It's just that—” She looked down at her hands. “May I speak to you privately, Mr. Browne?”

“Of course.” Frankie stood. “Save some of that stew for me, Mrs. Flynn.”

“What is it, Casey?” he asked when they were settled on chairs in the living room of his flat.

Casey laced her fingers together to stop the trembling of her hands. “Do you remember the night of my birthday?” she asked.

Frankie nodded. It was a night he wasn't likely to forget.

“I was stopped at a barricade on the way home. The men wore balaclavas. They had guns. I recognized Tim's voice.”

A thin white line appeared around Frankie's mouth. “Are you sure?”

Casey nodded. “Yes.”

Frankie's eyes moved across her face, noting the delicate flush in her cheeks, the rapid breathing, the trembling mouth. “How well do you know Tim?” he asked carefully.

“I thought I knew him very well,” she began, “but he didn't come back to school after his mother's funeral. Now I know why.”

“Are you—?” He paused, uncertain about continuing.

“No,” she said quickly. “It wasn't like that between us. We didn't have the opportunity.”

“I see.” Frankie's mouth twitched. What a predicament. His stepson and his niece. “Does Jillian know?”

“No,” Casey said quickly. “How could she? I didn't know myself.”

Frankie was silent for a long time. The hard, grim-faced man seated across from her was nothing like the Frankie Maguire who had charmed her at Kildare. “Uncle Francis,” she said softly, “is Tim involved with the IRA?”

A muscle throbbed in his neck, and for a moment she thought she'd angered him. But his voice, when he answered, was as courteous as ever. “I hope not, lass.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“I can give you no other.”

“Don't you know?”

Frankie shook his head. “No. I don't.”

Casey stood. “I want to see him.”

“Why?”

“I must ask him.”

“Is his answer that important t' you?”

Casey considered his question and answered honestly. “I think so.”

“You know their story, lass.” He quoted from the manifesto of the Irish Republican Army: “Out of the ashes rose the provisionals.”

“I know it. I'm a Catholic, too, Uncle Francis.”

Frankie stood and smoothed her curly hair with both hands. “But a very different sort of Catholic from the rest of us.”

She lifted her chin. “I can't help that.”

“No,” he said gently. “I wasn't criticizing, and I wouldn't have it any other way.”

Tears burned beneath her eyelids, but she refused to blink. “Will you tell him that I want to see him?”

Frankie nodded. “Aye. I'll tell him.”

Casey bit her lip.

“Is something else troublin' you, lass?” Frankie asked gently.

She lifted green eyes to his face. Fitzgerald eyes. She was as much a Fitzgerald as she was a Maguire.

“It's Mum. You weren't nice to her when you and Connor stayed at Kildare.”

Frankie sighed, quelled the urge to reach for a cigarette, and ran his fingers nervously through his hair instead. “No, I wasn't. I should probably apologize for that.”

“She's different lately, Uncle Francis.” Casey hesitated.

“Go on.”

“I think it's because of you.”

Frankie's mouth lifted at the corner. “Do you, now?”

“Yes.”

He reached out and took her hands. “This isn't for you to worry about Jillian and I will sort it out.”

“Do you love her?”

“Casey, lass, if that's so, shouldn't Jillian be the first to hear me say it?”

Casey pulled her hands away, jumped up, and began to pace the room. Words, jumbled and wounding, poured from her lips. “Well, if you do, why don't you tell her so? I'm so tired of all this old baggage. She kept the lie you asked her to keep so that your sister wouldn't go to prison.”

He noticed that she didn't acknowledge Kathleen as her mother.

She stopped in front of him. “All that's over now. Don't you see, Uncle Francis? It was meant to be. I don't think my birth parents were very good people. But you and Mum are. This can't all be a coincidence. First Mum finds your wife, and then I find Tim. I believe the two of you have been given a second chance.”

“It isn't that easy,” Frankie began.

“Why not?”

He laughed. “You're quite the romantic, aren't you?”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

Frankie shook his head. “You don't understand, Casey. Jillian is a Fitzgerald of Kildare Hall. Her people were kings of Ireland. She knows the prime minister by his first name. The queen mother drops in for tea with your grandmother, for Christ sake.” He waved his arm to encompass the room. “Look around you, lass. This isn't exactly Kildare Hall. How would I fit into the life of a woman like that?”

Casey's lower lip trembled. “The same way I fit in, Uncle Francis. In case you've forgotten, I'm a Fitzgerald and a Maguire. And I drove all the way from Dublin to see Tim Sheehan.”

Frankie was ashamed of himself. When he left Kildare Hall, he was certain that Casey's loyalties lay with Jillian. He wasn't sure if she would ever seek him out. Now that she had, however inadvertently, he was behaving badly.

“I'm sorry, lass,” he said gently. “I haven't forgotten who you are or why you're here. Go on back to Mrs. Flynn's and finish your tea. I'll find Tim for you.”

***

Casey sat in her favorite corner in Bewley's Café on Grafton Street in Dublin, absentmindedly stirring her tea. An untouched maple pastry, Bewley's specialty, and a side salad with too many carrots and too little lettuce wilted before her. She had no appetite. She was worried about her mother. Jillian had lost weight that she couldn't afford, and the brittle, preoccupied look she'd worn throughout Avery's illness was back. Casey wanted to come home permanently, but Jillian wouldn't hear of it. It would all be over soon, her mother assured her. The deadline for an agreement was approaching, and with it would come the end of Jillian's tenure. She would resign her position and go back to the life she had planned for herself.

The problem was obvious. Casey could see it clearly, and she knew her mother could, too. Without their forced encounters at Stormont, Jillian and Frankie would no longer have a legitimate reason to see each other. She pulled at the corner of her pastry. There was nothing more she could do. The two of them would have to sort it out between them.

Sighing, she reached for her bag, pushed herself away from the table, and stood. A tall blond man in his early twenties blocked her way.

“Hello, Casey,” he said.

Her mouth dropped. “Tim Sheehan?”

“In the flesh.”

“Where have you been?” she demanded, digging her fists into her waist.

He tucked her arm through his. “Shall we take a walk?” Without waiting for her answer, he led her out the door, past the street musicians and the shops, through the wrought-iron gates of Trinity College to the cobbled path. He adjusted his gait to hers. A cold breeze blew through the trees, and there was a promise of rain on the wind. Casually, as if he had the right, he turned up her collar and pulled her hand down into the warmth of his pocket.

“I know it was you at the barricade.” Her words were sharp, accusing, an attempt to deflect the warmth that rose within her at the feel of his hands on her skin.

His fingers grazed her cheek. “How?”

Casey shook her head. “I know you, the sound of your voice, the way you're built.” She shook her head. “It doesn't matter. It was you. That's all that's important.”

“Why is it important?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Tell me, Casey.” He stopped to face her. His voice was urgent, desperate, his eyes electric blue. “I drove like a maniac for three hours to ask you that question. I need an answer.”

Tears choked her throat. She shook her head and looked away.

“Do you need me to say it first, lass? Is that it?”

Again, she shook her head. She, who was so good with words, could not force them past her lips.

He lifted her chin with one hand and tucked the flyaway hair behind her ears with the other. “Listen to me, Cassandra Graham of Kildare Hall. If you're foolish enough to care for a wayward lad like myself, I'll not throw it away.”

She felt the warmth of his hand on her head and the soft pressure of his lips on her forehead. Then he pulled her against the leather of his jacket and hugged her hard. Closing her eyes, Casey wrapped her arms around his waist and burrowed her head against his chest. Her words were muffled. “I was so worried about you. Why didn't you call me?”

He smiled into her hair. “What would I say? I didn't know you wanted me for anythin' more than a mathematics tutor, although I was a bit suspicious at the end.”

She wouldn't look at him. “Oh?”

“Aye.” He set her away from him. “I wondered why a lass who passed her levels in the top two percent would need a tutor.”

“How did you know?”

“The scores are posted.”

Casey flushed. “It was the only way I could think of to make you notice me.”

“All you had t' do was say it, lass.” Reverently, he touched her cheeks, the bow of her lip, the short, straight nose. “There aren't many who would refuse you.”

“I wasn't sure.” She leaned against him. “You never appeared the least bit interested in anything other than books.”

It was heavenly talking with her like this, holding the weight of her slight body against his. She shifted in his arms, turning to see his face.

“Tim,” she murmured. “Aren't you going to kiss me?”

He swallowed. This wasn't a girl from the streets he held in his arms. It was Casey Graham, and she'd asked the question whether or not she knew the game.
Careful, lad,
he said to himself.
Go
slowly.
“Are you in a hurry, lass?” he teased her.