Whiskey Island (62 page)

Rowan smiled, but it died quickly. “I’ll wait. Can you go for the money now?”

“I’m on my way. Then I’ll help you deliver it. I want to say goodbye.”

Rowan was surprised, but he supposed he shouldn’t be. Lena was the priest’s housekeeper and a beloved member of his flock. And she would feel better if she left with Father McSweeney’s blessing.

Rowan thought about going on ahead, but decided against it. He would get there nearly as fast in McSweeney’s carriage.

The priest seemed to be thinking the same way. “I’ll go on foot to get the money. Can you hitch the carriage while I’m gone, so we can make the trip down to Whiskey Island quickly? Then I’ll take the two of you to the train station.”

“I’ll be ready and waiting.”

Father McSweeney clapped him on the back; then he went for his overcoat.

The pains had merged into endless agony. There was no longer a beginning or an end. She was certain she was dying, that the baby, in punishment for the months she’d lamented her pregnancy, was refusing to be born.

The fear that she was dying became acceptance, then a fierce desire to have it over with. She gave up wishing for Granny or Katie, and wished instead that Father McSweeney were there to perform the necessary rites.

When the urge to push out the child overcame her, she was astonished. She was certain what her body asked of her was impossible. She had thought she and the baby would die together, united as they’d been these past months. Yet the urge to separate them was undeniable, and although she’d pushed before with no progress, now her body seemed to take over the work.

She bore down, even though the pain nearly made her pass out. There was a moment of respite, and she rested; then the crushing pain began again, and her body repeated its efforts.

Every time she was sure she had no strength to try again, she tried anyway. She had no power over her own muscles, and the baby would not give up. Just as she was sure she would die at last from the effort, she felt a burst of warmth between her legs and a sudden absence of pressure.

For a moment she was too weak to prop herself up. She rested, stunned at the absence of pain. Then the reason for it struck her. She pushed herself up on her elbows and looked down to see that the baby’s head had emerged. With her last bit of strength, she reached down and completed the delivery.

She had seen newborns before, but never her own. She was trembling so hard she couldn’t hold it. She turned it to its side and propped its trunk on her leg while she patted its back. She was frightened the child wasn’t breathing, but in a moment a weak cry filled the room.

It was alive! Only then did she realize she’d paid no attention to anything except its existence. When she was certain the baby was breathing easily, she sat up a little higher and turned it over.

She had a son.

“Blessed Mary…” She was still exhausted, still trembling uncontrollably, but her child’s survival extinguished all else. She had to cut the cord that bound them and complete the delivery. She had to wrap the baby snugly against the cold. She had to let him suckle.

She managed all the tasks with effort, one at a time, using shoelaces, a razor of Terence’s she had never been able to part with, a soft quilt that was so large it nearly hid her son from view. She wrapped the afterbirth to dispose of later, and cleaned herself and her son as best she could. Then, wrapped in a blanket, she weakly propped herself against the wall behind her and took the baby in her arms.

Only then did she dare examine him.

He was tiny but perfect, much smaller, she thought, than he might have been had he stayed inside the womb longer. But like both of the men who might have sired him, her son had little patience.

She pulled back the quilt that covered him, gazing at his head. It was covered with fine red hair, not blond like Terence’s nor dark like Simeon’s, but hair the color of her own. Like the men who might have sired him, her son kept his own counsel when it served him best.

As she stared avidly at the child’s face, hoping for a clue to his paternity, she realized at last that he wore his own features and no one else’s.

She would never know what had made James Simeon the twisted soul he was, but she was sure he hadn’t been born with the devil in his heart. Even if this was Simeon’s child—and she would probably never know for certain—he still could be brought up to love God and his fellow man, and to serve them. The qualities that had been so ruthlessly perverted in Simeon could be turned into assets.

“I’ll name you Terence Rowan,” she said, then changed her mind when she thought of Father McSweeney. “Terence Patrick Rowan. In every way, those men will be the ones you’ll resemble, little Terry.”

He screwed up his tiny face, and she hugged him to her, settling him against her shoulder and patting his back to comfort him.

Then, and only then, did she hear a banging at her front door. Seamus had come at last.

She was struggling to get out of bed to let him in when the door flew open, splintering as the primitive lock gave way.

James Simeon strode to her doorway and stood watching her. “What is it about you that inspires such loyalty, Lena? You have a regular stable of men watching out for you.”

For a moment she didn’t believe it was really him. She was immersed in a nightmare.

He smiled. “There’s one less now.”

“What have you done?”

“What have
you
done, dear? Given birth to my child already? When I’d just come to take you away to have it in comfort?”

“Where’s Seamus?”

“You’ve done us both a great favor, you know. I came prepared to rid us permanently of your guardian. Now that won’t be necessary. I can take the child and disappear. You’ll have to disappear, too, of course. Tell me where you’d like to go and it’s as good as done.”

“What have you done with Seamus?”

“I’m afraid your Seamus will have an aching head by morning. He was fortunate, though. Had he seen my face, he’d be dead. Now he’s only half so, in the shadow of one of your numerous saloons. He put up a good fight, and he’s a heavy lad. I had a bit of trouble dragging him there without being seen.”

“You’ll rot in hell.”

“So what is it? A boy, I hope.”

She hugged her son closer. “What it is is no concern of yours. The child will never belong to you. It’s mine.”

“You have only two choices, Lena. You can come with me, nurse the child until it’s time for me to sail, then go far away on the money I give you to start a new life. Or you can make me take the child by force. And if that’s your choice, it will be your last, because I won’t be able to trust you with our little secret, will I?”

Her mind was racing. The unreality was fading, and she realized she had to fight not only for her son but for her own life. Because no matter what choice she made, Simeon would not allow her to live. He would not trust her to stay silent if she let him take the baby. She was only surprised that he thought she could be fooled.

She tried to reason with him. “There are people who know the truth. If I disappear without a word, they’ll know what you’ve done.”

“And they’ll have proof, of course?”

“Perhaps not, but they’ll speak to anyone who’ll listen. Your name will be blackened.”

“And how different might that be? I’m already known to be ruthless. In this matter, though, I’ll come out all right. You’ll write a letter saying you’ve gone away on your own to start a new life. You do write, don’t you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll have documents swearing my dear wife gave birth to this child in London. And the baby and its nurse will sail on a different ship from mine, so no one will connect us. We’ll arrive separately, make our way separately to the house in London where Julia is to complete her confinement. The nurse has orders to hide the child for the last part of her journey.” He raised his hands as if to say, “What haven’t I thought of?”

“Do you think anyone would believe such a letter? That if I simply vanish, no one will question why or how?”

“There was a terrible murder on Whiskey Island some months ago. Oh, yes, the victim was your husband, wasn’t he? I’m sure the gossip will connect these events. The man is murdered, the woman disappears. How unutterably sad that the entire little family was destroyed. At least, sad for the Irish, who mourn so publically.”

“There are people who won’t rest until you’re brought to judgment.”

“Their rest is no concern of mine.” He started toward her. “The baby, is it a boy or a girl?”

She wanted to keep him talking. Anything to keep him there until Rowan returned. Simeon had said he had come prepared to “rid her of her guardian,” but in any fight between them, Rowan would be the winner.

Unless Simeon was carrying a gun.

She edged away from the side of the bed toward the middle, where it would be harder for him to reach her. “Where were you planning to take me? If I go with you, where will we go?”

“Are you planning to go, dear? It would make things easier.”

“Where will we go?”

“My summer cottage in Bratenahl. Pity the winter’s been so mild and there’s not enough snow to take the sleigh. I remember how much you enjoy a sleigh ride.”

“You were going to take me there to have the baby?”

“I planned to hire a midwife. I’d forgotten you Irish drop babies as easily as a stray cat in a back alley.” He stood poised by the side of the bed. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

She knew she had to tell him, to give herself a little more time. “A boy. Terence Patrick Rowan.”

He smiled thinly. “A son. James Worthington Simeon. Worthington, that’s Julia’s family name, although she’s had little enough to do with it. You did well, Lena. I wanted a boy.”

He stretched out his arms, but she shook her head. “I’ll not be giving him to you. And if you try to take him from me, you might injure him. Is that what you want?”

He considered, and the length of time it took him struck fear in her heart. “Show me his face,” he said at last.

“And if he doesn’t resemble you, what is it you’ll do?”

“Do you think to get away that easily? The child is mine. And an infant resembles no one but another infant. Show me his face!”

She pulled back the quilt with trembling hands. Terry was already asleep. “His hair is red, like mine. Your wife’s is not nearly so red.”

He glanced at the baby; then his eyes returned to her face. “No, but you’ve never seen her mother.”

Her heart sank. “From the first, this is what you had in mind for me.”

“From the very first.”

“And will one child be enough for you? Or will you do this again and again?”

“If I do, I’m sure I will never find it as pleasurable or as challenging.”

“
Can
you do it at all? Have you already spread bastards around the city, then? Or do you believe little Terry is your first? Because I wonder, now, if you’ve ever considered that your wife is not the one at fault. Perhaps you can’t father a child.”

It was a shot in the dark, but his instantaneous rage proved that he had doubts about that himself. “I’ve a host of bastards! And this is only one more, come at exactly the right time.”

She edged farther away from him, nearly to the other side of the bed, as she lied. “I’ve heard the opposite, of course. That your wife claims you’ll never get her with child. She says when you’re with her, you can’t do the things men do, which is why she cries when you come to her bed. Having seen it myself that last time, I find it believable.”

With a shout of fury, he lunged at her, which had been her intent. She leaped to the floor and ran for the front door, clutching the baby as she ran. It would take Simeon precious seconds to right himself and start after her. If she could make it outside, she could scream. Houses here were packed tightly together, and none of them were secure against the weather. Someone would hear her. Someone would come.

He reached her before her hand could touch the doorknob, binding her and the baby against him with his long arms. “You’ve forgotten what it feels like to have my hands around your throat, haven’t you?”

The baby began to wail, awakened from its sleep. “Would you harm him now?” Lena said. “After all your hard work to claim him? Will you kill him before you can even cross the sea?”

He loosened his arms, but only enough to give her breathing room. She knew that no matter how angry she’d made him, he didn’t want to kill her there. Her disappearance would be interesting enough. Her body and the disappearance of her baby would be sensational.

His tone was icy, but controlled again. “I see you’ve packed your bag. We’ll be going now. It’s to your own advantage to leave before the policeman comes home or your friend wakes up in a snowbank. Because I’ll kill anyone who walks through that door.”

“I’m not dressed.”

“You have a minute to remedy that and to write that letter. Give me the child.”

She tried to think of a way to avoid handing over her son, but she knew her choices were gone. “Do you know how to hold a baby?”

“Give me my son!” He grabbed her shoulders and spun her to face him.

With a sob, she held out the blanket-wrapped bundle. He took it, resting the baby against his shoulder. “Get dressed.”

She had only the wet clothes she’d discarded. It would take precious seconds to dig others from her bag. She slipped into the clothes as he watched her. He held the baby as if it were an object of little importance, not crooning or comforting him in any way, even though Terry continued to wail.

“He has strong lungs,” he said. “And spirit.”

She knew better than to take the time to hook her shoes. She pulled them on and stood.

“There’s paper and pen in my coat pocket. Take it and do your best to write a letter.”

She knew that the longer she took, the better her chances that Rowan would arrive. She found the necessary supplies where he said they would be and took as long as she could to print the words he dictated at the sawbuck table against the wall. She was torn between the need to grab her son and the desire to delay their departure, but at last the choice was no longer hers. The clumsily printed letter was finished.