Read Online Black Heather by Virginia Coffman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Virginia Coffman
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although I was shocked at the ease with which a presumed murderer like Patrick Kelleher strolled about the village, I smiled back at him before I remembered.
“Ay, lass,” he called to me in that lighthearted way of his, “I’ve said it times without number, and I’ll be saying it more. For a warm bit of sheer loveliness, give me the Irish lass.”
Embarrassed, I looked away, wondering how one answered such extravagant and probably often-repeated compliments. It made me impatient when I found myself the victim of his silly, overbearing charm.
“It is rather early in the day for such manners, sir,” I said coolly, hoping he would take the red of embarrassment in my face for the mere slap of the brisk, invigorating wind.
He laughed at me, not in the least rebuffed, and came out from under the bridge, climbing the bank with an amusingly boyish leap onto the road that wound beyond the bridge and over into a further valley, and then a valley after that. And always, as I remembered from my approach to Maidenmoor, it was a mere rusty thread between the wild, blackening heather that everywhere covered the restless heath.
Hating to appear foolish and at a disadvantage, I had a strong desire that he shouldn’t guess my cowardice. As he came up to me, I reminded him with a most indifferent shrug, “Your pretty manners are all wasted, Master Kelleher. My father and all Cornishmen would tell you there’s nothing Irish to equal the folk of Cornwall.”
“Your mother was Irish,” he guessed brightly.
“Somersetshire.”
“Grandmama?”
“And one grandfather—Somerset. Papa’s parents were from Bodmin. That’s in Cornwall.”
“You’re a pretty thing, even if you are no belle of County Meath.”
The Irish place name reminded me of Megan, his English wife, and I barely refrained from shuddering as he put his hand on my arm. For all his lighthearted gaiety, I felt the fleshy warmth of his fingers upon my cold arm underneath my shawl. I thought of those fingers tightening upon a weapon to strike Megan Sedley Kelleher. I knew it was unlikely that so irresponsible a man would ever rouse himself to a pitch of desperation or fury during which he would destroy a human being, but all the same, I disliked soft hands.
I once knew a boy with just such soft hands whom I caught drowning small animals. Thanks to the stick of broomstraws I carried at the time, neither the boy nor his hands was able to do anything lethal for weeks to come. When he drowned in a bog the next year in an attempt to do the same to his small brother, I did not mourn. I removed Patrick Kelleher’s hand from my person in a way that left no doubt of my sentiments.
“Come, acushla, you’ll be shaming the very tongue of my Irish mother, throwing me off like that, and me but helping you to mount the Hill of Maidenmoor.” Nonetheless, he understood my rebuff and behaved like a gentleman from there on as he persisted beside me. I compared his probable exaggerated attempts to match my stride up the steep cobblestones, with the typically aristocratic arrogance of Sir Nicholas Everett yesterday and found, to my surprise, that I had just the merest hint of a sneaking admiration for that detestable baronet. Sir Nicholas, as I recalled, strode along in his own way, lifting me over obstacles when necessary but never making a nuisance of himself by buzzing about me with pantomimed suggestions of my overpowering vigor. I could not but feel that I was behaving in a most unfeminine way. I detested being made to feel so, and I said as much when we approached the Owl of York tavern.
“Master Kelleher, think you would do well to fortify yourself with your friends in that public house. I am persuaded your County Meath ancestors would expect it of you.”
He made me a pitiful little grimace, begging my sympathy. “Not I, ma’am. And not alone, certainly. They’d have the scalp of me like the Red Indians. Shall I tell you why?”
“Please do not,” I said
“Ay, lass,” he called to me in that lighthearted way of his, “I’ve said it times without number, and I’ll be saying it more. For a warm bit of sheer loveliness, give me the Irish lass.”
Embarrassed, I looked away, wondering how one answered such extravagant and probably often-repeated compliments. It made me impatient when I found myself the victim of his silly, overbearing charm.
“It is rather early in the day for such manners, sir,” I said coolly, hoping he would take the red of embarrassment in my face for the mere slap of the brisk, invigorating wind.
He laughed at me, not in the least rebuffed, and came out from under the bridge, climbing the bank with an amusingly boyish leap onto the road that wound beyond the bridge and over into a further valley, and then a valley after that. And always, as I remembered from my approach to Maidenmoor, it was a mere rusty thread between the wild, blackening heather that everywhere covered the restless heath.
Hating to appear foolish and at a disadvantage, I had a strong desire that he shouldn’t guess my cowardice. As he came up to me, I reminded him with a most indifferent shrug, “Your pretty manners are all wasted, Master Kelleher. My father and all Cornishmen would tell you there’s nothing Irish to equal the folk of Cornwall.”
“Your mother was Irish,” he guessed brightly.
“Somersetshire.”
“Grandmama?”
“And one grandfather—Somerset. Papa’s parents were from Bodmin. That’s in Cornwall.”
“You’re a pretty thing, even if you are no belle of County Meath.”
The Irish place name reminded me of Megan, his English wife, and I barely refrained from shuddering as he put his hand on my arm. For all his lighthearted gaiety, I felt the fleshy warmth of his fingers upon my cold arm underneath my shawl. I thought of those fingers tightening upon a weapon to strike Megan Sedley Kelleher. I knew it was unlikely that so irresponsible a man would ever rouse himself to a pitch of desperation or fury during which he would destroy a human being, but all the same, I disliked soft hands.
I once knew a boy with just such soft hands whom I caught drowning small animals. Thanks to the stick of broomstraws I carried at the time, neither the boy nor his hands was able to do anything lethal for weeks to come. When he drowned in a bog the next year in an attempt to do the same to his small brother, I did not mourn. I removed Patrick Kelleher’s hand from my person in a way that left no doubt of my sentiments.
“Come, acushla, you’ll be shaming the very tongue of my Irish mother, throwing me off like that, and me but helping you to mount the Hill of Maidenmoor.” Nonetheless, he understood my rebuff and behaved like a gentleman from there on as he persisted beside me. I compared his probable exaggerated attempts to match my stride up the steep cobblestones, with the typically aristocratic arrogance of Sir Nicholas Everett yesterday and found, to my surprise, that I had just the merest hint of a sneaking admiration for that detestable baronet. Sir Nicholas, as I recalled, strode along in his own way, lifting me over obstacles when necessary but never making a nuisance of himself by buzzing about me with pantomimed suggestions of my overpowering vigor. I could not but feel that I was behaving in a most unfeminine way. I detested being made to feel so, and I said as much when we approached the Owl of York tavern.
“Master Kelleher, think you would do well to fortify yourself with your friends in that public house. I am persuaded your County Meath ancestors would expect it of you.”
He made me a pitiful little grimace, begging my sympathy. “Not I, ma’am. And not alone, certainly. They’d have the scalp of me like the Red Indians. Shall I tell you why?”
“Please do not,” I said
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