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Authors: Candice Proctor
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saying in Ireland:Chan sgeul ruin a chluin- neas triuir"
"Which means?"
"What three people hear is no secret."
Jessie smiled. Looking down, she saw the old man's bagpipes on the table beside her. She reached out her hand and touched the slender reeds. "Do you miss it still?" she asked suddenly, looking up at him. "Ireland, I mean."
"Aye." His face remained impassive, but she heard the rough catch in his voice, saw the over-bright sheen of his eyes before he turned his head away.
"Why didn't you go back? You could have gone, long ago. Your pardon isn't conditional."
He swung to face her again, his throat working. She thought he was going to say something. Then he shook his head and went back to his whittling. "You don't want to hear it, Miss Jessie."
"Yes I do."
He drew the knife with deliberate slowness over the block of wood, one thin shaving curling up to fall to the porch floor, then another, and another. "All right," he said, not looking up. "I'll tell you. I'd rather they'd hanged me, you see, than send me away from Ireland like that. I begged them to hang me. But when those soldiers dragged me onto that ship ... well, I swore then on my mother's grave that I'd never go back. Not until the day there's nary an English boot left on Irish soil."
Jessie sucked in her breath in a startled hiss. "But you live amongst the English here."
"Aye. But it's no' my country, now is it?"
She watched the paper-thin curls of wood drop, one after the other, to the weathered plank floor. She'd never really given much thought to why Old Tom had been transported. If she'd considered it at all, she'd have assumed it must have been for poaching a rabbit or selling an illegal batch of poteen. Now, she wasn't so sure.
"Do you hate us so much?" she said softly. "I never knew."
He shook his head. "Not you, Miss Jessie."
"Why not me? I'm English."
"You are, and you're not. Besides, in your own way, lass, you're as hemmed in and controlled as any convict ever was."
"I don't understand."
"Don't you?" He looked at her shrewdly. "Why did you ask? Why now, after all these years?"
"I don't know."
They'd gone on to talk of other things then. About her mare Cimmeria and her brother's hounds and the homecoming party her mother was planning. But she hadn't forgotten his words. Oh, no. She hadn't forgotten.
"Miss Corbett? Miss Corbett?"
Jessie turned from the dressing table to see Emma Pope waiting in the center of the room, the silk evening gown held ready in her hands. Lifting her arms, Jessie let the girl drop the dress over her head. The teal blue silk shimmered sensuously in the candlelight, then settled in soft whispers about the hard, carefully corseted confines of her body.
CHAPTER SIX
The next morning, Jessie walked down to the stables to watch the Irishman try his hand at "fixing" Finnegan's Luck. She told herself she went because of her interest in the horse. When a nigglingly honest inner voice tried to suggest a different reason, she ignored it.
It had rained during the night, leaving the ground dark and wet, the vegetation of the garden lushly green and dripping. Clouds still bunched low and thick over the valley, turning the park's trees into murkily indistinct shapes that seemed almost to float in the opaque, flat light. The promise of more rain hung heavily in the crisp morning air, along with the scents of wet hay and warm horseflesh that intensified as Jessie neared the stables.
She could hear the drumming of hooves and a man's low, soothing voice even before she drew near the small paddock to the left of the stables. From his perch atop the high, whitewashed fence, Warrick acknowledged her appearance with only a grunt, his attention fixed on the big Irish Hunter that trotted past, powerful muscles bunching and flexing, noble head held high, dark mane and tail streaming in the wind as it circled the paddock, guided only by the sure hands and voice of Lucas Gallagher. She paused beside her brother, the fingers of her
"Which means?"
"What three people hear is no secret."
Jessie smiled. Looking down, she saw the old man's bagpipes on the table beside her. She reached out her hand and touched the slender reeds. "Do you miss it still?" she asked suddenly, looking up at him. "Ireland, I mean."
"Aye." His face remained impassive, but she heard the rough catch in his voice, saw the over-bright sheen of his eyes before he turned his head away.
"Why didn't you go back? You could have gone, long ago. Your pardon isn't conditional."
He swung to face her again, his throat working. She thought he was going to say something. Then he shook his head and went back to his whittling. "You don't want to hear it, Miss Jessie."
"Yes I do."
He drew the knife with deliberate slowness over the block of wood, one thin shaving curling up to fall to the porch floor, then another, and another. "All right," he said, not looking up. "I'll tell you. I'd rather they'd hanged me, you see, than send me away from Ireland like that. I begged them to hang me. But when those soldiers dragged me onto that ship ... well, I swore then on my mother's grave that I'd never go back. Not until the day there's nary an English boot left on Irish soil."
Jessie sucked in her breath in a startled hiss. "But you live amongst the English here."
"Aye. But it's no' my country, now is it?"
She watched the paper-thin curls of wood drop, one after the other, to the weathered plank floor. She'd never really given much thought to why Old Tom had been transported. If she'd considered it at all, she'd have assumed it must have been for poaching a rabbit or selling an illegal batch of poteen. Now, she wasn't so sure.
"Do you hate us so much?" she said softly. "I never knew."
He shook his head. "Not you, Miss Jessie."
"Why not me? I'm English."
"You are, and you're not. Besides, in your own way, lass, you're as hemmed in and controlled as any convict ever was."
"I don't understand."
"Don't you?" He looked at her shrewdly. "Why did you ask? Why now, after all these years?"
"I don't know."
They'd gone on to talk of other things then. About her mare Cimmeria and her brother's hounds and the homecoming party her mother was planning. But she hadn't forgotten his words. Oh, no. She hadn't forgotten.
"Miss Corbett? Miss Corbett?"
Jessie turned from the dressing table to see Emma Pope waiting in the center of the room, the silk evening gown held ready in her hands. Lifting her arms, Jessie let the girl drop the dress over her head. The teal blue silk shimmered sensuously in the candlelight, then settled in soft whispers about the hard, carefully corseted confines of her body.
CHAPTER SIX
The next morning, Jessie walked down to the stables to watch the Irishman try his hand at "fixing" Finnegan's Luck. She told herself she went because of her interest in the horse. When a nigglingly honest inner voice tried to suggest a different reason, she ignored it.
It had rained during the night, leaving the ground dark and wet, the vegetation of the garden lushly green and dripping. Clouds still bunched low and thick over the valley, turning the park's trees into murkily indistinct shapes that seemed almost to float in the opaque, flat light. The promise of more rain hung heavily in the crisp morning air, along with the scents of wet hay and warm horseflesh that intensified as Jessie neared the stables.
She could hear the drumming of hooves and a man's low, soothing voice even before she drew near the small paddock to the left of the stables. From his perch atop the high, whitewashed fence, Warrick acknowledged her appearance with only a grunt, his attention fixed on the big Irish Hunter that trotted past, powerful muscles bunching and flexing, noble head held high, dark mane and tail streaming in the wind as it circled the paddock, guided only by the sure hands and voice of Lucas Gallagher. She paused beside her brother, the fingers of her
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