Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [80]
“Full of laughter and hope,” he went on, holding the flower still as if he had forgotten it. “She met Drystan O’Day by chance. It should never have happened. He was Protestant, as fierce as the north wind in January, all keen, cutting edge, his family was.” He laughed but there was no humor in it. “Saw the Pope as the devil on earth and all the church’s ways as scarlet as sin itself. They met and fell in love for all the age-old human reasons: they saw the same beauty and magic on the earth, the same tenderness in the sky, loved to sing the old songs, dance till they were too tired even to laugh at themselves.”
He was leaning against the door jamb, watching her, searching her eyes as he spoke. She knew he was sharing what mattered to him most, some part of the inner core of himself, the beliefs which drove him. “They hoped for peace, an honorable work,” he went on. “A small home and children to raise, same as you might, or me. Long evenings together when the day was done, time to talk, or just to sit and each to know the other was there.” He passed her the flower and started to look for another.
“What happened?”
“When it was too late they discovered they were on opposite sides. By then it didn’t matter to them, but of course it mattered to everyone else.”
“Their families?” she asked in awe. “But ’ow could they stop it? Nobody can stop ’oo you love. Was it her father stopped ’er?”
“No.” He looked at her very directly. “It never came to that. The English got to know of it. We were almost at agreement then, but they wanted to keep us divided. Divide and rule.” His face was pinched with pain. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “They used them both.”
“ ’Ow?” she whispered.
“It was mainly one English soldier. His name was Alexander Chinnery. He was an officer, a lieutenant in one of the Anglo-Irish regiments. He pretended to be a friend of Drystan O’Day’s.” His young face was filled with grief and hatred till he looked so different it almost frightened her. “That’s the duplicity of it,” he said hoarsely. “He was free to carry messages to Neassa as well. No one thought anything of it. He promised to help them both to run away. He was going to get a boat for them. It was summer. Drystan was a good mariner. He could have sailed across to the Isle of Man, that’s where they were supposed to go.”
She did not take her eyes from his face. She did not hear the gust of wind drive the falling leaves against the glass, or see them flurry over.
“What ’appened?”
“Neassa was beautiful,” he said softly. “Like Mrs. Greville, warm as sunlight on the autumn trees.” His eyes filled with tears. “Chinnery met her, as he said he would. She trusted him, you see. She went with him to the place where they were to meet Drystan. She couldn’t go alone because it was too dangerous.” He spat out the last word as if it scorched his tongue. “A woman alone at night.”
She waited while he struggled to regain control of himself and continue.
“He took her to the place on the headland where the boat was supposed to be, there with the wind above the sea.” His voice cracked. “And he raped her ….”
Gracie felt as if she had been struck.
“And cut off her beautiful hair,” he went on, his eyes fixed on hers as if the greenhouse with all its reflecting glass, the rows of flowers, the bright color, the wind outside, did not exist. “And left her there for her people to find,” he finished.
“Oh, Finn! That’s terrible!” She breathed out in horror too great for long and passionate words. She felt numb inside. The betrayal was like a blackness that swallowed everything. “What did ’e do, poor Drystan?” She dreaded the answer, but she had to know.
“He found her,” he answered in little above a whisper, his fist clenched white. “He went mad with grief. The poor, trusting soul, he never dreamed even then that it was Chinnery.”
A starling hopped across the roof, its feet rattling on the glass, but neither of them heard it.
“What’d ’e do?” she asked again.
“He lost his head completely, and went and attacked the Catholic community,