*
It was Emily that finally broke that everlasting quiet. ”Did you honestly
starve these people?” She asked in disbelief. “I mean it does sound a bit barbaric,
doesn’t it?”
Reggie turned to take in the next speaker. “I’ve never starved anyone,”
Ian commented. “These people like to make martyrs out of themselves.”
“Why not?” the tall, skinny redhead asked. Reggie turned away from him as
he continued on in brogue about poetic justice and the symbolic use of food and
the bloody Limeys.
Could this truly be Emily? She was pretty, although he wondered what
reason she could come up with for shearing her hair as short as sheep in late
spring. She stood tall and stately, and he remembered how wonderfully she
smelled. Like the roses growing about the dun. If only he could still smell
her. He came so close he should be able to feel the heat of her body and the
force of her breath on his skin. If only he could feel her breath. If only he
could hold her or their children. Where were their children?
“Erin?” she asked. “I thought we were in Ireland.” No, she wasn’t
terribly bright.
“The language is called Gaelic,” Ian explained tiredly. “And Erin is
Gaelic for Ireland.”
She nodded.
“You could explain why we’re here.”
“My husband,” she began stepping forward, addressing the men, “Is
missing. We’ve come hoping to learn something about his disappearance.”
“Who would yer husband be?” asked the tiny one they called Wee Sean.
“Major Reginald Smote Talbot.” she cleared her throat. “Tall chap with
blonde curly hair.”
The redhead scratched his head. “Would that be the same Major Talbot?”
“Apparently,” Emily replied. “He didn’t returned with the remainder of
his Unit. I would feel better if I had some clue as to his whereabouts.
Something to tell our children at least.”
‘Pathetic,‘ Reggie thought. She played pathetic as brilliantly as a
Shakespearean actor.
The men paused. Reggie turned to examine them. The redhead replied. “Your
husband would be a good man. If you would be looking to the I.R.A. for answers,
we haven’t got any.”
“It wasn’t us,” the small one assured. He glanced back at the redhead.
“He allowed Father Patrick to bury m’dead,’” the redhead said. “I’ll not
be slitting a man’s throat for that.” He nodded at Ian. “On the other side of
the same British pound, I wouldn’t think twice about dirtying m’knife blade on
his neck.”
Ian nodded back but spoke to Emily. “Another word for Republican is
Fenian. That’s Gaelic for bastard.”
The redhead smiled, and tipped his cap. “I can be.”
Another uneasy moment passed. The Priest broke in. “The dun is up this
way.”
Reggie came about as the Priest, Ian and Emily departed the strand. His
companions in death watched from the rock wall along side of the storehouse.
“My wife,” Reggie explained. “And Ian Wendall.” The O'Brennigans stared and
their eyes hardened just like they had in the old days. The unbelievable ‘them
against us’ attitude this life had forced between them had reasserted itself
and he suddenly found his excitement at seeing his spouse needed a defense. If
only for another time and another place. Another life maybe, with different
relationships… Reggie hoped not to suffer this distance in the next life. The
O'Brennigans’ attention drifted away from him and his visitors. Reggie slipped
away, following his wife and Ian up the steps in the direction of the dun.
*
“Bed linens or a blanket would be nice,” she commented once she had
settled into the room Reggie had once occupied. “I’d be happy with a pillow
even.”
Father Plunkett had long since excused himself. And to Ian’s disapproval,
he did so without an apology to the total absence of amenities. Damnable Irish.
No refinement whatsoever. Ian set the lantern on the highboy. He toured the
room. No draperies, no bed linens or blankets. It occurred to him that they
could have taken the furniture or the mattress for their own use. He wondered
at that point if any of them had known what a down mattress was for.
“I suppose I could use my coat as a cover,” Emily commented, rubbing at
the skin beneath her sleeves. “Can we make a fire maybe? I mean it would be a
pity to break up that chest or even the chairs.”
Ian shifted about to take in what she spoke of. Plunkett obviously knew
what chairs were for. He did own one. Surprising that chests were left behind.
Even the most common could have hidden their damnable potatoes in one. What on
earth could he have come back here for? He should have contacted Scotland Yard
again. No telling how many of his former guards would be serving time for
murder or treason, or something just as outlandish. With the right bribe, he’d
be able to find out exactly what became of Reggie. An eerie feeling settled
into the base of his spine and brought bumps to the surface of his skin.
“I do believe,” Ian began softly, “That we could locate the kitchen, and
hopefully some readily chopped firewood.”
“Could you leave the lantern?”
“No, but you could walk with me.” He retrieved the lantern and moved to
the door. He held up his arm, indicating that she should join him.
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