Friday, October 26, 2012

Chapter VIII - Mrs. Keenan's Passing


VIII
Mrs. Keenan’s Passing

Emily emerged into the bright, cool day with a bit of a headache. Damn the hangovers and on with life. She needed to think about food and drink, and she wanted to look about her. It was edging on darkness when they had landed the night before, and the walk from the strand to the dun had her wondering how big this island could be, or even how high. It seemed as if they climbed small mountains the night before.
And it certainly proved to be as beautiful as the rest of Ireland. Very green. The old stone, moss covered dun sported a few broken windows, and a hole in the far roof. Six incredibly ornate wrought iron arches lined a stone pathway between a gate in the outer fence and the front entrance that she had emerged from. Large roses sat amidst shamrocks and between square rails. Real ivy grew up the sides and over the top of all but one arch. Dead brown leaves rustled in the breeze and dripped between open iron work. Fresh green leaves were beginning to sprout. Black wrought iron chains connected the arches to each other. She ducked beneath a chain and crossed the lawn along the side of the house.
Working in the rose bushes along the outer fence, a man with a knife cut away non blooming sprigs. A great, brute of an animal slept on his back in the middle of the lawn. Across from him, a fat yellow tabby sat on a windowsill and licked her paws contentedly. A fat, dead mouse waited next to her. The dog caught Emily’s attention again, when it ripped off a long, loud snore. Chickens pecked about its head and its tail as if completely oblivious to the dog’s presence.
The man with the knife laughed at his dog. Then he turned to her and doffed his cap. Bright red hair diverted her attention next. “Father left you and the Brigadier something to breakfast on. ‘Tis on top of the stove. All ya have to do is heat it.”
“I don’t cook. Can you?”
“Sorry,” the man smiled. “I don’t cook neither. That’s what I married for.”
“Your wife then?” she said, turning aside.
“Nay, Enid is living in Killelea at the moment. At least until we can rebuild. The Brits destroyed everything when they evicted us.”
“Now see here,” Emily began, her dander rising. Her servants would never be allowed to speak to her in this manner.
“Excuse me?” he smiled and leaned closer to her.
“I mean, are you or are you not the gardener here?”
“Nay, I’m a farmer from down the road. And a Republican in his own country. And you, m’Lady, came uninvited. You want to eat, help yourself. You want the Irish to wait on ya, go back to England. I’m here because your husband would be a decent man. I’m hoping you find him. If it were up to that bastard sleeping it off in there this morning,” the man indicated the dun with his knife, “M’sister and her husband would have been buried in the English rubbish heap.”
Emily shivered as recognition came upon her. “You were the man who threatened Ian last evening.” She glanced at his knife as he sliced off another brown sprig.
He nodded at it and tossed the twig into a growing pile. “A thought.”
Emily smiled and excused herself. Something dangerous about this man, something titillating. Slowly, glancing back as she departed, she made her way towards the front.
“You’re going in the wrong direction,” the man called.
She paused. “Pardon?”
“The kitchen is back that way.“ He pointed with his knife.
“Oh? Is there an entrance back there?”
He smiled again, maybe crookedly, and wiped the blade of his knife on is trouser leg. “I’ll show ya.” A twinkle in his eye told her he was as aroused as she was.
*
“Ya know, Reggie, my boyo, you look ill.” Damn O'Brennigan, he barely kept his chuckle from his voice. Reggie refused to look at him, focusing on the sheep instead. Damned birds seemed to be taking over again, as if threatening to push people, buildings, and all the rest off the Lowside and into the Channel. “Ya didn’t see this coming?”
He didn’t respond. God help him if he could say it aloud.
“Liam, behave yourself,” Mrs. O'Brennigan ordered harshly. “This isn’t something to be finding pleasure in.”
“What isn’t, Bridey?” He laughed heartily and without remorse. “I didn’t think Brendan had it in him.”

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