Anne Perry - A Christmas Grace

“She’s afraid of many things,” he replied. “Sometimes history repeats itself, especially if you fear that it will.”

“Was Brendan close to Connor?” She was being evasive, saying nothing much, but always at the forefront of her mind was this man’s calling as a priest.

“You didn’t know Connor,” he said softly. “He was a stranger here, and yet he seemed to know everything about us. It might have been something of himself he was looking for, but it was disturbing nonetheless.” He smiled at her, and changed the subject to Susannah’s illness, and all that they might do to make things easier for her.

When he had gone Emily was annoyed with herself for having been so ineffectual. She stood in the kitchen, staring out of the window. The wind was harsher, the sky gray and bleak. She was afraid Susannah would die soon, before anything was resolved. She hugged her shawl around herself, cold inside, amazed to realize how much it mattered to her. Daniel was right, she cared about Susannah, not for the aunt of her childhood with whom her father had been so angry, but for the woman now who loved the village that had welcomed her, and who were the people of the man with whom she had shared so much happiness.

Who could help heal the wound in them? She needed someone who was an observer, not personally involved with the loves and hates of the village. And as soon as she had framed the question to herself, she knew the answer. Padraic Yorke.

After making sure that Susannah was well enough to leave for a short time, Emily put on a heavy cloak and walked in the wind to Padraic Yorke’s house. She knocked on the door and received no answer. She was cold and impatient. She needed his help, and yet she was unhappy away from the house for any longer than was necessary. She shivered and wrapped the cloak more closely around her. She knocked again, and again there was no answer.

She looked at the house, very neat, traditional. There was a tidy garden with herbs. Like everywhere else, most of them were cut back or had withdrawn into the earth for winter. This would gain her nothing. She was growing colder by the moment, and Mr. Yorke was clearly not in.

She turned and walked down by the shore. She did not want to be in the open wind off the water, but the turbulence of the sea was like a living thing, and the vitality of it drew her, as she felt it might have drawn Padraic Yorke also.

She walked along the edge of the sand. The waves broke with a sustained roar, varying in pitch only slightly. Beyond the last dark mound of kelp she saw the lone, slender figure of Padraic Yorke.

He did not look around until she was almost up to him, then he turned. He did not speak, as though the broken wood in the kelp and the water spoke for themselves.

“Brendan Flaherty’s gone from the village,” Emily said after a moment or two. “Susannah is very ill. I don’t think she’s going to live a great deal longer.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied simply.

“Where would he go, and why now?” she asked.

Mr. Yorke’s face was bleak. “Do you mean so close to Christmas?”

“No, I mean with Daniel here.” She told him of the scene that she and Mrs. Flaherty had witnessed through the kitchen window.

“The Flahertys have a long history in the village,” he said thoughtfully. “Seamus was one of the more colorful parts. Wild in his youth, didn’t marry until he was over forty, and even then near broke Colleen’s heart more than once. But she adored him, forgave him with more excuses than he could think of himself.”

“And for Brendan too?” she asked.

He shot a quick glance at her. “Yes. And a poor gift it was to him.”

“Do you know where he will have gone, or why?”

“No.” He was silent for several moments. The waves continued pounding the shore and the gulls wheeled above, their cries snatched away by the wind. “But I could guess,” he continued suddenly. “Colleen Flaherty loved her husband, and she wants her son to be like him, and yet she also wants to keep a better control of him, so he can’t hurt her the way Seamus did.”

Emily had a sudden vision of a frightened and lonely woman deluding herself that she had a second chance to capture something she had missed in the beginning. No wonder Brendan was angry, and yet unwilling to retaliate. Why had he finally broken away?

“Thank you for telling me,” she said with profound gratitude, and a sense of humility. “You have helped me to realize why Susannah loves the people here. It is remarkable that they accepted her so well. None of you has much cause to make the English welcome.” She felt a sense of shame as she said it, and that was an entirely new experience for her. All her life she had thought of being English as a blessing, like being clever or beautiful, a grace that should be honored, but never questioned.

Mr. Yorke smiled, but there was embarrassment in his eyes. “Yes,” he said quietly. “They are good people; quick to fight, long to hold a grudge, but brave to a fault, never beaten by misfortune, and generous. They have a faith in life.”

Emily thanked him again and started walking back towards the path to Susannah’s house. As she reached the road, she saw Father Tyndale in the distance walking the other way, his head bowed as he turned into the wind, struggling against it. She doubted he would agree with Mr. Yorke that the people of the village had a faith in life. The murder of Connor Riordan had set a slow poison in them, and they were dying. She must find the truth, even if it destroyed one of them, or more, because not knowing was killing them all.

S usannah had another bad night and Emily sat up with her through nearly all of it. The hour or so of sleep she snatched was spent still propped upright in the big chair near the bed. She ached to help, but there was little she could do except sit with her, occasionally hold her in her arms, when she was drenched with sweat, wash and dry her, help her into a clean nightgown. Several times she brought her warm tea, to try to keep some fluid in her body.

Daniel came in quietly and stoked the fire. He took the soiled and crumpled sheets and nightgown away, saying nothing, but his face was pale and racked with pity.

A little before dawn Susannah was sleeping at last, and Daniel said he would watch with her. Emily was too grateful to argue. She crept to her bed and when at last she was warm, she slept.

It was broad daylight when she woke and after a moment’s bewilderment she remembered how ill Susannah had been, and that she had left Daniel alone to look after her. She threw the covers back, scrambled out of bed, and dressed hastily. First she went along the corridor to Susannah’s room. She found her sleeping quietly, almost peacefully, and Daniel in the chair looking pale, hollows around his eyes, the dark shadow of stubble on his chin.

He looked up at her and held his finger to his lips in a gesture of silence, then he smiled.

“I’ll go and get breakfast,” she whispered. “Then we’ll do the laundry. I can’t do it without your help. I’ve no idea how to get that wretched boiler working.”

“I’ll be there,” he promised.

But when Emily went down the stairs she found the lamps all lit in the kitchen and a smell of baking filling the air. Maggie O’Bannion was at the sink washing dishes after her making and rolling of pastry.

She turned at the sound of Emily’s step. “How’s Mrs. Ross?” she asked anxiously.

Emily was too relieved to see her to show her anger. “Very ill,” she said truthfully. “That was the second really bad night. I’m very glad indeed that Mr. O’Bannion relented. We don’t know how to manage without you.”