Secrets

1

Kilkenny, 1803

Esther O’Shea glared defiantly at her husband, arms folded over her scrawny chest. We can’t keep it, she said. Absolutely not.

After fifteen years of living with her, Neil knew that this was going to be a hard-won battle—if he managed to win it at all. It wasn’t just her body language that made him realise this. Or, rather, it wasn’t that at all. It was the wording. The ‘it’.

It’s a child, Esther, he said, pleading to the mother in her. A wee colleen. Just look at her. He took a step to the side to allow her a glimpse of the said child, but the little girl followed him like his shadow, hiding behind his legs.

No, Esther snapped. Ye should’ve asked first, Neil.

And how was I supposed to do that?

For a moment, she pressed her lips firmly together. Since she barely had any teeth left it made her look comical, but the situation was far from funny and he didn’t smile as he usually would. Ye shouldn’t have brought her, she said. Ye did wrong, Neil.

He saw it clear enough in her face: her fear, all the unasked questions. She’d told him more than once that she didn’t care about his band of comrades and whatever shady shenanigans they were up to, as long as they put food on the table or gave them goods to sell, and as long as he mentioned nothing of it to her. The rule of discretion was important, and he had always respected it. At least, up until this point. Bringing the child here had not only broken it, but had also presented a new dilemma, one they had never faced before—he’d brought his business to their home. Esther couldn’t pretend she didn’t understand something foul was at play, and he couldn’t pretend there wasn’t, especially since his clothes still reeked of fire, his hair was singed and there was blood—clearly not his own—on the lapel of his jacket. He’d tried to wash it off in the stream before entering the cottage, but it was there, a sharp, rust-coloured stain against the light-brown fabric.

He squirmed uncomfortably under her gaze. God forbid she found out what had happened. She’d rip his bollocks off, for sure.

What’s done is done, aye? he muttered, his chin pressed against his chest. The child is here now. We can’t just leave her. She’ll die.

She’ll die anyway, Esther replied. Her shoulders drooped. We’ve eight already, Neil. It’s already a struggle. It’s not fair to bring another one here, one that isn’t ours, and have it take the food that our own children need. She hesitated, before quietly asking, English, is it?

He looked down at his hands. There was a cut by his thumb, or a bite mark. His skin had started to turn blue, but it didn’t hurt yet. Half.

Then it’s English, his wife decided. "Even worse. Would an English person care for our children?"

He shook his head. Esther, in turn, nodded in the way a wife always nods when she knows she’s right. She was right, but still, there was something about the child that had made Neil save her life. Perhaps, he mused, if Esther took a good look at the girl, she’d see the same?

With a firm grip around the little one’s arm, he hauled the child out from behind his back, where she’d been cowering, and shoved her in front of him. Look, Esther. Eyes like polished church silver. He pointed to them. Have you ever seen something so beautiful?

Esther’s reaction, however, was far from what he’d expected. Hail Mary, full of grace, she said and crossed herself, her eyes wide at the sight. Don’t ye mention the good Lord’s house together with that beastly creature, Neil. Besides, anyone who sees it will understand we’re not its parents. Why did ye bring it here? She shook her head, her lower lip trembling. It has to go, she said, her voice choked, and turned her back on him.

And that was it. End of discussion. End of the battle. Not that it had been much of a battle, to start with.

Neil sighed. So what shall I do? he said.

To Esther, the answer seemed simple enough, for she answered readily and with not much hesitation. Sell it.

Come.

Neil held her hand, dragged her along with him, past his own children, who eyed her with apparent astonishment. He pretended not to see them and hoped Esther would have the sense to keep them away. In the yard he snatched clothes belonging to one of his sons that had been hung to dry on one of the bushes, and threw them into the girl’s arms.

Get changed, he snapped. When she didn’t move, he sighed. Ye know how to dress, do ye not?

She didn’t answer but he was sure she understood him and he knew she could speak – when he’d found her under the table, she’d whimpered Mama. She just didn’t respond very well to instructions.

He sighed again, squatted in front of her and looked her in the eye, or rather, he tried to, but couldn’t really muster the courage to meet the silvery, steady gaze. Look, he said, as gently as he could. We’re going to Dublin, and there we’re going to see this fine fella, Mr Reedijk, who is going to take care of ye. But… He reached out and touched the frills of her dress. Ye can’t wear that, aye?

A nice dress it was, light blue with white flowers. He thought about how pretty it would make his youngest daughter, wee Edna. Esther would never allow it, though; she’d force him to sell that as well. Need to do something about yer hair as well, he continued, and touched the dark, shiny locks. Make ye look more like a boy.

She didn’t respond, but he added, just the same: Tis for yer own good, aye? Not sure Mr Reedijk will be wanting a girl. And besides, I need to make sure…

He slid his gaze nervously towards the door and licked his lips. It’s for the best, he thought, groaning at his suddenly cramping stomach. For us, but for her as well. He knew for sure that there had never been any question of keeping the girl—that he’d only needed Esther to voice the decision, but that, in reality, he’d already known what to do. One way or another, she had to go.

Right, he whispered, and patted her awkwardly on the head, I’ll get some help, aye?

He fetched his eldest daughter, Caoileann, who helped the girl change into the new clothes. Together they cut off the long, dark hair and Caoileann, who took after her mother and was a bright and sensible girl, went to get a wide-brimmed hat, which she pressed down over the little girl’s head, effectively hiding her eyes.

Much better, he muttered when they were done. Almost perfect.

He sent Caoileann away and waited until he was sure she was gone. Then he turned to the little girl. She stood immobile in front of him, arms by her sides, eyes lifeless—a mindless doll. The sight sent a pang of guilt through his guts, but he pressed it away. He had saved her, had he not? Thanks to him, she was alive. Aidan had wanted to slit her throat on the spot, just as he had done with her mother.

Neil sighed and squatted in front of the girl. She didn’t move, but stared straight through him.

"Ye’re lucky. They told us to kill everyone, ken, but I pleaded for yer life. Remember that. Yer friend, Neil O’Shea, saved yer life."

No reaction. Those eyes…

He drew a hand over his forehead, felt the beads of sweat against his palm. "I’m sorry. Fair enough? I’m sorry. I didn’t want to… do what I did, but I had to. I couldn’t save yer mama. We had to… We…" He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing under his skin. If he thought about what had happened for one minute more, he’d be sick.

Glancing at the girl, he noticed she hadn’t moved. Stoically, she stared into the distance as if nothing in the world bothered her anymore.

It’s good that ye’re quiet, he said. Makes ye seem daft, but it’s better that way—ye can’t let anyone ken who ye are. Yer eyes are bad enough, aye? Ye have to hide them, or the bad man will take ye. Ye hear me?

He stood up and wiped his forehead again. If Reedijk doesn’t want her, I don’t know what to do. Or, rather, he did, but he didn’t want to think about it. He hadn’t saved her from getting killed by Aidan just to kill her himself.

A foul taste in his mouth, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her outside to begin his journey to Dublin.

2

I haven’t been here before. It’s smelly and noisy and it feels like everyone is staring at me, but I can’t see much. Mr O’Shea said to keep my head down and he shouts at me when I look up, so I keep my eyes on my feet and the brim of the hat covers my eyes. I don’t recognise my feet; the shoes he gave me are heavy and uncomfortable and they make my toes hurt. I don’t dare to say anything, so I limp along when he drags me with him over the cobbled, uneven street. Where are we going? I don’t know, and I struggle a little in his grip, so he stops and turns, squats to look me in the face.

What’s the matter? His eyes are angry, but also scared. He smells of sweat and fire. The smell sends me backwards, dread filling my body. I want to cry, but I don’t know why anymore. Something happened and it was horrible, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember what it was. I only know this man had to do with it, and that’s why I’m so afraid of him.

Don’t try anything, hear me? he snarls. We’re there now. At Mr Reedijk’s office. He points to a large building across the street. You won’t have to worry. He’ll take care of you.

I want to say that I don’t want a stranger to take care of me—I want my ma and my da—but I have no words, and besides, I don’t have a ma and da anymore. They’re gone and I’m alone. Darkness spills over me and I force myself to listen to Mr O’Shea’s angry voice, to stop my thoughts.

Remember to be quiet. Don’t say a single word. Head down and let me do the talking. It’s important. If you speak, I can’t help you. You’re dead then. Understand?

We start to move again, rounding one house to cross the street, when suddenly Mr O’Shea darts back and his body crashes into mine. He shoves me back against the wall of the house we’ve just passed with such force my head hits the stone and my hat falls off.

No, he stutters, mighty Madonna, no, no, no… Frantically, trembling, he picks the hat up and presses it over my head so hard my neck bends, and then he pushes me against the wall again. I don’t want his warm, sweaty body against mine and I squirm to get away, but his grip is too hard.

Be still. When I whimper, he stoops and hisses, Hush or he’ll kill us both.

I freeze, press my lips together and peer out from behind his stinking body to see what he sees. It’s a group of men, but only one has fancy clothes. His eyes are hard like stones, his mouth cruel, and he scares me just as he scares Mr O’Shea. The bad man; this is him. When he moves his hand, I catch the glitter of many rings on his fingers, and the red shimmer of a large stone. Red like blood, I think, and the world sways. Blood red, blood red.

Holy Madonna, Mr O’Shea whispers, his hand around my shoulder hardening.

I don’t move, and I barely dare to breathe. The terror makes my body stiff as a board and I stare at the man, tasting blood, seeing blood. I close my eyes, but still see blood.

If he finds out that ye’re alive, we’re dead. Mr O’Shea takes a deep breath, wipes the tears from his face and grabs my hand tight. Come, he says, his voice hard again. We have to run before he sees us.

I don’t know why I do what I do. I just know I need to get away, so I tug my arm from his grip. It’s so sudden, so unexpected, and I’m not prepared. I stumble and fall forward, out onto the street, where I land on my knees. Mr O’Shea is over me, his hands grabbing me hard under my arms. I feel him stiffen and he squeals with fear, a low, terrified sound that reminds me of a pig screaming.

When I look up, I meet the eyes of the bad man and my heart shrinks in terror. I can’t move, can’t even breathe—everything has stopped and all that exists is his gaze, full of hatred and knowledge. He knows I’m alive, and I shouldn’t be, and now I have to die.

Then, in a flurry, the world crashes over me again, with everything happening at once, in a jumble. There’s the bad man, raising his hand and pointing at us; there are his men, charging at us; there’s Mr O’Shea, yanking me back so violently he almost rips my arm from my body.

Run, he breathes, run, for God’s sake!

And so we do, dashing between alleys and through holes in fences, between carts, shoving people out of our way. My heart is about to burst and I taste blood, and I’m so afraid.

Blood red. Blood red. Blood red.

3

Cees Reedijk didn’t believe in things like luck, good or bad. A pragmatic Dutchman, born into a family descending from a long line of tradesmen, he had long since learned that life consisted of a long row of decisions and choices. One could—usually, at any rate—foresee the outcome of these choices: good or bad, favourable or not favourable. For example, dogged research along with his keen sense of business had made him withdraw from his involvement with the Dutch East India Company before its downfall in 1799. Before the company had even begun to fall apart, based on his solid judgment, he’d found it best to invest in a good insurance scheme, which had enabled him to earn quite a bit of money from the whole sad affair. For this money, he’d bought a hoeken—a three-masted frigate—and had rented cheap facilities in Amsterdam and Dublin, from where he’d started his own company, dealing with spices, tea, textiles and slaves. Then, as movements started to pop up everywhere, agitating for laws against slavery, he had once again listened to his sound judgment on the financial risk involved. So in 1802, when Cees stopped dealing with slaves, he branded his business as a wholesome and humane one—a good move that attracted even more clients.

It was now the year of the Lord 1803, and thus the visit by Neil O’Shea and his proffered human commodity was highly unwelcome. Cees knew Mr O’Shea well enough, both by reputation and by direct confrontation. It was said the man would do anything for money, and there were rumours he occasionally worked as a resurrection man, robbing graves of corpses to sell to medical students in need of dissection bodies. Cees had no reason to believe this wasn’t correct; one look at the man spoke of something deeply unhealthy, as though the dust from the graves he’d plundered had penetrated his skin and eaten into his soul.

Still, since Cees was a gentleman, he invited O’Shea into his fine office, offered him a shot of jenever, which was readily finished within a minute of reception, and, as if he hadn’t guessed the circumstances already, bade O’Shea to state his business. When O’Shea revealed that he had come to sell the child he’d brought with him, Cees only shook his head lightly and in slight disgust.

But he’s a fine boy, sir, O’Shea said, and placed his hand on the wide-brimmed hat that covered the said boy’s head. Sturdy and healthy.

Bit young, isn’t he? Cees replied, without trying to mask his annoyance. Has he turned four yet?

He will grow, sir.

Obviously, Cees said dryly. He leaned back in his chair, sucking his teeth. The child did indeed appear healthy and robust; short and slim but not in any way malnourished, with dark brown curly hair and the glimpse of a round, rosy cheek under the wide-brimmed hat. Where did you get him?

O’Shea flinched. One hand flew up to his chin, where he stroked the few puny hairs he’d managed to grow. By the roadside, sir.

"Where exactly?"

Up… north. He pressed his lips together and looked away. I can’t keep him, sir. That’s why I came to ye. Ye’re a good man, with a kind heart—

No, I’m not, Cees snapped, planting a fist on the desk. "Frankly, Mr O’Shea, this boy is too young for anyone trading with slaves—which I don’t, as a matter of fact. I stopped a year ago, which you should be aware of, so I cannot really see what you were hoping for by coming here. He raised his hand, flicked it dismissively. You’ll have to find someone else."

But… I can’t, sir. O’Shea stared at him, his eyes wide and scared. If ye don’t buy him…

Cees narrowed his eyes. What? You will kill him?

O’Shea cringed. Please, sir, he whined. I can’t keep him. If you won’t take him, I’ll have to… leave him behind. He licked his lips. Listen, I will give the boy to ye for a fair price. I’m sure ye can sell him for the double, or triple, even. A good child it is. Strong.

What do you want for him?

O’Shea mentioned his price. It was ridiculously low and, as such, displayed the magnitude of his desperation with frightening clarity.

Why the man hadn’t already killed the child and sold it to the medical school was beyond Cees—surely he’d attain a higher dividend there—but he supposed even deprived scum like O’Shea had a conscience. Or, more likely, O’Shea was afraid the same questions would arise at the faculty. Bodysnatching was an even more controversial affair than trading in slaves, and freshly deceased child corpses, especially of good quality and pedigree, were bound to raise suspicions.

What shall I do with a child? That was the big question. Cees still had some connections within the slave trade, but the thought of heading into that business again was repulsive—he’d never liked it much to begin with. Besides, there were, he liked to believe, limits to what he was willing to do for money.

He stared at the small figure with the slumped shoulders and miserably bowed head. There was always a bit of a spark to a child’s soul; whether it was happiness, rebellion or sadness. Children were always full of emotions, of life. This child, however, seemed broken. Soulless.

What happened to him? he asked O’Shea, who swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed under the thin skin of his throat.

I don’t know, sir.

Where are his parents?

D-dead.

The tremble of his voice didn’t escape Cees, who leaned forward, squinting at the man.

O’Shea’s hand went up to his face, covering his mouth. Both dead, he murmured. So will ye take the child, sir? She’s a fine wee—

She?

He, O’Shea corrected himself hurriedly, his face turning bright red. "I meant he, of course. It’s a boy. He put his hand on the child’s head and laughed, a cackling sound. Plain as day."

If there was one thing Cees had learned over the years, it was that a tongue that slipped always spoke the truth. He eyed the child, the girl—he was sure of that by now and it intrigued him even more. Who was she? Why was O’Shea so eager to be rid of her? It seemed unlikely that he’d stolen her to make money from her, considering he had offered her to Cees for a ridiculously low price. But if it wasn’t to make money, then what was his reason?

I think… O’Shea jostled him from his thoughts, his voice puny and wavering. I think it’d be better if… if ye sent it far away, sir. Better for… the child. Ye have connections… over there, don’t ye? In the colonies?

You know I do. Cees pressed his fingertips together and studied him, a slight smile on his lips. But why would I do that, Mr O’Shea? Would you care to tell me?

The man was now so pale that Cees thought he’d faint on the spot, and a sleek sheen of sweat covered his face. The acrid tang of fear oozed into the room, making Cees’s nose itch.

It’s for the child’s own good, O’Shea repeated. Please don’t ask any more, or I will have to take the child with me and… He let the rest of his sentence hang in the air like a wet, heavy blanket.

Cees leaned back and slowly exhaled through his nose. Forced decisions were the worst ones, but here he saw no other choice. It was yes or no, right here, in this moment. If yes, the girl’s life would be spared. If no…

I’ll buy the child, he said, his voice full of dismay.

O’Shea’s face was a study in relief. He opened his mouth, presumably to blurt out a thank you, but Cees raised his hand and stopped him. "Just promise me that this is the last I’ll see of you, Mr O’Shea. I do not ever want to see your face again, snapje?"

When O’Shea was gone, Cees turned to his newly purchased article. She stood in the position O’Shea had put her in, immobile like a doll.

"Nou, laten we eens kijken wat we hier hebben…" He squatted in front of the child and carefully removed the hideous hat, revealing a finely shaped little face and eyes that—

Oh, he said, and moved back. He’d never seen anything like it; her eyes were like polished plates of silver, encircled by a dark, almost black border. Combined with her expressionless stare, the impression was so eerie that he nearly crossed himself, even though he didn’t consider himself to be very religious.

Was this why O’Shea wanted to sell her? Because he believed her to be cursed? Could be. Cees wasn’t superstitious himself, but he knew that most of the Irish were.

I hope it’s that simple, he murmured, though instinctively he knew it wasn’t.

He sighed a little and moved a hand in front of her face to break the unnerving stare, but without success. Her eyes remained fixed on an unknown spot in the far distance, her face stoically void of emotions, like a figurehead on a ship.

Was she blind? He quickly jerked his head forward and she backed off instantly, her stare momentarily moving to his face, widened by fear. No, not blind.

"Do you speak English, meisje?"

No reply.

"Of heb je misschien Nederlands spreekt?"

But she didn’t speak Dutch, which he’d guessed, even at a quick glance. She had that particular Irish quality to her; the fair skin, deep-set eyes and dark hair. He’d seen it on quite a few of these islanders, and on this girl they made an especially appealing blend. There was no doubt in his mind that she’d grow up to be a strikingly beautiful woman. It dawned on him—not a particularly nice realisation—that if she had been older and this had been a year earlier, he would probably have tried to sell her. Irishwomen were a sought-after commodity in the slave trade, for their breeding abilities. People bred them with black slaves to get beautiful mulattos, which often rendered an even higher price than pure-breds.

He shook off the unpleasant thoughts and took her limp hand to inspect it. Soft skin, fingers pink and clean, her nails unchipped and healthy-looking. A girl of fine family who hadn’t faced one single day of hard labour or starvation in her life. He let go of the child’s hand and straightened up, while slowly pressing out air through his lips.

O’Shea must have stripped her of her original clothes, dressing her in these rags instead, then cut her hair to make her look like a boy. He’d erased her past, her identity. But why? Again, Cees didn’t think it was for money. Boy slaves were more valuable than girls, because of their physical strength and versatility, but the offered price had been so low that this didn’t seem to be the reason. No, O’Shea had simply wanted to get rid of her. Was it because her parents were looking for her? Maybe. Cees didn’t believe O’Shea had been truthful in saying her parents were dead, but it still didn’t seem like the most prominent reason. There was something else at play here, something… worse.

"Wie ben jij?" he said slowly. Who are you?

She didn’t respond. He wasn’t even sure she’d heard him. Not blind, but perhaps she was deaf, then? Deaf children were thought to be possessed by the Devil, which could be a reason to discard her.

He brought his hands together, fast and hard. The explosive clap made her jump, before she resumed her uncanny staring, her face stiff. Still, it had been enough and he nodded. Not deaf, not blind. Not cursed, not possessed—he didn’t believe in those things. Just a normal child, who’d been through something, and who may or may not be in danger. In a way, he’d taken on the role of her saviour, or had at least made a sort of promise to keep her safe and alive.

Hands behind his back, he headed to the window. His office was located on Guild Street, overlooking the water. He could see one of his boats, the Oranjeboom, moored at the dockside, awaiting its next departure to Java. The crew moved about in the sharp sunshine, preparing the ship, stocking up with whatever was needed for the long trip overseas. If the child he’d just purchased had been a little older, he’d simply have put her to work on the vessel. However, at this young age she wouldn’t be very useful as labour, which meant he had to come up with another solution. He squinted, as much from the thinking as from the stinging sunshine, allowing a plan to take shape.

Unlike most of his other vessels, the Oranjeboom’s crew consisted of both men and women, though the latter were in the minority. Femke Jansdochter van Beek had worked on the ship for the last couple of years. Widowed a few years back and not bound to any obligations on land, she enjoyed her job taking care of the livestock onboard—the goat-lady, the men called her—and she was good at it, too. She was dutiful, resourceful and, as it happened, occasionally Cees’s mistress. They’d parted only this morning, with a promise to each other to meet again when she was back in Dublin. It might happen, it might not, but because they weren’t sentimental people and they valued their own freedom more highly than any union, they were both fine with that.

Cees scratched his chin pensively as he stared at the Oranjeboom. As far as he knew, Femke had no children of her own, but she was a woman, after all, and weren’t all women good with children? If he compensated her for it, she probably wouldn’t mind taking care of one. He’d explain the situation and talk both to her and the captain—also a Dutchman—about the necessity of keeping the child’s identity a secret. With the child far out at sea, posing as a boy, it would be impossible for any pursuers to find her. She’d be safe and Cees’s conscience would be clear. Prima. At least until he came up with something better—which, for the moment, he couldn’t.

With an exhalation that completely emptied his lungs, he turned to glance at the motionless girl. His next large breath contained all the determination that had come with his decision.

"Right, lieverd, he said. How do you like boats?"

4

June 25 th, 1807

Lyndon’s mare sluggishly trampled the sandy trail that was the road to Megan’s brothers’ farm. Its ears forward, head lowered in serene contemplation, it embodied the calm that had dominated the journey since they’d arrived in Ireland. Even so, Lyndon was exhausted from the strain of constantly keeping watch. He knew nothing was safe in this country and that rebels and highwaymen roamed the hillsides, scouting for potential prey. If he’d travelled on his own, things wouldn’t have been so bad, but he had sworn to protect Megan and the child she carried, making this a very long and very exhausting week. His horse, carrying them both—or rather all three of them—was likewise ready for the journey’s end.

Megan wasn’t the best travel companion either, quiet and hollow-eyed. After all she’d been through, he couldn’t really blame her—though he couldn’t say he cared for her stunned silence either. All he wanted was to bring her safely to her brothers, so he could move on, physically but also in life.

I think we must make a turn here.

Hm? He blinked, jostled from his thoughts, surprised to hear her voice after all this time. What?

We must make a turn here, she repeated, somewhat louder. She turned her head to increase the chance of him hearing, giving him a glimpse of her trembling lips. We’re… Her voice broke. We’re close.

Are you scared? he blurted. Since she was sitting in front of him on the horse, he could feel her slight body shudder at the question. Don’t be. Everything will be fine.

She didn’t answer and he frowned, a pang of concern piercing his gut. She had never spoken of her brothers, save for giving Lyndon the basic information about their names and where they lived, and the absence of information and lack of enthusiasm was worrying. Part of her apprehension naturally had to do with her situation, but he also had a nagging feeling that her pregnancy, out of wedlock as it was, wasn’t the whole explanation.

Nonsense. You’re imagining things, he told himself, but that was mostly because it would be too late to turn around now. After all, there had to be a reason why she’d travelled, or been sent, to England at such a young age. On the other hand, she was still family and she came to them raped and abused, her fiancé brutally murdered by the man who had raped her. Only barbarians would turn their back on her.

They proceeded along the almost invisible strip of sand that intersected the upward slope. He caught a whiff of smoke, acrid in the fresh air, and soon he saw the tiny pillar rise to the sky, a steady column since there was hardly a breeze worth mentioning.

They’re home, he pointed out.

They reached the top of the hill and Megan craned her neck, her body tensing against his.

He spotted a small stone house, no yard save for a patch of grass that they kept short in front of the door. A stream snaked past it on the eastern side, only to disappear among the emerald green hills behind. Though the place bore no resemblance to Lyndon’s homestead, he couldn’t help but remember his house, beautiful as it had been, surrounded by the lush meadows. He envisioned Sarah Anne playing with the goats in the yard, while Eileen was tending to her herb patch, and the sight was so real, so tangible, that for a second his heart stopped. Then, with the next blink of his eyes, he was back to reality, staring at Megan’s family home.

Gone… His home was gone, his family was gone. They were all dead and he was still alive, like some kind of punishment, the cruellest of jokes. Alone, always alone.

His chest suddenly tightened and a darkness crept into his mind, blurring the edges of his vision. Not now, he thought, gripping the reins between his hands. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and soaked the back of his shirt. He clamped his jaws shut until his teeth hurt. Please, not now.

How did you know they were home? Megan said, her voice, clear and bright, startling him so badly he snapped his eyes open. I can’t see anyone.

The darkness subsided, releasing its iron grip. He inhaled shakily and swallowed hard to regain his composure. The attacks… these horrible bouts of inexplicable pain—inexplicable because they usually disappeared as fast as they’d arrived, leaving him sweaty and weak but, strangely enough, alive. He’d thought they were gone, but apparently this was not the case. What he’d felt just now wasn’t quite as bad as in the past, when he’d thought he’d die for sure, but it had been there, like a stark warning of what was to come.

Why had it appeared now, though? It was as though the memory of what had happened to his family had somehow triggered it. He tried for a moment to remember if it had always been like that; if it had always surfaced at times when he was emotionally weak. Maybe. Probably.

Most likely.

Ah, Megan said, again snapping him from his thoughts. The smoke from the chimney. You’re right. Someone has to be there. But…

That was when it dawned on him, that the apprehension he saw in her might stem from the fact that she didn’t know if they still lived there. Her fear wasn’t unfounded, in that case. In the aftermath of the rebellions, quite a few Irish homes had been seized and taken over by Englishmen, and there was nothing to say this farm hadn’t met the same fate.

Let’s have a look, shall we? he suggested, trying to sound cheerful, but she probably saw right through the feeble attempt.

Silently, he urged his mare onwards.

The small house had seen better days. Battered by the winds, it stood there, its grey thatched roof sagging in the middle. Long grass and weeds had invaded the yard and would probably fill every inch within a summer or two. On bushes between the house and the barn hung sad, dark grey rags that seemed to have been there forever, subdued by the power of the fickle Irish weather.

Lyndon dismounted and helped Megan down. Not a friend of horses, she seemed relieved to set her feet on solid ground. She smoothed out the shawl over her hair and brushed her dress free from horsehair, then straightened her back.

Where is everyone? she said and, for the first time in the journey, looked at him, searching his face for an answer.

They’re here. Carefully, he slid his gaze over the still scenery. Watching us.

But why? She put her hand in the pocket of her skirt.

At first he didn’t understand what she was doing, but when it appeared again, curled into a ball, he knew. She was holding her crucifix; the one Charles had ripped from her neck after he’d raped her. His love pawn, he’d called her. Lyndon’s throat tightened with anger merely thinking about it.

Surely they must see it’s me?

Maybe so. But it’s me they’re wondering about.

He had had the good sense not to dress in his uniform, as it would have been outright suicide for both, but although his clothes were simple they were clearly of good quality, which made him stand out from any other Irishman in the country.

When the door burst open, he took a step back, wishing for a moment he’d had his pistol loaded and ready—but, on the