Carelessly, barely looking, I put the book with its fellows, then hunt up what was dropped. It’s actually a bundle of envelopes; I flip through and count. Three. Paper of varying quality. They’re tied together with a black velvet ribbon. How long has my grandfather kept them? The handwriting of the address is fluid and elegant, each letter perfectly formed and I don’t recognise it – so not billets-doux from Aoife in a better time. All to Óisín alone, and no sender details to be seen, but the red seals at the back have been broken, some fragments lost so I cannot make out what image might once have been imprinted when the wax was hot and malleable.
Not hidden, or not really. Not in a locked drawer. But then Óisín knew Aoife well enough to realise she’d have gone straight for a locked drawer in the desk. That she’d have had no interest in these books because she already knew how parlous our financial situation was – pure chance that she wanted them for Aidan! – so this was the best place to hide them.
I’m about to untie the ribbon, see how old these missives are, see who they’re from, when I hear a shuffling step in the hallway. I stuff the things into my pocket, pressing them down deep, hear the paper crunch and crinkle. I hide them because Óisín did. I hide them because I have no secrets in this house. I hide them because I’m not above stealing the ones he left behind. Not too good, me, for second-hand secrets.
Maura appears in the doorway, hazel eyes red-rimmed, long grey hair in a thick braid hanging over one shoulder down past her waist; white apron pristine with a lack of work over an ancient black gown that was, I think, one of Aoife’s. She wore it to the funeral and seems set to remain in it as long as possible. She was fond of Óisín, was Maura, and she’ll grieve a long while. Had it been Aoife going into the ground, perhaps there’d have been a spring in her step; they’re of an age, grew up together. Maura and Malachi were children of the estate, back when we had more tenants than we currently do. Their father owed a debt to Aoife’s father, one he couldn’t pay, so he sent his two oldest children to be servants in the house. They were free, my grandmother told me, to go and visit their parents – the O’Malleys weren’t entirely monsters after all – but when a few months had passed Maura and Malachi ceased to bother.
‘Herself is calling for you,’ says Maura in a voice that’s surprisingly sweet. She doesn’t sound like an old woman. ‘Shouting, in fact.’
Looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but she’s been around Aoife too long to be coy about her.
‘I’m doing her bidding,’ I say and point to the basket. I keep my other hand away from the pocket, though it feels like the papers therein are slowly smouldering, and surely Maura will notice.
But she doesn’t. She just smiles and says, ‘Not fast enough. Hurry up. The Fitzpatrick carriage has arrived and she’s anxious to be away.’ She says it with a tone that tells me what she thinks of this grand gesture. We’ve got our own conveyance, but it’s a dreadful wreck of a thing. Aidan’s, however, is fancy, new and well-maintained, his with employees dressed in the Fitzpatrick livery of cream trews, sky-blue frockcoats with silver buttons and smart black stovepipe hats. It has the O’Malley coat-of-arms on its doors, which Aidan’s not actually entitled to, but who’s to gainsay him if he wants to display a silver Janus-faced, Janus-tailed mermaid? ‘You’ll be staying two nights in Breakwater. I’ve packed you a case, it’s at the front door.’
‘Enjoy your rest,’ I say and grin. I collect the basket and pass her by. She leans over and kisses my forehead and I catch a whiff of her: age and grief and a musty dress. I don’t pull away or try to breathe shallow. I just wish she didn’t hurt quite so much for a man who wasn’t very kind to her; I know Óisín sometimes shared her bed. There are small graves in one of the gardens, where servants’ children have been laid to rest over the years (not in the chapel with the O’Malleys, though more than one had a claim to the blood of the house). And Maura tends to more than one of those little graves, visits them every Sunday.
She pushes me away. ‘Hurry or Herself will be in a right frame of mind.’
I hurry.
5
The road to Breakwater from Hob’s Head is badly rutted yet Aoife, settled into a corner, manages to drop off within a minute of waving Maura and Malachi farewell, a sure sign she’s planning a long evening tonight and wants to be bright and alert. There are shadows beneath her eyes, though, and I think her skin looks a little looser as if it’s let its grip go. The corners of her mouth tilt down and she snores softly.
I envy her the ability to nap so easily, and stare out the window at the marshlands as we pass. The road is built up high but still washes away in the worst of the weather that comes sometimes. Not at the moment, though, no dreadful storms for a while yet. The sedges are tall and very green with flashes of purple where the sea lavender blooms, swaying in the breeze like dancers, the only thing to grow here so close to the ocean because of all the
