‘Maura, Mr Fitzpatrick has sent these girls to work for us.’
Maura’s wrinkled face freezes in horror. ‘To replace me?’
‘Of course not, you silly thing. For you to boss around. Go on. Surely it’ll make a nice change from Malachi ignoring you – these two have to listen. Ciara’ – the thin one bobs – ‘and Yri’ – the plump one copies her – ‘you will obey Maura in all things, and if I hear that you’ve not then whatever’s left of you after she’s had her way, I will deal with. Understood?’
‘Yes, Mrs Fitzpatrick.’
‘Mrs Fitz...’ Maura can’t quite get the word out and I can see it’s hit her like a blow.
I step close and steady her, say quietly for I’ve no doubt the maids will be reporting back to either Brigid or Aidan, ‘Not yet, Maura. Never fear.’
She notices the ring then and her eyes go wider still. When her quaking’s lessened, I pat her shoulder, turn and take the parcel from the plump one, bundle it into Maura’s hands. ‘This is for you. Brigid made it.’
She smiles then. Maura’s always had a soft spot for Brigid, was always kind when she came to stay. Besides, burning the thing seems a terrible waste when it’s so very fine. Someone may as well get use of it and I like the idea of our old servant snuggling beneath all Brigid’s hard work.
‘Now, Maura, show them where they’ll sleep, then set them tasks – probably cleaning their own rooms for a start.’ I glance at the two boys, perhaps sixteen the pair of them. ‘Where’s Malachi?’
‘Stables,’ she grumbles as if I should have known – and honestly, I should. Maura tears at the corner of the parcel until she can see the lovely fabric within. Her expression lightens and she smiles, not at me, but at the quilt.
‘Right,’ I say to the lads as I lead them back to the front door and out onto the stoop. ‘That way, to the left, then left again and keep walking until you see a tumbledown building. That’s the stables. There’ll be an angry old man in it, probably smoking a pipe and if he’s not outside, he’ll be in the upper rooms’ – I can’t recall a time when Malachi didn’t sleep above the stables of his own choice – ‘tell him I sent you and he’s to put you to good use. I’ll check on you later.’
‘Yes, Mrs—‘
‘Miss O’Malley,’ I say sharply. ‘Still O’Malley.’
‘Yes, Miss!’
With the lads suitably terrified and scampering, I turn my attention to the piles of luggage that are being unloaded from the carriage. Having left Hob’s Hallow with a single small case, I’ve returned with a trunk of items there’s no one out here to see and appreciate. All the pretty things purchased by Aoife at the cost of my freedom. And Aoife herself has returned with two trunks – she found time after visiting the solicitor to return to Madame Franziska while I was locked in a room.
There are four men staring at me now, well, three men, one boy, though the coachman’s not climbed down from his perch. He’s not there to do heavy lifting and he wants everyone to know that; he’s smoking a pipe, giving me a measuring stare. I say, ‘Follow the lads around to the stables and settle in. Then find Maura in the kitchens, she’ll show you where to sleep tonight. Tomorrow she’ll have a list of things we need and you can go back to Breakwater, then.’
He nods, faces forward, flicks the reins and the black horses start. Next, I glance at the others, standing around with the trunks and a collection of small cases, a large crimson box tied with silver ribbon, the baskets of food Brigid had her kitchen prepare as if we couldn’t feed ourselves. I gesture to the coachman’s lad (he’s not exempted from this kind of labour, not yet anyway), and the potato-faced footman. ‘You take that one between you, then return for the other’ – I indicate one of Aoife’s trunks, which I know is heavy enough with new dresses and shoes (far more than mine) to require two bodies – next I point the green-eyed footman to my own trunk, which I know is light enough for one man – ‘and you, that one and follow me.’
I lead them inside the tower’s foyer; I can feel eyes on my back and it makes me stand straighter. I’m taller than the lad and the potato-faced man by a head; the other man is a little taller than I. I can’t work out if it’s pride – well, I know it’s pride, I’m an O’Malley after all – but pride in this decrepit mansion, the pride expected of the mistress of the house, pride in being a rich man’s wife and saving this house from its fall? I don’t know. I lift my head a little higher as we take the staircase that splits in two at the top. I point to the right, address the puffing footman and lad, ‘That way. Go through the door and to the end of the East Wing. Madam O’Malley’s rooms are there. Take all of her cases. Try not to get lost.’
‘Yes, Miss,’ they reply, smart enough not to venture a name.
I don’t say anything to the green-eyed man, just crook my finger at him as the others move off. We head towards the door to the West Wing; only Óisín and Maura have slept in the tower for as long as I can remember. I stop, at last, at the entrance to my own suite, pause, breathe deeply, then lead
