‘Did she just want me ill? Was it a warning? Or just the start?’ I hold Maura’s hand, it’s so light and bony, dotted with age spots and dried blood, though it’s hard to tell the difference.
We both look at the quilt, lying on the floor like a snake. It is, I think, something to show Aoife. If that doesn’t give her a second thought about this marriage, I don’t know what will. I could run. I should run. Now. But... if this is what Brigid wanted to do to me, what might she try with Aoife who’s pushing her plans to fruition no matter what the objections? I squeeze Maura’s fingers.
‘Will you be alright?’ I ask.
She nods.
‘I’ll send up one of the girls to get you washed and comfortable. Stay in bed as long as you want, Maura. I’ll see you’re looked after.’ I rise and pick up the quilt, carefully folding it, then I wrap it in an old blanket that’s draped on the chair, probably the one she replaced with it on the bed. At the door, I turn, remembering why I came up here. I say, ‘Maura, did you know my mother was alive?’
Her shamefaced expression tells me. I don’t ask why she didn’t let me know. I’m not angry with her, but I feel so hollow you could make a drum of me.
Downstairs, I go into the kitchen garden where I’ve spent so much time with Maura; I pick cat’s claw and rosemary to make a tea that will take down any inflammation in her throat. I send Ciara with it, to care for the old woman.
I seek my grandmother, starting in the breakfast room where Ciara has laid out the meal we should have had. No sign of Aoife, but I find I’m starving. I sit and eat porridge and toast, drink two cups of strong coffee, organising my thoughts, practising what I will say and how. Speaking aloud so that my tone sounds reasonable. But really I’m just putting off the inevitable. Eventually, I push away from the table.
Outside a storm begins to rage and howl, blown up from the sea and wild as can be. I try the library just in case she’s remained there fuming since our argument, but it’s silent. Next her suite in the East Wing, and then all the vacant rooms in there, for naught. And so back to the tower and its empty spaces, even Óisín’s old bedchamber and his study. At last, I try the West Wing. I get tired of carrying the quilt so I leave it in my bedroom. I search the parlours which have been unused for years, the storage rooms and dressing rooms, the bathrooms and privies, the sewing room, the grand hall, the dining rooms both large and small, and the chapel.
I even go down into the cellar, the place that was forbidden for so long – though the silver locks on the door had not ever been engaged as I recalled, and I’d briefly snuck in there once as a child before Aoife discovered me and spanked me until my arse felt on fire. But there’s nothing there, the space remains huge and dark and the light of my lantern did not reach into all its corners. When I peered into the well, all I could see was the blackness of water at the bottom, and the rippling silver of the grid beneath it. It smelled of dust and old fish and ancient blood and bones.
In the end I go outside.
It’s after lunch by the time the storm has passed, though the sky remains grey. I’m not worried – if Aoife doesn’t want to be found, she won’t be. She’s more than capable and childish enough to be stalking along behind me as I search for her. I walk through the freshly washed grounds towards the walled garden I know she likes, where she often sits and schemes. I will tell her about the quilt, show her when we return to the house. I have other questions and I will ask them. And tonight, no matter what, I will leave this house before she locks me in it until my wedding day.
I come to the heavy iron-banded entrance to Aoife’s garden. The door is ajar and I push through. The area is not large, but it is overgrown with winding paths, so there’s no straight line of sight and you must follow the moss-covered flags as if walking a labyrinth. I duck beneath low-hanging branches heavy with rain, smell the competing scents of roses and jasmine. Malachi keeps this place for her, not tamed, and certainly not tidy, but merely ‘at bay’. A wildness she likes that is managed by another.
At last I come to the corner where there’s a wooden bench, worn smooth by the years of her skirts and the elements against it. There’s a small table with drawers underneath where she leaves a book and a silver flask of whiskey. For a moment, I think she’s asleep, and I call out softly so she isn’t startled. But she doesn’t rouse and as I get closer I realise there’s no movement of her chest, no twitching of her nostrils as air goes in and out.
I lean over Aoife and stare into her face, dotted as it is with rain, her dress and hair soaked through.
All the tension of life, everything that kept her still lovely and vibrant is gone and it’s as though the flesh is simply waiting a decent amount of time to fall off her bones. The high neck of her dress looks crinkled, her hair is tumbling down from its careful chignon, but her eyes are closed and I suppose this is what peace looks like. I have no tears, but my heart feels like it’s twisted itself into a ball and is clenching tighter, ever tighter.
I pick her up and she’s ridiculously light as if it was only her spirit that weighted her to
