A Christmas Grace (12 page)

“Maggie'll do that in the morning,” Emily told her.

“No,” Susannah said with a little catch in her voice. “Fergal came by to say she won't be coming anymore. I'm sorry. It will mean more work for you, until I can find someone else.”

Emily was appalled, but she tried to mask it. “Don't worry,” she said with all the strength of conviction she could assume. “We'll manage very well. I used to know something about cooking. I'm sure I can manage again. We'll be fine. Now please go to bed.”

Susannah gave her a weak smile, barely touching the corner of her lips, and together they made a slow and painful way up the stairs.

E
mily woke in the night with a sense of unease. The wind was rising again and she thought she could hear something banging. She got up, wrapping her shawl around her, and tiptoed out onto the landing. She could still hear the rattle, but now it seemed to be more the wind in the chimneys, and even if there was a slate loose, there was nothing she could do about it.

As she was turning she saw the light under Susannah's door. She hesitated a moment, wondering whether to intrude or not, then there was a flicker of movement, shadows across the light, and she knew Susannah was up. She went to the door and knocked. There was no answer. The tension tightened inside her, fear for Susannah overwhelming her. She turned the handle and went in.

Susannah was standing by the bed, her face completely colorless, her hair straggling and damp. There were dark shadows around her eyes as if she were bruised, and her nightgown clung damply to her skeletal body.

Emily did not need to ask if she was feverish, or even if she had been sick. The bed linen was tangled, trailing on the floor to one side, and Susannah was shaking.

Emily took off her shawl and wrapped it around Susannah's shoulders, then guided her to the bedroom chair. “Sit here for a few minutes,” she said gently. “I'll go and put my clothes on, then I'll heat some water, get clean towels, and remake the bed. I know where the linen cupboard is. Just wait for me.”

Susannah nodded, too spent to argue.

Emily had very little idea what she was doing, except to try to make Susannah as comfortable as she could. She had no experience in nursing the sick. Even her own children had always had a nanny for the occasional colds or stomach upsets. Susannah was dying, Emily knew she could do nothing to prevent it, and she realized how intensely that mattered to her. Care no longer had anything to do with duty, or even with earning Jack's good opinion.

When she was dressed she went downstairs, lighting the candles on the way, and banked up the fire to heat the water. If she were as ill as Susannah, she imagined she would long to be in a clean and un-crumpled bed, and perhaps not alone. Not spoken to, but just to know that if she opened her eyes, someone would be there.

It did not take her more than half an hour to strip the bed and remake it with clean linen, but in doing so she noticed that there was only one more set of sheets. She would have to launder tomorrow, without Maggie.

When the bed was ready, she carried up a bowl of warm water, and helped Susannah to strip off her soiled nightgown. She was horrified at how gaunt her body was, her flesh sunken until her skin seemed to hang empty on her arms and across her stomach. The mercy of clothes had hidden it before, and Susannah was not so ill as to be unaware of the change in herself.

Emily struggled to hide her fear at the wasting of disease, the change from a beautiful woman to one who was a ghost of her old self. She washed her gently, patting her dry because she was afraid the rub of the towel would bruise her, or even tear the fragile skin.

Afterwards she helped her into a clean nightgown, and half carried her to the bed.

“Thank you,” Susannah said with a faint smile. “I'll be all right now.” She lay back on the pillows, too exhausted to attempt concealing it.

“Of course you will,” Emily agreed, and sat in the armchair near the bed. “But I have no intention of leaving you.”

Susannah closed her eyes and seemed to drift into a light sleep.

Emily stayed there all night. Susannah stirred several times, and at about four in the morning, when the wind was higher, for some time she felt as if she might be sick again, but eventually the nausea passed away and she lay back. Emily went down to the kitchen and made her a cup of weak tea, and brought it up, offering it to her only after it had considerably cooled.

By daylight Emily was stiff and her eyes ached with tiredness, but there had been no more episodes, and Susannah seemed to be asleep and breathing without difficulty.

Emily went down to the kitchen to make herself tea and toast to see if she could revive her strength enough to begin the laundry.

She was halfway through the tasks when Daniel came in. “You look bad,” he said with sufficient sympathy to rob the words of insult. “Did the wind keep you up?”

“No. Susannah was ill. I'm afraid you're going to have to get your own breakfast, and maybe luncheon as well. With Maggie not coming I've too much to do to be cooking for you.”

“I'll help you,” he said quickly. “Toast will be fine. Maybe I'll fry an egg or two. Can I do one for you as well?”

“No, I'll do the eggs. You fetch the peat in and stoke the fires,” Emily replied. “I've got sheets to wash, and in this weather it won't be easy to get them dry.”

He looked up. “There's an airing rail,” he pointed out. “We'd best keep the kitchen warm and use that. Rough dry will have to do, if that's all we have time for.”

“Thank you,” she accepted.

“Is she bad?” he asked.

“Yes.” She had not the will or the strength to keep it from him.

“Maggie shouldn't have gone,” he shook his head. “That's my fault.”

“Is it? Why?” She asked not because she doubted him, but she needed the reason explained.

He looked a little uncomfortable. “Because I upset her. I was asking questions.”

“About what?”

“People,” he replied. “The village. She told me about Connor Riordan, some years ago. It was a powerful memory for her.”

“Was it?” Emily ignored the kettle, merely pushing it to the side off the hob. “Why? Did she know him well?”

His dark eyes were puzzled. “What are you trying to do, Mrs. Radley? Find out who killed him? Why do you want to know, after all this time?”

“Because his death is eating the heart out of the village,” she replied. “It was someone here who killed him, and everybody knows that.”

“Did Susannah ask you to? Is that why you came? You haven't come before, have you, in all the years she's been here? And yet I think you care for her.”

“I…” Emily began, intending to say that she had always cared for Susannah, but it was not true and the lie died on her tongue. Again she thought, is this how Conner Riordan was, seeing too much, saying too much? And with that thought the icelike grip in the pit of her stomach tightened. Was it all going to happen again? Would Daniel also be murdered, and the village die a little more? She realized that not only was he right in that she cared for Susannah, she cared about him also.

“I'm sorry,” he apologized ruefully. “You've been up all night trying to help Susannah, watching her suffer and knowing there's nothing you can do except be there, and wait, and I'm not helping. I'll get the peat in and see to the fires, and I'll start the laundry. That can't be too hard. But first we'll eat.”

She smiled back at him, the warmth opening inside her like a slow blossom. She would find out what happened to Connor Riordan, and she would make absolutely certain it did not happen again, however difficult that was, and whatever it cost her.

She and Daniel had just finished the heavy laundry when Father Tyndale arrived. They had the sheets put through the mangle until they were twisted as dry as possible, then she hung them on the airing rail in the kitchen, winched up to where the warm air from the stove would reach them. Father Tyndale looked tired in spite of the rosy color in his face from the buffeting of the wind. He seemed almost bruised by it, and his eyes watered in the warmth of the room.

“I'll take you up to see Susannah,” Emily said, immensely relieved to see him. His mere presence lifted the responsibility from her. As long as he was here, she was not alone. “She had a bad night, so don't be surprised to see her looking ill. I'll bring you both tea as soon as I make it.”

“Thank you.” He looked at her closely, and she knew he saw her own weariness, and perhaps something of the fear in her, however he made no remark on it, simply following her up the stairs.

“Father Tyndale?” Susannah said quickly, pulling herself up in the bed and lifting her hand to tidy her hair into some semblance of the beauty it had once had. Emily fetched the comb and did it for her. She even wondered whether to bring some of her own rouge to put a little color in Susannah's white cheeks, but decided it would look artificial, and deceive no one. She finished the hair instead, smiling back in approval before turning to invite Father Tyndale to come in.

She went back downstairs. This was a conversation that should have complete privacy. She returned with tea and a little thinly sliced bread and butter, hoping that with company Susannah would be able to eat.

It was over an hour later when Father Tyndale came into the kitchen carrying the tray with him. Daniel was occupied with jobs outside, and Emily was busy with getting vegetables ready for lunch, and then dinner. Before she came here it had been years since she'd done such tasks herself.

Father Tyndale sat in one of the hard-backed chairs, looking tired and too big for it.

“Brendan Flaherty has left the village,” he said quietly. “No one knows where he's gone, except maybe his mother, and she won't say.”

Emily was stunned. Her instant thought was that the quarrel between Brendan and his mother was much worse than she had assumed at the time. Then she wondered if it was whatever Daniel had said to him. What was Brendan running away from? The past, or the future? Or both?

“I was there at Mrs. Flaherty's house yesterday,” she said hesitantly. “Daniel was there, but out in the garden, talking to Brendan. Mrs. Flaherty saw them and was very angry. She went out and told Daniel to leave, pretty abruptly.”

Father Tyndale looked troubled, searching for words he knew already that he would not find.

She wanted to tell him about her suspicion that Brendan might have had some relationship with Connor Riordan that Mrs. Flaherty disapproved of violently, but she did not know how to frame it without offending him. “She was very upset,” she said again. “As if she were afraid of him.” She took a deep breath. “Was it Connor she was seeing in her mind? Why else would she be so fierce with Daniel? He's only been here a couple of days.”

“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.