Stormfire (99 page)

"My work at the hospital has given me deep satisfaction. It isn't the paradise on earth I knew with you, but yes"— she looked directly at him—"I'm happy. At least I will be now that you're safe. You're not going back to the army, are you?"

"I couldn't if I wanted to," he replied with a crooked grin. "I deserted."

"Oh, Sean! They'll be after you too."

"It doesn't matter. Austria is going to be defeated. You just saved me from another lost cause, that's all."

"I?"

"Didn't you know
Monseigneur
Messier had written me?"

"No," she said, suddenly tense. "I didn't know you were coming until I saw you. What did he say?"

"Not much. I expect he'll enlighten us both in a few minutes. We're to report like dutiful children to the study. . ." He grimaced. "After we've had our chaste reunion."

His bitterness stabbed her and she touched his sleeve. "You mustn't think of it anymore, Sean. Our lives run in very different paths now. Take Brendan to America and begin again."

Sean began to pace aimlessly. "He hardly knows me. How can he be expected to accept the loss of his home and mother?" .

"He must go, Sean. You've seen his distorted view of the world."

"Hell, he thinks I'm a bloody hero," he protested. "I'm a professional butcher."

"You're more man and hero than he'll ever find in dreaming! Can you ever know my pride that
you're
his sire?"

He wanted to believe, yet found himself only grateful for her stubborn faith. "Be proud for both of us then, Kit, for I've not a scrap of pride left, save in the boy."

Brendan appeared leading a slim nun by the hand. Sean swore softly as the girl grew close enough to recognize.
"Mei
Lih."

"My lord, I am very happy to see you well." She smiled and bowed.

Brendan bounced impatiently. "He's not Jesus, Sister, just my father!"

Marie Angelique's eyes danced as Sean laughed ruefully. "Out of the mouths of babes. . . Perhaps we can talk later, but
Monseigneur
Messier is waiting now to see Kit and me. We shouldn't be longer than an hour."

"Of course. We'll have a picnic, won't we, Brendan?" Marie Angelique looked down at the boy who was gazing upward, fascinated by his father's beard.

"What's a picnic?"

"Something especially nice, darling." Catherine kissed him. "Run and help Sister get everything ready."

The boy regarded her uncertainly. "Will you be here when we come back?"

"Yes, darling," Catherine answered unevenly, wondering if he had sensed something. "Your father and I are just going to talk with
Monseigneur
for a little."

Marie Angelique led the boy away. Sean started to speak and Catherine put her hand on his breast. "Don't say it, my love. I've been at war with myself for four years and my heart is sore."

Messier stood up as he greeted Sean from behind a desk in the small, book-lined room. Arched windows opened on the courtyard, their panes brushed with branches of lilac. An occasional bird twitter carried in.

"I've wanted to meet you for a long time, Monsieur Culhane," Messier said. "Catherine has told me much about you."

I'll bet, Sean thought ironically. Catherine's confession must have been the liveliest tale he's heard in years. "I'm grateful to you,
Monseigneur,
for befriending her."

"Catherine is a most charming young woman, but I have a greater interest than friendship; rather, say, an obligation."

The silver-haired prelate indicated they should sit, then resumed Mother Superior's high-backed chair and wedged himself into an elegant slump. "Many years ago, against my better judgment, I married
Elise de Vigny
to John Enderly. Now, I realize the disasters that union begot. When you arrived here, Catherine, I made inquiries about your background but had little luck. After you expressed your desire to enter the Church and cede it your inheritance, I had an idea. Most of my investigation was blocked by Father Patrick Ryan'in Ireland and his refusal to contribute information that might shed light on your case."

He smiled. "I must confess to a certain duplicity. I wrote Father Ryan again and implied that Catherine Culhane planned to leave her property to the Church and certain Vatican officials would take it kindly if he could help untangle difficulties concerning claims to the Shelan estate. As far as Father Ryan knows, you, Catherine, are the last surviving heir of those properties, and you, Monsieur Culhane, are dead." His fine hands spread. "As to the last, I did not enlighten him. I requested a copy of the will and ' codicil, which unfortunately he no longer possessed. Apparently, Liam Culhane took the only copy; but, being now eager to serve his Church, Father Ryan suggested Brendan Culhane might have entrusted a copy to another priest as a safety measure, Ireland often being in turmoil, Catholics persecuted and their records destroyed. He mentioned several possible clerics, and eventually I traced a copy of the will to the archbishop of Londonderry; I have it here." He indicated a sheaf of papers. "It is as you described to me, Catherine, except for one vital part, which I will read to you now."

He found the page. "Your mother, Monsieur Culhane, had become convinced her husband and
Elise
Enderly were lovers."

He began to read. " 'Megan vowed revenge that would hurt me most. My dearest friend, Lockland Fitzhugh, had been in love with her for years, yet certain his honor would never permit a sordid venture against mine, Megan and I continued our close association with him. She seduced him. I cannot blame him; I, once bewitched by her, freely forgive him, who will not forgive himself.
There
was no doubt Sean was not my son. Now, I forgive her; but then, I wanted a son like that proud, fiery boy too much.

" 'When you returned, to Shelan, Sean, I had your presence, but I never had your heart. In my mind, you are my son. I hope one day you will accept this indulgence.'

"It goes on from there in the same vein as the other will."

The dumbstruck young people stared at the priest as if he were some hobgoblin sent to torment them further.

"Something's wrong." Sean muttered hoarsely. "The other will was in Brendan's writing; I know his hand. I was looking for a forgery."

"The other will was probably authentic, for the most part. I never saw it, so I can only surmise, but I would guess the division of pages lent itself to partial forgery. Your brother was an artist. He probably gambled on your being too shocked by the revelation to think clearly. He didn't allow you to handle the codicil for long, did he?"

"No," the Irishman said numbly.

"And after all, he
appeared
to have as much to lose as you by such a document. But as you see,
you
are not related to Catherine at all." The Jesuit handed'the will across the desk. "Here, see what you think."

Sean went through each page, then finally looked up at Catherine, who sat transfixed with a kind of horror in her eyes. "Kit," he whispered, "it was all for nothing."

Her eyes closed. "When Liam was dying, he said, 'Not his . . . never his . . . only mine.' We thought he was possessive to the bitter end, but perhaps he was trying to tell the truth."

"One thing you should know," Messier interposed. "My investigation was greatly assisted by the
duc d'Artois."

Both dark heads snapped up and he smiled. "I presumed he had assigned agents to Catherine after the Irish prison incident.. He was most relieved to hear you were spying
against
Napoleon, Monsieur Culhane; it corrected the impression that Catherine had betrayed his trust.

"He offered a guilty conscience as his reason for assisting me. You see, he had ordered Enderly's extermination after Catherine's apparent defection, but someone else intercepted Enderly on the way to Edinburgh at the invitation of the duc—an invitation to assassination. The men hired to perform the killing found Enderly decapitated on the road."

"Amin," whispered Catherine. "He must have ridden him down in the dark. I've seen him cap strawberries at a gallop."

Sean shook his head, still dazed. "I cannot believe
Artois
would help us. He wants Catherine for himself."

"The duc knows well the privations of exile and disappointment. Is it so strange he might wish to spare one he loves from the same fate?"

An hour later, they stood before
Monseigneur
Messier at the chapel altar. Neatly buttoned and brushed, Sean had taken a quick bath and shave and given his boots a buff. Over the braided coronet of her hair, Catherine wore a delicate garland of mignonettes and marguerite daisies Marie Angelique had woven to cap her white novice's veil. In her hands was a small matching bouquet. Marie Angelique, Mother Superior, and Brendan were the only visible observers; others were shadowed behind a screen in the choir loft, their singing pure as a nightingale's call at sunset. Catherine's eyes glistened as Sean repeated his vows. His eyes met hers and he almost drifted into silence. Behind her cloudy veil, her exquisite face was luminous.

Later, as they walked alone through the convent gardens, Sean felt peace, yet subtle suspense, as if not yet assured of awakening from a nightmare. Above the convent roof the cloudy scales of a mackerel sky curved against the setting sun like massive, fiery fish. The convent's simple cross rose against the sun. A smile flickered unwillingly across the Irishman's mouth. If You're a Fisher of Men,

You're as stubborn as I am. You wait until the fight's gone out of me, then ease the line. If You've reclaimed my soul through
this woman,
I'll
buy
each day with her with my
life, my soul, only don't ever
let her stop loving
me . . .