The Shadows (24 page)

The lie came so easily to my lips. Slowly, I unfolded the paper.

The handwriting was unfamiliar. Flowing and rounded, almost pretentious in its ornamentation. Blotched, as if it had been folded hastily, before it was dry.

I stared at the note. The handwriting was so completely at odds with what I knew of him that I could hardly believe
it was really from him. But it had his sometimes imperious air about it, as if I must have nothing better to do than drop everything to meet him.

Which, actually, I didn’t.

I must speak with you about the other night.

When he’d laid beside me in my bed. When he’d been close enough to kiss. When I’d confessed the things I shouldn’t have confessed.

My dream. His skin against my fingers. That yearning.

I wanted to ignore it. But then I remembered the ogham stick and how furious I was with him, and nothing could have kept me away.

My mother would never allow me to walk to the Battery by myself, but if I took Rose . . . Well, the day was hot and unbearable; why shouldn’t we promenade on the Battery to enjoy the cool breezes off the harbor? In the middle of the afternoon, there were certain to be plenty of people about. We couldn’t be safer.

I folded the note into a small square, stuck it in my pocket, and sauntered into the parlor. I sighed and picked up one of the handkerchiefs Mama had just finished, pressing it to my forehead as I went to the window. “It’s so warm.”

Mama made a noise of agreement.

“I think I might ask Rose if she’ll go for a walk.”

“A walk?” Mama’s pale forehead creased.

“Perhaps down to the Battery.”

“That’s such a long way.” Mama bent again to her sewing. “Perhaps Rose’s mother will let you take the carriage.”

“I’ll ask.” Impulsively, I bent to give her a hug—which was too much, I knew immediately. She looked at me with a frown.

I said, “I’ll be back before supper.”

I left the room nearly before I finished speaking. I walked as quickly as I could to Rose’s, just short of running, and by the time I arrived, I felt the trickle of sweat at my hairline, and my corset felt almost unbearably tight.

The maid opened the door, but before she could get a word out, Rose, who’d been coming down the stairs, rushed past her. “Grace! I had just thought to send for you. D’you want to get some ice cream? It’s so damned hot.”

The curse made me smile—it was so at odds with Rose’s pert prettiness, though I knew she did it just to shock people.

“What about a walk on the Battery instead?”

She wrinkled her nose. “There’ll be a hundred people there at least.”

I pulled the note from my pocket and handed it to her.

“What’s this?” She unfolded the paper. “Derry?” She looked at me in concern. “Grace, what did I tell you? He’s Lucy’s boy. And what’s this about the other night? You haven’t been seeing him?”

I said, a little too hotly, “Of course not. I’ve no idea why he wants me to meet him.”

Her brown eyes were suspicious.

I sighed. “Oh very well, I might have
some
idea. I told him about Patrick’s relics when we were at the parish fair. I think he might want to ask me about them.”

“He’s interested in relics? Why doesn’t he ask Patrick then?”

“Please, Rose. Come with me, or I shall have to go alone.”

“No, you certainly will not,” she said sternly. “I’ll come with you. If only to be sure this is nothing more than you say.”

“Believe me, I’d rather embroider a dozen handkerchiefs than spend another moment with him. But if it’s about Patrick, I should find out what he wants.”

Rose snorted inelegantly and went to ask her mother’s permission. “We’re to take the carriage down,” she said when she returned, which meant we had to wait for it to be brought around. “No good can come of this,” Rose muttered. “Lucy will have your head if she finds out.”

“And if she finds out, you can tell her there was nothing in it,” I said.

Finally, the carriage came, and once it did I wished it hadn’t. The constant jerking and swaying of the springs in the sweltering heat nauseated me. When we pulled to a stop at the entrance to the park, I stumbled out, taking deep breaths until I realized it wasn’t just the motion of the carriage that had made me queasy, but the thought of seeing Derry again.

Battery Park was twelve acres of broad stone paths twined with shrubbery and flowers. In the center was the flagstaff where we were to meet Derry, near the empty bandstand. The park was as full as predicted, all sorts of people, not just the well-to-do, wandering about the elms, lifting their faces to the nearly nonexistent breeze coming off the harbor; others standing near the huge stone wall where granite stairs led to the water. I heard the waves from passing steamers slapping
against the wall. Beyond was Brooklyn, and Governors and Staten Islands, and the bridge to Castle Garden, where immigrants first came into the city.

What a horrible idea this was. I must be mad. If Lucy discovered this—I didn’t want to see him again, not even to rage at him. Whatever Derry wanted to tell me about the other night, I had no wish to hear.

But Rose was grabbing my arm. “The flagstaff—isn’t that where we’re to meet him?” She pulled me down a stone path, past three men lolling on the ground as if they had nowhere else to go and a little boy and girl sitting restlessly on a cast-iron bench, looking longingly at the children playing tag.

The flag at the top of the staff fluttered limply, and dark clouds hovered ominously near the horizon. But the thunder seemed to have quieted for a while. I hadn’t realized how disconcerting it was until it was gone.

“It’s after one,” Rose noted as we reached the flagpole. She put her hand to her eyes, searching the crowd. “Didn’t he say one?”

“Yes.” I didn’t see him anywhere. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to get away from the stables, or we were too late. I took Rose’s arm. “He’s obviously not coming. We should—”

A young man stepped from the crowd. Blond-haired, handsome enough to make me gasp, and then . . . a screeching, searing light pulsed from him.
Like Derry,
I thought in the moment before the pain slammed into my head and I cried out, my legs collapsing beneath me. I heard Rose’s “Grace!” and then I fell.

Derry was there before I hit the ground, arms around me, murmuring, “Steady, lass,” low in my ear, but this time the pain did not go when he touched me. It hurt so much—someone was moaning, keening. . . . I heard his voice as if it came from miles away, harsh and urgent, “Touch her. Now! Get over here and touch her.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. A voice I didn’t recognize. “Like this?”

The pain eased. The blinding light faded to a red pulse and then left completely. I heard my own gasping breaths, and I felt Derry’s arms tight about me, his chest against my back as I sagged against him, the brush of his thick hair against my cheek as he leaned over my shoulder to say “Are you all right now?”

I nodded. “I think so.”

His arms didn’t loosen. I opened my eyes to see Rose staring at me and the handsome golden boy beside her, his arms folded over his chest, looking at me as if I were some animal in a zoo, fascinated and wary at the same time.

“What happened?” Rose asked.

“I . . . I don’t know. I felt a little faint.” How warm Derry was—
bare chested and laughing . . . No.
I pushed at his arms so he would release me. “I’m all right.”

He let go with obvious reluctance, grabbing my arm again when I wavered.

“It must be the heat,” I said, trying to smile.

Derry looked at me searchingly, and then he gestured to the other young man. “This is my friend Oscar.”

“And this is Rose—Miss Fitzgerald,” I said.

“You didn’t trust me enough to come alone, I see.”

“You didn’t come alone either,” I pointed out.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Knox,” Oscar said, stepping forward. He smiled at Rose. “And yours, Miss Fitzgerald.” He had green eyes to go with his white-blond hair. His face was chiseled, his mouth set in what looked like a perpetual smile. His Irish accent was as heavy as Derry’s.

And Rose, I saw, was taken. “Oscar,” she said with a flirtatious smile. “How do you know Derry?”

“We came over together,” he said. “On the same boat, eh, Derry?”

“Aye. The same boat.”

“Do you work in the stables as well?”

Oscar’s eyes twinkled. He glanced at Derry and then at Rose. “I leave the horses to Derry. Just now I’m at my leisure.”

“I see.” Rose’s smile widened. “Well, if you’re at your leisure, you’ve time for a promenade. Shall we walk where it’s cooler?”

Rose was absolutely shameless.

“The two of you go on. We’ll catch up,” said Derry, and I remembered why I’d agreed to meet him. The headache that had faded took up residence again in my temple.

Rose said, “Are you certain you’re all right, Grace?”

I nodded, thinking how easily she meant to leave me alone with Lucy’s beau, no matter how much she had warned me. But then again, Oscar was gorgeous. Not so much as Derry, but still . . . Rose gave me a can-you-believe-this? look as he offered
his arm and the two of them set off down the path, her skirt swaying with the exaggerated movement of her hips.

“Your friend seems to like him,” Derry noted once they were away.

I swirled on him so quickly my skirt caught on the toe of his boot. “Who is he? Why did you bring him here?”

“You saw the glow in him too. I know you did.”

“He was in the sun.”

Derry glanced at the sky. “It’s pretty overcast today, don’t you think?”

I put a hand to my eyes. “Who is he?”

“Let’s sit down,” he urged.

“I don’t want to sit anywhere with you.”

“You’d rather I have to catch you again? You like the feel of me that much?”

I felt the blood rush into my face. “I don’t like you at all,” I lied.

“I know.” He gestured to a nearby bench. “But sit with me anyway.”

“Why did you ask me here today?”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

I glanced back to Rose and Oscar, who were moving toward the seawall. The way Oscar had glowed, the way his touch had restored me . . . just like Derry.

“Grace.” Derry’s voice was very soft. “Sit down.” I didn’t resist as he took my hand and led me to the bench.

Once we were there, he didn’t release my hand. His fingers were long, almost elegant, I noticed, staring down at
them, thinking I should pull away, that I should tell him not to touch me. But the throbbing in my temples was gone, and I knew that if he took his hand away, it would come back.

He said, “I wanted to tell you that I’m not returning the ogham stick just yet. I will, just . . . it’s taking longer than I’d thought.”

I looked at him in alarm. “The police are looking for you. They came to the house. Patrick came with them. He saw . . .”
how poor we are.

“He saw what?”

“You might have ruined everything.”

“You think Devlin won’t want you once he sees how far your family’s fallen?”

His perception stunned me.

He smiled a little grimly. “That won’t happen.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Because—” He looked away, taking a deep breath. “Because I know it. What makes you think he’d abandon you now that he’s seen how you live?”

“I don’t. I’m just . . . afraid.”

“Why wouldn’t he want to help you?” He was still looking away. “I would, if it were me.”

“That’s even more humiliating,” I whispered.

He turned to me, his hair falling forward to obscure his dark-blue eyes so that I felt again the urge to push it away, to really see what he was thinking. “Aye. You have your pride. ’Tis no small thing.”

He understood.

“It’s an honest thing in a world where there aren’t many honest things. You should hold on to it. Don’t let anyone tell you ’tisn’t worth keeping.”

“Holding on to my pride means my family goes hungry. It means we lose everything else we have—everything Aidan hasn’t already lost for us. If it were just me . . . but it’s not. I’ve my mother and my grandmother to worry about.”

“Your brother’s fault. Not yours. Why do you pay the price for it?”

“Because Aidan won’t. Or can’t. Everything belongs to him, and there’s nothing I can do to make him care about it.” Again I thought of that look I’d seen in my brother’s eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

Derry squeezed my hand. “Perhaps Devlin could—”

“Patrick doesn’t know,” I said, horrified. “He
can’t
know. If he found out about Aidan’s debaucheries, or how much we owe . . .”

“You think he won’t find out? Or are you just hoping to keep it from him until he’s married you?”

I heard the censure in his words.

“Not a good way to start a marriage, though I suppose not . . . unusual.”

I had not thought of it that way. I felt suddenly dirty. I pulled my hand from his and buried it in my lap.

“But ’tis none of my business,” he said.

“No, it’s not,” I said coldly.

“Do you love him?”

“That’s none of your business either.”

He nodded. “Where I’m from, the age of choice for a girl is fourteen. She can choose anything, but few choose marriage. You’ve so much before you—”