Chapter 2
2
brAIDEN
W hen I catch the feckin’ eejit who left the door open to the third floor, I’m sending her back to Ireland by the first flight from Philadelphia International Airport.
Her . Because I know this is all Grace Poole’s fault. Once again, that drunken wagon forgot herself. Once again, she failed to turn the key. Once again, she let Birte wander free through Thornfield.
Plenty of men say I don’t have a conscience, but they lie. I’ve got one. I just don’t consult it much.
The one exception to that rule: The woman finishing her cuppa now, at my right hand.
I hold up a finger, begging a minute, because I can’t have Birte hearing the things I need to say. Samantha’s lips thin; she’s clearly ready to argue. But she’s not a wicked woman. She’s not cruel, and it’s clear something with Birte is off. Samantha gives me one tight nod, turning her back while I do what I must.
Birte Antóinín Mason is the biggest mistake of my life, the great wrong I’ll never atone for. She’s the reason I’ve tolerated Grace Poole’s incompetence in this house for seven long years. She’s why I’ve paid a king’s ransom to tutors, trying to care for Aiofe.
And she’s the reason I test my voice in my head now, before speaking out loud. I know from past experience that a harsh tone will leave Birte sobbing for days. So I take extra care as I ask, “Ready for another cuppa, lass?”
She nods, her eyes as big as collection plates. I fetch her cup and fill it with tea, stirring in the four sugars I know she loves.
I can’t send her into the kitchen, not with Fairfax taking his day off. The last thing I need is to put an unsupervised Birte anywhere near a rack of knives.
Swearing under my breath, I stomp back to the mudroom. Of course Birte doesn’t have a coat there, but Fairfax has left one of his wool jackets. I check the pockets and find my first bit of good luck today—a pair of knit gloves.
Back in the dining room, I help Birte into the coat. I button it for her, and I help her slide her hands into the gloves. “Let’s take your cuppa outdoors, then,” I say. “Get a bit of sun.”
It’s not a perfect solution. If she spies a rabbit, she’ll go chasing after it, hoping to find more in a den. But I put her in one of the chairs on the flagstone patio and give her my wristwatch. I tell her I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, that she should drink her tea and watch the sky and see if she spies any hawks.
When I get back to the dining room, Samantha’s pacing. I catch her dashing a hand against her face, and I know she’s wiping away tears she doesn’t want me to see. Whether they’re from anger or sorrow, I can’t say for sure, but I know I’m the source of them, and I hate myself a little more.
“All right,” I say to Samantha, taking up a place by the window so I can keep an eye on Birte. “Ask me your questions.”
“Are you really married to her?”
“Yes,” I say, because the time for lying is long past.
“And you married me too? ”
“Not exactly.”
I intend my answer to buy me a few seconds to phrase a better one. I don’t count on Samantha’s frayed temper. “Don’t fuck with me, Braiden.”
“Father Brennan,” I say. “Who performed our wedding. He’s a defrocked priest, without proper authority to confer the sacrament of marriage.”
“Just so we’re absolutely clear, you knew that fact the day you dragged me into St. Columba’s? You were one hundred percent aware our wedding was a fraud?”
She sounds like she’s interrogating a witness on the stand. I sigh, but I don’t try to duck the truth. “Yes.”
“Why?”
It’s a simple question. One word. Three letters. But the answer might take a lifetime to explain.
“I married you to keep you safe from Russo.” But we’re being honest now, so I have to confess more. “And to fuck with Russo’s mind. To take something he wanted.”
She takes the blow like a trained boxer. One breath, and then she’s back to her inquisition. “When did you marry Birte?”
“Seven years ago.”
“Why do you keep her locked in the attic?”
I swallow something that tastes like turned wine. “Look at her,” I say, jutting my chin toward the window. “She’s a danger to herself and to anyone around her.”
“ Her? ” Samantha has a right to sound skeptical. She doesn’t know Birte’s physical strength, the hard muscles of a woman who worked on a farm. She doesn’t understand Birte’s rage.
“You’ve seen what she can do. The fire, in front of my office.”
I see Samantha remember the blaze, the trio of altar candles and the stench of burned wood, the heavy scorched door hacked to pieces, after. That was the last time Grace forgot her duties .
No, not forgot. The last time Grace was so drunk that Birte escaped.
Samantha says, “Birte set the fire. Not Grace, like you said at the time.”
“Yes. Birte did it.”
“Why does she want to kill you?”
“I don’t think she does. I think she was trying to save me. Trying to save my soul, at least. I asked her, but she couldn’t explain. Or she wouldn’t.”
“What the fuck did you do to her?”
And now we’re at the heart of it. I take a deep breath and start. “Birte and I met in Dublin. She was just up from County Cork, first time in the city. And I was working for my da.”
I pause, praying Samantha will read between those lines. She knows what I do. What Da did. All the reasons a man might be in Dublin that he doesn’t want to say out loud. She gives a single, stiff nod, which I take as permission to go on.
“For Birte and me, it was a crazy kind of love. She was young and sweet and innocent, not like girls here in the States.”
Samantha rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t cut me off.
“I fell for her, hard. And when she said I wouldn’t get past her knickers without putting a ring on her finger, I was willing to take the leap.”
“That must have gone over well with your father,” Samantha says, like she’s watching a trite old movie, giving it two stars in a devastating review.
“I didn’t tell Da. Didn’t tell Madden, either. I figured I’d bring my bride back after all was well and done, and there was nothing either one of them could do.”
Christ. My voice breaks on that last word. All these years, and when I’m finally allowed to tell the story, I sound like a little boy who broke his Christmas toy before he ever got to play.
Of course Samantha hears. She’s softer now when she speaks. “What happened?”
“Birte wore her mother’s wedding gown. She had wildflowers in her hair. It rained that day, all morning long, but that was supposed to bring us luck. I didn’t care that I had no family there, but Birte wanted to bring in American traditions. Her nephew, Finn, was our ring bearer. Her niece, Aiofe, was the flower girl.”
“Aiofe,” Samantha says. She looks toward the seat at the table, the one where Aiofe has sat for every meal we’ve shared as a family.
I nod, because that’s easier than saying the rest out loud.
“Grace told me,” Samantha says. “Finn was a year older than Aiofe. That he…what did she say? That he treated her like she was a daughter of King O’Hara. And Aiofe loved him like he put the green in shamrocks.”
“Then you know what happened.” I’m furious with Grace for sharing the story with anyone. But I’m grateful, too, that I won’t have say the words out loud.
Samantha shakes her head. “She was telling me. In the greenhouse. But you found us and sent her away.”
And tied me to an iron bench and ate me out till I came six times and begged for mercy.
She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t have to. We both know what happened that day. I sent Grace from the greenhouse. So I’m doomed to finish the story now.
“Birte’s parents were gone, but her brother told her not to marry me. Niall said I was a criminal. Said I couldn’t love her. Wouldn’t keep her safe.” Even after all this time, the words are ash in my mouth.
Samantha’s waiting. I have to go on. She has to know what happened. “Niall couldn’t poison Birte against me. So he did the only thing he could think of to stop our wedding. He showed up with a knife.”
Samantha gasps. Whatever she’s imagining, it isn’t right. Isn’t bad enough. Isn’t the truth.
“Birte was prepared for trouble. She asked four strong lads from the village to wait by the church doors, to keep Niall from interrupting the service. They did as they promised. They kept him out of the church while we were wed.”
I want to close my eyes. I want to shut away the memory of what happened next. But I can’t do it. I can’t look away from Birte on the patio. I have to keep her safe now, because I didn’t keep her safe then.
“We left the church together, Birte and me. The sun came out while we were inside the church, and we were blind at the top of the steps. Niall hollered as he came at me, Irish words that Birte understood before I did. She stepped in front of me. Tried to save me.”
It’s all happening again, as bright as a big-screen movie. And I’m as powerless to make it stop as any ticket-buying jackeen.
“Niall saw her move. He wouldn’t hurt his sister. He spun away. But he slipped on the wet stone, and he fell hard. It was just shite luck that Finn was in the way. That the knife was as sharp as it was. That Finn was looking up at his Da, craning his neck like that…”
Blood. So much blood.
I’ve killed more men that I’m willing to admit. Some of them I’ve wanted to hurt, wanted to make bleed. But I’ve never seen so much blood pour from so small a body.
I shake my head, trying to chase away the image. “Birte held him while he died. Niall saw what he’d done, and he turned the knife on himself. So then Birte held Aiofe while she screamed, while her father died.”
“Oh my God,” Samantha whispers.
I’m almost through now. She knows everything she has to, but I might as well wrap up the rest, bloody bow and all. “Grace practically raised Birte and Niall, watched over them when they were children. After…the wedding, she was the only one who could get Birte to sleep at night. The only one who could calm Aiofe.”
“So you brought them all back here,” Samantha says.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Wasn’t meant to last this long. But Grace drinks, and Aiofe’s mute, and Birte…” I shrug, gesturing toward the window.
“Seven years,” Samantha says, as if I haven’t already counted out every one of those days.
I have to risk it. I have to look away from Birte. I have to turn to Samantha to say the last bit. “So yes, Birte’s my wife. She’s never shared my bed. Never spent a single night alone with me. But legally, and before the eyes of God, we’re married.” That’s it. That’s the truth. I’m left with only a question: “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”