Chapter 17
After her sister’s early departure, Maeve was torn. The rule follower in her felt duty-bound to obey their guide’s instructions and join the others when they trailed after her in the direction of the kitchen.
But she felt drawn back to the library. The group had only briefly gazed into the room, lined with massive glass-doored bookcases, behind which stood row after row of leather-bound volumes, their spines stamped in gold lettering.
Inevitably, she drifted back toward the library doorway and, shocking herself, she ducked under the velvet rope and into forbidden territory.
Tiptoeing past a battleship-sized mahogany desk, she quickly opened the nearest bookcase door.
The heady perfume of old books and old leather wafted out.
She sniffed appreciatively, then, glancing around to ensure that no armed security guards were lurking nearby, she lightly ran a fingertip over a row of volumes.
Some titles were in French, which she didn’t speak or read, and others in Latin, which she could only dimly remember from her Catholic school upbringing, but she could nonetheless appreciate their antique beauty.
Nearby, a pair of armchairs beckoned. They were pulled in front of a fireplace that took up an entire wall.
The tufted leather upholstery was cracked and dusty and she was sorely tempted to pluck a book from the shelf and sink down into one of those chairs.
Here, the aroma smelled faintly of pipe tobacco, woodsmoke, and even, she thought, wet dog.
But maybe she’d watched too much BritBox lately.
Instead of sitting, she quickly backed out of the library and motored down the hallway. She stopped in the portrait gallery, using her phone to snap photos of all the esteemed family members who’d once called Tarrymore home.
Now that the area was empty, she noticed several dark rectangles where the wallpaper around them had faded.
Did these mark the spots where the missing paintings had hung, including the portrait of Lady G?
Moving down the hallway, she paused in front of what appeared to be a matched set of portraits in oval frames. According to the small brass plaques affixed to the bottoms of the frames, these were Edward and Fiona Rossington, the lord and lady of Tarrymore.
She stared long and hard at the lord’s face, with its broad forehead and voluptuous lips.
Almost unconsciously she touched her own forehead, which to her mind, like Mary Helen’s, was freakishly large.
For as long as Maeve could remember, her mother had worn bangs, and insisted that her youngest daughter, too, should wear them, ever since the day Maeve came home from school in tears after a classmate called her “Frankenmaeve.”
Lady Fiona was probably considered a beauty in her day, or at least she was painted as such, with hazel eyes and a stylish Roaring Twenties brunette bob that lent her a coquettish look. Looped around her neck was an impressive diamond-and-pearl necklace.
Nearby hung a smaller portrait, in a similar frame, of an older woman.
She too had a high, broad forehead, with auburn hair pulled back in an unfortunate updo that did her no favors.
She had piercing blue eyes and an enigmatic semi-smile.
The brass plaque said she was Lady Delia. Maeve snapped a quick photo.
“Miss?”
Maeve jumped and nearly dropped her phone.
It was Aerin, the tour guide. She felt her face flush with guilt. Had Aerin seen her sneak into the library and manhandle the precious leather-bound books?
“The rest of your group has already exited. I’ll have to ask you to do the same.”
“Oh. Well, thank you. I guess I got distracted.” She began walking in the direction of the kitchen.
“No,” Aerin said sharply. She pointed to a hallway to the right. “The exit is this way.”
As she left the mansion Maeve glanced down at the Tarrymore ticket brochure, which contained a coupon for five euros off a tour of the Tarrymore distillery.
It was late. She was tired, yet too restless to retire to her room, where Therese was likely passed out cold.
The path back to the inn had a discreet sign with two arrows, one pointing right toward the inn, the other toward the distillery. She turned left.
The rest of their tour group had apparently decided they too should take advantage of the coupon. They were standing just outside the entrance to what looked like a weather-beaten stable.
She hurried up to a bearded man wearing jeans, a button-down burgundy shirt, and a long leather apron. “Am I too late?” she asked, trying to catch her breath as she handed the coupon and her credit card to the ticket-taker.
“It’s never too late for tasting good whiskey,” he said, not looking up from the tablet where he’d just tapped her credit card.
“Come along then,” he said, flashing her a quick smile before gesturing to the rest of the group to gather around.
“Welcome to Tarrymore Distillery. We think we make some of the finest whiskies in the world, but I’ll leave that to you folk to decide.
Follow me inside, and I’ll bore you for a bit while I tell you how we make that magic, and then, at the end, you’ll decide if the wait was worth the taste.
I’m William, by the way, but they just call me Liam.
You’ve gotten me by default today, because I’m actually the head distiller, but we’re short-handed today, so you’ll just have to put up with my nattering. ”
Maeve saw one of the Australian men poke his partner in the ribs and waggle an eyebrow.
“Here at Tarrymore, we make what we think is the best kind of Irish whiskey, which is single pot. That means we make it in a single still. And we use a mix of malted and unmalted barley, which, happily, is grown here in Ireland.
“Now, I think we might have an American visitor in our group today,” Liam said as they entered a huge room filled with stainless steel racks holding wooden barrels. The smell of whiskey was nearly overpowering.
He nodded at Maeve. “What’s your name, then, and where are you from in the States?”
“Uh, Maeve. Maeve Dunagin. I’m from Savannah, Georgia.”
“Here to trace your Irish roots, are you?”
Dammit, she could feel her face grow hot. And now it was probably beet red.
“Something like that,” she managed.
“Well, Maeve Dunagin, it might interest you to know that these oak barrels we use to age our whiskey come all the way from Kentucky, where they know a thing or two about making spirits.”
“That is interesting,” Maeve said. “What’s so special about these barrels that you import them from Kentucky?”
He smiled broadly, revealing a small gap between his two front teeth.
“Ahh, I’m glad you asked. You see, Irish whiskey, by law, must be aged for at least three years here in Ireland before it can be bottled and sold as Irish whiskey.
Here at Tarrymore, we use oak barrels from Kentucky, which were previously used to age their bourbon.
We like the white oak barrels because they contribute a kind of vanilla sweetness. ”
Maeve nodded her understanding.
“The other thing special about those barrels is that they’re charred inside. That charring cooks the oak, allowing the sugars and vanillas in the oak to be released more quickly, yet at the same time, plays a role in making our whiskey taste more matured.”
“Those barrels from Kentucky are cheaper, right?” the taller of the Australians asked. “Because American law specifies their bourbon barrels can only be used once, correct?”
Liam did a slight bow from the waist. “I see you fellas know your way around a bottle of whiskey.”
“And bourbon,” his younger partner said, winking.
Now he addressed the Asian tourists, who’d been hanging on every word. “Now, you lot, you’re from Japan, I reckon?”
“Yes,” said a middle-aged woman. “My name is Akiko.”
“Japan is one of our biggest global export markets for whiskey. So I’m thinking you’ll be interested in tasting what we produce?”
“Very interested,” she said. “It’s why we came here today. The house is lovely, of course, but we”—she gestured at the others in her group—“belong to a spirits club, and on this trip, we’re traveling to some of the lesser-known distillers in Ireland.”
Liam winced at the term “lesser-known.”
“Of course, we’ve been to Glendalough and Tullamore. And Bushmill’s…”
“Bushmill’s,” Liam said with a disdainful sniff. “I suppose it’s all right. For some.”
“We very much enjoyed the sixteen-year single malt Bushmill’s,” Akiko said with a smile.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll find we make a product here that can hold its own with those distillers,” he said.
As the tour proceeded through a room with tall stainless steel vats that he described as pot stills, Maeve found her eyes glazing over. She liked whiskey all right, mostly in an old-fashioned, but really, she did not find the process of distilling the stuff particularly fascinating.
Liam, however, was a different matter. She followed dutifully along, trying hard not to stare at him.
He wasn’t particularly tall, but he had a burly build that didn’t usually appeal to her.
His dark, curly hair was thinning a bit at the front, and she generally wasn’t attracted to men with facial hair, but Liam?
There was something magnetic about him, and she couldn’t discount the charm of his accent, or the deep blue eyes.
She caught herself yawning more than once as their guide explained the distilling and bottling process, and was relieved when he showed them into a small room that he said had once been storage for the estate’s horse-drawn carriage.
Although the walls were made of rough-hewn planks, the stone floor was polished and three large iron lanterns were hung from the high ceiling, illuminating a wall displaying Tarrymore’s four different brands of whiskey, along with an array of cut-glass tumblers and sterling silver cups.
All the barware was engraved with the Tarrymore insignia.
A long marble counter ran along the wall in front of the display.
Liam stood behind the bar and indicated that the tour group members should seat themselves on the barstools.
Four different tumblers were placed at each setting, and Liam quickly went down the line, pouring a finger of whiskey in each glass, explaining as he went about the different taste profiles of each brand.
Maeve politely tasted each variety as he talked of flavors of citrus, pound cake, caramel, and apples.
Toward the end of Liam’s sales pitch a young woman wearing khaki slacks and a burgundy Tarrymore polo shirt slid behind the counter to take the tour members’ purchase orders. Maeve dutifully purchased the smallest bottle on offer, along with a silver shot cup.
She was putting her credit card away when Liam appeared in front of her. He gave her a bemused look. “Not really a big whiskey fan, are you?”
“I like whiskey all right. But mostly in mixed drinks.”
He drew back in mock horror. “Don’t tell me you mix your whiskey with Diet Coke!”
“I’ll drink the occasional old-fashioned, or a Manhattan, but if you want the truth, I mostly drink white wine.”
“A nice Chardonnay with dinner, is that it?”
“Usually.”
He shook his head. “Then why take the time and trouble to do this tour?”
She was too tired to lie. “Honestly? It was the five-euro coupon that came with our ticket for the house tour. Plus, our flight landed in Dublin early this morning. I read that if you make yourself stay awake as late as possible the day of your arrival, the jet lag isn’t as bad.”
“So I’m just a cheap cure for jet lag, is that it, Maeve Dunagin?”
She was taken aback that he remembered her name. And also a little flattered.
“Guilty.”
“Well, you’ve got at least another hour or so of daylight left. What’s next on your agenda?”
“Not sure,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit of the rest of the estate, and maybe drive into the village, but I’m terrified I might fall asleep at the wheel. So maybe I’ll just go back to the inn.”
“But it’s a glorious day out there. We don’t get a lot of those in this part of the country. It’d be a dirty shame to just lock yourself up in some dusty hotel room.”
“What do you suggest instead?” Maeve realized it sounded like she was flirting with this stranger, but she found she didn’t care. A little flirting was harmless, wasn’t it?
He looked around the tasting room, which had emptied out while they were chatting.
“I’m supposed to stay here and straighten up a bit. But sod that. Donal, who was supposed to be working today but called in drunk—he can tidy up when he gets in tomorrow.”
He quickly removed his leather apron. “If you can wait five minutes while I lock up, I’ll show you around myself.” He hesitated. “Unless—you’ve a husband or boyfriend or someone like that as your traveling companion?”
“No husband or boyfriend,” Maeve assured him. “Just my sister, who overdid the Guinness at lunch and skipped out on the last half of the tour. She’s probably passed out in our room right now. She’ll never miss me. A tour would be lovely—unless it costs extra?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Totally on the house.”