Chapter 20
Weak beams of sunlight filtered through the drapes. Maeve smelled coffee, opened her eyes, and saw her sister sitting on the edge of the opposite bed, holding a thick china mug.
She blinked. “Where’d you come from?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Therese said, handing her the mug. “I got back here last night, and you were passed out cold. I had to check your pulse to make sure you were still alive.”
“Jet lag finally caught up to me,” Maeve said, yawning. “And where were you coming back from?”
“I woke up starved from my nap and went looking for something to eat. The guy at the front desk suggested a place called the Willow Tree, which is kind of a local hangout. You’ll never guess who I had a pint with!”
“Colin Firth? Jude Law?”
“Much better. Lady Esme Rossington.”
“Our Lady Rossington?”
“One and the same,” Therese said. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. Maeve noticed that she was dressed and apparently ready for the day. How long had she been awake?
She ran her fingers through her mussed hair. “Only you could stumble into a bar and end up drinking with Anglo-Irish aristocracy, Therese Dunagin.”
“It’s kinda my superpower,” her sister agreed. “Listen, I’m starved. How soon can you get ready for breakfast?”
Maeve took a sip of coffee, made a face, and put the mug aside. “I’ll hit the shower and be down in fifteen minutes. You go ahead and order me some food, okay? And let’s hope the coffee downstairs is better than this sludge.”
As soon as Maeve was seated in the restaurant their server, a teenager with tattoo sleeves on both arms, slid a plate onto the table in front of her.
“What’s this?”
“Your usual,” Therese said, feigning innocence. “Poached eggs, a rasher of bacon, toast, et cetera.”
Maeve poked a fork at the other item on the plate. “And this?”
“Blood pudding. I know how you like to sample the local cuisine.”
Therese dipped her spoon into a huge bowl of yogurt sprinkled with berries and granola. “Eat up!”
“I notice you didn’t order any local cuisine for yourself,” Maeve said.
“Nonsense. These are local currants and raspberries. And I have it on good authority that the yogurt is from special Tarrymore dairy cows.”
Maeve nibbled on a piece of bacon. “Okay, fill me in on your new drinking pal. What was she like? Did you ask about the painting?”
“You should see this woman, Maeve. Remember Mrs. Ottmeyer, from Blessed Sacrament School?”
“The PE teacher? Who bred Dobermans and always wore Members Only jackets and men’s softball pants? She made me run sprints in sixth grade around the playground when I couldn’t do chin-ups on the monkey bars. And then I puked. On her shoes.”
“Served her right. Ottmeyer was super butch. Word was she and Miss Peebles were shacked up together. I swear, Maevey, that’s who Esme Rossington reminded me of.
She was dressed like a truck driver. Smoked like a chimney and knocked back three gin and tonics like they were water, just while we were talking. And she’s a pool shark too.”
“So, not the pearls-and-tiara genteel lady of the manor?”
“More like the janitor of the manor. She said she lives in the former gardener’s cottage, right here on the grounds of the estate.”
“How old?”
Therese considered the question. “Hard to tell with these rugged weather-beaten types. My guess, Esme is in her late seventies, early eighties.”
“Around Mom’s age.”
“Definitely the eccentric type,” Therese said.
“Kind of frosty at first, until I complimented her little dog, whose name is Sinead O’Cocker, then she warmed up.
Talked pretty freely about her family. And the IRA heist. Said her father and stepmother never really felt safe living here after that, which is why they donated the recovered paintings to the National Gallery, and then, not long after, donated the house to the National Trust.”
“What about the portrait of Lady Geraldine?”
“I was just about to ask about the portrait specifically when she challenged her pool partner to a rematch.”
Maeve stirred her coffee. “Probably a dead end anyway.”
“Not necessarily. Before I left I asked the bartender, and he said Esme is a regular, there most nights, shooting pool or watching soccer with her buddy Reggie. I think we should both go back there tonight. Maybe take a treat for Sinead, to butter up the old lady.”
“Can’t,” Maeve said, carefully spooning raspberry jam onto her toast and avoiding her sister’s penetrating gaze. “I’ve already got plans for tonight.”
Therese raised a questioning eyebrow. “What kind of plans?”
“I’ve been invited to a local pub, to hear traditional Irish music.” Maeve’s cheeks reddened.
“By who?”
“Whom. His name is Liam. After you punked out on me yesterday, I did the distillery tour. He’s the distiller. When I told him we were here researching Mom’s family roots, he offered to show me the little restored cottage village on the property. The home farm, they call it. Fascinating.”
“An Irishman named Liam, who makes whiskey? How could he not be fascinating?”
“Not what I meant. He seems nice. Grew up around here, so he knows a lot of local history.”
“And does he know anything about our family history?”
Maeve related the odd, brief flash of recognition between Liam and his cousin Madelyn at the mention of the Connor name.
“They sort of brushed it off, said there are tons of Connors in this part of Ireland, but when I said Kathleen’s name, I definitely got the impression they’d heard of her.”
“Weird,” Therese said. She spooned up the last bit of yogurt and berries. “So what’s on today’s itinerary?”
“Glendalough is an easy drive from here, according to my guidebook. It’s this amazing-looking medieval monastic settlement.
It was founded by St. Kevin in the sixth century.
It’s in a glacial valley and there are two lakes, and gardens, and an ancient graveyard, and there’s this round tower you can walk into… ”
“Booorrrrinnng,” Therese cut her off. “Come on. Let’s go find out the truth about Lady Geraldine.”
“And how do you propose we do that?”
“I don’t know. You’re the expert on research. You tell me.”
Therese sat back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, waiting, while Maeve stared up at the ceiling, eyes closed, fingers tapping on the wooden tabletop.
“We need to find out more about Kathleen. How she came to live at Tarrymore, instead of with her own family at the home farm, and of course how she came into possession of a seemingly valuable portrait of one of the Rossingtons.”
“Duh. And how do we accomplish that?”
“I’ve been looking at the family tree Frannie gave us.
Kathleen had a much younger brother, Tommy, who stayed behind when she went to America.
And by stayed, I mean Tommy Connor lived the rest of his life right here in this village.
He served in World War Two and drove a delivery truck after the war.
According to the census records, he died, at the age of eighty-two, in 1998. ”
Therese sat forward. “Did Tommy have a family?”
Maeve took a sheaf of folded papers from her purse and consulted it.
“He married a girl named Alice. She died in ’96.
They had four kids. Three boys and a girl.
Frannie’s research only turned up one surviving child, a daughter.
Her name is Isabel Woods. She’s in her late eighties, and the last address we have for her is at a place called Sheltering Oaks Compassionate Care Center. ”
“An old folks’ home?”
“Run by the Little Sisters of the Poor. Seems about right,” Maeve said. She typed the words into her phone’s search bar. “It’s about forty minutes from here.”
“I’ll bet she’d love to have a visit from her American cousins,” Therese said. “Call ahead and set it up, okay?”
“Pull in here,” Therese said, pointing to an Aldi’s market just ahead.
“Now? I told the lady at the nursing home we’d be there by lunchtime.”
“Won’t take but a minute,” Therese said.
Five minutes later, she emerged from the market with a bouquet of flowers and a paper bag.
“Sweets for the sweet,” she told her sister, by way of explanation.
The nursing home was a low-slung yellow brick building. They parked in a spot for visitors and on the way in, Therese pointed out the prominent statue of the Virgin Mary. “Looks like these are our people.”
A nursing aide directed them to a solarium where windows looked out on a small garden. A handful of residents sat at small tables dotted around the room, reading or weaving potholders on small hand looms.
“Here’s Miss Woods,” the aide said, kneeling beside a wheelchair occupied by a frail woman wearing a jaunty orange knit beanie. She appeared to have been dozing, with her chin resting on a faded blue chenille bathrobe.
“Miss Isabel,” she said loudly, gently grasping the woman’s birdlike hand. “Here are the visitors I told you about. Come all the way from America to meet you, they have!”
The old lady blinked awake, glancing from Therese to Maeve. “Who’d ya say you are?”
Therese pulled up a chair and showed her the flowers. “I’m Therese Dunagin, and this is my sister, Maeve. We’re your cousins, sort of. Your aunt Kathleen Connor was our great-grandmother.”
“Kathleen? Dad’s sister who went away to America?”
“Yes,” Maeve said, sitting beside her sister. “It’s our first visit to Ireland, and we wanted to find out more about our mother’s side of the family.”
“That’s nice,” the old lady said. She pointed at the bag on Therese’s lap. “What’s that you’ve got there? Sweeties, I hope? I do love sweeties!”
“Yes!” Therese said, extracting a box of shortbread cookies. “Maeve and I love sweets too. It must be a family trait.”
“My dad loved a good pudding,” Isabel said, getting a faraway look. “He’s passed now, you know. Mum too. And the boys. All gone.” Her tiny clawlike fingers scrabbled ineffectively at the cookie packet.
“Can I help?” Maeve took the package and slit the cellophane outer wrapper with her fingernail before handing it back.