Chapter 22 #3
“They were gentlemen, all considered,” Mrs. Boyle maintained, which seemed an odd statement to make until Nimble spoke up.
“They had a message for you.”
My heart stilled in dread at what it might be.
“Said to tell you that they were here with Mick’s compliments,” Nimble said, his grave tone at odds with the content of the message. “That he’s returning the favor.”
Everything was suddenly too much. I backed up toward the staircase, plunking down on the second step, and pressed my hands over my mouth to stifle a sob.
Collins hadn’t been targeting me then. He’d been covering for me. He’d known that if our house had gone unmolested that I would be hauled back into the Castle and arrested. That O and the rest of the top brass would never have believed I didn’t know about his intentions.
But this courtesy only made me feel all the more keenly the shock and horror of all the deaths that had occurred that day.
Deaths that I couldn’t help but feel I’d played some part in.
I might not have known about Collins’s plans for that morning, but I could have stopped them if I’d shared everything I knew about him when Anderson and O had asked.
It might have meant signing my own death warrant for not sharing it earlier—regardless of whether they would have listened—but I might have prevented these deaths.
Unless the plans had already been too far in train to stop them.
It was also possible that the carnage that could have ensued from Collins’s capture and the fear of what he could have been compelled to reveal under torture might have been worse than anything that had happened today.
That the rebels might have decided it would be better to sacrifice themselves and burn the city to the ground than watch themselves be quietly rounded up and executed one by one.
“I thought they didn’t shoot at you,” I heard Sidney remark and looked up to find him standing by the front door, examining a mark that Max was pointing out to him near the keyhole.
“They didn’t,” Nimble replied. “They did that when they left.” He gestured toward the wall where it looked like the door handle had dented it. “That, too.”
“Did you open the door to them?” Sidney asked in confusion, for Nimble wouldn’t normally be so clumsy. Especially not after what had happened three weeks ago.
“Not me.” He turned to look at Ginny, an accusation in his eyes.
She stood stiffly against the wall with her arms still crossed defensively in front of her.
Sidney glared down at her. “Did you let them in?”
“Aye,” she murmured.
“On purpose?”
Her second reply was barely a sliver of sound, though she continued to hold his gaze. “Aye.”
“Ginny!” Mrs. Boyle scolded.
“Why?” Sidney demanded of her.
Her eyes dropped to the floor and she hunched inward.
I gave one last sniff, gathering what composure I could manage around me like a cloak.
“I can answer that.” The others, including Ginny, looked at me as I pushed to my feet.
“She’s been spying for someone in the IRA, gathering intelligence on us.
And she overheard something recently that made her think we’d betrayed the rebels.
Do I have that about right?” I asked her.
Her mouth flattened into a thin line.
“So when you heard I’d been targeted for assassination, you thought you’d done your brother proud,” I said, recalling that she’d confessed that her brother had been killed during an ambush earlier that year.
“You even warned them when you discovered we wouldn’t be home this weekend after all,” I guessed.
“But they came this morning anyway, with a message from Collins himself. I bet that threw you.”
She appeared as if she wanted to cry, but she sniffed it back, scowling.
“You said you trusted us,” I pressed, refusing to go easy on her. There’d been enough of that. “Why did you change your mind?”
“They beat ye. Hard.” The glint in her eyes dared me to deny it. Nimble shifted his feet uncomfortably. “I know the signs,” she challenged. “So when I heard ye talkin’ about proof of treason, I thought ye’d lied to me. That ye must have talked.”
“I didn’t,” I reiterated. “But that doesn’t matter now.” I arched my chin. “I’d like you to pack up your things and go. I’ll write you a reference for the good work you’ve done as a maid. I’m sure the IRA will be able to use you elsewhere.”
Ginny didn’t attempt to argue, and neither did anyone else. Not even Nimble, who turned away when she looked at him. I could see that his rejection hurt her more than mine. She swiped at a tear that slipped down her cheek, and departed down the steps to the servants’ quarters.
I felt for the girl. I truly did. It seemed she’d been deliberately misled and the pain she carried from her brother’s death had blinded her to the truth. But I wouldn’t ever be able to trust her again, so she had to go.
Honestly, I was more concerned for Nimble, approaching him to offer an apology, but he shook his head, cutting me off before I could speak. “She made her choice,” he said sadly. “Not you. ’Tis for the best.”