Chapter 25 #2
“The fact she believes Ardmore may have killed him is telling,” Sidney replied.
“Though her reticence to tell us makes sense. She’s shrewd to recognize Ardmore wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if he thought for an instant she either couldn’t be controlled or that she knew something compromising about him. ”
“She told me something else I found interesting.” I explained about the estate Ardmore had purchased in County Kerry.
“That’s at least four estates he owns now, each in a different county.” He shook his head in confusion. “What on earth does he intend to do with them?”
“I wish I knew,” I admitted with a scowl of frustration as I turned to peer out the window into the early dusk. “But maybe we won’t need to.”
Sidney didn’t misunderstand my meaning. The same hope tempered by the caution accrued from past experience with Ardmore glinted in his eyes. “I’ve asked Nimble to keep within shouting distance, but don’t leave the town house until I get back, just for good measure.”
“Of course,” I agreed, wanting him focused on delivering Max safely to the ferry and not me.
My embrace with Max before he departed was poignant for more than one reason.
I was, of course, sad to see him go and uncertain precisely when I would see him again.
Hopefully soon! But I was also afraid for him, and I knew he was still wrestling with the revelations from the documents his father had gathered.
I wished I could take that pain from him, for his own well-being but also because I worried his unsettled thoughts would distract him at a time when it was crucial that he remained focused.
The late afternoon and evening passed slowly as I waited for Sidney to return, but it was even worse when he joined me about two hours before midnight.
Then the hands of the clock seemed to slow to a snail’s pace as I fretted about how Max was somewhere in the middle of the Irish Sea beyond our aid.
I woke nearly every hour on the hour—this time not from a nightmare—and turned my head on the pillow toward the clock, hoping dawn was almost upon us.
When morning did finally come, I was drowsy from lack of restful sleep, but I rose anyway, seeking occupation.
Max wasn’t planning to contact us until he’d reached C in London.
So if all went well, we wouldn’t hear from him until at least midday.
Still, Sidney and I remained indoors, trapped by our apprehension and the rain pouring down in buckets.
When the telephone did ring, it was shortly after two o’clock and Sidney and I both lunged for it from our respective places pacing the parlor. I won, or Sidney allowed me to, picking up the earpiece to gasp, “Hullo?”
“Verity, it’s Kathleen.”
“Yes?” I asked, my anticipation nearly strangling me.
“I have Lord Ryde here. He’s delivered your package.”
All the air seemed to leave my body in one immense exhale of relief.
Even my knees went weak, forcing me to plunk down in the chair before the writing desk.
“Thank God!” I breathed and then nodded at Sidney, who was leaning over me and the desk.
He backed up, pumping his hands once in the air before cradling the back of his head.
I could hear a smile in Kathleen’s voice. “It’s going to take some days to collate all of this evidence, but C is pleased. Very pleased.”
My head hung forward as I thought about how during the war I’d longed to receive one of the Chief’s sparsely worded and rarely granted tokens of praise. Now, it hardly seemed to matter.
“He asks that you hold your position until you receive further word from us.”
“Of course.” This wasn’t unexpected. I’d anticipated them needing a few days to parse the information before they took action. As such, we wouldn’t be allowed to return home just yet. But Max was safe, the proof of Lord Ardmore’s perfidy was in good hands, and the end of all of this was in sight.
“You should hear from me again next week.” Kathleen’s tone vibrated with repressed exhilaration, but just before she rang off, it softened to a heartfelt murmur. “Well done, Ver.”
I replaced the earpiece carefully, battling the sensation that I wasn’t fully anchored in my body. We’d waited so long for this, and now I felt almost giddy.
The next moment, Sidney was pulling me from my chair with a whoop. “We did it, Ver!” I laughed as he lifted me and spun around. I caught sight of Nimble loitering in the doorway, a wide grin stretching his face.
“We did it, Nimble!” Sidney exclaimed before twirling me once again for good measure.
My feet had barely touched the floor before Sidney was grasping my face between his hands.
I didn’t think I’d seen him so happy since our wedding day, and he was gazing at me with the same combination of tenderness, joy, and love that had made my heart tumble about in my chest then. It did so again.
Then his mouth captured mine and the world around me dissolved to only the points where his body touched mine.
We didn’t kiss so much as devour each other, clumsily making our way upstairs to our bedchamber.
Nimble must have made himself scarce. And a good thing, too, because Sidney didn’t wait until our door was closed to start removing my clothes.
We tumbled into bed and remained there for the rest of the day and part of the next.
When we did emerge from our passion-soaked idyll, it was to discover that perhaps our celebration had been premature.
Near the village of Kilmichael in County Cork, sixteen members of the RIC’s Auxiliary Division were killed by the local IRA in a ruthless ambush.
The same day, one hundred warehouses in Liverpool were torched by the IRA in England.
Both occurred one week after Bloody Sunday and gave a clear signal that the rebels were not letting up. Not until they had their republic.
Meanwhile, it seemed like it was becoming more and more difficult to obtain accurate information from the newspapers.
Many of the English presses had always been biased toward the British government and hesitant to criticize except to point out that indiscriminate reprisals were beneath England’s dignity, but several of the Irish papers had tried to report fully on what was happening despite the censorship restrictions.
However, two directors and the editor of the Freeman’s Journal were found guilty of “spreading false report” and “intending to cause disaffection with the monarch,” and had not only been levied a hefty fine but also put into prison.
Some nights later, the offices of the Freeman’s Journal were set ablaze and a large number of other newspapers across Ireland were attacked by Crown Forces.
Consequently, fear stifled many papers from printing anything except the barest details about the worst of the army’s and RIC’s reprisals and transgressions.
As such, we didn’t know if anything regarding Lord Ardmore’s treachery would be reported.
I would have thought that we would be informed first, but sometimes oversights were made.
And as the days stretched with no word from C or Kathleen, or even Anderson here in Dublin, for I knew Sturgis was in London, I grew more and more anxious and plagued by doubts.
Had the documents we’d uncovered not been enough?
Had Ardmore managed to somehow weasel his way out again?
It preyed on my nerves, particularly given our lack of progress in the investigation into Lieutenant Harlow’s murder.
Yes, it appeared he’d been killed at Ardmore’s behest, but we couldn’t prove that.
We also had few leads as to what Ardmore intended to do with the gelignite he’d amassed or any idea where he’d stored it.
I’d hoped Willoughby might come up with some information about that, and then I’d hoped meeting him would prove unnecessary because Ardmore had been detained and his plans—whatever they were—obstructed.
With each passing day, my patience grew thinner and my optimism dimmed.
If we didn’t stop Ardmore now, I began to fear we never would.
That there were too many hurdles stacked against us and too many men in power who either refused to acknowledge the doubts Ardmore’s behavior and connections raised, or were content to benefit from them until the maneuverings affected them.
My faith in humanity started to run in short supply.