Chapter 46 #2
“Anyway, I took train after train south until I got to Liverpool. I could lose myself in a big city, I thought. Then I saw the notice on a lamppost. Immigrants wanted in Australia, especially Irish workers for agriculture. Free passage in return for two years of labour. I went to the docks and signed up.”
“As Rose Byrne,” Emma said with a tiny smile of satisfaction.
“You found that out? Good for you.” Iris looked pleased.
“I registered. So many Irish didn’t have birth certificates in those days, and you didn’t need a passport.
So I went to start a new life in Australia, only halfway through the voyage I discovered I was pregnant.
Alistair had raped me and left me with child.
Now I was really glad Catriona had killed him, but I was desperate.
What colony would want a pregnant unmarried girl? ”
Emma nodded again, wanting to reach out and take the old woman’s hand.
“Anyway, they sent me to a farm in the Hunter Valley. I told a young farmer’s wife about my plight, and she took me to some nuns.
They ran a home for girls like me. My baby was born, a beautiful boy.
He was taken from me, but by chance I learned where he had been placed.
I got myself a job as a maid at a nearby property so I could watch him grow.
He never knew I was his mother, but I followed his progress.
He did very well and he had a beautiful daughter. ”
She was looking at Emma now, with tenderness and pride.
“I was allowed to name him,” she said. “Before they took him away. I named him Rory Blaine in honour of Thomas Blaine, the man I had killed. A good man with a good heart, good intentions.”
“My father?” Emma could hardly say the words.
“Your father.”
Emma stared at her, trying to digest this.
Of all the things that had happened in the past week, all the revelations, and dangers, and unexpected love that she had found, this was the one that completely bowled her over.
Conflicting emotions surged through her.
That this elderly, birdlike woman was related to her, her grandmother, was hard enough to comprehend.
But that she had known about Emma all the while and let her suffer through that bleak time in the room over the bookshop, when she felt she had nobody in the world and no hope, was hard to understand. Hard to forgive.
“You knew about me,” she said in a clenched voice.
Iris nodded. “I watched over you and your father from afar—I had my spies by the time I came to England, and I had money. I thought all was well. I bided my time. Your family was flourishing. You were happy, so I didn’t want to interfere, but I wanted to make sure you had every opportunity.
I arranged with a friend who was the dean of St Anne’s College for the scholarship to Oxford for you. ”
“It was you?”
Iris nodded. “And I can tell you I was really miffed when you didn’t take it. I thought, ‘Screw her. She doesn’t want me.’ Then I learned the reason. That your father had died. My son—my lovely son had died. It was an awful shock.”
Emma blinked back tears. When she said nothing Iris went on.
“I wanted to reach out, but I found that you and your mother had moved away. I lost touch for a while. I had people searching for you. And when I finally found you, you were having a rough time, living above a bookshop. I wondered how I could help, and then I learned that you had written a book. I made sure it got to the right people.”
“Oh,” Emma said, recoiling as if it were a slap in the face. “You got it published. So it wouldn’t have been good enough without your help?”
“Absolutely good enough,” Iris said angrily, “but first-time authors have a tough time getting looked at. I made sure you got a smooth entrance to the world, and a job in London.”
“And then you sent me to Skye because you wanted me to find out the truth,” Emma said. “Why didn’t you just tell me? Why the pretence of writing a book you can never publish and asking me to finish it?”
“I suppose I wanted you to understand why I acted the way I did, and what I went through,” Iris said.
“Maybe I wanted someone to finally find out the truth that had haunted me all these years and to make me accept the punishment for what I had done.” She looked up sharply. “They never found him, did they?”
“Mr Graham? Not as far as I can tell,” Emma said.
“I assumed one of the Pattersons had killed Mr Graham because they were so hostile and tried to scare me off. But I realize now that they were protecting the old grandfather, your brother. I saw your governess, and she said she’d always suspected that your brother sabotaged the boat.
He was too protective of you, she said.”
“Robert? Yes, he always was very possessive. So he tried to kill me for running away?”
“Maybe he just tried to stop you, and then, when he thought you had drowned, he felt great remorse. He still shows it.”
“Poor man.” Iris, sitting silent and unmoving, looked down at her hands.
“You know, I wonder now whether he even realized you were on that boat,” Emma said. “It’s possible that your father had told him to make sure Mr Blaine never came back to the island and he took this literally.”
“Yes. That could be true.” Emma saw relief on Iris’s face.
“When you went to Scotland in the thirties did you not want to see your family?” Emma asked. “You didn’t try to see them?”
“I did,” Iris said. “Oh, I wasn’t stupid enough to show up on their doorstep and announce that the prodigal daughter had returned.
I certainly didn’t want to be taken into the fold again.
But I had the driver take me to look at the castle.
While we were sitting there a big car drove out of the gates.
A Bentley, I think, or a Rolls? A man was driving.
Youngish. In his thirties, I suppose. And two small boys were kicking a football around on the grass.
It went into the road. This man, who I presume was my nephew Ross, the one who threatened you, rolled down the window and shouted at them.
‘Keep that damn ball off the street. Do you want to cause an accident?’ They were little kiddies.
They looked terrified. And he sounded so arrogant.
I decided then and there that I was well rid of them. ”
“You’re right,” Emma said. “He was definitely arrogant and unpleasant to me. Really threatening. And his son, Andrew . . .” She broke off, unable to share with Iris those awful last moments fleeing from Andrew Patterson.
“They’re a bad lot, the whole family,” Iris said.
“The best thing I did was to escape. I wanted to forget all about them, about everything, but I couldn’t put it behind me.
The guilt has haunted me all these years.
I killed a person I loved. That’s why I wanted to write the book.
It’s my confession to the world, so they’d know what really happened. Melrose would tell them.”
“You can’t publish the book, Iris.”
“Why don’t you call me Granny now? I’d like that.” She squeezed Emma’s hand.
“All right,” Emma said, feeling her own hesitancy. This was all so sudden, so overwhelming. How could she be expected to feel love and warmth for this stranger? It would take time for her to process everything that had happened.
“So Granny,” she said, forcing out the word, “we can’t finish the story with the truth. The Pattersons would sue you, for one thing. You could even be arrested as an accessory to a crime. You could go to jail.”
Iris gave a long shuddering sigh. “I suppose you’re right. But you know the truth now. So what are you going to do with the information you have gathered? Are you going to tell the police about Alistair Graham, buried in the wood?”
“It’s your story, Iris, I mean Granny. All I know is what you have written. Fiction. I don’t know if anyone is buried in a wood. You didn’t kill Alistair Graham, or Thomas Blaine, or Catriona. And you’ve certainly paid the price all your life.”
“Oh my dear child.” Iris took Emma’s hands into hers. “You don’t know what this means to me. The burden I’ve carried alone all these years, and finally you’ve lifted the load from my shoulders. You’ve shown me I’m not a murderer.”
“No, you’re not. You were a victim, too. And as for telling the police about Alistair Graham, what would be the point now? He deserved to die. Let him rest there.”