Kilpara (2 page)

“
You approve of this
plan?”

Compassion flooded her eyes, and misery
threatened to engulf me. I poured another drink while she
answered.

“
She’s very determined—”

“
I had to agree with her up there,”
I interrupted, pointing in the direction of Mother’s room. “It’s
ludicrous to think of making such a voyage. Sentimental gibberish
is what it is. My brothers will agree.”

“
It’s her wish.” Trista’s voice was
deliberately low in contrast to my rising belligerence.

I began to feel trapped, like a fly caught in
a spider’s web. I wanted to escape, to hold a living, breathing
woman in my arms, to feel passion rushing through my veins with the
velocity of a river out of control. Trista’s piety taunted me. Her
chaste exterior mocked my torment. I wanted to steal away her
purity so starched and spotless like the uniform she wore. I could
feel my hands on the smoothness of her neck, my lips tasting her
surrender.

I hovered close when her trembling voice
intruded. “I must return to my patient.” She rose intentionally,
edged away from me clutching the collar of her uniform.

“
Yes, do.” I waited until the doors
slid closed, then slammed my fist down on the stone
mantle.

Retreating to my room, I encountered Eileen at
the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll send Seán up with hot water,” she
said, her voice soft with kindness. “And Maureen will bring a tray
when it’s prepared.”

“
Where are my brothers?” I asked,
unable to control the frustration in my voice.

“
They’re not back yet from Stile
Valley. It's foaling time. They expected to be here when ye
arrived.”

“
Fetch me when they come
in.”

“
Surely,” she said, as she laid her
hand on my arm. “Things’ll seem better after you've eaten and
rested.”

I nodded and took the stairs two at a time.
Entering the bedroom that had been mine throughout childhood,
lamplight cast warm shadows onto the wallpaper, the polished floor,
the thick tapestry drapes covering tall, French windows. Memories
were preserved in my favorite books stacked on long bookshelves
behind the desk and chair still standing in the same spot where
they had always been.

I moved to the window and looked onto rolling
hills and forests that were almost blotted out by falling darkness.
The tame oak-lined streets of Baltimore could hardly compare with
the loping Maryland countryside, its stubborn landscape soothed by
the emerging moon. I recalled images of my brothers and me playing
on these hills, jostling and carefree. We fished in the Wern River,
hunted untamed lands, dreamed about the future, a time farther away
than the nearest star.

My thoughts were interrupted by footsteps
tramping across the wooden floor. I turned to find a tall youth
with brown, unruly hair pouring water into the
washbasin.

“
Mams said your food’ll be up
shortly,” he said.

The youth, whose voice did not match its
maturing owner, completed his task and stood by the door fidgeting
with the empty jug. “Mams wants to know if you’ll need anything
else, sir.” He shifted from one foot to the other.

“
You’ve taken a stretch, Seán,
since I last saw you,” I said, recognizing the youth as Eileen’s
son.

He grinned, freckles spreading across his
plump face. At ease now he said, “That’s me, Master Ellis, grown up
all right. Masters Dan and Mark have promised me a job in the
stables with my Pa, soon as I’ve finished schooling.”

“
You’ll like that?”

“
Oh yes, sir. Can’t wait to get out
of the stuffy old schoolhouse and work outside.”

“
Not me,” a voice said from behind.
Maureen, not as tall as her brother and slightly plumper, stood
holding a laden tray. “Soon as I can, I’m going to live in the city
like Master Ellis. Life’s grand there, not like—.” She bit her
lower lip, moved hastily to the small table near the window, and
set down the tray. Then, sweeping past me to the open door, she
turned blustery eyes on her brother.

“
Mams said not to keep Master Ellis
talking. He’s had a tiring day.”

Reluctantly, Seán followed his sister out of
the room.

Settling myself at the table, I uncovered the
dishes. Steam rose from pea soup and a plate of roast chicken,
mashed potatoes, buttered carrots, and freshly-baked bread. I felt
hungry and the food was hot and tasty, yet I pushed it around on
the plate.

After only a few bites, I set down my utensils
and went to the armchair by the window. I lit my pipe,
contemplating when I first left Stonebridge to begin my studies at
Loyola College. Up until then, I had only known farm life and was
held spellbound by Baltimore, its dense population molded into an
urban society. I was seduced by the nucleus of college and city
life, alluring parties, handsome people, and plays and concerts.
When I graduated, war had just broken out between the States and
many of my colleagues volunteered to serve in the armies; some for
the North, some for the South.

I didn’t share their patriotic chivalry to
charge into battle, agreeing instead with popular opinion that the
North would quell the rebellion. I took up apartments in Baltimore,
offering Father and Stonebridge House my services to fulfill its
long-standing commitment to supply horses to the federal cavalry. I
became acquainted with Mr. Emmons, the owner of Emmons Acquisition
Agency, who purchased horses and held contracts with my family.
When he offered me the post of chief procurement officer for his
firm, I accepted gladly. After the war ended four bitter and bloody
years beyond my prediction, Emmons looked south to expand his
business, travelling there as a liaison for northern businessmen to
scout lucrative investments. He purchased a large parcel of land in
Louisiana and became passionate about securing funds to build a
town there. This was foremost on his mind these days. He hinted
about a partnership when he departed for his latest trip, his
recent missives leading me to expect this would occur upon his
return.

I rose from the armchair and listened. The
household had turned quiet, all activity drawn in by nighttime
darkness. I wandered downstairs, past the drawing room, library,
and Great Room, flickering embers in fireplaces left to turn to
cinders. The night air beckoned and on impulse I went outside not
bothering with an overcoat. I ventured into the night to see Lilah.
Her mystic black beauty had held me spellbound that first time I
encountered her on one of my visits home from college. She returned
my admiration and before long we were wrapped in passionate
embraces down by the marshy riverbank. She had none of the primness
of women of means, her uninhibited sensuality as natural and
tantalizing as soft rain on parched ground. Lilah possessed none of
Trista Joyce’s laced-up primness.

The moon peeked through clouds and lit the way
through pastures to the small huts lined along the banks of the
Wern River where farmhands lived. I knocked on the door of Lilah’s
hut and called her name in a loud whisper. I called again and heard
a movement inside. She opened the door, a shawl draped about her
shoulders against the cool night.

“
Mast’r Ellis,” she said without
surprise. Lithe as a cat, she moved outside and closed the door. “I
thought youse might be coming,” she said. “Youse been gone a long
time, so youse not knowing.”

“
Know what?” I asked.

“
I got me a man.” She grinned, her
white teeth gleaming in the dark.

“
No.” I groaned and slid down the
rough-hewn logs to the damp ground beneath me.

She glanced at the door that had cracked open.
“Youse best be getting back to the house.”

“
I can’t.”

“
It be the Mistress
O’Donovan?”

I nodded.

Lilah squatted down beside me. “It be the
cycle. The old ones die. The Earth welcomes them back into her
arms, and the young ones carry on their ways. Theyse stay with us
in what we’se do and what we’se feel.”

“
I don’t want her to
die.”

“
Youse don't have that
choice.”

“
Why now?”

“
Changes been happening. Youse
wasn’t here to see them.”

“
She wants me to take her to
Ireland—to die.”

“
It be her people’s land. She be
wanting her spirit to rest there.”

“
It’s ludicrous. Here is where she
belongs.”

Lilah’s arms went around me and the dread I’d
been holding back unleashed itself. I moaned and helplessly
abandoned myself to her bosom.

“
It be alright, Mast’r Ellis,” she
purred, stroking my head. “It be alright...”

The door of the hut squeaked shut.

I awoke to a glimmer of dawn breaking over the
horizon outside the bedroom window. I had fallen asleep on top of
the bed not bothering to undress. That was only a few hours ago,
yet it felt like I had awakened from a deep sleep. I arose and made
my way quietly out of the house as light crept over the hillsides.
Inside the stables, many of its stalls empty, I searched for a
horse that matched my energy and found none. I settled on an
even-tempered brown mare that nickered when I strapped a saddle on
her back. Sensing my tension, she unleashed all her energy as we
rode through grassy fields past ripening forests in the direction
of Stile Valley.

We passed horses scattered throughout
low-lying pastures bordering Stonebridge House that provided the
appearance of normalcy meant to satisfy the occasional curious
passerby. Strangers never suspected that finer horses were tucked
away in the cavernous canyon where meadows brushed up against the
mountains. It was the rich grasses of Stile Valley that first
prompted Father to move his more select breed there; they developed
better bones and greater stamina.

Little did he know this strategy would save
Stonebridge from ruin during the early stages of sedition. Southern
raiders arrived at the house without warning on one of their forays
through the countryside scavenging for livestock and food. They
surrounded the house and seized control, forcing the family to look
on helplessly while they looted pantries and helped themselves to
horses, pigs, chickens, and cattle. Satisfied with their spoils,
they rode away contented, knowing soldiers’ bellies would be full
for quite some time.

I received a telegram after the raid and
immediately journeyed home to view the damage firsthand. I found
Father still fuming over his powerlessness to resist rebel forces,
his failure to predict they would venture this far north. I pointed
out this was a safe assumption, what with Union regiments
protecting the area from secession. He couldn’t have known Colonel
Thomas Jackson and his confederates would invade Harper’s Ferry and
plunder outlying farms.

This reasoning didn't appease Father, although
he felt some consolation knowing that his prime livestock tucked
inside the hollow of Stile Valley had gone undetected. After that,
he moved most of the herds into the valley and kept just enough
farm animals in the outer fields to satisfy subsequent raiders and
stop them from searching farther. Not long after that first raid,
he became enraged again when word arrived that Jackson had
successfully impeded Union soldiers at Falling Waters. I was hardly
surprised when this news sparked insufferable resentment in Dan,
Mark, and Francis, whose anger had been seething since the raid on
Stonebridge. This led them to volunteer under the Union command.
They signed up to fight the perpetrators, their enlistment a
personal vendetta against the South.

The sun had cast its first rays over Stile
Valley when I reached the narrow pass. Making my way slowly upward
through the opening and down the other side, the valley stretched
out below me, flat as a plate. Solid rows of trees edged the plain,
positioned in thick succession up the mountainside, like sentries
keeping watch. Horses grazed contentedly along the banks of the
Wern River, here not much wider than a narrow stream. On the
hillside just inside the pass, there stood three makeshift shacks
and a hitching post. In front of the closest shack, a campfire
smoldered inside a small circle of stones, and a coffeepot lodged
among the embers spouted a welcoming aroma.

I tied the mare to the hitching post, unhooked
a nosebag hanging at one end and put it around her neck; she
immediately began munching. I hunkered down beside the fire and was
about to pour myself some coffee when I felt a gun barrel pressed
against my back. I straightened slowly, my hands raised. “It’s
me—Ellis,” I said. The gun dropped and I was pulled into an
embrace.

Rengen’s strong black frame stood inches above
me, and when he spoke his words were thick with a rich southern
drawl. “Mast’r Ellis, I’s thinking you was some poacher. Your
brothers say youse coming home, but I never expected you up here
this quick.” He slapped me on the back, his dark eyes widening with
pleasure. “Let’s get some of that coffee youse wanting.”

He picked up the pot and two mugs. I followed
him inside the shack. We sat across from each other at a coarse
wooden table as he poured coffee into the mugs, his hands steady,
large, strong, just as I remembered them. He had always seemed
grown up to me, but I knew he came to Stonebridge House in his
youth. As a child I watched him melt iron over a red-hot fire,
molding the metal into horseshoes. He had a gift for taming even
the most spirited horse just by talking to it.