“We’ll finish the chapter later,” O’Malley growled, carefully closing the book and setting it aside. He stood and stalked toward Lucien as if counting out paces in a duel. O’Malley took him to a room crammed with a narrow cot, a small table with books, Chartist pamphlets, a pen and foolscap. A small frame with a sketch of some kind stood off to one side. Lucien looked more closely. It was a sketch of a much younger Moira Nolan before Sibby Rose, Robert and Scrap, and the shabby room in the Seven Dials. She was on a swing, laughing.
O’Malley walked over to the table and turned the frame face-down, then crossed his arms over his broad chest and glared at Lucien. “How did you find me?” he demanded.
“It was not difficult. You have caught the attention of authorities, though they have no reason to arrest you—yet. I wondered if I could buy you a meal at a pub.”
“Tryin’ to ruin my reputation? Not on your life.” He scoffed. “What’d you want? Our boy Oliver Twist just got mixed up with some pickpocket an’ it’s not goin’ t’ go well for him.”
Lucien arched his brows in surprise. “You are reading Dickens? I would think books were too dear.”
“Your sort’d like t’ keep learnin’ out o’ our hands, wouldn’t ye? Since that Dickens fellow started writing we pool our money together an’ whoever is able t’ read reads ’em aloud.”
Lucien felt an unexpected spark of admiration.
“Got it just right, the way things are for us,” O’Malley continued. “Not that it’s any o’ yer business. So, what the devil are you here for? Speak your piece an’ get it over with.”
Lucien had to hand it to the man. There weren’t many who would dare address a peer this way. But then, just his sort had set up a guillotine in France seventy years ago, and there were plenty more across the continent who would be happy to do so again. The thought made him more cautious and he wondered if this had been an ill-thought-out venture.
“I have come about Darragh Nolan. What is the situation with his family?”
“Like ye give a damn.” O’Malley snarled a bitter laugh. “Leave the Nolans alone. Moira has enough trouble with without folks seein’ you muckin’ around.”
“I intend to find her husband and I need your help. Then again…maybe you want him to stay missing.” He gestured to the overturned frame. “I saw the way you looked at his wife.”
“Why you—” O’Malley’s fists knotted. “What do you know about a woman like Moira, except that you can take her with just a crook o’ yer lordly finger whether she will or no? She’s fine as Irish lace, she is. Aye, I tried to win her before your sort threwme in Kilmainham Jail for speakin’ the simple truth! If she was unmarried I’d try again. But I’m not willing to kill my friend for the chance.”
“Even indirectly?” Lucien’s gaze sharpened. “You sent Darragh Nolan to the mines, didn’t you? You cannot control a blast. Light the fuse but keep your hands clean and let the gunpowder do the rest. Just like you goad men into riots like the ones at Pall Mall or outside the theater. The authorities told me what you do. Make speeches, then stand back and let others take the saber cuts or bullets when troops ride in. Then you are nowhere to be seen.”
Two bright spots of color burned on O’Malley’s cheeks. His chin jutted at a pugnacious angle. “Maybe some leaders do that, but not me. If it comes to physical force like some claim it will, I’ll be at the head of those who fight, not in the rear like your fancy lords and generals.” His lips curled in contempt. “All we want is a say in our own fate. Who will see to our needs while we’re not represented in parliament? If we stay silent your sort will keep grinding us down until there is nothing left but dust. Some folks figured you might have a care for our plight, considering the village you built. People are talking about it, even here.” O’Malley shot him a hard look. “But me? I know that you Aristos only think of yourselves.”
Lucien thought of New Everdene, the creation Simon and Penelope had fought for. He’d thought it reckless at first, a huge expense when estates all over England and Ireland were struggling. God knew, it was still a challenge to pay for what had been done. And yet, there was something about New Everdene. Walking through the well-planned lanes, seeing the sturdy cottages with hearths instead of mere holes in the roof for smoke to be let out. Tidy gardens and green space for children to play…Had seeing the difference between his father’s plan to destroythe village and his brother’s dream of building something better been the beginning of this change in Lucien himself?
“New Everdene was my brother’s doing,” Lucien said. “He insists we can change things one family at a time. I want to understand the Nolans’ story. I am asking you to tell me.”
“Same as most of the Irish in London. We came here so we wouldn’t starve when the potato crop failed. Here’s no better. You English loathe us for bein’ Irish, men like Pinchbeck give the jobs to women who work for pennies on what a man would earn an’ children like Robert for even less. Pinchbeck’d have Scrap working if he could reach the looms. An’ the way the foremen treat those babes…it’s a wonder any see their first whiskers grow.”
“Mrs. Nolan said a child was being struck and her husband intervened.”
“That’s the truth of it.” O’Malley nodded. “But Darragh’s rage was already simmerin’, just waitin’ t’ blow. He was that far gone in drink, seein’ the hell he’d brought his family to. Couldn’t bear to see them suffer.”
Lucien pictured Grace and the child they hoped to conceive.
“Something broke in Darragh, it did. He left London two Christmases ago an’ I feared even then he’d never look back.”
“The family needs help.” Lucien kept his voice neutral, and yet, O’Malley winced, stung.
“You think I haven’t tried everything I can to help Moira and the babes? She won’t move out of that rat’s nest because she’s waitin’ for Darragh t’ come home. Keepin’ the faith that he will. She says ‘Here’s where my husband left me, an’ here’s where we’ll be when he walks through that door.’” O’Malley’s voice broke. He stalked to the scarred boardinghouse table, and leaned his hands flat against it, his back to Lucien. “Jaysus, Mary an’ Joseph.”
Lucien paused a moment, letting O’Malley collect himself, then said quietly, “I spoke to a Mr. Crimmins at Pinchbeck’s factory today. He says some men claimed to see Nolan in London last spring.”
The Irishman whipped around to face him, something flashing in his eyes. Disbelief or deception?
“Do you think it is possible that Darragh is in London?” Lucien asked.
“I think that bastard Crimmins would say he’d seen Moses and the angels for coin.”
But there was something unreadable in O’Malley’s face.
“If Darraghwasin London he would try to catch a glimpse o’ Moira and the babes. Even if he couldn’t bear to speak to ’em. Or he’d come to me. He knows where I lodge.”
