No one paid him the slightest bit of attention. The others were busy patting each other’s shoulders for a job well done.
“Gentlemen!” Paul raised his voice.
“What is it?” Mr. Sharpe asked.
“Sir Howard…” Paul twisted the hem of his shirt. “He has two children. The girl is barely ten. There will be other children for the girl’s birthday.”
“And?” the scarred man asked, taking a menacing step towards Paul. “What about our children? All those children who died from starvation? My own children are dead because I couldn’t provide for them after the government refused to grant me a military pension. Dying from starvation is a long, painful death. Blowing up will take a moment.”
“What about the orphans of war?” Mr. Sharpe said. “The war Sir Howard and his friends promote produces an endless number of orphans and widows. And for what? So they can keep their seats in parliament and lecture us on what it means to be honourable. We must raise our voices to be heard.”
Paul sat down again, his gaze on the rushes. Keith copied him, sitting on the ground with his knees bent. All his doubtshad been vanquished. The rest of the conversation was a jumble of voices. The men—or rather, conspirators—discussed the details of moving the barrels, how many carts they needed, how to put the barrel in the wine cellar with the help of a few of Sir Howard’s servants, and which route to the mansion was the best.
He raked a trembling hand through his hair. He was devoted to Mr. Sharpe. But no matter how many times he repeated that, his loyalty and gratitude for Mr. Sharpe paled when confronted with the indisputable fact that he was a murderer. Bloody hell. Perhaps Violante’s mother had known. Perhaps Mr. Sharpe had got rid of her. Keith shivered at the thought of Mr. Sharpe killing his own wife.
When the meeting was over, he scurried to hide in the shadows. The men left one by one, vanishing into the dark lane that led to the town. Paul staggered towards the manor like a drunk man. The last one to exit the barn was Mr. Sharpe, and Keith couldn’t help himself. Hehadto talk to him, persuade him to give up. Do something.
Keith stepped out of his hiding place while Mr. Sharpe locked the barn. He didn’t need to say anything. He breathed loudly enough to be heard, and Mr. Sharpe was a fine soldier. He pinned Keith with a glare that didn’t hold any surprise, only a hint of sadness.
“It can’t be true,” Keith said so low he wasn’t sure Mr. Sharpe would hear it. “Please tell me you aren’t with them.”
Mr. Sharpe put his hands on Keith’s shoulders in his usual paternal way. “Sometimes violence is the only way to start a change.”
“Violence is never the answer.”
“Really? Don’t countries go to war to change things?”
“Yes, but this is different.”
“How?”
Keith didn’t recognise the light in Mr. Sharpe’s gaze. It was hard and cold like a diamond. “Because soldiers are trained to fight other soldiers, and they’re ready and prepared to fight each other. You’re planning to kill innocents unaware of the attack, who didn’t do anything to you.”
Mr. Sharpe dug his fingers into Keith’s shoulders. “There are no innocents in the parliament or among theton. Those politicians’ hands are stained with more blood than mine. They sent me to war. They killed thousands from the safety of their armchairs. Now they refuse to give the Irish the chance to create their own country while keeping all of us as slaves. Protests and petitions didn’t work. We must stop them.”
Keith was tall enough to stare straight into Mr. Sharpe’s eyes. He’d been wrong. Those eyes weren’t like Violante’s. “What about Sir Howard’s family? Or the families of the politicians he invited to his estate? The children and the servants?”
“Casualties are a sad part of every war. We can’t wait.” Mr. Sharpe sounded tired.
“As your wife was? Did you kill her?”
A ghost of a smile twisted Mr. Shape’s lips. “I didn’t kill my wife, for crying out loud. I’m not a monster.”
Keith wasn’t sure about that.
“I thought that you of all people would understand.”
“Understand?” Keith shoved Mr. Sharpe’s hands away. “My mother was killed by the Fenians.”
The shock on Mr. Sharpe’s face was genuine. “A tragedy, but as I said, casualties are part of every war.”
“Not from my point of view.”
Mr. Sharpe scowled. “Don’t you hate Sir Howard for what he did to you?”
“I do.” Why lie? “But killing him and his family is something I’ve never wanted, and it won’t change anything.”
Thirty-six barrels of gunpowder would blow up Sir Howard’s entire estate, including the servants’ quarters, the stables, and the farmers’ huts. It’d be a bloodbath. Hundreds of people would die. The worst thing was that the bombing wouldn’t change anything.
