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“About what you’d expect.” This was where she would tell the story she and Callahan had concocted. She had to keep her voice controlled and make it sound truthful. “Mr. Kelly and I wanted to marry, but he couldn’t find a decent job.”
“Because he’s Irish.”
“Yes. We both wanted to come back to Ireland. When we save a bit of coin, we want to drive to Athlone and visit my family. I was a Murray before I married. I haven’t seen my grandparents in years.” Her grandparents were dead, so this last part was quite true. But she’d heard her grandmother talk about Athlone, where she’d been born and her parents before that, many times. So skilled a storyteller was her grandmother that Bridget felt as though she had actually been to the old city.
Aoife nodded but didn’t seem inclined to say anything further. Bridget decided to push just a little. “I hope they are faring well. They’re farmers, and I read the potato crop has been poor.”
Aoife stopped stirring. “People in the country are starving, and do you think the English care?” She lowered her voice. “Our lives mean nothing to them!”
Bridget would have found it difficult to argue even if she’d wanted to.
“But what can be done?” Bridget said, spreading her hands. “What power do we have?”
“That’s just it.” Aoife peered over her shoulder. “We need to reclaim our power. We should overturn the Act of Union and reclaim our former glory as the Kingdom of Ireland. And why shouldn’t we govern ourselves? We did it long before the English came along.”
Now Bridget lowered her own voice. “But didn’t the prime minister ban such meetings and rallies?”
“The prime minister can go to hell, and if he won’t give us our rights, we’ll take them!”
“Aoife!”
Both Bridget and Aoife jumped when Sean MacDonald called for her from the parlor. “Aoife, bring us two glasses of whiskey.”
“I’ll be right there, Sean MacDonald.” Aoife scowled at Bridget. “As if he couldn’t get it himself.” She poured two glasses, and Bridget wondered what she could do to prevent Callahan from having to drink. Perhaps he would only drink one glass with Sean MacDonald. But what if he drank more?
What if by the time they left for home Callahan was drunk and belligerent?
“I’ll be back in a minute. Can you watch the stew?”
“Of course.” Numbly, Bridget lifted the spoon and stirred half-heartedly as Aoife lifted the glasses and carried them into the parlor. As soon as she was out of sight, Bridget released the spoon and began to rifle through the contents of the kitchen. She opened jars and drawers and lifted items from the larder to peer under them.
When she found nothing, she ran back to the stove and continued to stir. Aoife didn’t return, though. She could hear Sean MacDonald and Callahan speaking to her and laughing. Bridget peered about the kitchen. There was probably nothing hidden in here. The kitchen was not a likely place to hide documents or plans. Her gaze settled on the door Aoife had gone through and then the door on the other side of the kitchen. She had thought it would lead outside, but what if it didn’t?
She took the spoon out of the pot and ran to the other door. She lifted the latch, and the door opened—not outside—but into a dark corridor. Bridget glanced behind her. Aoife still hadn’t returned. If she came back before Bridget, Bridget would say she was looking for the retiring room. She slipped through the door and closed it behind her. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark then crept down the corridor, her steps muffled by a thin runner. Two doors stood on her right, both closed. Fumbling in the dark for the handle, she tried the first. It was obviously a washing room. Large wooden tubs were stacked one on top of the other, and a clothesline had been strung across the small chamber. Several garments hung on it. With the weather unpredictable, it was no surprise Aoife used this tiny room for laundry when it was too cold or wet outside.
Bridget closed the door and went to the next room. The door opened, and Bridget knew at once this was the place she would find answers. She closed the door behind her, hoping Aoife hadn’t returned and called for her. She couldn’t hear anything over the thumping of her heart. A small desk had been pushed against the far wall, situated under a window. It took her three steps to reach it, and once there she lifted the open book to the window and squinted at the small writing. It was a ledger of sorts, and though it might be interesting, not the sort of thing she could look at quickly.
She replaced it and opened the top drawer, rifling through the contents until she found several papers. These she recognized as deeds of sale and receipts for various household items.
Her hands shook as she opened the bottom drawer. She was almost out of time, and she was listening intently for the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor. Aoife had to have returned by now. She had to be looking for Bridget.
She pulled the last drawer open and found ink and paper. She almost slammed it shut again but her gaze was caught by one sheet that didn’t square with the other neatly stacked papers. She lifted the papers and unearthed a sheet that had been bent. She could see through the thin parchment it had writing on it.
She pulled it out and unfolded it. If Aoife came in now, Bridget would never be able to make her believe she’d been looking for the retiring room. Aoife would tell Sean MacDonald where she’d found her and what she’d been doing. What would MacDonald do? Was he a violent man, the man who had caused the injuries to the spy Callahan had interviewed in the basement? Or would he simply send her and Callahan on their way? Either way, this swindle—as Callahan called it—would be over.
She studied the writing on the parchment and frowned. It seemed to be written in English, but it made no sense. Could someone have copied words from a book as a penmanship exercise? Then why keep the paper?
And it was signed. The signature was messy, but she thought it read Daniel Roe.
“Mrs. Kelly?”
Bridget jumped. That was Aoife. Bridget looked at the open drawer and at the letter then quietly closed the drawer and slid the letter into her boot. She stepped away from the desk and opened the door to the chamber just as Aoife was reaching for the latch.
“Oh, thank goodness I found you,” Bridget said before Aoife could speak. “I have been looking for the retiring room, and I have no idea how I wound up here.”
Aoife smiled. “Sure and I’ll show you where it is.”
She led her through the parlor, where Bridget smiled at the men, her throat tight when she saw Callahan putting the glass to his lips. Did he have no choice but to drink or was this the perfect excuse?
