“The Irish Republican Brotherhood carried out the attack.”
“Ah … KateConnolly.” Lady Aldridge nodded. “Old hatreds rekindle easily, I’m afraid.”
“They’ve flared up with a vengeance. It’s sickening.” Julia picked up a tea sandwich and then dropped it, pushing away her plate. “Kate, of all people. Is there a kinder soul?”
“I think we’ve had enough, yes?” Lady Aldridge folded her napkin. “Come, my dear. Let’s stroll along the Parade while the light still favors us. You can tell me about it.”
Julia linked arms with her aunt and crossed the street to the seawall. The sun was low in the sky, spangling the strait with flashes of silver. Most boats had called it a day, captains heading to the moorings and furling their sails.
Lady Aldridge sighed. “Poor Kate. That policeman’s death made the front page ofThe Isle of Wight Observer. Still, I’m not aware of any anger directed against the Irish here.”
“Maybe not, but I doubt this little island has absorbed a large influx from Ireland.”
“Well, not like London, to be sure.”
“Aunt, there are streets and back courts in Whitechapel where nearly every resident is Irish. They want to live in peace, but they’re tarred by the tiny minority who—”
“Resort to violence to break Britain’s hold on Ireland,” Aunt Caroline said. “Oh yes, I see.”
“And with Guy Fawkes Day around the corner …” Julia sighed.
“Oh dear. I hadn’t thought of that. In my younger days, the bonfires always ended with the Pope’s effigy alight. I thought that repulsive practice had died away.”
“Sergeant O’Malley says the police expect trouble in mixed neighborhoods of Irish Catholics and English Protestants.”
“And how is my old friend, the sergeant?”
“He’s well and asked to be remembered to you, although the sergeant isn’t happy with his new inspector.”
Lady Aldridge stopped. She planted the point of her ebony walking stick. With both hands gripping the knob, she turned to face her niece. “And what about hisoldinspector? What do you hear from Richard?”
Julia had expected the direct question; subtlety was as foreign to her great-aunt as Hindustani.
“Aunt Caroline, you’ve set a record,” Julia said, smiling. “Three hours in my company, and you’ve only just asked about him.”
“Then surely my restraint deserves to be rewarded with news.”
“Youhavebeen patient, Aunt,” she said, kissing her cheek. “I’ll give you that.”
“I warn you, my girl. I shan’t be satisfied with a kiss.”
“I never dreamed you would.”
“The time you’re taking to make up your mind about him …” Lady Aldridge shook her head. “Tortoises and glaciers are speedier.”
Julia hadn’t told Aunt Caroline that she’d nearly decidedmonths ago. But Richard was gone when she looked for him at his country house in Kent.
Julia took her arm. “Let’s head back. I’ll tell you about Richard’s last letter at dinner.”
The letter was nearly a month old.I won’t mention that either, she thought. He’d written he was traveling to Antwerp in search of the man he hunted. Julia had delayed her departure for the clinic each morning, looking for his letter in the early post. In the evenings, she shuffled through the afternoon’s correspondence in vain. Disappointment had grown into dread and the fear that something was wrong.
Lizzie Dowling’s footfalls struck noiselessly on the springy path to Quarr Abbey. The bordering beeches had held on to their leaves, forming a dense, round canopy that blotted out the sun. When Lizzie rounded the bend, she startled a red squirrel that froze over a pile of nuts and then darted off in a russet streak.
The quiet pressed in on her until a sudden breeze carried the silvery sound of shivering leaves. Under the leafy vault, day seemed like dusk. Then she broke through the grove into the sunlight and stopped at the edge of a broad, green field. Quarr Abbey’s ruins stood at the meadow’s far end. Another stand of trees rose in the distance. Beyond was the shimmering sea, where boats with sails reefed in the steady wind tossed amid the swells.
Quarr Abbey—the Abbey of Our Lady—was nothing more than broken walls and scattered stones, remnants of religious troubles from an earlier age. Lizzie couldn’t say why she sensed a holy presence amid the wreckage. She felt it more strongly than at her parish church in Cowes. She circled the field and crossed to the shattered walls, running her hand across the velvety moss that clung in patches. Then the girl stooped, gathered three flat stones, and slipped them into her pocket.
Lizzie rarely saw others at the abbey and told no one about her visits.No one except him. She closed her eyes.Sweet Mary, Mother of God, forgive me, for there’s nothing I can deny him.
