After dinner, they drove Gwendolyn and Tweedie home. The reverend did not live far from the Clarendon, so he chose to walk.
Once the goodbyes to her family were said, Michael asked, “Do you mind if we pay a visit to Mrs. Ferrell? It will only take a moment.”
“I believe we should.”
He gave the address to the driver. As they rode over, he said, “If we were marrying in Carlow, we would have a celebration that included everyone in the village. They would all turn out for the wedding feast.”
“The same in Wicklow.”
“We can’t do that here. We can’t invite everyone in London, but it does seem we need to do something to honor the vows we have just taken.”
“What do you propose?”
He reached into a pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small leather purse. He poured the contents into Dara’s hand—five gold coins.
She raised her eyes to his in amazement. He smiled. “For Mrs. Ferrell?”
“I believe this is an excellent way to celebrate this day.”
His smile widened, and he gave her the leather pouch. “You can present our gift to her.”
Ourgift. And he was letting her give it.
The words, his sharing an act of kindness, touched Dara. He treated her as if she mattered. And she wasn’t even a duchess.
The Ferrell house was in mourning. Dara hesitated to enter in a yellow dress with daisies in her hair. When she expressed her doubts about entering in her attire, Michael had a word with a woman who had just exited. She took the dark brown shawl she had been wearing and gave it tohim. He carried it over to the carriage, and Dara threw it around her shoulders and over her hair.
They entered the house. Mr. Ferrell was still wrapped in the canvas from last night, although the room had been draped in black as per custom. Mrs. Ferrell sat in a chair beside the table holding her husband’s body. She was surrounded by people who cared for her, although she looked as if she hadn’t slept all night.
However, when Dara and Michael gave her the bag of coins, she almost collapsed. Reaching for their hands, she repeated “thank you” over and over. Then she confided that she was with child. It was still early, but at least her husband had known.
“He was so proud. He liked children.” She drew a deep breath and said softly, looking down at the leather bag, “I didn’t know what I was going to do.”
“Come to me whenever you need help,” Michael answered. “Your husband was a brave and honest man.”
A gent sitting close by overheard him. “It’s not safe to walk the streets,” he complained, a verdict seconded by many of the other mourners. “Not right what happened to him.”
Mrs. Ferrell leaned close to Michael. “I haven’t told anyone about what Thomas was doing. He’d wanted me to keep it secret.”
“For your own safety, continue to say nothing,” Michael answered.
“But will those who murdered him receive what they should?” she asked.
Dara wanted Michael to assure Mrs. Ferrell they would avenge her husband. Instead, he looked away a moment before saying, “You take care of yourself and your child.”
Mrs. Ferrell did not find his words satisfactory or reassuring. “I want justice. Thomas wanted it as well.”
“We all do,” Dara agreed. She glanced at Michael for confirmation. He was making no promises.
They took their leave then. The ride was somber on the way home. Michael seemed lost in his thoughts.
Finally, Dara had to ask, “There is no hope you will find who murdered him?”
He looked to her, his gray eyes bleak, as if the matter weighed on him. “We need proof. Otherwise...” He let his voice drift off.
“No justice,” she finished with a whisper. Dara’s heart hurt for him. She took his hand. “You did all you could.”
“A good man died.” He didn’t look at her. Then he added, “He’ll never know his child.”
