Maiden Voyage by Judith O'Brien
friend.
He seemed momentarily startled. "Your clothes and everything are back at the Mont Clare, and you're booked through Tuesday week."
"But I can leave whenever I want, right?" She was suddenly desperate. "I don't have to stay there, do I? I can leave tomorrow morning and come over here?"
"Of course you can, Maura." Charles stopped smiling. "You're not in prison. I just assumed you'd be staying at the Mont Clare for a few more days until this place can be made more comfortable."
"It's fine just the way it is."
He gave her a dubious look.
"I want to move in as soon as possible," she explained, wringing her hands. They both looked at her anxious movement, and she stopped.
"Very well. I'll instruct one of the porters at the hotel to bring your luggage over here in the morning." He began to leave the room and paused as she seemed hesitant to follow.
"Maura? Are you coming?" Charles held the door for her.
"Oh, sure." She cast one last glance at the room with the yellow wallpaper before he turned off the light. "Charles, what would this room be called?"
He thought for a moment. "I suppose it was originally the front parlor. The downstairs held the formal dining room and salon, where entertaining was done. This would have been a more casual place, a family room."
She mulled the thought over as they descended the stairs. "The front parlor," she muttered. "There, beneath the landscape. Between the two windows. It is there."
"Excuse me?" There was an eager grin on his face, as if he expected the punch line of a joke.
"What?" He held the front door as they emerged onto the street. The evening was comfortably warm, just a trace of a chill. A light breeze blew the aroma of flowers and leaves from the park across the street, a gentle, green fragrance.
"You said something," Charles prompted. "About a landscape between the two front windows."
"Did I?" Maura was genuinely perplexed as she looked back at the house. "Well, I don't remember. I guess I was just thinking that between the windows would be as good a place as any for a painting."
As they began walking away, she turned once more toward number eighty-nine and a half. "Good night," she whispered.
Charles shook his head and wondered, not for the, first time, why Americans were such a fanciful lot.
By noon the next day, all of Maura's bags arranged in a third-floor bedroom of her new home Now she had plenty of drawers, four chests and a highboy in her bedroom alone. The furniture was so dusty and dirty that she simply kept the clothes in the suitcases.
The entire house seemed to be lifted from the late eighteen hundreds. In the light of day she could wander each floor, stunned at the remnants of bygone lives that seemed to inhabit each room. It was like strolling through an accidental time capsule.
There were shreds of modern life, but they seemed unwelcome intruders. A telephone in the kitchen was at least fifty years old. There was an empty coffee can filled with dried paint, although she could not find a
spot in the house that had been painted in recent decades. In front of the house, down a flight of rickety iron steps just behind the dirt patch where a garden would have been, was the old servants' entrance. It was cluttered with several feet of trash and a lone workman's glove—parched stiff by the weather with a finger pointing upward—lay atop the heap.
Maura explored the inside of the house, overwhelmed by the task of even cleaning up the exterior. Her new home was indeed a mess, but an enchanting mess. There was an intrinsic nobility to the house, as if a little dirt and trash were only temporary aberrations, momentary damage that Maura alone could heal.
For this was a house that had been lived in and loved. The corners were rounded smooth, the steps sagged in the middle where centuries of feet had made a permanent indentation. There were marks and chips on the walls where heavy furniture had bumped. In the upstairs rooms there were more marks, and Maura imagined children playing, relegated to the nursery when the weather prohibited running in the park across the street.
She reached the room with the yellow wallpaper, the front parlor. Unlike the other rooms, it was free of furniture and wall hangings, as bare as the rest of the house was cluttered. In spite of the lack of furnishings, there was a heavy feeling to the room, a sense of weight and presence that was absent from the others.
Adjoining the yellow parlor was a drawing room jammed with dark furniture and richly colored Persian carpets. Some of the furniture must have come
from the yellow room, for she could envision a certain heavy chair being perfectly placed between the two front windows, and a painting leaning against the wall would fit the empty space over the fireplace. Blowing off the surface dust, she tilted the landscape painting toward the light for a better view. It wasn't exactly brilliant, more competent than inspired. She looked closer and saw a tiny horse on a hill that in fact looked more like an enlarged dachshund. Someone in the distance, perhaps a shepherd, although there were no sheep, was equally distorted, a tiny pinheaded creature waving a crook.
Yet from the size of the painting, it would indeed fit exactly between the two windows, right where a dark outline indicated a picture had once been hanging. How had she guessed that before she even saw the
painting?
There was a small writing desk, a lady's desk, at an angle. That, too, belonged in the front parlor. A matching chair, gentle lines upholstered the same shade of yellow as the wallpaper, stood a few feet away. Maura pulled the chair to the desk, pleased as if she had reunited a pair of lost lovers.
She stared at the desk and chair for what seemed to be a long time. After a moment's hesitation she sat in the chair and scooted her legs beneath the desk.
The fit was exact, as if the desk and chair had been built to her own measurements. Her hands hovered just above the blotting paper before she rested them
atop the desk.
A tingling hum seemed to jolt up her arms, as if she had tried to silence a tuning fork. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation, just peculiar and unexpected.
She remained at the table, hands pressed to the blotting paper, as the feeling ebbed.
Slowly she raised her hands. There was nothing unusual now, and she clenched her fingers as if testing to see if anything else would happen. Nothing did.
There was a small drawer just above her legs. She pulled the brass knob, and the drawer slid open onto her lap. There were old pens inside, the kind that had to be dipped into ink before they would write. There were also bottles of dried ink, the corks crumbling, in colors of black and deep blue.
Fine stationery was carefully stacked to the side, and she ran a finger over the paper, savoring the richness of the smooth texture. Some other papers were crumpled in the back of the drawer, and she reached back and yanked them forward.
As she left the room, brushing her hands on her jeans to shake off the dust, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. For a brief moment Maura seemed different to her own eyes, an elegant figure in a graceful ivory dress. Her hair was loosely caught at the top of her head, gently framing a face that radiated a gentle beauty. At her waist, tucked into a wide pink satin belt, was a dainty sprig of flowers, pastel colors of delicate wild blooms.
Yet when she stepped forward for a closer look, all she saw was her own image in old jeans and a flannel work shirt. Her hair was hanging in ragged tendrils about a face too pale for today's robust fashion. There were dark smudges under her eyes, testimony to the sleepless nights that proceeded the trip to Dublin. She looked awful. But contrary to her appearance, she was beginning to feel alive and vital, a simmering excitement that seemed more potent than the after effects of traveling to a new place, meeting new people and moving into a strange house.
She peered closer at her own image and touched her face, frowning at the smoothness of her skin. Her fingertips glided to her hair, soft and thick.
No one had ever called Maura pretty. She was always cute or attractive, with a nice figure and
With a smile she went to her luggage to pull out some clean clothes that wouldn't look out of place in either Merrion Square or a solicitor's office. She might be a newcomer, but she felt a sudden, bewildering urge to belong. Not just for a while but forever.
chapter 4
Charles appeared just before noon, his tie askew, hair in disarray, wearing the same clothes from the day before. Maura was certain they were the same, for the elongated drop of Guinness was still decorating his shirt, and the grease stain from where he wiped his fingers after eating the bag of potato chips, or crisps as he had called them, was still on his trouser leg.
"Grand morning, isn't it?" His voice was enthusiastic, but he winced as a bit of sunlight crossed his face.
"It is." She grinned, holding the door wide for him. "I can't wait to see the factory, Charles."
"Ah. Maiden Works Furniture." He stepped into the hallway, craning his neck to see into the first-floor parlor and the dining room just beyond. "Why, I do believe the place is already looking in the rights."
"All I've done is rearrange some of the dust."
"And a fine job you've done." He nodded. "Now, about the factory. I had a very interesting telephone call this morning."
"Really?" Maura paused before reaching for her purse. She was all ready to see the factory, the rest of her inheritance.
"The factory, unfortunately, hasn't turned a profit for the past three years. In fact, the history of that place is spotty at best."
"How do you mean spotty?" She placed her purse back on the hall table, realizing they were not leaving until Charles had completed what he wanted to say.
He raised his eyebrows, and they seemed to peek above his glasses like a tangle of untrimmed hedges. "You know about the history of this place, do you?"
"No. As a matter of fact, I don't. You only got in touch with me a few weeks ago, Charles."
"Right. Of course. Well, you see, this town house was built by Fitzwilliam Connolly, a very distant relation of yours. So distant, in fact, that Miss Regan was unable to find any proof of its existence at all."
"Oh. Then why am I here?"
"Because you may not be a close relation of Fitzwilliam Connolly, but you are more certainly a distant relation of Delbert Finnegan. That is all that matters in the case of this estate."
"Why is that name familiar?"
"Delbert Finnegan?" A brief frown of mild alarm crossed the solicitor's face. "Because he left you this house and the factory."
Maura laughed. "No, I mean Fitzwilliam Connolly. Why is that name familiar to me?"
He seemed relieved. "Ah, the man himself, is it! Connolly was something of a legend. He was in
shipping, a business his brother took over after his murder."
"Murder?"
"Yes. Not to worry, though. It didn't happen in this house."
"Well, that's a relief."
"It happened on the front steps."
Maura crossed her arms. "When did this happen? Did they ever catch the guy?"
Charles smiled. "Ah, so you'll be bolting the doors and windows now, eh? It happened hundreds of years ago. Even if they didn't catch the fellow, I doubt he'd be bothering you much now. Although Delbert did claim he'd seen old Connolly himself every now and again. Of course it always seemed to happen after Delbert had enjoyed a few too many pints."
Maura scoffed. She didn't believe in ghosts. "But they did catch the murderer?"
"Most certainly. Poor Fitzwilliam Connolly was murdered by his closest friend. They even attended Trinity College together, this fellow Patrick Kildare. Seems Kildare didn't care much for Connolly's politics, which in Ireland back then was reason enough to jab a friend in the back."
"Yikes."
"Indeed. Here, grab your pocketbook, and I'll explain all of this on the way. Are you hungry?"
"A little," she confessed.
"I thought as much. Joe told me that you ate barely enough to keep a sparrow alive."
"Joe?"
"The chap over at the hotel who served your breakfast. Remember him? A slight man in a green jacket? He said you didn't use any butter on your bread. Shame. You shouldn't eat your bread dry in Ireland."
"I'll remember that."
"I tell you what. We'll have a quick look round the factory, then we'll grab some lunch and a spot of tea."
After locking up the house, a task that required several tries and a few kicks and jiggles, Charles led her to his car.
"Ah, a moment," he mumbled, tossing papers and magazines and what seemed to be a half-eaten sandwich from the passenger's seat to the back, where the refuse joined a similar pile of trash. "Here we go." He held the door open for her with the flourish of a Buckingham Palace coachman.
The car seemed to have originally been some light color, although now it was so caked with muck and mire that she really couldn't be certain. Charles bounced into the driver's seat and roared out of his parking place with all the gear-grinding of a Formula One starting line.
She patted the seats for seat belts.
"Ah, I took them out," he said when he noticed her movement. Just then they took a hard turn, and she was slammed against the door.
"Why did you take the seat belts out?" Maura asked when she finally caught her breath. It was disorienting to be on the wrong side of the road, sitting in what should have been the driver's seat.
"'I used the seat belts as luggage straps last summer when I went on holiday in Spain. Have you ever been there? It's a brilliant place. All the sun in the world. Mind, here's a rather fierce turn ..."
She clutched the bottom of the seat as they made an impossibly tight left, closing her eyes. Charles seemed undisturbed by the young man on the motorcycle who was gesturing wildly at the car.
"Now, about this morning's telephone call. It seems there is someone interested in buying the factory,"
"The dog! Watch out for the dog!"
"Not to worry. Dublin dogs are clever beasts. See?"
Through the closed window she heard a yelp and craned her head to see the small terrier limping away.
"I think you hit that dog!" she gasped.
"Nah. I just taught him a lesson. May have saved his life. Anyway, this bloke I spoke to has foreign backing, German, I believe. And he is very interested in the factory."
She closed her eyes before speaking, blocking out all thoughts of the intersection they were approaching. "Um, why would anyone want to buy a factory that hasn't turned a profit in three years." Against her better judgment, she opened one eye slightly. "Oh my God! The bus! The bus!"
With both hands he pulled the steering wheel to the right, never lifting his foot from the gas. Her body flew against the stick shift, but Charles kept talking.
"It seems the prospective buyer wants to modernize the plant, put in all sorts of high technology machinery, and hire Irish engineers to run the place."
His voice had remained calm, and Maura stared at him with alarm. He had been completely unaffected by what she was beginning to realize was a near-death experience.
"How far are we from the factory?" She was unable to hide the frantic tone from her voice.
'Oh, a bit. Would you like to hear some music?" He let go of the wheel and began to fumble below the glove compartment for a tape. "I have Neil Diamond and your man Garth Brooks."
"NO!" She lowered her voice when he frowned. "I mean, no thank you. I'd rather talk than listen to music."
"Don't you like Garth Brooks?"
"He's fabulous. I love him, really I do. Can't get enough. I just would like to hear more about this offer."
He shrugged. "So in any case, Maura, I believe you should consider the offer very carefully."
"I'll keep that in mind," she whispered, mentally adding "if I survive."
"Ah, here we go."
He pulled up before a small, single-story white stucco building. "The roof was thatch until about twenty years ago."
"Before we go in, I'll give you a bit of the background. When Fitzwilliam and his father were alive, the company was strictly a shipping concern. But Andrew, the younger brother who took over after Fitzwilliam's untimely end, didn't have the knack. He even lost money in the slave trade."
"When was this?"
"Oh, I suppose about 1770 or so, just before you Yanks began causing all that trouble in the Colonies."
Now that the car had stopped, she was able to smile. "The Colonies, eh?"
"Not that I blame you. I'm all for stirring up the
empire a bit. So Andrew Connolly decided to go into brewing."
"Wait a minute. He went from shipping to brewing?"
"It makes sense if you think about it. He had all these barrels just lying about."
"Oh. So how did the brewery fare?"
"Not so well. The younger Connolly thought it best not to compete with Mr. Guinness, so he brewed instead a citrus-flavored and pineapple beer. Those were two fashionable flavors back then, you see, not that anyone had the faintest idea what they tasted like. So Andrew made a guess and came up with what he called a dessert ale. It was his firm conviction that Dublin specifically and the world in general was in desperate need of a change from regular stout."
"It sounds awful."
"From all accounts it was, although it was later discovered that the pineapple beer made a sturdy varnish. So he marketed the same formula as a varnish and had some success before his death. There was a bit of difficulty because the varnish was so very sweet that insects would become imbedded in the finish. Andrew's the one who expanded into furniture. After his unsuccessful attempt to export butter to the new world."
"He tried to export butter? Didn't it become rancid on the way over?"
"How clever you are! It did indeed. Your poor great-great distant uncle Andrew could have used your sense back then, but he was convinced that the Colonies needed Irish butter every bit as much as the world needed pineapple ale." Maura was about to comment but remembered that her own father was responsible for the founding of a freeze-dried cabbage company. She, of all people, could not pass judgment on anyone's business. "Did they ever make anything else?"