Maiden Voyage by Judith O'Brien
It didn't matter. Women were always complaining about not being treated as equals. He was just giving her a dose of what they wanted.
But if she had been a man, he knew he would have paid. Of course he would have. He was the one with the offer, he was the one who had requested the meeting. He should have taken the bill.
"Damn it," he mumbled.
He would have to make it up to her now. Probably take her for another meal, maybe to a show, and this time be on his best behavior.
"Damn it!"
And somehow, in spite of his irritation with himself and the situation, he couldn't help but smile.
"I don't care, Charles. I refuse to take his offer. He's a jerk."
Maura was putting away groceries in the kitchen, wrapping the telephone cord around her arms as she moved. With an impatient shake she disentangled herself and waited for his response.
"He may very well be a jerk. But he's a well-funded jerk, my dear and you may not get any other offer
Never overlook the importance of a solid cash backing. It can make the most unappealing person suddenly seem marvelous."
She would rather keep the company than sell it to him. She would just have to come up with the money to save her father's company some other way.
"Did I tell you he made me pay for lunch? For God's sake, Charles, I was barely able at cover the bill. As it is I have to go back to the Shelbourne to give the waiter a decent tip."
"I'll admit, I'm rather surprised that he didn't take the check. Perhaps he was trying to prove a point."
"That he's a jerk?" Just then the carton of milk she had unpacked was knocked to the floor by the telephone cord, spilling all over the yellowed linoleum.
Charles laughed, and before they hung up he again urged her to consider the offer. She said she would, but she had really made up her mind. There was no use even contemplating the issue any further. The less she had to do with Donal Byrne, the better. She would just have to think of something else.
Back home in Wisconsin, she would have felt silly about going to bed so early. But in spite of four cups of tea with dinner, Maura was simply unable to keep her eyes open past nine-fifteen. She was physically and, above all, emotionally exhausted.
Her flannel nightgown embraced her, the fresh, new sheets and blankets she had bought welcomed her, and with a sigh she flicked off the lights without even reading a single page of the paperback novel she had yet to begin. And then she was awake.
She wasn't disoriented this time. The sound of footsteps on the staircase wasn't frightening. If anything she was mildly surprised. It hadn't occurred to her that he would come again.
By the time he entered her bedroom she was fully awake. Just to make sure, she tried to remember which nightgown she had unpacked. Without glancing down, she remembered the red-and-blue flannel one.
A quick peek under the covers confirmed that was exactly what she was wearing. Perhaps this was real, not a dream.
His strides were every bit as sure, his gestures seemed the same as the night before. Yet there was something different about him.
"Hello," she said, her voice even and firm. "Nice to see you again."
He paused for a moment and then walked around the room in the identical path as the previous night. She couldn't remember if he paused before.
Either he seemed more solid or she was simply noticing more details. His loose white shirt had drawstrings on the cuffs. The stitching on his trousers was visible, and his boots seemed so shiny, they flashed darts of reflective light as he moved.
Again he paused, and for the briefest of moments he seemed to look right at her, and she realized hi eyes were brown, so deep they seemed pitch-black.
Maura was already out of bed when he left the room. As she scurried after him, she wondered why she wasn't afraid of the ghost. She had been frightened the night before, when she thought he might be a burglar.
For some odd reason, the notion of an encounter with a ghost was far less frightening than the thought of meeting with a flesh-and-blood live person, particularly a man.
This time she stopped to put on a pair of slippers. "Hey, wait a minute," she called.
Did she hear him halt on the staircase?
When she caught up with him he was in the yellow parlor, the empty room. He frowned, as if surprised there was no furniture there, and then turned to leave, brushing right past her. His arm touched her shoulder, and she gasped—it felt like a cold breeze.
She was directly behind him as they descended to the first floor.
"Don't go outside," she whispered.
But he walked straight toward the front door.
"No, please." She ran to the door, reaching it before he could.
Using her body as a barricade, she pressed herself against the door. "You can't go out there."
His face remained resolute, oblivious to her plea, and his hand began to grasp the doorknob.
"No! You can't leave!"
He jumped back, dark eyes now wide with perplexed shock.
"What the—" he began.
"You can't leave!"
Slowly, a smile spread over his face, and he crossed his arms with deliberate languor.
"Who the devil are you, my sweet?"
Maura leaned forward just slightly. "Can you see me?" She kept her voice soft, not really expecting a response. The smile broadened, and he, too, leaned closer, so close she could see the beginnings of five o'clock shadow on his jaw. "Yes, I can," he whispered. "Not only can I see you but I would very much appreciate knowing what the bloody hell you are doing in my house."
chapter 6
Maura stared at the man, unable to speak.
"Well? You were chattering up a storm, and now you have gone mute."
This was not happening. It was absolutely impossible, beyond the maddest of dreams.
Then why could she feel him, a frigid air that seemed to course about his body? And his voice, so firm and commanding.
"I... I..." she stammered.
"Yes?" He seemed almost amused and settled back on the heels of his boots.
The absurdity of the situation suddenly hit her— she was talking to a ghost, and he was awaiting an answer. She finally returned his smile. "You will never believe me," she shook her head in wonderment.
"Where are you from? You have a most puzzling accent."
Just as she was about to reply, she realized that he seemed to have no idea he was dead. For all he knew, this was still 1767, and this was indeed his house Should she try to tell him the truth—that he had been dead for over two centuries?
No. How could she?
And then another thought crossed her mind: Perhaps she, Maura Finnegan, was the ghost. Perhaps if they should open the front door, she would be faced with Dublin in 1767.
"I'm from the Colonies," she said at last.
"Are you now? Whereabout in the Colonies?" The skepticism was thick.
"Um," she hesitated. What would have made sense in 1767? She certainly couldn't mention Wisconsin. Struggling to remember the books she had read about Colonial America, all she could come up with was Johnny Tremain, a novel she had read in fifth grade. "Boston," she said at last. "I'm from Boston."
"Boston, is it? I myself am familiar with that town. Perhaps we share acquaintances."
"Well, I don't know. I haven't been there for quite some time." It crossed her mind to mention Johnny Tremain. It was a name, at least, and she could elaborate that he was an apprentice silversmith.
But it didn't seem likely that the only name an adult from Boston could recall from home was a fictitious adolescent boy with a crippled hand.
"I see." He said nothing for a while, but slowly glanced over her from head to toe.
"Is that the latest fashion in Boston?"
"Oh." Without hesitation her hand flew to her throat, where the plaid flannel nightgown buttoned.
The hem didn't quite reach her ankles, revealing her slippers—an old pair of moccasins.
Just as
Still clutching the nightgown at the throat, she smiled and nodded. "Thank you," she said uncertainly.
"Well, where is she then?"
"Where is who?"
"Kitty! I know she put you up to this, my {Catherine! This is the best jest she has done yet."
"Oh. Kitty." Maura pretended to look for her. "I don't know where she went. Isn't it just like Kitty to run away like this?"
The ghost paused, the smile fading from his face. "You have no idea who I am speaking of, do you?"
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you, miss, are a terrible liar. Have you ever even been to Boston? Or the Colonies?"
"Of course I have!"
"I'll wager you've never been five miles from Dublin. That is an atrocious attempt at an accent." He crossed his powerful arms, appraising her. "Now what are you really doing in my home? You don't seem to be a regular sort of thief."
"I am not a thief."
"Excellent! That is the first sentence you have uttered that has the faintest tinge of sincerity. So you are not a thief. What is your name, if I may be so bold?" "I'm Maura Finnegan." She was about to reach out her hand to shake his when she realized he was probably composed of nothing but vapor. She quickly withdrew her hand, and he raised an eyebrow.
"I am Fitzwilliam Connolly." He bowed slightly. "But I presume you knew that already."
She nodded. "I took a wild guess."
"Ah. So, Miss Finnegan. It is 'miss,' is it not?"
"Yes, but please call me Maura."
"Christian names, is it? Our friendship is progressing at an alarming rate. So before any misconceptions can spring between us and kill our mutual fondness before it has a chance to flower, please tell me what you are doing in my home at this outrageous hour."
A thousand thoughts crossed her mind, reasons that could explain her presence, but nothing would work. She could claim to be a distant relative or perhaps a lost traveler, which was feeling more accurate by the moment, but ultimately that would fail to explain the situation.
Nothing would make sense to Fitzwilliam Connolly.
"Do you really want the truth?"
"My dear lady," he sighed. "I believe I have all but begged you for the truth. Please."
"You're not going to like it."
"I have already prepared myself for that eventuality. Indeed, at this moment I can think of no explanation I could possibly find pleasurable."
"Would you like to sit down first?"
An incredulous expression crossed his face, his eyes suddenly even darker than before. "You are asking me if I would like to sit down in my own house? Nay, I
will stand. And I am losing patience swiftly, Miss Finnegan."
"Maura."
"Maura, then. Would you tell me? Now?"
She cleared her throat.
"Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this . . . How do you feel, by the way? I mean, are you feeling lightheaded or strange?"
"I am indeed beginning to feel strange," he admitted.
"Really? How so?"
"Never in my entire life have I ever entertained the slightest desire to strike a woman or to wrap my hands about her neck. Yet at this moment in my life, I can think of little else."
Taking a step back, just out of his reach, she spoke as evenly as possible. "All right—here it goes. You are dead. You are a ghost. It is 1996 and I own this house as well as the factory. You are haunting this place because you were murdered right on the front steps—"
His composed features suddenly exploded into enraged passion, and he lunged for her arm. "You devil! I will..."
His hand passed right through her sleeve.
They both remained very still, and he again reached for her arm. This time she moved toward him, and his hand went through her torso.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, as he stared at his hand, an expression of betrayal, confusion on his face.
"It must be you," he growled. "You are the one who does not exist. I recall I have seen you in my dreams—you are the one who haunts." But as he spoke he began to look around the house, his voice losing the anger with every light bulb and electrical outlet, every modern touch.
"What has happened?" he said softly. "I can see furnishings from my own time. They are shadows, overlaid shadows."
"I'm so sorry," she repeated.
The look on his face was heartbreaking, an expression of loss and sorrow she would remember for the rest of her life. "This cannot be so." And then he closed his eyes. "Who murdered me?"
"I don't remember his name. I believe it was a friend of yours."
He opened his eyes. "A friend?" A glimmer of black humor was there. "Remind me to cross him off my Boxing Day assembly list."
She could see the staircase through his body. "You're beginning to fade."
And he simply nodded, becoming fainter with each passing moment until she could barely make out his form.
"Good-bye," she said. There was no response, and she was alone.
It was very nearly dawn. As she went back up to the bedroom, her legs heavy with each step, she wondered if he had vanished forever. If not, when would he return?
It was just before nine in the morning when the telephone rang.
"Hello, Miss Finnegan?" The voice on the other end was vaguely familiar.
"Yes?"
"This is Donal Byrne. I hope you don't mind my ringing you—Charles gave me your number."
When she did not respond, he made some sort of noise. Could it have been a laugh?
"Are you still there? I wouldn't blame you if you simply slammed down the receiver altogether. I wouldn't blame you if you threw the phone out of the window, hoping I'm attached."
"How can I help you, Mr. Byrne?" Maura barely recognized the cold voice as her own.
"I owe you an apology. Could you please forgive my appalling behavior yesterday?"
"Okay, consider yourself forgiven. Listen, Mr. Byrne, I really have nothing to say to you. Thank you for calling. Goodbye."
She began to hang up.
"No, wait a minute!"
Reluctantly, she put the receiver back to her ear. "Yes?"
This time the sound he made was, indeed, a laugh. Maura struggled to remain stern, but the laughter was so winning, so utterly captivating, that she was forced to smile.
"Please, let me make it up to you. I was a sorry example of Irish hospitality."
"If you'll recall, Mr. Byrne, I paid the bill. Therefore, I was the one placed in the position of offering hospitality."
"I deserved that, surely. Will you please have dinner with me tonight?"
"I don't know, Mr. Byrne. I'm not sure if I have enough cash on me."
"Ouch. I deserved that one as well. I promise, this time it will all be on me. Oh, and are you at all interested in theater?"
"Maybe," she said noncommittally.
"I managed to get two tickets to the Abbey for tonight—they're doing Playboy of the Western World by—"
"By John M. Synge! I'd love to see that!" She straightened, toning down her enthusiasm. "And how much will I be charged for the tickets?"
"The fee will be dining beforehand with me and absolutely no talk of business. Will you come?"
"What will you do if I say no?"
"I'll hang my head in shame every day for the rest of my life."
"Hum. That's a tempting thought."
Again he laughed.
"Oh, all right, I'll go."
"Thank you. I'll come by round five, if that's not too early. I thought I could show you a few sights." He seemed reluctant to end the conversation, and Maura couldn't help but enjoy his discomfort. "What will you be doing today?"
"Well, I'm going to visit the factory again, then do a little research."
"Research? On what. . . no. Let me guess. You're going to look up your Irish h
"Sort of. I'm going to find out all I can about Fitzwilliam Connolly."
"Are you now?" He paused for a moment. "I wrote several papers on him while I was at university. I still have some books and probably the papers as well. Shall I bring them by?"
Maura was taken aback. This actually demonstrated kindness, even a modicum of unforced consideration. He was clearly bent on pulling out his company manners.
"That would be great. Thank you."
"Not at all. Oh, and you might want to stop in at the National Gallery. It's right near you. They have a large portrait of Connolly hanging in the main room. It's rather like coming face-to-face with the man himself. Well, I'll see you at five, then."
"Fine. I'll be ready."
"And do you think I'd have any right to scold you if you weren't? Goodbye."
The line was dead before she could come up with a snappy response. In a way she was relieved. Donal Byrne, in a light mood, was far more difficult to keep up with the angry Donal Byrne.
Maura paid the taxi driver, her eyes fixed on the factory.
On a second viewing, with her vision growing ever clearer, the structure bearing the tattered Maiden Works Furniture sign seemed more dilapidated and hopeless than before.
Again she arrived at tea time, although it was a different hour than the previous day. There were only a handful of employees sipping from their tin mugs.
Jimmy O'Neil greeted her with a wave. At least she assumed his gesture had been a greeting, for he had again lapsed into his incomprehensible tongue. She turned to another man, one with a tweed cap so worn it was shiny. "Excuse me, why are there so few people at the factory today?"
He seemed reluctant to answer. "Well, miss, there must be some sort of illness going about. Yes. I believe that is the root of our trouble." "What sort of illness?"
"Well, it seems to vary with the individual. Some get it in the middle, some on top. It all depends." With a tip of his hat he walked away, leaving Maura to wonder what sort of mysterious illness could possibly decimate the work force.
It wasn't until she spoke to some of the other employees that she discovered the truth. One particular man, a worker by the name of Kermit MacGee, had called in sick. It turned out that he was the main reason many of them showed up at work so regularly. When word spread that Kermit MacGee was absent, there was a sudden outbreak of the mystery illness. An entire factory had been halted because he had called in sick.