Page 23 of The Irish Gypsy

Patrick was nearing Bagatelle Plantation at last. He regretted his decision to ride. The heat was unbearable; he'd never been so affected by it. A wave of dizziness swept over him. He steadied himself with his knees and wiped the sweat from his eyes. As he came into view of the plantation, he sagged with relief. He'd been in the saddle for two days and every muscle in his body ached. He dismounted awkwardly and entered the house.

He knew at once that something was wrong. He could not identify what it was he saw in the faces of the house servants--fear? Jacquine greeted him with a brilliant smile, but her eyes were filled with compassion for him. He walked toward her with a sense of impending doom.

"Patrick, sit down. I have some shocking news for you."

He sat down and waited.

"A young woman came looking for you. I know it was someone very special to you called Kitty. When she arrived she was very sick--boat fever, I believe--anyway, I did everything I could to save her, but it was hopeless from the beginning."

He laughed.

"Kitty? Here? That's impossible! Where is she?"

he demanded.

"I told you, Patrick, it was hopeless. She died from the fever."

"It wasn't Kitty. There's been some mistake, some mix-up!"

he denied quickly.

"It's not true, you're lying!"

he shouted.

Without a word she turned quietly and went upstairs. When she returned, she held out the traveling bag containing Kitty's belongings. He snatched it from her and rummaged inside. His mind denied these things belonged to Kitty, but when his fingers closed on the pale lavender silk, he knew. He breathed in her fragrance deeply, and the delicate details of their lovemaking rushed back to him as his fingers caressed the silk.

"My God, what have you done with her? When did she arrive? Why wasn't a doctor called to help her?" he raved.

"Patrick, you look ill. All these questions are only upsetting you. She is dead, you must accept it. Take this brandy."

He ignored her outstretched hand.

"Show me where,"

he said more quietly.

He followed her to the private cemetery plot and saw a small new mound of earth with a plain wooden cross.

"Leave me," he said.

When he hadn't returned to the house after two hours had elapsed, she went in search of him with two male house servants. She would use force on him if necessary. They found him unconscious on the ground, beside the grave. He was soaked with his own perspiration. She knew he had a raging fever and instructed the men to carry him up to bed immediately. She sent down to the cabins for Lucy.

"If he dies--you die,"

Jacquine stated flatly.

"When you know for certain one way or the other, you will come and tell me."

Lucy worked over her patient day and night for a week. It was not an easy task. He was well over six feet of raving, cursing, struggling male animal. Her emotions ran the gamut of fear, hatred and eventually compassion for the man in her charge. Finally he looked at her with comprehension. She was startled as he hissed.

"Why didn't you let me die?"

She ran for her mistress, who came with such caring haste he would never know she hadn't attended him once since he fell ill.

Her smile was tender, her hands gentle as she fed him broth to bring back his strength. He remained coldly indifferent. His eyes were narrow slits whenever they rested upon her for a moment, and she knew she would need to become the consummate actress ever to break through his iron carapace. She plied him with liquor, hoping he would indulge in a gigantic drunk to drown his heartache and emerge with his sorrows behind him. Patrick disappointed her. He set glass after glass aside with hardly a glance. She knew he didn't wish to ease the pain of Kitty, but to hold it close. When he was well enough to leave his bed, he kept to himself. He was silent and remote and she had to double her efforts to reach him. The grave held a fascination for him; he visited it both night and day. He took solitary rides; she rode out after him many times, but could never capture more than a fleeting glimpse as he thundered through the forest. She fell into the habit of riding off her own frustrations after dark. Sleep became elusive. She watched covertly as he returned to the house on foot.

"He has been at the damned graveside again,"

she said to herself jealously. She walked over to the burial ground and stood gazing down.

"I have a garden filled with perfect roses and camellias, but he prefers to gather wild flowers for her."

Her mouth twisted downward in a derisive laugh as she thought of the empty grave and the hoax she had perpetrated. Men were such sentimental fools! When would he get on with the business of living? He showed signs of becoming restless and she feared it would only be a matter of days now before he would announce his return to England. Her mind twisted and turned for some small shred, some weakness in his makeup that she could fasten upon and turn to her own advantage. It did not take her long to find an idea.

"Mon chéri, we must speak. Things cannot go on as they are."

His eyes narrowed. He lit a cheroot and allowed the smoke to mask his expression.

"Don't you think the time has come when you must return to England?"

The moment he hesitated, she knew she had won.

"I know how much you must have loved her. She was so very young, you cannot bear to leave her here alone while you return to England. There is still a bond between you which even death cannot sever."

He crushed out the cigar and let her see the naked pain in his eyes.

"Stay here, marry me and you will own all this land. Then you may be near her all your days. We would make good partners. You would be the first to acknowledge this if you were thinking clearly."

During the next few days her words came to him again and again. The truth was that he had wanted to leave for over a month now, but he could not abandon Kitty. He began to look upon the plantation with speculative eyes. He even had an occasional smile for the house servants these days. When Jacquine returned from her ride each evening, her eyes went up to the balcony outside his window.

"Ah, well,"

she murmured.

"not tonight, but soon he will send out an invitation, soon."

Jacquine went for her usual evening ride, leaving Patrick still at table with a large brandy. Topaz came in to clear the dishes and she smiled shyly.

"Can I get you something else?"

"I'll just help myself, Topaz. I don't want you waiting on me, child."

"It's always a pleasure to do for you, sir,"

she said and smiled.

"I'm glad you feel that way, Topaz. I've been thinking about staying here. I think we're going to have a wedding."

Her face crumpled.

"You can't!"

she blurted, then quickly covered her mouth.

"Topaz, what's wrong?"

he reached out and touched her cheek.

The gentle gesture undid her. Tears flooded her eyes.

"Oh, sir, your Kitty's not dead."

He jumped up so quickly the chair went over backward. His eyes blazed.

"Where is she?"

he demanded.

"The mistress sold her to the slave buyer."

His face went ashen and he slumped to his knees before her.

"Sweet Jesus, I've prayed that she was alive and now I wish to God she was dead!"

"Oh, lord, sir, she'll kill me for sure!"

"Stop crying, Topaz, I won't let her harm you. Where did he take Kitty? The slave auction in Charleston? What's the slave master's name?"

"I can't remember, sir. Oh, lord, she'll kill me."

"Go to bed, Topaz,"

he ordered quietly.

Jacquine rode full gallop up to the house and drew rein under Patrick's balcony. He looked down upon her and struck a match to light his cheroot. The flame flared up and outlined his naked body against the darkness. She smiled up at him and dismounted quickly. She picked up the hem of her habit and ran up the stairs eagerly. He was there before her, splendid in his manhood. She reached out her hands and ran them up his arms and along his muscled chest. He took her in his arms, lifted her high above his head, then brought her crashing down across his uplifted knee. A crack rent the air as her backbone snapped and her body crumpled to the floor, quite dead. Calmly he washed his hands and slipped into his clothes. He lifted her body and took it down to her horse. She rode like a madwoman; it would be natural to assume she had killed herself in a fall. In the stables he caused no stir as he saddled a horse for himself. He knew how impossible was the task that lay ahead of him. He feared he would never find her, but he had to try.

Little Charles caught Kitty's eye. He pulled himself up by a chair leg and tottered over to her, threatening to lose his balance with every step. She chuckled at his progress through the packing cases. Their departure had been delayed a couple of months before the new governor had arrived. She was supervising the packing of Charles' art collection to take back to England with them. She would feel a pang of regret at leaving here, because she had been happy. Charles was so good to her. He treated her as a precious possession, constantly giving her tokens of tenderness to show his love. Often she felt she was cheating him because he made few demands of her in bed. She knew he wasn't indifferent, but she knew he feared failure and embarrassment. Perhaps things would change when they were aboard and he had left behind the heavy responsibilities of his governorship.

Kitty longed to see her brother again. As soon as they were back she planned to have her grandfather go back to Ireland to live on the estate Charles had deeded her. Terry could manage it and even breed horses, which always were his first love.

I did the right thing, she assured herself as she thought of the happiness she would bring to her family when they learned they could go back to where their hearts had always been.

Kitty dressed carefully and picked a large hat that shaded her face well. She walked swiftly and surely from Government House, through the business section of Basseterre and up through the posh residential area where each mansion was more imposing than its neighbor. The last house was larger and more impressive than the rest. Without hesitation she went through the gateway and up to the massive front doors. She pulled the bell and waited patiently. After a few moments Molly Maguire answered the door herself. Her eyebrows rose in surprise when she saw Kitty.

"Well, I'll be damned, it's the governor's lady. Come in, honey. It's not every day I get a visit from flaming nobility."

She led Kitty into a small salon furnished in exquisite taste, and rang for a serving girl. When she came, Molly ordered tea and gave orders that they were not to be disturbed.

Kitty spoke for the first time.

"We are sailing for home in a few days. The new governor is already here."

"Oh, I've had the pleasure. This is one of the first stops gentlemen make when they arrive on the island,"

Molly said.

"Well, that really shouldn't surprise me, should it?"

said Kitty, laughing and feeling more relaxed.

"I don't often get the chance to entertain a lady. Aren't you afraid someone will see you visiting such an unsavory place?"

"Not at all. I couldn't leave the island without thanking you for all you did for me when I arrived. You saved my life, Molly. I came to say goodbye."

She hesitated.

Molly looked at her keenly.

"You seem as if you would like to ask me something but don't quite know how to go about it."

Kitty laughed nervously.

"You're very observant."

"I don't wish to pry, but if I can help you with something, all you have to do is ask. Don't be embarrassed."

"Well, there was something I was going to ask your advice about, but it doesn't seem important now. I'd better go,"

Kitty said.

"Sit right where you are! It's something intimate, isn't it? Something isn't right between you and your husband. Tell me,"

she urged.

"Well, it's just that, he doesn't....he can't...."

Kitty stopped.

"Listen, Irish, I've seen every sex problem in the world. Sometimes a man can't get an erection."

She knew from Kitty's face that she had guessed right.

"Usually the easiest way to cure that is to take it into your mouth for a minute and run your tongue along...."

Kitty jumped up, outraged.

"I couldn't do anything like that!"

she cried angrily.

Molly threw back her head and laughed.

"I've shocked you! Well, listen to me, Miss High-and-Mighty, if you were passionately in love with a man, doing something like that wouldn't disgust you so much."

Kitty thought of Patrick and silently admitted that what Molly said might be right.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to look down my nose at you. I came for advice and then acted like a prude when you were good enough to speak plainly."

"It's not your fault. I'm so used to dealing with whores, I forgot myself. Now, for a man who has trouble getting hard in the first place, you sort of have to set the mood. Undress in front of him, be very seductive. Kiss him, touch him, manipulate him with your fingers. Allow him to explore your body and play with your breasts. A beautiful girl like you shouldn't have any difficulties, unless of course his tastes are perverted in lovemaking. That's an entirely different thing."

"No, I can assure you that isn't the case,"

replied Kitty.

"That's good. With the nobility you never can be sure. Give me a man from the working class every time--he always prefers his sex straight."

Kitty stood up and extended her hand.

"We'll probably never meet again, but I shall always remember you. Good-bye, Molly."

"Good-bye and good luck, Irish."

Patrick walked down the wharf in Charleston. He was thinner, and the lines in his face were deeper. He'd searched every pleasure palace from New Orleans to Natchez. He'd done it knowing it was hopeless, but he wouldn't give up. Finally, he'd come full circle back to Charleston, without a trace. He collided with a burly sea captain.

"Well, I'll be damned! Patrick John Francis O'Reilly, himself! Let me buy you a drink, boss; you look like you could use one."

"Big Jim, I haven't seen you in years. Did you just make port?"

asked Patrick.

"Aye, aye, sir. By God, you're looking rough. It has to be a woman!"

"We can get a drink in here, Jim. I've some questions to put to you."

They sat down at a table and ordered rum.

"Have you been to the islands lately, Jim?"

asked Patrick, getting straight to the point.

"I've just come up from down there."

"I've been going mad looking for a young woman...."

"Our glorious Kitty!"

cut in Jim.

Patrick sprang up.

"How the hell do you know Kitty?"

he demanded.

"She sailed with me from Liverpool last year, that's how I know her."

Patrick groaned and sank down, his head in his hands.

"She's been sold as a slave, probably shipped to one of the islands."

Big Jim let out a bellow of laughter that was deafening.

"What in Christ's name are you laughing at, you bloody fool?"

"A slave! That's bloody rich, that is! Well, the laugh's on both of us, boyo. I wasn't good enough for her, and by the looks of it, you weren't good enough either. She sold out to the highest bidder, Patrick, my lad. She's a bloody duchess!"

"Duchess? Make sense, man!"

Patrick demanded angrily.

"Two months back I made port at St. Kitts and who was sailing for England but the Duke of Manchester and his duchess. Traveling like a bloody queen, she was, with enough sodding baggage to sink a freighter."

Patrick sat stunned.

"What you need is a woman. Come on, I was just on my way to Dirty Annie's."

"Dirty Annie's be damned!"

replied Patrick.

"I'll take you to the fanciest goddamned whorehouse in Charleston--La Maison de Joie."