Page 4 of The Irish Gypsy

On Monday morning, Jonathan O'Reilly was up at dawn and on his way to the mills, determined to take the reins back in his own hands. First at the Falcon, then at the Egyptian, and finally at the Gibraltar he had called in the men before work began on the new machines and made it clear that in return for this technical innovation, management would claim a substantial reduction in wage rates. The men were surly and instead of producing more work they produced considerably less. Trouble was brewing ominously, but it wouldn't erupt until after working hours, when they could get together and decide on a plan of action.

Patrick, blissfully unaware of his father's intentions, decided to let him have the running of the mills to himself and went off with a friend to a horse race.

Kitty emptied the bucket of dirty water after she had scrubbed the kitchen floor and Mrs. Thomson took pity on her.

"It's almost ten o'clock, child. Mr. Parker will be here to give Miss Barbara her lessons. They are from ten to twelve each morning in the library. You be the chaperone today. Take your duster in there and after you're finished, just sit quietly until the lessons are over."

Mr. Parker was a thin, ratty little man dressed in a shabby but genteel fashion. Kitty almost pitied him until she saw he enjoyed the way he could make Barbara cower. He insisted that she could not give him verbal answers, but that she must write everything down on the slate.

Kitty moved about slowly so as not to attract attention as she went about the room dusting. When she came to the grandfather clock, she moved the hands ahead an hour, then moved over to the bookshelves and continued to dust.

"Now, Miss O'Reilly, seeing you are hopeless in mathematics, we will put it aside and do spelling, and let me tell you, young woman, every time you make a mistake you will write it out one hundred times. That should keep you busy all evening, for from what I've seen, your spelling is as atrocious as your mathematics."

Kitty opened a dictionary and with her voice low and her back toward Barbara and Mr. Parker, she began spelling the first word for Barbara. Kitty said quickly.

"Just put down what I tell you, he can't hear me, you know, he's as deaf as a doornail. That's why he makes you write everything on the slate."

They finished the list of words and she handed him her slate to be checked for mistakes.

Kitty kept her face to the wall.

"You mustn't be afraid of him, Barbara. He probably threatens to tell your father about you, eh?"

"Now take a fresh slate and make proper sentences using the following words."

Mr. Parker was clearly annoyed that Barbara had made no errors for which she could be punished.

"Employer,"

Mr. Parker dictated.

Kitty said.

"Put down: Does your employer know you are deaf?"

"Employee,"

he continued.

"Put down: Employees should not bully little girls."

Kitty moved silently over to the desk behind Mr. Parker, picked up his pocket watch, and altered the time to match that of the grandfather clock.

"Employment,"

intoned Mr. Parker.

"You are about to lose your employment,"

whispered Kitty.

The tall clock chimed twelve and Barbara arose to hand him her slate.

"Where are you going, miss?"

She pointed to the grandfather clock and he looked thunderstruck. He took his pocket watch from the desk, checked it and looked up, thoroughly bewildered.

Barbara curtsied, handed him the slate and disappeared as fast as her legs would carry her, but Kitty lingered behind to see the look on his face when he read the slate.

He looked down at the sentences and his pallor went from dirty white to dirty gray. He spluttered.

"Little bitch!"

Kitty held the feather duster to her ear like an ear trumpet and shouted, "Eh?"

before following Barbara from the room.

After the evening meal Jonathan went off to his club and Patrick decided to visit the theater. He very seldom told Bradshaw to bring the carriage to the front door, but usually went to the stables and coach house himself because he liked the atmosphere there. He had won a little on the horses and was in a good mood, blissfully unaware of how incongruous he looked in frilled shirt and tall silk hat, fondling the muzzle of one of the carriage horses. Patrick caught sight of Terry and somewhere in the recesses of his mind he was vaguely aware that he was familiar.

"Who's this?"

he asked Bradshaw.

"That's the new lad I was telling you about this afternoon. The squire wants me to teach him how to drive the carriage, but to my way of thinking, he's not old enough."

Bradshaw couldn't hide the fact that he didn't want any competition, and Patrick hid a grin.

"He can come along tonight,"

he said, winking at Terry, who was delighted with the plans. Patrick knew it would annoy Bradshaw, but Patrick also remembered what it felt like to be denied things because you were too young. Patrick sat in his box at the theater considering the chorus girls very carefully. When he had made his selection, he was just about to send a note backstage, when the bookkeeper from the Gibraltar mill lifted the curtain and entered the box.

"Mr. O'Reilly, thank God I've found you. There's trouble at the mill. I went up to the house, but your father was out and they told me where I would likely find you."

Patrick stiffened.

"What kind of trouble?"

"Well, your father cut the wage rates today and there's an ugly crowd gathered outside the mill. I can't control them."

"Let's go,"

said Patrick, gathering up his hat and gloves. He stepped inside the Man they're a bunch of mad buggers. You know what the Irish are when roused, nothing but brutes and savages. Oh! Beggin' yer pardon, sir."

Patrick's teeth showed like a wolf's.

"I suppose we are,"

he said reflectively. A crowd of men, women and children hurled curses and abuse when they spotted the carriage. They brandished bottles, bricks and assorted clubs as Patrick looked out from the carriage and saw their hard-set features.

"Put the clogs to 'im! Blood-suckin' bastard!"

and a woman's shrill.

"The old pisspot, let me get me hands on 'im!"

Patrick's tall figure emerged from the carriage and someone shouted.

"It's not the O'Reilly, it's Patrick!"

He looked into the anger-filled faces where usually he saw only despair.

"I won't let my father cut wage rates and that's a promise. Now disperse and go home. You know you are breaking the law, or do I have to read you the Riot Act?"

They stood back silently from the tall man. His evening dress told them clearly that they were slum rats and he was of the ruling class. He continued.

"The saying is that the Irish would rather fight than eat, but I don't believe that. I think putting food on the table is more important to you than rioting. Now take my word about the wages and go."

Slowly the crowd started to melt away. Patrick let out a relieved breath and cursed his pigheaded father.

"By Christ, you can always tell a Lancashire man, but you can't tell him much!"

He glanced around.

"Where's Bradshaw?"

he asked Terry.

"The minute the carriage stopped, he made himself scarce. I'm after thinking he was scared shitless, sor."

"It looks like we've seen the back of them all, but before we go I'd better make sure there's nobody lurking about in the mill yard. You'd better stay with the horses, lad."

Patrick went around the back of the mill, heard and saw nothing and turned to retrace his steps when a dark figure from the shadows darted out and attacked him. It all happened so quickly; Patrick grappled with the burly figure and saw the blade's glint just in time. He recoiled sharply and the knife that was intended for his heart slid against his breastbone and was diverted upward through the breast muscle. The impact felled him, and his attacker took off over the mill wall into the blackness. Terry thought he heard a scuffle, but he was loath to leave the horses alone. When Patrick didn't return he knew he had no choice. When he saw him, Patrick was struggling to his feet.

"Yer bleedin', sor!"

"Rather badly, I'm afraid. Here, take my scarf and wad it up against my shoulder."

Terry helped him to the carriage, terrified that he would expire before he could get help for him.

"Do you think you can drive?"

asked Patrick.

"Of course I can drive. Just tell me where to find the doctor, sor."

"No, I don't want this news spread all over Bolton. Just get me home."

Inside, he fell back against the squabs. As the carriage jolted over the cobbles, the pain became almost unbearable and a couple of times he had to force his eyes to focus on a point in front of him to keep from passing out. Terry drove like a demon and soon he swept up the driveway to Hey House and helped Patrick up the front steps. Terry put his fingers to his mouth and gave an ear-piercing whistle. Three girls came running.

"Kitty, get some boiling water and bandages!"

Terry shouted.

Julia cried.

"My God, what's happened?"

"He's been stabbed,"

said Terry shortly. Barbara screamed.

Julia said.

"Bring him upstairs."

Patrick leaned heavily on Terry's shoulder as he climbed to his bedroom and sank gratefully into a wing-backed chair. Barbara was before him on her knees, clutching him, her face blanched so white, Patrick feared for her.

"Don't faint, sweetheart. Go and sit quietly over there. Everything will be fine."

"My God, look at the blood! Stay still, Patrick, you're getting it on everything!"

cried Julia.

"I've got to get the doctor."

"That's what I say, miss,"

Terry said firmly.

"No, Julia love, please. I want to keep it quiet,"

gasped Patrick.

Kitty came in with the bowl of hot water and towels; her heart was in her throat with fear for him. She knelt before him and said to Terry.

"Take off his coat and let's see how bad it is."

Patrick looked down into her face and thought he was hallucinating. Tears made her eyelashes spiky. He said.

"Well, I'll be damned--Lady Jane Tut!"

Terry eased him out of his coat, and Julia took scissors and cut away the shirt, which was now crimson. Kitty's heart contracted as her fingers gently washed the ugly wound. Patrick never took his eyes from her. Her lips were slightly parted and her breath quickened. He was so close to her, he could see the tiny blue veins in her eyelids and smell the wild heather fragrance of her hair. It was as if he were alone with her; the babble of Julia and Barbara faded away from his consciousness. Her closeness was like an aphrodisiac. His nostrils quivered and his hand went without volition to her curls.

She sprang up and said.

"It's not going to stop bleeding on its own; we'll have to bind it tightly. I'll fetch a clean sheet and tear it into strips,"

and she was gone.

Patrick looked at Terry with recognition.

"That's where I've seen you before."

Julia said.

"I'll fetch Mrs. Thomson and send a message to father's club."

"You'll do no such thing, Julia. I don't want that bloody woman fussing over me--I've got three now! As for Father, he won't be long. Now, Terry, be a good lad and pour me some brandy."

Kitty darted in, tearing the sheet into strips. She began to bandage him by wrapping them around his chest and over his left shoulder. When her fingers came into contact with his bare flesh she lowered her eyes and tried to keep from blushing. His closeness disturbed her; she couldn't think straight with his eyes on her. She finished tying the bandage and rose to her feet.

Patrick sipped his second brandy and the fiery liquid spread its fingers across his chest. His head felt impossibly light. He grinned down at Kitty.

"I thought you were going to be a great lady with a carriage. How come you're only a maid?"

She looked into his mocking eyes and couldn't bear the arrogance she saw there. She leaned slightly forward, placed her hand upon his bandaged wound and squeezed cruelly. He went white from the pain and only just managed to hang onto consciousness.

"If you hurt me, I'll hurt you,"

she told him softly. Desire flamed up in him. He could have taken her right there on the floor in spite of his sisters' presence and the awful pain.

Jonathan O'Reilly came into his son's bedroom like a pasty ghost. His usual high color had drained away with dread of what he might discover. He began shouting to cover that fear. Patrick glanced over at Barbara and knew she shouldn't be subject to the harsh words that shortly would be hurled about.

"Julia, take Barbara to her room; she's had enough excitement for one night."

Jonathan shouted.

"Why in hell isn't the doctor here?"

Patrick kept his voice level.

"I don't want a doctor; I don't need a doctor. It's only a scratch."

Kitty immediately covered the crimson bowl of blood with a towel. She curtsied to Mr. O'Reilly and left the room.

"We'll get the police. Not only are we going to put this assassin behind bars, but whoever it was who started this business, whoever it was who incited them to this behavior...."

Patrick's head ached vilely and his vision blurred slightly, but he pointed an accusing finger at his father and shouted.

"Goddamn it, that was you!"

The old man's jaw sagged open at the vehemence behind the words.

"I won't have the police involved in this, or the doctors. I don't want it spread from one end of Bolton to the other. Tomorrow I have to put right what you set wrong. I have to tell them that there will be no wage cuts and I have to gain back their confidence. Now hear me well, Father, for I'm fatigued. They tried to kill me because they thought I was you! It's not safe for you here, and tomorrow you'll take the girls and go down to London."

Jonathan O'Reilly sagged visibly he looked at Terry and said quietly.

"Let's get this lad into bed."

Kitty returned with a brass scuttle of coal to replenish the fire.

"I'll sit up with you tonight,"

Jonathan said firmly.

"I want everyone out of this room immediately. I can't stand another minute of this bloody hand-wringing. You'll have me buried before morning. Kitty! Fetch me some fresh water before you leave. Good night, Father. He pulled up the covers to his chin and closed his eyes.

Kitty returned with a supply of drinking water and a lovely crystal goblet on a silver tray. Patrick's hand gripped her wrist firmly and he pulled her toward him. They stared fiercely into each other's eyes for long minutes. His mouth was dry and he couldn't keep his thoughts clear. As he gazed at her, she saw the arrogance leave his face for the first time since she met him. Her eyes softened, then also her heart. He mumbled thickly.

"I don't think I should be alone."

She placed her hand on his fevered brow and whispered comfortingly.

"Neither do I."

Patrick fell into a doze and Kitty curled up in the armchair by the fire. In about an hour he was thrashing about the bed so wildly that she feared he would open the wound again. She tried to hold him still but it was impossible. He was extremely fevered, so she held water to his lips and he drank avidly. She bathed his brow, but still he would not settle, so she brought a chair over to the bed and sat holding his hand and murmuring soothing words. Gradually he grew calmer and fell into another fitful doze. Another hour passed this way and then he began to babble and became completely delirious. She stayed with him all night, giving him water, washing his face and hands and comforting him as best she could. She daydreamed that he would fall in love with her and ask her to marry him. She had seen the loving, generous way he had with his sisters and longed to be included. She was determined to learn all she could and improve herself. She already copied the girls' table manners and speech, and decided that the first thing she must do was get rid of her Irish brogue.

The hours wore on and Patrick finally fell into a more peaceful sleep. In the early hours of the morning she felt his brow and he seemed to be much less fevered. She put more coal on the fire, curled up in the chair and fell asleep. She awoke because she heard someone calling her name. Light filtered into the room and she blinked quickly and went over to the bed.

"Kitty. Thank you for staying with me. It couldn't have been very pleasant."

"Are you feeling better, sir?"

"Yes, thanks to you. Listen, Kitty, when my family comes in I want you to tell them I had a very peaceful night."

"But you didn't, sir,"

said Kitty.

"I want you to lie for me. Otherwise they won't go to London."

Jonathan O'Reilly came in wearing a dressing gown, followed by Mrs. Thomson with a breakfast tray. Patrick tried to conceal the distaste he felt for the food before him as his father hovered anxiously about the bed.

"How are you feeling, lad?"

"Quite well, everything considered."

"What sort of a night did you have?"

Patrick turned to Kitty with a conspiratorial look. She curtsied to Jonathan O'Reilly and said quickly.

"He had a very peaceful night, sir. I stayed just in case he became ill."

"Good lass,"

Jonathan said.

"A couple of days in bed and you'll be right as a trivet."

"It won't work, Father. I'm on my way to the mill and you're on your way to London."

As Jonathan started to fume, Patrick said.

"I'll make a bargain with you, Father. If you leave for London, I promise to get this looked at by a doctor friend, and after a couple of days seeing that the mills are running smoothly without any hitches, I'll follow you. No later than the weekend; that's a promise. When you get to London I want you to complete arrangements for Julia's wedding. Plans must be made."

"If you keep your word about seeing the doctor, I'll take the girls,"

their father said grudgingly. He turned to Mrs. Thompson.

"Tell the girls to get packed; this will be a real surprise for them."

Kitty spoke up.

"They've been packed for days. We're all ready to go."

He smiled at the 'we', secretly delighting in the thought that she would be going with them.

"In that case, young lady, you can come and help me pack."

Left alone, Patrick arose from the bed and stood still for a few minutes with his eyes closed until the room steadied around him. He was in pain, but for the most part, he could ignore this. It was the condition of his rubbery legs that worried him. He rang for Terry, who helped him to bathe and shave and then helped him to dress.

"How do I look to you?"

he asked Terry.

"Pale,"

he said bluntly.

"but you look like you're in control."

"I want you with me today. Kitty's going up to London with the girls."

Terry hesitated a moment, then said.

"The old man's got his eye on her, and she don't know about men and things. She thinks he's just being kind to her."

Patrick smiled and said.

"Don't worry about Kitty. I intend to take very good care of her."

This statement only added to Terry's worries about his sister, but he had sense enough to keep his own counsel.

In spite of the girls' pleadings, Jonathan refused to leave until Patrick returned from the mills. He showed up in the middle of the afternoon much annoyed so see the huge traveling coach still on the driveway. He wanted only to seek his bed, but he now realized he'd have to undergo a torrent of questions he didn't feel like answering.

"Father, if you'll come upstairs where we can be private, I'll answer all your questions,"

he said curtly and ascended the steps.

Terry sought out Kitty, glad that he could have a few words with her before she left.

"Did he find out who stabbed him?"

she asked breathlessly.

"Oh, aye. A few coins in the right hands soon put him in touch with the bastard, but, Kitty, it was the most curious thing. They came to an understanding and Patrick told him he wanted him on his payroll."

Kitty laughed.

"He must be planning to get rid of somebody."

"By God, I wouldn't put it past him."

"Terrance, I want you to go and see Grandada and tell him I won't be able to see him for a while."

"I'll tell him. Kitty, you're changing! You don't even talk the same, and I don't like the way O'Reilly looks at you."

"Oh, don't be afther worryin' yerself about Patrick O'Reilly. I've got plans for him, I have an all, an all,"

she said in a thick brogue.

"Saints preserve us,"

muttered Terry.

Patrick was thankful the day was over. His wound had been attended to and the new bandage was much more comfortable. He lay in bed going over the events of the day, but Kitty's image kept intruding in his thoughts. With a sigh, he gave up the effort and let his mind dwell on her more fully. She was extremely beautiful. She excited his senses as no female had ever done. She was small and dainty as a kitten. All her movements were graceful, almost exotic. Her face was exquisite and her eyes flashed fire and held his attention with a seductiveness he knew was unconscious. He fantasized how he would like to make love to her. He realized she was very young, but he hoped that once he had aroused her sensuality, he would have the pleasure of satisfying all her hungers. His imagination slowly stripped her naked and his hands could feel her body's smooth contours. He thought about kissing her slowly--her mouth, her breasts, her navel, her mons veneris. He felt his loins tauten, his manhood rise and his testes ache. He knew he would never be able to sleep in the state into which he had worked himself. He savagely threw back the covers and poured himself a stiff drink.

"Damn her eyes,"

he cursed.