Heir To The Sea Page 29

  She wished she could take his suffering away. “You’re only human, Kieran. And you’re far too hard on yourself.”

  “There is much, still, to be said between me and my brother.”

  She remained silent.

  “He dropped everything last week when he learned that you’d been taken, though he didn’t know at the time who your abductor was. No questions asked, no hesitation. He was eating breakfast. Threw down his fork and napkin and ran to the waterfront to join me, or so Uncle Matt said. And this, despite our fight. This, despite what I said to him, what I did to him.”

  “He is your brother, Kieran.”

  “Yes.” His eyes softened as he remained gazing out the window. “He is my brother. And now…now, I think it is time.”

  She said nothing, but just wrapped her arm around him all the tighter.

  “If we’re to make our home here, I have to lay the ghosts to rest. To make peace with that house and the memories it contains.”

  “Yes,” she said, looking up at his beloved face. And at that moment, she realized he hadn’t been watching the traffic passing outside at all, but his childhood home directly across the street. “Perhaps there’s healing there for you both.”

  “I won’t go there without Connor, though.”

  “And he won’t go there without you, or so Rhiannon tells me.”

  Kieran pursed his lips, thinking.

  “Are you sure you’re ready, love?”

  “I’m ready,” he responded. “Let’s go get Connor.”

  Hand in hand, they left the room and went downstairs. Matthew had risen early and as was his habit, gone down to the shipyard he’d inherited from his father and operated in partnership with the naval architect, Brendan Merrick. Kieran claimed he lacked his father’s gift when it came to imagining and designing a ship and translating those designs onto paper, but perhaps, he’d told her, when the war was over he could learn the craft and step into the role his father had occupied. He could draw. He was artistic and he certainly knew ships. Maybe there was something inside of him, yet undiscovered, that he’d inherited.

  “Never know unless you try,” Rosalie had said, when he’d broached the idea.

  Perhaps they’d stay here in this bustling seaport that reminded her in many ways of Baltimore and yet couldn’t be more different. Lobsters instead of crabs, colder water, scrappy New England fishermen, privateers and farmers instead of the southern gentlemen with which she’d grown up. But Baltimore wasn’t going anywhere. Perhaps they could winter there, with her family.

  She smiled to herself, thinking of Aunt Annis. Liam Doherty certainly had a reason to want to go back….

  Now, the morning sunlight struck them both full in the face as they shut the door behind them and stood on the steps outside. It had rained overnight, and sparrows flitted in a mud puddle that had gathered in a rut in the road and now reflected the blue, blue sky above.

  Kieran sat down on the step, pulling her down beside him.

  “I love you, Rosalie Merrick.”

  She turned to look up into his beloved face. “And I love you, Keer-in.”

  He laughed at the old joke and leaned over to steal a kiss. Lips brushing lips, mouths coming together, tongues tangling and the ever-present hunger for each other that made it easy to forget everything else. In the early-morning quiet, another door opened and closed. Hastily breaking their kiss, the newlyweds looked up to see Connor standing on his own steps next-door, Rhiannon beside him.

  For a long moment, both brothers just looked at each other. Wounds were still raw and healing took time. But Connor, his wife’s hand in the crook of his elbow, came forward across the lawn. He sat down on the step beside Kieran.

  “Fine morning,” Connor said, squinting up into the trees overhead. “We needed the rain.”

  Kieran smiled distractedly and looked at the house across the street. “Aye.”

  Another long silence. Kieran looked down at his feet. Connor shifted restlessly. The two wives glanced at each other in silent communication.

  Finally, Kieran cleared his throat. “You ready, Con?”

  He left it unsaid what he was referring to, but there was no need to explain. They were brothers, and Connor knew very well what he was referring to.

  “Hmph. I’ll never be ready. But now’s as good a time as any, I reckon.”

  Kieran stood up, took in a great breath of air, raked his hand through his tousled locks and looked at Connor. “Let’s go, then.”

  The two brothers headed off across the road, shoulders back, stride resolute, and full of a bravado that neither felt. Still sitting on the steps, Rosalie and Rhiannon exchanged glances.

  “Should we accompany them?”

  Rosalie wasn’t sure. “I think they’re past the stage of killing each other. Maybe we should let them be.”

  “True, but sometimes when it comes to dividing up things after someone’s death, it creates enemies out of loving family members.”

  “Their parents had a will, didn’t they?”

  “I would hope.” Rhiannon laid a hand over her burgeoning belly, rubbing it gently. “Not that anyone’s called to have it opened, yet. That would make it all so final, wouldn’t it?”

  Rosalie looked at the two brothers, who were now mounting the steps of their childhood home. Kieran was holding open the door to Connor. Connor was refusing to enter first, inviting his younger brother to cross the threshold before him.

  “Maybe we should go with them…and just stay out of the way so they can learn to become friends again.”

  Rosalie stood up, reached a hand down to her sister-in-law, and helped her to her feet. Together, they walked slowly across the road, avoiding the puddles. Off in the distance, the raucous calls of gulls drifted through the serenity of the early morning.

  Quietly, they opened the door and stepped into the house. Sunlight slanted down through the east windows, lighting upon a banister of rich mahogany, silk paper on the walls and the rug underfoot. In the gentle, sparkling light of morning, the entrance foyer felt warm and welcoming.

  “Do you feel it?” Rhiannon asked.

  Rosalie looked around. Clocks, everywhere. Drawings and paintings of ships, a landscape of a place that was wild, windswept and green, a looking glass for quick inspection before leaving the house, or tidying up upon entering it. The foyer was flooded with sunlight.

  “I feel it,” Rosalie said. “Love. Warmth.”

  “If houses reflect those who’ve inhabited them, then this house will always be warm.”

  “You met and got to know Captain and Mrs. Merrick, did you not?”

  A soft, wistful look came over Rhiannon’s face. “I did. They were wonderful people, wise and funny and kind…and I loved them both.” She reached out to touch the stand where the Delft bowl had stood. “He was so brave, even to the end. And I see some of each of them in our men.”

  “You were there, then, when…when it happened.”

  Rhiannon was looking at a pencil sketch of a schooner that hung on a far wall. “I was.”

  “The pirate…before he died, he taunted Kieran, said he’d never tell him if there was anything left of Kestrel when he went back, told him he’d never tell him if there were survivors.”

  “I can’t imagine that there were.”

  “That’s what Liam said, too, and he was there as well, was he not?”

  “We were all there.”

  “But why….”

  “Captain Merrick wanted to be with his dying wife. He wanted to be with her, and his ship, and there wasn’t enough room for all of us in the one remaining boat. There was no way off that schooner.”

  “Did you see it go down?”

  “No. None of us did. It was sunset when she began to founder, and growing dark.”

  “So the pirates could have gone back after night fell….”

  “I don’t think so, Rosalie. Captain Merrick did a pretty good job of wounding that brigantine before Kestrel went down. I can’t imagine t
hat the pirate ship could have found a way back to where she foundered, can’t imagine them finding any survivors in the night.” Her brow furrowed. “But I guess that’s something we’ll never know.” She smiled. “Our father-in-law was clever and resourceful. Famous for his wiles during the last war.”

  They were both quiet for a moment, thinking.

  “Maybe one day he’ll come through that door,” Rosalie said.

  “I think that in many ways, he’s already here.”

  A long moment went by, both women thinking their own thoughts, and a sudden memory came to Rosalie. She reached out and touched her sister-in-law’s elbow. “This is going to sound like an odd question, but I must ask it…was he fond of wearing an old black tricorn? Perhaps the same one he’s got under his arm in that painting of him in the other room?”

  “Funny that you should ask. Yes, he still had that old hat. Connor used to tease him relentlessly about it. It was rather a joke between them.”

  “Was he wearing it when Kestrel went down?”

  Rhiannon looked at her, puzzled. “Now that’s an odd question.”

  “Yes,” Rosalie said, clasping her hands together behind her back to contain the rising buzz of excitement, of realization, humming through her very veins. She would tell Rhiannon why she’d asked the question, but not now. Not yet. Not before she shared this amazing discovery with Kieran. “Yes, I suppose it is.” She smiled and touched Rhiannon’s arm. “Come. Let’s go find our men.”

  They wandered the house, undisturbed since the Merricks had left it that fateful afternoon the previous autumn to go on a trip from which only one of them would return, and it was that man’s voice, mingling with his brother’s, that finally drew them to a large upstairs bedroom. Quietly, both women tiptoed to the threshold and peeked in. A beautiful room done in the colors of the sea, blue and silver and green, and filled with morning light. An oil painting of a sleek black schooner dominating one wall, a pair of men’s slippers left neatly on the rug beside the bed awaiting an owner who would never come home, a telescope mounted at the window and pointing toward the Merrimack, sparkling in the distance. And there, sitting on the bed, were the two brothers, an unopened wooden sea trunk on the counterpane between them.

  “You mean Dadai wrote you a letter before he died?” Kieran was saying, looking over at his brother and trying to conceal his own hurt that he hadn’t received one as well.

  “He did.”

  “Oh.” Kieran looked down. “I never got a letter.”

  “Kieran.” Connor grasped his brother’s arm and forced him to look up at him. “I carried so much guilt over what happened, and Da must have known it would eat at my very soul until I wanted to die. You were always a good son, one that brought them joy and pride but me? I was a trial. I was difficult. I caused them so much trouble for so long, and I said horrible, unspeakable things to Da before he died.” His mouth tightened with pain. “Dadai must’ve known the anguish I’d be in, so he absolved me…tucked the letter in Liam’s coat pocket as Kestrel was sinking and later, Liam gave it to me. It wasn’t until many weeks later when we were in England, that I remembered it.”

  Kieran’s eyes were dark with pain. “I guess because I never caused them any trouble, he saw no reason to give me a message, too.”

  Rosalie, watching silently from the door, felt her heart swell with emotion. Oh, but Kieran, my love…he did.

  “Maybe he didn’t have time, Kieran.” Connor’s eyes pleaded for understanding. “He didn’t write one to Maeve, either.

  “He didn’t need to. She’s got the Sight. She has a connection with him and Mother that you and I will never have.”

  Rosalie heart constricted with pain for the two as Connor struggled to find something to say, some way to reassure his brother that he, too, had been worthy of his parents’ attention in death as well as in life. But it was Kieran who broke the awkward silence, unwilling to let anything cloud the fragile grasp he and Connor had on their raw and still-mending relationship.

  “Well,” he finally said, mustering a brave smile. He looked at the trunk, looked at his brother, and raised a brow in question.

  Connor fingered the domed lid. “Should we open it?”

  “If we don’t, it’ll eat us up with curiosity. It’s where Mother kept all their special things.”

  “Probably just filled with baby stuff and other mementoes of our childhood. After all, that’s what mothers tend to keep, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, but ours was no ordinary mother.”

  “Open it.”

  “You open it.”

  “Let’s both open it.”

  The two women watched silently as the brothers, one head dark, the other auburn and both nearly touching as they bent close, flipped the latch on the old trunk and lifted it.

  “Just as I thought,” Connor said. “Baby stuff. Whose christening gown is that?”

  “Probably all three of ours. I think they re-used the same one on all of us. Wasn’t it handed down from Mother’s side?”

  “Maybe. I bet Uncle Matt was christened in this, too.”

  “Probably. And Mother, as well.”

  They dug further into the trunk, reverently pulling out and placing on the bed the mementoes of their infancy, their childhood…tiny clothes and caps, a childish drawing, a bit of rope that Kieran vaguely remembered learning his knots on, an old horn primer. Rhiannon grinned and gently elbowed Rosalie in the ribs as the brothers’ laughter burst forth over an old memory, a mutually remembered time and place of which each object that their mother had saved had been a part, the awkward moment between them forgotten.

  At last, the trunk was empty. Both brothers looked at its newspaper-lined inner lid, and Connor began to quietly shut it. But Kieran was frowning. “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “There’s something else in there. Beneath the newspaper.”

  Connor lifted the lid back up, puzzled. “What is it?”

  Kieran reached into the trunk and pulled out a large folded paper, yellowed with age. “More of Da’s ship drawings?”

  “Maybe. Open it.”

  Kieran passed it to his brother. “No, you open it. Spread it out on the bed and let’s see what it is.”

  The two women, watching intently, held their breath.

  And as they looked on, the brothers unfolded the paper, gently smoothing it out, laying it over the christening gown and baby clothes, the childish drawings and bits of rope and ribbon that had meant something to their mother.

  But perhaps it was this great square of paper, the genesis of a deep and abiding love that had spanned decades and given her and her husband the family they had both cherished, that meant more to Mira Merrick than anything else in the trunk.

  “Oh, my God,” Connor said, staring down at the paper and looking quite stricken.

  “It’s… Kestrel.”

  “Dadai’s original drawings?”

  Kieran had sucked his lower lip between his teeth, and now he blinked back the sudden tears. “It has to be. Look…it’s dated.”

  “1778.”

  “And that’s Da’s signature.”

  “If these are Kestrel’s original plans….”

  “It means that—”

  “We both know what it means.”

  “Uncle Matt.”

  “We’ve got to show him.”

  “He can build her, as his own father did the original!”

  “You mean, rebuild Kestrel?”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, my God….”

  “It would be like she’s here again, come back to us, built exactly the way Dadai had her done the first time….”

  Both brothers stared at each other as the sheer joy of the idea moved between them like an electric current, lighting up their faces, bringing a boyish wonder and excitement to their eyes. “If Da didn’t want her to be resurrected, to be rebuilt, he would never have left these for us to find.”

  “But who will get her?” Connor asked. “Y
ou, or me?”

  Kieran was reverently holding the old plans, his eyes wet with tears, and it was then that the two women saw that Connor, too, was struggling to hold back his emotions.

  “I think we should go,” Rhiannon whispered, just before Rosalie was about to suggest the same thing herself.

  Together, the two women hooked their arms together and headed silently back downstairs.

  In the room they had left, the two brothers were gesturing excitedly.

  “Why build only one of her?”

  “Aye, Uncle Matt can build two…one for each of us… Kestrel II and Kestrel III!”

  “I can’t believe we found these….”

  “Let’s go share the news with our wives. Oh, I feel like Dadai and Mother are right here smiling down at us, don’t you?”

  Across the street, Rosalie was upstairs and opening the lid of her own trunk when Kieran came charging in.

  “Rosalie! Oh my God, you’re never going to believe this!”

  She paused for a moment, her hand finding the battered tricorn beneath the half-open lid as she looked up at her husband.

  “Dadai! He left plans for Kestrel…oh, Rosalie, she’s not really gone, after all! We can have Uncle Matt rebuild her!”

  Smiling gently, Rosalie got to her feet, the old hat clutched in her hands. “Kieran…those plans weren’t the only things your father left you.”

  His brow furrowed, and it was then that he saw what she was holding so reverently. The blood drained from his face and his eyes widened as he stared down at it, and when he couldn’t speak, she filled in the silence for him.

  “Several days before you came upon us in the Caribbean, we were becalmed. To alleviate the boredom, I put a dropline over the side and went fishing. This—” she quietly offered him the hat—“is what I caught.”

  He remained unmoving, his face white, and finally, hesitantly, reached out to take the old tricorn, his eyes filling with tears.

  “It can’t be,” he whispered. But she saw from his eyes, that it was.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear you lament that your father left you no message, but he did, Kieran.” She stepped closer to him as he stared down at the hat, his throat working, his eyes squeezing shut. “We were becalmed, but when I hooked this hat from deep beneath the surface and pulled it in, it brought the wind…and then you, into my life. For some reason, I could never bring myself to throw it away…now, I think I know why.”