Forgiveness…is not something that happens overnight. It's an evolution of the heart. - Sue Monk Kidd
Friday, June 20
2:00 PM
Tom was worried. His wedding was tomorrow; he should have been thinking about that. Two weeks ago it was all he could think about. But two weeks ago Patrick had been whole and Michael had not been chased by men from the north. Ireland was at war, but it had never intruded on his own family before.
Tom had been checking with some of the paper's informants, but no one had seen or heard anything about any unionists from Ulster. They had kept a very low profile, and that was disturbing enough. Why were they in Dublin? Surely not just to beat up unwary citizens. His contacts had promised to keep their eyes and ears open, but so far, nothing. He knew he had a story here, but something in his gut told him it was more than that; it was personal.
He needed to see Michael; he was certain the key lay with what his brother had seen.
Michael was at Murphy's with Patrick, who had been discharged yesterday from the Mater. The two were surrounded by well-wishers, helping Patrick become re-acquainted with the water of life and complimenting him on his rainbow of bruises. Tom caught Michael's eye and beckoned him over to the bar.
"The two Ulster men who were in here last week—had you ever seen them before you followed them from the IRA meeting?" he asked in a low voice.
"No, never. I don't think they'd been around here long. I talked with some of the members, and they couldn't remember ever seeing strangers hanging about before that night I followed them, either."
"Then the trail starts here at the pub." They motioned Colum over.
Colum scratched his beard. "I hadn't ever seen those two before a couple of weeks ago. Noticed them for the same reason you did—they didn't belong. The Saturday you brought your girl in, remember? I've seen one of them a few times since, though."
"Oh, yeah?" Tom said, pretending a calmness he didn't feel. His instincts were urging that this was important; these men had to be in Dublin for a reason. "When?"
"Um…he was in here a couple of times after that…I remember because he seemed to be watching for someone, kept looking around. Oh…wait…the last time he was here was the day after that trouble with Patrick. I remember because Maire was here, all upset, and he went over and talked to her. I chased him off right quick though; he just didn't feel right."
Tom said quickly, "He was talking to Maire? What about?"
"Don't know. Didn't have time to say much," said Colum. I got Maire out of here as soon as I could get off the bar. She'd been drinking a bit too much; I think she was telling him about Patrick, though."
A chill began to work its way up Tom's spine. "Thanks, Colum. My sister can be a bit of an idiot, sometimes. Thanks for watching out for her. Let's go, Michael." He all but dragged his brother from the pub.
They found Maire at home, helping her mother to get ready for some sort of women's planning circle that afternoon. Lady Grantham and Sybil's sisters were coming to help with the finishing touches for the wedding, and they were too busy, she told her brothers loftily, to waste time with the groom and best man.
Tom dragged her out onto the back porch.
"Now, Maire, why don't you tell us about the man you were talking to last week in Murphy's?"
"Wh—what man?" she stammered, but the flush rising suddenly in her face gave her away.
"Maire, this is serious! That man is dangerous! We think he's one of the men who attacked Patrick!"
Michael added, "He's one of the men I followed, an Ulster Red Hand, Maire. Why were you talking to him? What did he say?"
Maire had gone white. "But he was so nice! He can't be the same man. He saw that I was upset, and came over to see if he could help!"
Tom took his sister by the shoulders, and tried to avoid shaking her. "Maire. What. Did. You. Tell. Him?"
She focused on his face and thought. "I-I told him about Patrick. I told him about your wedding. That's all!"
Then she went absolutely still.
"What?" said Tom, a feeling of dread beginning to claw its way up his spine. "What else, Maire?"
"I saw him again," she whispered, her voice so low that her brothers had to lean in to hear her. "He was outside the hospital on Wednesday." Her body began to tremble. I—I think he was waiting for me."
"Oh, God, Maire!" Tom fought the urge to be sick. "What did you tell him then?"
"I told him about how I was so mean to Lord Grantham, and how nice Sybil is. I t-told him that they were meeting each other today at St. Kevin's. Then he just ran away and left me on the sidewalk! Oh, Tom, I'm so sorry! He was so nice! What've I done!" she wailed, and collapsed in her brother's arms.
Tom felt as if a stranger had taken over his body, a stranger who was holding him up and doing the thinking for him…because his brain was a jumble of disjointed thoughts that wouldn't come together. It just didn't make sense.
"Why would the Red Hand care about Lord Grantham?" he asked Michael. "Their targets are Irish republicans, not their own British allies! What could they possibly want with—" he stopped and stared at his brother, as an impossible idea began to insinuate its ugly shape into his mind.
"Michael!" he gasped. "Their enemies are the IRA! What if they want to get at the IRA through Sybil and her father? What if they're pulling some sort of switch!" He stopped, the horror of the possibility nearly overwhelming him. It was brilliant, and totally feasible, and suddenly he knew fear unlike anything he'd ever felt in his life.
"Michael! You need to find some of your IRA comrades and get them over to St. Kevin's—now! He pulled his pocket watch out with a trembling hand. "I don't know how much time we have! Do whatever it takes! Somehow you have to convince them that it's in their best interest to save the British aristocracy!"
Michael took off, leaving Tom and Maire on the porch. "Maire," Tom said harshly, "pull yourself together and get Daniel—he's working down the street at the Reillys'—tell him to bring his crew and meet us at St. Kevin's, now! And then stay here with your ladies' circle. Do not tell Mam or Lady Grantham anything! You have to do this, Maire. This is the only way to make up for your foolishness!"
She nodded, tearfully, and then Tom was off. Unable to stay still long enough to wait for Daniel Ryan and the truck, he began to run toward St. Kevin's. Fractured thoughts knifed through his head—he had to be wrong! They were getting married tomorrow! God would not let something happen to her after they had waited so long; he could not accept that such a thing was possible. He ran for his life, knowing that without Sybil, life would be meaningless.
He stopped near an alley and lost the contents of his stomach into a rubbish bin. Ignoring the disgusted glare of a woman walking by, he swiped his hand over his mouth and pressed on, his feet keeping up a rhythm in his brain…Sybil…Sybil…
2:15 PM
Robert Crawley walked up the path and hesitated before entering St. Kevin's Roman Catholic Church. His feet just didn't want to move him an inch further. He had been in a Catholic church one time before in his life, and the experience had left him with no desire to ever do it again.
Sitting awkwardly in the pew he had watched furtively as the parishioners stood, knelt, stood, knelt again, chanted, and prayed. Then they had all lined up and filed like automatons to the front of the church—and stuck out their tongues. He had just absorbed that odd behavior when the priest had placed something on each tongue and made a mysterious sign, before moving on and then releasing them to their seats for some more kneeling and chanting.
During the mass, which was in Latin—did these people even understand Latin?—the priest had wandered by, swinging an urn-like container back and forth over everyone. The odor emanating from the odd vessel was reminiscent of opium dens he had seen during his days as a soldier. Probably to keep his flock docile.
Robert took a deep breath and forced himself to move forward toward the huge ornate door leading into the back of the church. As he stepped inside the nave from the dark vestibule, the quiet beauty of the place stole his breath. Rather than the dark, forbidding cavern he had expected, the three huge stained glass windows beneath a sky blue dome over the sanctuary invited the light in and showered the church with color.
The benches were a warm wood, accented by the red leather kneelers, and the aisle that he and Sybil would walk was a simple, light polished wood. In the presence of such calm beauty, his anxiety drained away and he felt humbled.
As Sybil stood and turned to greet her father from where she had been sitting in the front pew, the light caught her and bathed her face in glorious colors. She was smiling, the gentle, happy smile of a woman who knew her place in the world. Robert had never seen his daughter look so…sure, not even when she and Branson had announced their intentions, and it filled him with pride and melancholy at the same time.
Suddenly and without warning, he experienced an epiphany. Hard as it was, letting her go had been the right thing to do, and being a part of her journey would assure that she would never completely leave him. It might even help to ease the ache in his heart at losing her. He did not fully understand what was happening, but Robert Crawley, seventh Earl of Grantham, was undergoing an evolution of the heart that would change him forever.
2:30 PM
The Branson women and Cora were gathered in the tiny sitting room, finalizing the last minute stitching and other details for the wedding tomorrow. Upon hearing that Lady Grantham had helped to judge the Downton Flower Show each year, Claire had put Cora in charge of the bouquets and floral arrangements. Mary and Edith had been sent back to the Shelbourne to fetch the ribbon and fabric they had bought on their excursion with Sybil earlier that week. Cora was glad to be rid of them for awhile; they were still embarrassingly stiff with Tom's family.
Bernadette and Maire had been assigned to help her, but so far they hadn't been much help. Bernadette was so shy, and what in heaven's name was wrong with that Maire girl? She'd had plenty to say to Robert the night of the dinner; now she was staring at the floor and hadn't said a word! Maybe she was just ashamed of her behavior.
"Kathleen! Pay attention to that lace! I taught you better than that!"
Kathleen snapped her eyes back to her piecework, blushing. It was true; she had been staring. Goggling, actually. It was typical of her mother to notice. She couldn't help it—The Countess of Grantham was just so glorious.
She wore a blue satin sheath dress with a floral applique running from neckline to hem, and a charming loose jacket in orange crepe. It was probably her idea of a simple day ensemble, but it was the most beautiful outfit Kathleen had ever seen. She wanted desperately to touch it, but from the way her mother was giving her the eye she was afraid she might lose a hand if she tried.
Cora knew that the youngest Branson girl was having difficulty in looking away, and she guessed the reason. Why, oh why, hadn't she packed more sensibly for this trip? She did have simpler day dresses, after all.
She had known that her wardrobe would stand out when she had ordered it packed, but at the time she had not cared so much. At the time she had not met Claire Branson. Now she wanted Claire and her daughters to accept her, to think well of her.
And wasn't that amusing? She, Lady Grantham, wanted to fit in with a working class Irish family, when two weeks ago she had been dreading this trip and wishing that she did not have to meet them at all!
The change was not because of Sybil. It was Claire herself. Cora had been humbled by the indomitable spirit of Tom's mother, had felt connected with her as she had not with any of her society friends.
Claire was different in every way imaginable from her; her upbringing, her challenges, her religion. Against impossible odds she had raised her children to think for themselves, to be self-reliant.
Whereas, the Crawley girls had been raised to be beautiful, graceful and decorative. They would marry well, have well-behaved children—not too many, mind you—and carry on the traditions that had kept the British aristocracy in power for centuries.
Until the Great War. Until Sybil had rebelled against the constraints of her class and gone off to be useful, to do real work. Until Claire Branson's son, too intelligent to be bound by class expectations, had come into their lives and changed everything.
Maybe it had been inevitable. Sybil had American blood running through her veins, after all. Perhaps it was Cora's fault, after all, for contributing the genes that had propelled her youngest daughter to shed the trappings of wealth and privilege and set out on the path that would someday lead them to this small sitting room in a working class Irish home.
Cora found that she hoped it was her fault. She sat up straight, smiled brightly at Kathleen Branson, and picked up the flowers that were her responsibility for Sybil's wedding. Flowers, she knew. She had judged flowers for years, and these would be the best arrangements that an Irish garden could produce. She owed it to herself…and to the family.
2:45 PM
The Red Hand brigade had been stationed just across the street from St. Kevin's Church all day, keeping to the shadows and separate from each other. It would not do to attract attention by loitering, and groups of young men were suspect in these times. When the Earl and his daughter had entered the church, Cian and Eoghan had silently taken position just inside the darkened vestibule.
The plan was simple. They would wait until the two began their exit down the long aisle. Cian would play the part of a new parishioner who wanted information on arranging his wedding in this church. He would move forward and engage them in conversation while Eoghan stepped outside and signalled the others.
Overpowering a soft middle-aged man and a girl would be child's play, especially with the element of surprise as their ally, and they had come armed with everything they needed. The handguns they all carried would be used only to ensure obedience from their captives long enough to secure them with rope and gags. Then they would be wrapped in blankets and carried out the side door and into the waiting motor. Silent, quick, and effective. In broad daylight—just ordinary workmen about their business.
Cian's plan had been accepted eagerly by the other conspirators. They were tired of hiding in plain sight, tired of these republicans and their insolent assumption that home rule was a certainty. Sick of Sinn Féin and the IRA, of these papist nationalists who wanted Ireland to be ruled from Rome. It was time to make their mark and go home. All the spying, all the plotting and moving from place to place to avoid discovery, all the hiding in dark, dank corners of Dublin was about to pay off.
The turning point had been the girl Maire. When she had blubbered out her story to Cian in the pub, a thrill had arced through him at his unbelievable luck. This was what they had been waiting for! A high ranking member of the British aristocracy, in Dublin for the wedding of his daughter to a Catholic republican? Ludicrous!
He couldn't have made up a better story than this in a hundred years. Wouldn't the IRA naturally be incensed at such an incursion by this English lord—to them the arrogant symbol of centuries of oppression? Wouldn't they want to send a message that would be heard across the length and breadth of England?
The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand had precipitated the Great War. It was ironic that the disappearance of a British peer and his innocent daughter on the eve of her wedding might this time act as the catalyst to end another war.
When their bodies were found with documents claiming responsibility by the IRA, the wrath of an empire would be brought down on the Irish Republican Army, destroying it forever. The dangerous idea of home rule would vanish into history, leaving Ireland safe in British hands.
No one would ever know the part their small brigade had played, no one would suspect Ulster Unionists of committing such a heinous crime against their own allies. It was perfect, and although he would never receive recognition for his actions, perhaps when this was over Cian O'Neill could finally find peace.