A/N: Hmm, I wonder where *this* chapter is headed. Warning: terribly waffy
at the end. Someone kill me now?
He stopped on the sidewalk and looked at the house. He was caught between going up and ringing the doorbell and running away. If he put it off until tomorrow, he could go back to the rectory for in time for tea.
However, he knew that if he didn't do it now, he never would, so he went up to ring the bell.
The look the maid gave him made him shake. "M-may I speak to Mrs. Campbell?" he asked, a little afraid of her stare.
"I'll see if the missus is in," she said coolly. Before she could turn, someone spoke from behind her.
Kathleen's voice.
"Who is it?" she asked. Then she saw Paul. Her jaw dropped, and they stared at each other for a minute. The maid, obviously uncomfortable, left.
"Come in." Paul did so, and Kathleen closed the door behind him.
"I need to talk to you." He found no use in waiting. "I-"
"Wait a minute," Kathleen said. "There's no need to talk in the hall. Come and sit down and have some tea. Alexander's at work."
Paul thanked God for that. He hated the man. He found Alexander Campbell to be one of the most vile, awful creatures on earth. He watched Kathleen walk away to get tea. That man had hurt her, hurt that beautiful woman.
Hurt the woman he loved.
He bristled at the thought.
"Here, Paul," Kathleen called several minutes later, motioning him into the sitting room. She held a tray of tea in her hands.
*There's a good start. . . she didn't call me 'Father,'* he thought to himself. He followed her into the room. They sat down, several feet between them. Paul felt the tension in the room, felt it swirling and hot and thick like putty. He sipped the tea.
"Anyways," Kathleen said, eyes glued to the floor, "how was Ireland?"
"Good." He paused. "I saw Ned." Kathleen's eyes snapped up from the floor to his face. He trembled slightly under her gaze.
"How is he?" Her voice was urgent.
"He seemed fine. I met him in a pub before the Uprising." A wry smile screwed across Paul's face. What a conversation that had been. He remembered the misery they had shared quite well.
"The Uprising. . .?"
"Well, he was captured and taken to Kilmainham Jail."
Kathleen covered her face with her hands and muttered to herself.
"They got him out."
"What?"
"They got him out. I was working as pastor there - a friend of his came for him. A journalist, he was, name of Henry Mooney; said Ned was a fellow journalist and showed them Ned's press pass."
Kathleen breathed a sigh of relief. "Was he hurt?"
Paul tapped his head. "He was rapped on the head somehow, and had a pretty bad concussion."
"Dear God, Ned! I told him not to do anything rash, and he mixes himself up in this." Her tone belied her words. Paul knew she was proud of her little brother, and it showed.
"Well, he should be alright now. He'll be in hiding for a while, and then you should be getting another letter from him." Paul tried to be as soothing as possible. He really oughtn't have said anything about Ned. What he came to say was bad enough - he didn't need to upset Kathleen any more.
"Anyways," she said. She refilled her cup. "Was there anything else you came to say?"
*You had to ask, didn't you? Damn.*
What he said aloud was, "As a matter of fact, yes." He wanted for Kathleen to say something in response. She merely gave him the look that said, *spit it out.*
"I- This is hard to say. Um. . ." He paused again. "I. . ."
"Paul. Say it." He looked up at her, and then looked down at his sweaty palms. His heart was racing; felt as if it were a peg shoved into a hole two sizes too small.
"I've been thinking about leaving the church." He heard her small gasp. She knew what she meant. "About making a home outside of the rectory."
He glanced at her, saw her nod. "But I don't want come at night to an empty house. I only want to do it if I can come home to you."
The room was silent and awkward. Paul's heart calmed down, but his stomach was queasy now. He stood up. "I'll go." He began to walk out of the room.
"Wait!" He turned around. Kathleen was standing up, looking slightly disheveled. "Don't go. I still want to talk to you."
They stood for a few seconds, and then Kathleen walked over to him. She touched his cheek. "Do you know what that would mean?"
"Yes." *It means I break my vows to the church, and what could be worst for a priest? And it means you have to get divorced, and that's prohibited for Catholics. We would be pariahs.*
"It's worth it if it's for you," Paul told her. He didn't expect her arms around his neck, or her lips on his. He grinned, and put his arms around her waist. He held her close, his nose buried in her hair.
"My Kathleen," he whispered. "My Kathleen."
He stopped on the sidewalk and looked at the house. He was caught between going up and ringing the doorbell and running away. If he put it off until tomorrow, he could go back to the rectory for in time for tea.
However, he knew that if he didn't do it now, he never would, so he went up to ring the bell.
The look the maid gave him made him shake. "M-may I speak to Mrs. Campbell?" he asked, a little afraid of her stare.
"I'll see if the missus is in," she said coolly. Before she could turn, someone spoke from behind her.
Kathleen's voice.
"Who is it?" she asked. Then she saw Paul. Her jaw dropped, and they stared at each other for a minute. The maid, obviously uncomfortable, left.
"Come in." Paul did so, and Kathleen closed the door behind him.
"I need to talk to you." He found no use in waiting. "I-"
"Wait a minute," Kathleen said. "There's no need to talk in the hall. Come and sit down and have some tea. Alexander's at work."
Paul thanked God for that. He hated the man. He found Alexander Campbell to be one of the most vile, awful creatures on earth. He watched Kathleen walk away to get tea. That man had hurt her, hurt that beautiful woman.
Hurt the woman he loved.
He bristled at the thought.
"Here, Paul," Kathleen called several minutes later, motioning him into the sitting room. She held a tray of tea in her hands.
*There's a good start. . . she didn't call me 'Father,'* he thought to himself. He followed her into the room. They sat down, several feet between them. Paul felt the tension in the room, felt it swirling and hot and thick like putty. He sipped the tea.
"Anyways," Kathleen said, eyes glued to the floor, "how was Ireland?"
"Good." He paused. "I saw Ned." Kathleen's eyes snapped up from the floor to his face. He trembled slightly under her gaze.
"How is he?" Her voice was urgent.
"He seemed fine. I met him in a pub before the Uprising." A wry smile screwed across Paul's face. What a conversation that had been. He remembered the misery they had shared quite well.
"The Uprising. . .?"
"Well, he was captured and taken to Kilmainham Jail."
Kathleen covered her face with her hands and muttered to herself.
"They got him out."
"What?"
"They got him out. I was working as pastor there - a friend of his came for him. A journalist, he was, name of Henry Mooney; said Ned was a fellow journalist and showed them Ned's press pass."
Kathleen breathed a sigh of relief. "Was he hurt?"
Paul tapped his head. "He was rapped on the head somehow, and had a pretty bad concussion."
"Dear God, Ned! I told him not to do anything rash, and he mixes himself up in this." Her tone belied her words. Paul knew she was proud of her little brother, and it showed.
"Well, he should be alright now. He'll be in hiding for a while, and then you should be getting another letter from him." Paul tried to be as soothing as possible. He really oughtn't have said anything about Ned. What he came to say was bad enough - he didn't need to upset Kathleen any more.
"Anyways," she said. She refilled her cup. "Was there anything else you came to say?"
*You had to ask, didn't you? Damn.*
What he said aloud was, "As a matter of fact, yes." He wanted for Kathleen to say something in response. She merely gave him the look that said, *spit it out.*
"I- This is hard to say. Um. . ." He paused again. "I. . ."
"Paul. Say it." He looked up at her, and then looked down at his sweaty palms. His heart was racing; felt as if it were a peg shoved into a hole two sizes too small.
"I've been thinking about leaving the church." He heard her small gasp. She knew what she meant. "About making a home outside of the rectory."
He glanced at her, saw her nod. "But I don't want come at night to an empty house. I only want to do it if I can come home to you."
The room was silent and awkward. Paul's heart calmed down, but his stomach was queasy now. He stood up. "I'll go." He began to walk out of the room.
"Wait!" He turned around. Kathleen was standing up, looking slightly disheveled. "Don't go. I still want to talk to you."
They stood for a few seconds, and then Kathleen walked over to him. She touched his cheek. "Do you know what that would mean?"
"Yes." *It means I break my vows to the church, and what could be worst for a priest? And it means you have to get divorced, and that's prohibited for Catholics. We would be pariahs.*
"It's worth it if it's for you," Paul told her. He didn't expect her arms around his neck, or her lips on his. He grinned, and put his arms around her waist. He held her close, his nose buried in her hair.
"My Kathleen," he whispered. "My Kathleen."