A shadow fell across her kneeling figure, and Fluter growled softly. Jessica looked up and saw a man she had never seen before, a man with thin blonde hair who smiled down at her and said, “Dear, we came as soon as we possibly could.”
He helped Jessica to rise and then introduced her to the woman who stood beside him, a tall lady with a wisp of black veiling shadowing her bright, polished eyes. “This is your Aunt Maud, my dear.”
Still smiling, he placed a large, strong hand on her shoulder. “And I, Jessica, I am your Uncle Eric.”
Chapter Seventeen
The last guests and mourners departed Easter Hill later that afternoon, with only Eric and Maud Griffith and Angus Ryan staying on in the library with Jessica, a quiet group seated at the glowing fireplace.
The household staff had found a therapy for their grief during the long day by caring for friends and visitors who stopped by to pay respects, setting out sliced cold meats, preserves, and custards on the sideboard of the dining room and passing drinks and sherries on silver trays to those in the great hall and drawing room.
The tones of the library were soft in the fading spring sunshine, the carved arms of chairs and sofas and the leather bindings of books catching golden reflections from the shining bay windows.
Eric found himself comfortably at home here, relaxed in a huge leather chair with a glass of whiskey in his hand and a view of meadows and trees stretching off to the sea. He liked the look of the books reaching to the dark timbered ceilings and savored the perfection of his Waterford goblet, the smokey taste of the Irish wiskey.
What a blissful, relaxing change from the haste and confusion of the last few days. After the first televised reports of Andrew Dalworth’s death, they had scrambled frantically to get their tickets and pack for the trip to Ireland, with Tony Saxe haggling over money and Maud being her usual pain-in-the-derriere, matching silk scarves to tweed suits, and pearls to black silks — a petulant, time-wasting process — all of that plus the last detour on the way to the crowded airport, the cab ride to the dingy shop off Front Street to bargain with the bald old man about the silly trinket till they almost missed the plane.
With the taste of sour copper in his mouth, the nerve-frazzling Customs at Shannon, the disorientation of jet lag, the expensive rented car and driving on the wrong side of the curving country roads — well, it was good to stretch out his legs and sip a whiskey and feel at home.
Maud was making herself agreeable to Jessica and Angus Ryan, something she was proficient at when such efforts coincided with her own interests. Jessica told her about Windkin, her studies at school, and her stamp and coin collections, while Eric allowed Angus Ryan to ramble on in his boring brogue about the industrial expansion in southern Ireland and the present offerings at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin.
Eric’s mood was ambivalent. He relished these graceful surroundings, so subtly speaking of privilege and class, yet the knowledge that they belonged, not to him, but to his solemn and haughty little niece was stirring resentments in him.
Mrs. Kiernan, the stout old biddy from the kitchen, had sniffed in disapproval when he had gone to the sideboard for this last whiskey. He knew from experience how long a nose house-staff had for money: they peeked at labels in jackets, they heard the gossip behind your back when you were gone, and if you happened to be out of a job or overdrawn, it was like wearing a leper’s bell around the neck. Even the lumbering brute of a collie (Fluter, was it?) had taken a dislike to Eric, growling and baring his teeth when he only so much as poked his head into Dalworth’s private study, a teak-pannelled room connected to the library and fitted with files and phones, a desk, and a display of antique hand-guns.
Angus Ryan pulled an old-fashioned gold watch from his vest pocket. “Well, I’d best be thinking about my train.” With a smile at Jessica, he said, “Lass, shouldn’t you be wanting a little rest?”
“I’m all right, sir. I think I’d prefer to go down to the stables to talk with Windkin for a few minutes. But I’ll wait till you’re off to the station.”
I’d prefer this, I’d prefer that, Eric thought moodily. Such a high-toned little miss with her fine manners and Dalworth’s millions, and not toddling off obediently with a swift smack on her behind if there were any complaints about it. That was very likely what she needed, spoiled rotten by an indulgent old sugar daddy, the same as the staff in the kitchen, who could also use a reminder about who were the servants and who were the masters here.
Maud said, “Eric, we’ve got to be leaving, too, but first I want to show you this view from the bay windows...” Taking the glass from his hand, she put it on a table and led him to the far end of the library where she pointed out over the fields and spoke to him in a low, angry voice, “Goddamn it, get your mind onto why we’re here. Stop swilling whiskey and playing the lord of the manor.”
“I’ve got as much right here as anybody,” Eric said sullenly.
“Talk to the old fool, talk to him now.” Smiling and raising her voice, she said, “The sun on the hills is just breathtaking.”
“Simply marvelous,” Eric turned and joined Angus Ryan who had stood to examine a fine woodcut in a hand-carved frame.
“Mr. Ryan, could I have a word with you?”
“Why, indeed you may, Mr. Griffith.” Angus Ryan looked steadily at Eric, a faint smile brightening his shrewd blue eyes. “And what word is it you want with me, sir?”
Eric heard (or believed he heard) a dry, pointed tone in the solicitor’s voice. And he didn’t like the way Ryan was regarding him, sharp eyes glittering beneath tangled eyebrows. Of course, this wouldn’t be a country yokel of a lawyer, not with Dalworth’s fortune to look after.
Eric glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Jessica was out of earshot. She was indeed, seated at the fire with Maud, leafing through an album of photographs.
“It’s just this, Mr. Ryan. Since you are the executor of the Dalworth estate and Jessica’s legal docent or advisor, and since Mrs. Griffith and I are the child’s only relatives, I thought it might be useful if we had a talk to discuss our mutual responsibilities.”
“If you see the need for such a meeting, of course, I am at your service. But I think you should know in advance that my responsibilities are neither flexible nor negotiable. They are spelled out precisely by the terms of Mr. Dalworth’s will.”
“Naturally, I assumed they would be,” Eric said. “However, as Jessica’s blood kin, I also have responsibilities.”
“Ah, yes.” Again the tone was honed and dry. “I’m sure you do, Mr. Griffith. I take it you and Mrs. Griffith aren’t on a rigid schedule?”
“That’s right, Mr. Ryan. We’re at the Hannibal Arms.”
“It is indeed fortunate that you have this free time coincident with Mr. Dalworth’s demise. May I suggest we meet in my offices in Dublin, say, a week from today?”
Eric smiled. “Perhaps I could give you lunch, Mr. Ryan.”
“The office will do nicely, Mr. Griffith. Shall we say eleven o’clock?”
As they turned back toward the fireplace, Maud opened her handbag and removed a heart-shaped golden locket on a fine, slim chain. “I’d like you to have this, dear,” she said to Jessica.
“It’s very lovely,” Jessica said. “But I think I’m too young to wear jewelry...”
“What a sensible attitude,” Maud said with a quick smile. “But this is special, my dear, and I think you’ll enjoy having it. You see, Jessica, this locket belonged to your mother.”