“Well set’s a variable term, isn’t it? Depending on where you’re standing.”
She walked back toward the kitchen, past what he assumed was the company parlor, then the family living area. The rooms were crowded with furniture and whatnots, and fresh flowers. And all as neat as she.
The table in the big family kitchen could have fit twelve, and he imagined it had. There was a huge stove that appeared to be well-used, an enormous refrigerator, miles of butter yellow counters.
The windows over the sink looked out over garden and field and hill, and there were little pots he supposed were herbs sitting on the sill. It was a working room, and a cheerful one. He could still smell breakfast in the air.
“Have a seat then, Roarke. Will you have biscuits with your tea?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Well, I will. Don’t get much of a reason to eat a biscuit in the
middle of the day, might as well take advantage of it when I do.”
She dealt with the homey chores, and had him wondering if she was giving them both time to settle. The tea was in a plain white pot, and the biscuits she put on a pretty blue plate.
“Yours is a face I never expected to see at my door.” With the chores done, she sat, chose a biscuit. “So, why have you come?”
“I thought I . . . felt I . . . Ah, well.” He sipped the tea. Apparently, she hadn’t given him time enough to settle. “I didn’t know about you—about Siobhan—until a few days ago.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “Know what?”
“That you—she—existed. I’d been told, I believed, that my mother . . . the woman I thought was my mother, had left. Left me when I was a child.”
“Did you?”
“Ma’am—”
“I’m Sinead. Sinead Lannigan.”
“Mrs. Lannigan, until a few days ago, I’d never heard the name Siobahn Brody. I thought my mother’s name was Meg, and I don’t remember her particularly well except she had a hard hand and she walked out, leaving me with him.”
“Your mother, your true mother, wouldn’t have left you if there’d been breath in her body.”
So she knows already, he thought. Knows her sister’s long dead. “I know it now. He killed her. I don’t know what to say to you.”
She set her cup down, very carefully. “Tell me the story as you know it now. That’s what I want to hear.”
He told her, while she sat in silence, watching him. And when he’d told her all he knew, she rose, filled a kettle, put it on the stove.
“I’ve known it, all these years. We could never prove it, of course. The police, they didn’t help, didn’t seem to care. She was just one more girl gone astray.”
“He had a few cops in his pocket back then. One or two is all it takes when you want something covered. You could never have proved it, however you tried.”
Her shoulders trembled once on a long breath, then she turned. “We tried to find you, at first. For her sake. For Siobhan. My brother, Ned, nearly died trying. They beat him half to death, left him in a Dublin alley. He had a wife, and a babe of his own. Much as it pained us, we had to let you go. I’m sorry.”
He only stared, and said, very slowly. “My father killed her.”
“Yes.” Tears swam into her eyes. “And I hope the murdering son of a whore’s burning in hell. I won’t ask God to forgive me for saying it, for hoping it.” Carefully, she folded the red-and-white dishcloth, then sat back down while the kettle heated for more tea.
“I felt, when I learned all this, what had happened to her, I felt you—her family—deserved to be told. That it was only right that I tell you, face-to-face. I realize it’s no easier hearing it from me, maybe harder at that, but it was the only way I knew.”
Watching his face, she leaned back. “Come from America, did you, for this?”
“I did, yes.”
“We heard of you—your exploits, young Roarke. His father’s son, I thought. An operator, a dangerous man. Heartless man. I think you may be a dangerous man, but it’s not a heartless one sitting in my kitchen waiting for me to slap him for something he had no part in.”