NO HISTORY TO SPEAK OF
Strolling along the banks of the Severn River, Darren Rorke paused to lift his binoculars in order to focus on the distant ruins of Chepstow Castle on the Welsh side of the wide waterway. “Magnificent,” he declared. “Certainly nothing like it in the States.”
“Built hundreds of years ago,” Daffyd sneered. “To keep us Welsh at bay.”
While he might not like the oily little Welshman, Darren recognized a kindred spirit. His own Irish ancestors had suffered similar persecution over the centuries. It was his sworn duty to exact revenge for those atrocities. Ireland must be freed from British rule. “History is fascinating,” he allowed, still irritated his contacts in England hadn’t managed to find Irish collaborators.
“Of course,” Daffyd replied, blowing his nose reddened by the brisk winter wind sweeping up the Bristol Channel. “You’ve no history to speak of in America.”
Resisting the urge to pound the ignorant fellow into the pavement, Darren thought longingly of his birthplace. He loved the hustle and bustle of New York, the architecture, the traditions. No history, indeed. “At least we can count on a white Christmas,” he said, his thoughts drifting to the annual family get-together he’d been forced to miss this year. Aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, cousins. His father always made sure the Irish whisky flowed and his mother cooked up a storm. There’d be laughter, reminiscing and songs from theauld sod. Swallowing the homesickness lodged in his throat, he forced his thoughts back to the present. “All you get is dismal rain.”
Darren failed to see the humor, but Daffyd chuckled as he eyed the portmanteau. “Good thing we’re not planning to blow up the castle. It would take a sight more dynamite than I suspect you’ve brought. Same stuff as before?”
Darren gritted his teeth. “Don’t talk so loudly. You never know who might overhear.”
Daffyd’s curious stare was well earned. There wasn’t another soul in sight on this chilly Christmas Day. “The police know the dynamite used in the explosions at Victoria Railway Station and Clerkenwell Prison came from America,” the Welshman said. “We don’t manufacture that type in Britain.”
“And yet,” Darren replied, feeling smug. “My bags were never searched once during the voyage.” He bristled, grasping Daffyd’s wrist when the little man reached for the portmanteau. “You must guarantee you can carry this off.”
The Welshman pointed to the partially completed grandstand in the distance. “There’s no one working on finishing the platform today, it being a holiday. Me and Gwilym can have the dynamite in place and no one will be any the wiser. There’s a gale coming. I feel it in my bones. It will look as though the bridge just collapsed in the high wind. The general opinion is the span is too long anyway.”
“It must be destroyed before the train passes over it,” Darren reminded his cohort, focusing his binoculars on the structure being built for viewing the official opening. “Casualties tend to draw a more determined investigation by the police.”
Daffyd yanked his arm from Darren’s grip and picked up the bag of dynamite. “You can depend on us,” he snarled. “Don’t think we don’t know you stiffed the Clerkenwell crew. Just make sure we get paid.”
CRACKERS
After holding out her chair, Brock took his seat next to Samantha at the dinner table. Christmas had always been a time of great feasting and merriment in the Hindley household. Brock’s stiff upper lip behavior had put a damper on things. Still miffed with his unseasonal demeanor, she stifled another giggle when her father offered her fiancé—a strict teetotaler—a glass of wine.
Brock grimaced, placing his hand over the glass. “You know I’m a…”
“Oh yes,” her father cut in. “Sorry. Slipped my mind,” he said, winking at Samantha.
It was to be expected her naughty parent would try to lighten the mood, but Samantha suddenly had a dreadful vision of a future filled with bleak Christmases. Any children that resulted from their marriage might never know the happy times she’d experienced as a child. Brock had even frowned at the colorful paper chains festooned in every part of Hindley House.
She chewed her bottom lip as the dishes of food were passed. Upon first meeting Brock, she’d admired his serious side. Most young men of her acquaintance were shallow and frivolous. Brock was right that an ambitious barrister who hoped to become a partner in a prestigious legal firm couldn’t be flippant. He truly was a great catch for a girl of nineteen and a half, past the age when most were married and had children of their own. When he advanced in the firm, her social status would rise considerably. Perhaps her parents made him nervous. Once they had exchanged vows and Brock was her husband…
Her throat constricted when she noticed him eyeing the mound of food on her father’s plate with disdain. In sharp contrast, he helped himself to one of everything—one slice of dark turkey meat, one roasted potato, one Brussels sprout and one carrot. Nose in the air, he declined the gravy of which her mother was justifiably proud and raised his hands to ward off the bowl of stuffing when it came his way. It annoyed her that he didn’t seem to realize or care that he was insulting her mother’s Herculean efforts to ensure Cook provided a hearty Christmas dinner.
Distracted when Grace thrust the end of a cracker under her nose, she took hold and pulled. Her sister squealed with glee when she won. The paper hat was soon atop her golden curls. “Why was the snowman looking through the carrots at the greengrocer’s shop?” she asked, reading from the slip of paper she’d found inside the cracker.
“He was picking his nose,” her father declared.
Grace pouted. “Daddy!”
“Sorry, but it was too easy,” he replied, settling his own paper hat on his balding head and squinting at his motto. “What did Adam say the day before Christmas?”
Samantha knew the answer, but she allowed her father his punchline.
“It’s Christmas, Eve,” he bellowed.
Everyone laughed heartily, except Brock.
Determined to beard the dragon, Samantha offered him her cracker. “Pull with me.”
“If you insist,” he replied, taking hold of the very end.
She pulled too hard, yanking the cracker out of his hand entirely.