Redemption. - Redemption. Part 15
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Redemption. Part 15

"Shyte!"

"Can you really separate her from the screen?"

Conor groaned the groan of the man exposed. "Maybe the screen does express the way I feel about her. Maybe the only way I'll ever express my feeling is through the screen. I do know that an energy, a spirit has entered me-a desire, if you will, that can only be satisfied when I have done the restoration. I can't control what is driving me. Seamus."

"Then I approve," Seamus answered, "and I'll tell you what I approve of. I approve of you walking on a tightrope for three years over a boiling caldron of lust."

"Well now," Conor whispered, "that will take a bit of doing, won't it."

"Aye. And if you don't leave each other be, you can send up half of Ulster in flames."

24.

1899.

The restoration now took an entirely different orientation. It was removed from the exclusive domain of Conor Larkin and Caroline Hubble. Another iron master was imported from England and a full crew was trained, much to the delight of the maids.

Grand strategy was agreed upon as well as the day-to-day tactical approach. The screen would be done in sections, the rough work by the second master and crew and then attached by block and tackle. Conor alone would work on attaching the sections and then do the finishing work.

As the right molds were found after trial and error, the crew gained confidence under the masters, and the masters gained confidence in themselves. One discovery after another fell to them. The screen grew, almost immeasurably, but in perfect harmony with the original.

The center of the screen came close to being a Larkin creation because nothing had been left of the original. Conor had not only to create but also to conform and respect.

It became apparent that Tijou had a grand presentation in mind, and the discovery of it evolved and was as important as the Clanconcardy ore.

The nave, or length, of the Long Hall faced east and west. The southern side of the hall allowed sun in east in the morning and to west at sundown through a row of clerestory windows at the very top.

The reconstructed Long Hall was lit by four gigantic chandeliers, one at each corner in perfect symmetry. Each held ten dozen candles. Conor had the chandeliers lowered by pulley and filled with tapers then raised back into place. He sat through several nights studying the light. Something was out of kilter.

During the day an enchanting, diffused, bluish light filled the hall through the natural light coming from the clerestory windows. At night, with the candles on, the room and the screen faded. Conor cursed Tijou, the destroyer of masters! The night light glowered. The dawn light that took its place came in like ghosts through a fog. The Long Hall transformed from the nighttime might of clanking men in armor into a daylight drape of silken gauze that flowed off the deep dark paneling and pushed one's eyes toward the screen...always the screen. It was the transformation of coming from a night dungeon to a tantalizing cloud in the sky.

Conor prowled around fifty feet above the floor on those original beams that remained. Tijou's logic slowly came to him as he found plugged-up bolt holes. Conor reckoned that these held a number of smaller chandeliers in a curved line and at staggered heights that imitated the natural light of day.

He had his forge make up some smaller candle holders and set them on the original beams. Again, he sat through the nights. Yes, the light was now becoming more subtle.

Like most perplexing problems, it was solved by a simple solution that had been staring one in the face all the time. When Conor had done the repairs on the original part, he left the black paint and gilt alone. He now ordered it all removed down to the raw iron, leaving the final touch up to his own hand.

What emerged was the gunmetal blue of the Clanconcardy ore, giving off not only a tactile thrill but a visual one as well. All wrought iron was covered with paint and gilt for a striking, monarchlike appearance, and to prevent rust. The paint had obviously been put on long after Tijou's death. Tijou wanted the screen natural with some brushed-in highlight colors.

Glory! Glory! Glory! Glory!

In keeping with their agreement, Caroline and Roger let Conor have his way when he slimmed down the crew and barred entrance to the Long Hall except to his men. This exclusion included everyone in the household, including Jeremy, and the Earl and Countess themselves.

Consumed by the fervor of his secret discovery, Conor ordered more of the simple stand-in chandeliers, a fifth the size of those originally in the Long Hall, to be struck at his forge.

For the next four months, Conor worked alone during the night. By day, the best men on his crew painstakingly sanded and removed the paint with toxins. Each new day Conor had the dozen small candle holders moved a few feet here and a few inches there.

Some of the smaller chandeliers were set behind the screen at the short end of the nave so light would be coming from both directions.

The old manor house had a thing or two to gossip about now, for a madman had locked himself away for nightly werewolf prowls and he only slept in fits and jerks during the day, beard growing wild and cheeks sinking under blackened eyes. Those few who saw him said that he was altogether detached.

Roger was in Belfast when Adam delivered a note to Caroline.

Dear Lord and Lady Hubble, I appreciate your putting up with my nonsense. The screen will be ready tonight after dark for proper presentation.

Conor Larkin And a good thing. Artisans or no, Caroline was coming to the end of her patience.

When she opened the door, all the electric lights were out and the place was bathed in the light of fifteen hundred candles from a dozen mock chandeliers staggered curiously.

"Dear God," Caroline whispered, "dear God."

Conor was in a niche, staring dazed and perspiring.

"Are you here, Mr. Larkin?"

"Here...see it from here..."

That was it, then. His sweat and the perfume she now always dabbed on for their late meetings drifted together. She knew what went well on her skin, and he had told her without words he wanted his evening treat. Neither knew until this instant how his sweat made her scent even sweeter.

The Long Hall was swaying in a fluttering of waves...a ship sailing on a sea of cobalt light reflecting from the screen. An irresistible force compelled her to look at the screen, up and up...man to God.

"The rough chandeliers are only temporary.... I'll make decent ones," he mumbled. "See how it all climbs up...."

Being Irish and a tenor of Irish inclination, Conor pumped his lungs and opened everything in a burst.

"You're singing the new Puccini!" she cried.

"Aye! Aye! Aye!"

Their duet, such as it was, was flamed in blue velvet, loud, uncaringly loud, sadly untrained for such a moment, but they could hear nothing, feel nothing, see nothing that did not create ecstasy. And then they stood and stared gasping for air. No sound now, but their gasps. Conor started weeping and she began weeping.

Arm's length apart, they had to hold hands. She spun away, reeling from the urge that had swept through her to throw herself on him.

"I'm so bloody tired I can barely stand up," he said, slumping into a chair.

"You are Jean Tijou's peer, and more," she said, and left the room as quickly as she could.

25.

Strange, high-strung days and restless nights followed the completion of the great screen for Conor in the Bogside and her ladyship at the manor. It would seem natural enough to be tossed around after a sudden halt to an intense routine of three years' running.

Caroline, always a pleasant person and mistress, became snappish. She wisely announced to Roger that she was exhausted and shouted herself to a few weeks with her father, who was roistering about in Monte Carlo.

Conor's return to the republican movement at Celtic Hall and a waiting assortment of ladies found both causes lacking. In the mellow light of his flat he scanned his books for words of comfort, but he knew the cause of his ailment. He was drained, done in, not only from his accomplishment but from the restraint he had exercised for a thousand and one days of seeing Caroline's skin and the flow of her lines and her hair and the scent of her and her voice, which had mastered an art with him of speaking in double meanings.

At his forge he banged out on the anvil mistakes he wouldn't allow an apprentice boy to make. On the football pitch he was no longer a terror. His concentration was shredded.

After a second month Conor received a hand-delivered note requesting him to make an appointment to come to the manor and look over the screen. Some touching up, of a minor nature, seemed in order.

The doors of the Long Hall were opened. They entered into a place that now owned a luxurious aura belonging to mighty creations. The lacework of iron burst softly, striking them silent.

"Did I really do that?" he said at last.

"Surely you must miss it terribly."

"Like an amputation. I have gained serious respect for the writer who works three years on a novel."

"I should have realized what a loss this would be. Consider that you have visitation rights whenever you wish."

"I didn't count on being so exhausted. There are bums pushing me all over the football field."

Conor went over the touch-up work. "Bloody dampness in Ulster," he mumbled, "but it should last a few centuries...."

"Barring insurrection," she said.

"I'm going to train a couple of your people to keep its sheen, and especially how to rub out any rust spots. I'll also put it on a regular inspection schedule. The weight is going to make shifts, what with the moisture, bolts, and all the interwoven faces, the parts. They all have to learn to live together."

"I'm having the same problem," Caroline said. "That is, the routine here has changed so drastically."

"Mine as well."

"Conor, Sir Frederick repeated the offer he made to you, through me. He is absolutely convinced he should be your patron. He likes the idea of being a Medici. He has some commissions in mind and God knows Belfast could use your sort of work. He is also laying hulls for super transatlantic passenger ships and thinks you could do wonders for the grand rooms."

"Long time ago, when I left Ballyutogue, I had thoughts of becoming a rover for a while. Somehow now it has become difficult for me to see beyond Derry."

"There's another reason," she said.

"Now what would that be?"

"As you know he owns the Boilermakers. He's had scouts at your games. They all think you'd make a great player."

Conor smiled and shrugged. There they go, taking you over, he thought. Some guilt about having neglected his people in Bogside had rushed in. In fact, he had seen Dary and blurted out that he felt very ashamed of himself.

"I know what you're thinking," she said. "You're thinking, 'I'm not your house paddy.'"

"Where's Jeremy lad?" Conor turned the conversation. "He wasn't at practice last week. I thought I'd bring the news myself. He's made the Bogside junior team."

"You're joshing?"

"He's fast, very fast, and he loves crashing into people."

"That will shake the old house down to the timbers." She laughed. "Jeremy is in Kinsale with his father and Christopher doing a spot of sailing and shark fishing."

"Lucky lad."

"He detests both sports, but you know, the old father and son, stiff-upper-lip stuff. He really misses you, Conor. Your hand on his shoulder is one of the most powerful things that has happened to him."

"We'll remain good friends. He's a very open chap."

"Unlike Christopher and Lord Hubble. Jeremy will never run Weed Ship & Iron. Christopher is tailor-made for that job. Jeremy will be a ceremonial earl under tight supervision, he's too friendly, too plain, you know. Roger always thought that I had Jeremy to make my father happy," Caroline said sharply.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you've become my dear friend and I don't want my son to lose you."

"We could end up hurting each other, you know."

"Well, that's the risk we've got to start taking if we're ever going to get things turned around in this crazy province. You have his respect and affection. If the two of you can't be friends, who can?"

With all the republican teachings that had crowded his years, Conor rarely heard of, and believed less, that the ascendancy would ever make an accommodation. Yet he had with Caroline and Jeremy. Was this another door to open...or was it a way to be eased into their system? Surely Caroline meant well, but would it stand with Roger Hubble and his class?

"There was another reason I asked you here today," Caroline went on. "I've a small job I want you to look into. We've a lodge up in the Urris hills, about an hour's horseback ride."

"Oh, I know that place, from afar. When I was a lad pasturing the sheep in the summer in the high meadows, my pal Seamus and I could see the lodge."

"I need some guards on the windows and a sturdier gate and fence. Are you up for a ride?"

Conor galloped behind her playing out the boyhood dream. She rode well, at first. Not up to the top ladies of her class, but decently. The looseness of her blouse and streaming hair and riding astride instead of sidesaddle began to add up to a presence. As they pored through woods and over the stream, she opened up.

The wild side of Caroline burst out! This was the hidden Caroline breaking the restraints. Conor refused to listen to his own warning bells. The call of the siren enveloped him as he opened the reins on his mount.

The lodge was small but perfected, with the elegance of an earldom stamped all over it. Once inside, Conor realized this was Caroline's private domain. The stuffed animal heads were gone in a transition from a man's place for killing deer to a sensual affair.

Caroline knew she was a small matter as artists went, but here she could get rid of her frustration. Her paintings followed bad lines but burst forth with unmistakable erotica. A tidy but well-chosen library spoke of gods making love and men and women imitating the gods in all sorts of ways. The room was softened by silk and the floor was laid with beckoning fur.

Conor became a bit nervous as his eyes played over the room. There had never been whispers of any kind about Caroline engaging in nefarious trysts or infidelity. This place was wild. Conor was not the only one who knew how to play with light and shadows. Certainly she had brought her husband here, and it suddenly disturbed him.

"Now, would you be wanting these windows barred to keep poachers out of here or to lock them in?"

"I have forbidden hunting within sight and sound of this lodge. As for the salmon, I don't care if the poachers steal the streams dry. I want to be left alone here and be as totally made as you were three months ago. Yes, Roger comes here and sometimes we find lightning for an instant, but I always leave, wanting. Any questions?"

"I was very proud of myself the day I left Hubble Manor," Conor said. "I thought I had come through this free. I had practiced the restraint of a saint. But I climb the steps to my loft, turn down the lamp each night, and grip the bars of my headboard and shake. I'm still a prisoner as I have been since I was twelve. This past two months have been worse than the twelve years put together. And these last three years I must have been soothed by the mere sight of you."

"Well, croppy boy, you need wait no longer."

They fit into each other's arms as though their bodies had been molded in a master's workshop, to perfection, and he held her like a precious bird, not to crush her and not to let her go. They rocked gently and rocked and sighed and sighed more deeply and held a bit tighter.