1999 by Morgan Llywelyn Read Free Book Online

for the beam of headlamps.
    She had spent hours arranging the parlour to reflect her own taste. There was no money for new furniture to replace the shabby tables and chairs dating from the thirties, but slipcovers and new curtains had brightened the place, and vases placed around the room were always filled with fresh flowers in season or artistic arrangements of leaves and branches.
    Barry let her do what she liked, with one exception. He insisted on retaining a singular ornament that Barbara found appalling. A table to the right of the fireplace held a big glass dome atop a polished walnut base. Within the dome was a very large, rather damaged stone nose.
    When she had tried to carry the ugly thing to the attics Philpott had stopped her. “You’d best leave that where you found it,” he warned. “Barry’ll never forgive you if you move Lord Nelson’s nose. It’s his trophy.”
    Warren Philpott was the small, wispy man from whom Barry had bought the boardinghouse. He was now employed to cook breakfast and the evening meal—which the Irish called “tea,” a holdover from English occupation. On this particular evening he had come and gone, leaving a stack of dirty dishes for the housekeeper to wash. Eleven of the twelve men currently boarding in the house had retired to their rooms. The straggler had planted himself in the most comfortable chair in the parlour as he did every night, and was reading The Irish Times from back to front, beginning with the obituaries. There was no point in trying to talk to him.
    Nor was Barbara in the mood for washing dishes. The anger that had been building up in her since Barry’s return was in direct proportion to her fears about his safety while he was away, and had reached fever pitch. She paused long enough to glance at herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Fool. You fool. What are you doing?
    The mirror reflected a striking face. Beneath dark, dead-level brows, Barbara’s hazel eyes looked golden. Her creamy complexion was the envy of many women. But as far as she was concerned any chance of beauty was ruined by the heavy jaw she had inherited from her grandfather.
    A deep jaw and a big-boned frame would have been assets to an operatic contralto. If things had been different I might have been singing at La Scala. So why am I working as a housekeeper in Dublin? Barbara Kavanagh silently asked the image in the mirror.
    The answer was Barry Halloran.
    At last she went upstairs for a bath, filling the room with the pungent scent of jasmine bath salts. After soaking until the water turned cold, she gave herself a manicure. The results disappointed her. Bright red nail varnish made her fingers look like talons dipped in blood. She stripped off the offending scarlet with swipes of remover and replaced it with a more subtle shade.
    Shortly after the clock struck two she crawled into bed. Naked. Alone.
    Barry’s room down the hall was still unoccupied.
    When Barbara entered the kitchen in the morning the kettle was already boiling on the Aga, the immense cast-iron cooker that dominated the kitchen and devoured quantities of turf. McCoy was loading a tray with jugs of milk and bowls of sugar to carry into the dining room. He was a man who did what needed to be done, whether it was his job or not.
    â€œDon’t tell me the boarders are already down, Séamus.”
    â€œNot at all. Philpott should be here any minute, though. And I’ve fed the Aga.”
    Barbara began taking dishes out of the press. “Where’s Barry?”
    â€œStill asleep, I reckon. Let the lad be, he’s worn-out and he’s going to need his strength.” He lifted the tray and carried it through the door to the dining room.
    Barbara followed him with a stack of plates. “What’s Barry going to need his strength for? You two were out until all hours; what were you up to?”
    â€œJust having a chin-wag with some pals.” McCoy