Читать книгу THE BETTER PART OF VALOR - Morgan Mackinnon - Страница 18

Chapter 11

The weather was delightful in Ireland the first part of May in the year 1875. The grass was a little greener here than anywhere else on Earth. Fluffy white sheep grazed, the River Barrow flowed gently, faint odors of fresh bread baking came from the kitchen, and Cresta would not have been surprised if a leprechaun frolicked on the front lawn. Despite the promise of fresh bread in a few hours, Cresta and Myles asked Fiona, the cook, to make them up a little basket containing some of yesterday’s bread, a wedge of cheese, some cold ham, apples, and a stoppered jug of ale. Then she and Keogh took the trap, a blanket, and the basket and set out for the fields. He promised her a lovely view over the town of Leighlinbridge and so it was. A high hill shaded by a tall oak, the town and river spread out in front of them. Keogh took the blanket out of the carriage and spread it on the grass.

“Come and sit down. It is a wonderful day and will not, I hope, be spoiled by rain. Rain can come quickly here.”

She did sit down, tucking her afternoon skirt modestly beneath her. There was a light breeze, and the shirtwaist and jacket she wore were perfect. Shirtwaists were wonderful inventions for they allowed the jacket and skirt of an outfit to be used multiple times, but the look was always fresh with the change of the shirtwaist. The suit she wore, done in a tan, brown, and black tweed, looked as good with a white shirtwaist as it did with beige, brown, black, or yellow.

Myles took off his afternoon jacket and threw it in the trap. His “informal” afternoon look were blue and gray worsted trousers, white shirt and blue ascot, as opposed to the cravat of 1875, which was basically a neck band with a bow tie. Nearly every gentleman wore a cravat or an ascot.

“Here is a glass of ale. Not so fine as wine or scotch, but we are roughing it in the countryside! A toast:

Fill with mingled cream and amber,

I will drain that glass again.

Such hilarious visions clamber

Through the chambers of my brain.

Quaintest thoughts, queerest fancies

Come to life and fade away.

What care I how time advances;

I am drinking ale today.”

Cresta laughed and raised her glass. “Is that an old Irish toast?”

“Not Irish. Edgar Allan Poe.”

Once the toast had been disposed of, the two friends talked for a time. Cresta was so pleased the way things had worked out and told Myles how much she appreciated his kind offer to visit his family home. She had not meant to intrude on the intimacy of his visit with his brother and sisters, but none of them seemed to mind. This was at least the third time she’d mentioned interrupting his family reunion, so apparently, she felt quite guilty.

“You are not intruding in the least. Our family home has always been open to friends, new and old. You are a new friend who will, hopefully, become an old friend.”

“Then you mean I can take up residence in an attic bedroom and not be evicted until I turn ninety?”

Said lightly, jokingly, and with a laugh, but Myles raised his glass again and replied, “If that is your wish, then it is also mine.”

After spending some time trying to assign names to the clouds… “Oh, that one is a fish, can you see it?” “Look! A dragon chasing a mouse!” Myles rolled onto his stomach and pulled two small volumes from his pocket.

“These are poetry verses, and here is what we will do. I take one, you take the other. Then we randomly choose a page and read a verse. I will begin if I may…”

O no, no—let me lie

Not on a field of battle when I die!

Let not the iron tread

Of the mad war-horse crush my helmèd head…

Cresta’s face went white, and she dropped her volume. Let me lie not on a field of battle when I die… Oh my god, she thought desperately. How could he have come up with that verse?

Myles put his book down. “Cresta, what is wrong? I am sorry, I know that is a dark and brooding verse. It is by a fellow named John Pierpont and from his poem called ‘Not on the Battle-Field.’ Here, let me try to find something cheerier.”

Cresta’s hand was shaking, but she attempted to sip her ale. Calm down, calm down. It’s just a coincidence, that’s all. Calm down.

“Here is a delightful little ditty called ‘Sly Thoughts.’ Listen.”

“I saw him kiss your cheek!—”

“’T is true.”

“Oh Modesty!—”

“’T was strictly kept:

He thought me asleep; at least, I knew

He thought I thought he thought I slept.”

“You are right. That one is better. The first was, I mean, you being a solder and all, it upset me. I shall now open my book and read a verse from…‘The First Kiss’ by Thomas Campbell.”

How delicious is the winning

Of a kiss at love’s beginning,

When two mutual hearts are sighing

For the knot there’s no untying.

She had just finished her verse when something strange happened. There was a faint sound, a fizzy sound, low, not unpleasant, and then a yellow mist began forming around them. Cresta knew what it was, but before she could say anything, Keogh, fearing imminent danger, threw himself over her in order to protect her. An instant later, the mist enveloped them, and they disappeared.