The Rose Garden

Only that, and nothing more, and yet it was enough to speak to me. It told me Daniel Butler had lost someone, too, as I had.

Other footsteps shook the cabinet as they came into the room, and then they stopped, and Fergal’s voice behind me said, ‘You’ll not find anything in there of any value, save the dishes.’

‘I’m not going to steal your dishes.’

Coming up beside me, he glanced at my face with curiosity, then looked down at the little shell-shaped box that held my interest.

‘That was his wife’s,’ he told me, in a voice turned clipped and hard.

I’d guessed as much. Just as I’d guessed the dress that I was wearing had been hers as well. I smoothed it with a hand and would have turned, but Fergal’s sharp eyes had caught sight of something else with my small movement.

‘That’s an Irish ring,’ he said, and gave a nod towards the Claddagh ring I wore. ‘I’ve seen its like in Galway.’ With a narrowed gaze he asked me, ‘May I?’ and I put my hand within his rough one while he turned it to the light. ‘I’ve never seen one made so small. How did you come by it?’

‘It’s been passed down from my grandmother,’ I told him. ‘She was Irish.’

‘Was she, now? And where was it she came from?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘No doubt from Galway, if she had a ring like this.’

I said, ‘It’s called a Claddagh ring. A lot of people have them.’

Fergal raised an eyebrow slightly at the name. ‘A Claddagh ring? ’Tis as unlikely a name as I’ve heard for a token of love. Have you been to the Claddagh? No? It is the finest place to fish in all the western shore of Ireland, and yet you’ll not get near it if you come there as a stranger, for the fishermen of Claddagh are a fierce breed to themselves. They’ll sink your ship as soon as look at you.’

I couldn’t help it. ‘So are you from Claddagh, then?’ I asked him.

Fergal, not expecting that, stared down at me a moment. Then he smiled. ‘Nah. Me, I come from County Cork, where all the men are soft and mannered, don’t you know.’ He let me have my hand back. ‘Are you hungry, Eva Ward?’

‘A little.’

‘Can you cook?’

‘A little.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘then come along with me if you’ve the courage to. We’ll put you to the test.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I saw a different side of Fergal in the kitchen than I’d seen before. His roughened edges smoothed a bit and what I’d seen as grumpiness revealed itself to be a dry and entertaining wit. He even smiled now and then, and from the crinkling lines that marked the outer corners of his eyes when he was smiling I imagined that he did it much more often than he’d led me to believe. On top of which, he seemed to be completely in his element in this room of the house. He cooked with skill.

‘And wasn’t I sent off to sea the minute I was walking,’ he replied when I remarked on it, ‘and I proved myself of no great use to anyone except the ship’s own cook, who taught me all I know. ’Tis why I’m better stewing fish than roasting fowl, as you’ll be learning to your cost.’

I didn’t recognise the type of bird that he was now preparing. There were two of them, narrow and lean. Perhaps ducks. I said, ‘But you are not a ship’s cook now.’

‘I am at that, from time to time. Whenever Danny sails.’

‘He has a ship?’

‘The very best of ships.’ He gave a nod. ‘The Sally. She’s away just now with Danny’s brother at her helm, but when he brings her back you’ll likely see her for yourself.’

I took this in. ‘So who’s the captain? Mr Butler or his brother?’

Fergal’s sideways look said I’d amused him. ‘Well now, there’s a question no man yet could answer for you. ’Tis for certain sure that neither Jack nor Danny could, they’ve argued it for years between their own selves. Like as not the Sally knows, but being such a lady as she is she goes as nicely for the one as for the other.’ He skewered the birds with a long spit and set them to roast on the hearth while he dusted his hands and moved on to the vegetables.

There I could help him, at least. I could peel things and chop them and toss them together into the three-footed iron kettle in which he was making what looked to be some sort of soup, richly thickened with barley.

He shot me another glance while I was working. ‘You’re not a woman to complain, I’ll give you that.’

‘And who would I complain to?’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Besides,’ I said, ‘I’ll have to practise being silent, won’t I, now you’ve got the constable convinced that I can’t talk.’

‘Ay, well, I’m sorry for all that,’ he said, not looking in the least bit sorry. ‘But ’twas all that I could think to keep him from discovering the queer way that you talk. He’d have asked questions, to be sure.’

‘No, don’t be sorry. It was very gallant of you.’

‘Was it, now?’

‘It was. And thank you.’

With his head tipped to one side he wiped the blade of his own cutting knife to clean it, while he kept his eyes on me as though deciding something. Then he set the knife down and remarked, ‘I have a thirst from all this work, now. Will you have a drink of cider, Eva Ward?’