Free Leon Uris by Redemption Page A

SHOES.
     
    “Take off your filthy boots,” the second assistant housekeeper of the manor commanded with all the authority vested in her. She led them into the Long Hall of Hubble Manor, a massive room well over a hundred feet long and half as tall. The place reverberated with activity: window cleaners washing the stained glass; painters, polishers, brick repairmen, carpenters in organized frenzy to prepare the pre-Cromwellian navelike space for some very important event.
    The second assistant housekeeper led them toward a knot of people all trying to get the attention of a woman in their midst.
    Conor Larkin’s twelve-and-a-half-year-old eyes became locked on her powerfully. She was neither tall nor short, but quite erect…but not erect in a stiff aristocratic way…bouncy, like a very beautiful girl balancing a pail of milk on her head with ease. Her hair was the most silken golden shimmering mane he had ever seen, and it flew, just so, at half speed when she turned it. And Jaysus! The top of her dress was like nothing in the upper village. It was all open and showed rounded parts of the gorgeous things tucked under a line of lace…and a sweet smell from her almost put him in a trance.
    “Excuse me, m’lady,” the second assistant housekeeper said with the humility of her station. “Mr. Lambe has arrived.”
    “Mr. Lambe?”
    “The blacksmith.”
    “Oh yes, how do you do, Mr. Lambe?”
    He nodded in a semibow and elbowed Conor to stop gawking and bow likewise. “Me assistant, young Conor Larkin.”
    “You’re staring at me, Master Larkin.”
    “Aye, you’re very beautiful.”
    Mr. Lambe groaned and ordered Conor to unload the dray. “Sorry about that, Countess. Catholic lad, you know. Sometimes they’re a bit short on manners up in the heather.”
    “Actually, I thought he was disarmingly charming. Isn’t he rather young to be an apprentice boy?”
    “They start ’em young. They have to. This lad has the magic of the faeries at the forge.”
    “Well now, Mr. Lambe. Lord Hubble and I were suddenly recalled from our honeymoon, no less.”
    “Oh now, that’s a pity.”
    “One must get used to the ways of the west. It seems that politics hereabouts has number one priority…after an heir is produced. However, his lordship and myself have hardly had the time to accomplish that, so it’s politics with a capital P.”
    Mr. Lambe liked her. No snot about her. She had a gist, a pleasant gist, a smart woman who would get you to work your arse off for her, he thought.
    “We were returned from paradise because it seems like Charles Stewart Parnell’s victory in the election has caused a panic. Lord Randolph Churchill is landing at Larne, perhaps at this very moment, to rally our loyal Protestant forces against the pending Irish Home Rule Bill. A final rally will take place here in the Long Hall. The great screen is very unsteady and my blacksmith is shorthanded.”
    The manor’s blacksmith, Mr. Leland, was born shorthanded, Mr. Lambe thought.
    Lady Caroline continued. “I trust you can help him shore it up so that it won’t be a safety hazard.”
    Mr. Lambe studied it. Once it had been most likely the greatest single example of wrought iron in Ireland, if not the world. Fires, explosions, and all those things that came with the insurrections had taken their toll. He went over it with Mr. Leland and reckoned it could be made safe in a few weeks.
    “Good, that is how long it is going to take Lord Churchill to talk his way across Ulster.”
    Each night when the workmen had cleared out, Lady Caroline inspected the day’s progress. Often as not, Mr. Lambe’s apprentice boy, the Harkin or O’Leary lad—whatever his name was—would still be there staring at the screen. He’d inspect it from a few inches’ distance, running his fingertips over the more circuitous parts and speaking to himself. The boy was obviously taken by the work.
    A fortnight went by and the lad’s fascination had not