Free The Secret Generations by John Gardner Page A

if it’s what he wants, I cannot stop him. However, you are a Railton now, and there are things you can do for your new family. Things of great importance.’
    She waited, puzzled, not realizing what he meant until he began to ask questions about her past, and the people she knew in Dublin, and elsewhere.
    ‘I live by old honours,’ Giles said. ‘Love of Country, King, Empire and God. Those things grow thin with age, of course, but I trust you will live by the same. The family, your new family, lives by these things, and we are all dedicated to service. You would wish to be of service?’
    She said yes, and he then began to talk, telling her what she must do.
    And now, Bridget Railton was alone in her parents’ home. Any one of them who wished to talk with her would know, and come. As she thought this, so Bridget caught sight of the horseman coming across the fields at a gallop, and even through the drizzle, which had now reached the house, she could see it was Padraig O’Connell, whom she had known since they were both barely five years of age.
    She slid from the window seat and peeped into the mirror, smoothing her hair an d adjusting the lace collar on her simple brown woollen gown. From the top of the stairs she could already hear Michael Bergin admitting Padraig into her father’s house, through the kitchen door at the back.
    ‘ I can hear you, Padraig O’Connell,’ she called, surprised at the calmness of her own voice. ‘And shame on you coming here when a respectable married woman’s alone in the house.’
    His laugh was gruff and carried little humour. The laugh of a dead man, her father had once called it, after they had been up until dawn, drinking and arguing politics.
    He stood in the hallway, at the foot of the stairs, his clothes damp from the soft rain he had tried to outride; dark eyes looking up at her, his hair long and tangled, and the mouth smiling – like his laugh, the smile of a dead man, not reaching the eyes.
    ‘ If you wanted Father, he’s in town with my husband.’ She stood at the last stair, the blackness of her own eyes almost outfreezing his.
    ‘ Sure and I know that. Would I have come here if your husband was at home?’ then his voice fell by one note, like a scale on the pianoforte. ‘Or your father either, Bridget. No, we must speak. Where?’
    She motioned towards the parlour, and he went on ahead of her, as though he owned the house and not her family. ‘You know why I’m here?’ He turned towards her, as she closed the door behind them.
    ‘ You tell me and I’ll know – though I’d rather not, Padraig, I’d best be truthful.’
    ‘ Tut! And is that the way to be talking to someone who was your friend from childhood? Almost kin to you.’
    ‘ A little more than kin, and less than kind’ She muttered the quotation from Hamlet .
    ‘ You’re talkin’ in riddles, so. Is that how they speak in your polite London society?’
    ‘ I mean I do not want you here. You or your kind. You know well enough what I mean.’
    He nodded, and she thought there was an almost tangible calmness within this man. The inner peace of certainty: a mark of his cause. ‘Aye, so, I know what you mean, but there’s no escaping kin and country, Bridget. In the next few years things may go peacefully, though I doubt it; and it’s my duty to call on you.’ He laid one thin hand on her wrist. Everything about him was lean, she thought, from the dead laugh to the body, even the way he breathed: shallow, lean breaths as though all his energy went into it. She tried to shake off the hand, but his grip was deceptively strong. ‘Your English husband’s bought Glen Devil Farm, so that can only mean you’re back to stay.’
    ‘ There’s talk of putting a manager in,’ she lied.
    ‘ There’s no such talk. There’ll be no absent landlord at Glen Devil. Now you listen to me, because it’s of your country, and your people, that I’m talking. You know what’s going on?’
    ‘ I can