Page 37 of Road Trip
Finally, Therese lost patience. “What can you tell us about the paintings stolen by the IRA?” she asked.
The guide’s face froze for a moment, but she recovered quickly. “I see someone’s been doing their historical research.”
“The IRA?” One of the Australians’ faces lit up. “Do tell!”
“It was back in the 1970s, a long time ago. But all the paintings were quickly recovered and the thieves were arrested and jailed, following an intense, countrywide manhunt. But after that unfortunate incident, the Rossingtons decided, for security reasons, that the stolen pieces, which were the gems of their art collection, should be donated to the National Gallery in Dublin, where they are still on exhibit.”
“Then what’s all this stuff?” the other Australian asked in an irked tone. He had a bristly gray mustache that reminded Therese of Captain Crunch from the cereal box.
“Oh, these are still some of the most amazing, valuable paintings in all of Europe,” the guide assured him. “Not copies. The genuine article.”
“But… I read that not all the paintings that were stolen were found,” Maeve spoke up. “Isn’t that right?”
The guide arched an over-plucked eyebrow. “Don’t believe everything you read.” She waved the group toward the end of the hall. “Now, let’s move on to the kitchens. In their day, dining at the Rossingtons’ was considered a coveted invitation. You’ve already noted that the dining room, really a banquet hall, could comfortably seat eighty people. So how did the cooks prepare all that food for such huge crowds? You’re about to find out.”
Maeve caught her eye, and the sisters let the others move ahead of them until they were momentarily alone in the picture gallery.
“What do you make of that?” Therese asked. “‘Don’t believe everything you read.’” She’d always had an ear for accents, and her impression of the tour guide’s smooth-tongued blarney was dead on.
“Interesting,” Maeve said.
The guide had paused at the entrance to the kitchen. “Ladies?” she said. “You don’t want to fall behind now.”
“Be right there,” Maeve called.
“Not me,” Therese said, yawning. “I’m out. If you need me I’ll be back in the room. But don’t need me, okay? I’m dead on my feet.”
CHAPTER 17
After her sister’s early departure, Maeve was torn. The rule follower in her felt duty-bound to obey their guide’s instructions and join the others when they trailed after her in the direction of the kitchen.
But she felt drawn back to the library. The group had only briefly gazed into the room, lined with massive glass-doored bookcases, behind which stood row after row of leather-bound volumes, their spines stamped in gold lettering.
Inevitably, she drifted back toward the library doorway and, shocking herself, she ducked under the velvet rope and into forbidden territory.
Tiptoeing past a battleship-sized mahogany desk, she quickly opened the nearest bookcase door. The heady perfume of old books and old leather wafted out. She sniffed appreciatively, then, glancing around to ensure that no armed security guards were lurking nearby, she lightly ran a fingertip over a row of volumes. Some titles were in French, which she didn’t speak or read, and others in Latin, which she could only dimly remember from her Catholic school upbringing, but she could nonetheless appreciate their antique beauty.
Nearby, a pair of armchairs beckoned. They were pulled in front of a fireplace that took up an entire wall. The tufted leather upholstery was cracked and dusty and she was sorely tempted to pluck a book from the shelf and sink down into one of those chairs. Here, the aroma smelled faintly of pipe tobacco, woodsmoke, and even,she thought, wet dog. But maybe she’d watched too much BritBox lately.
Instead of sitting, she quickly backed out of the library and motored down the hallway. She stopped in the portrait gallery, using her phone to snap photos of all the esteemed family members who’d once called Tarrymore home.
Now that the area was empty, she noticed several dark rectangles where the wallpaper around them had faded.
Did these mark the spots where the missing paintings had hung, including the portrait of Lady G?
Moving down the hallway, she paused in front of what appeared to be a matched set of portraits in oval frames. According to the small brass plaques affixed to the bottoms of the frames, these were Edward and Fiona Rossington, the lord and lady of Tarrymore.
She stared long and hard at the lord’s face, with its broad forehead and voluptuous lips. Almost unconsciously she touched her own forehead, which to her mind, like Mary Helen’s, was freakishly large. For as long as Maeve could remember, her mother had worn bangs, and insisted that her youngest daughter, too, should wear them, ever since the day Maeve came home from school in tears after a classmate called her “Frankenmaeve.”
Lady Fiona was probably considered a beauty in her day, or at least she was painted as such, with hazel eyes and a stylish Roaring Twenties brunette bob that lent her a coquettish look. Looped around her neck was an impressive diamond-and-pearl necklace.
Nearby hung a smaller portrait, in a similar frame, of an older woman. She too had a high, broad forehead, with auburn hair pulled back in an unfortunate updo that did her no favors. She had piercing blue eyes and an enigmatic semi-smile. The brass plaque said she was Lady Delia. Maeve snapped a quick photo.
“Miss?”
Maeve jumped and nearly dropped her phone.
It was Aerin, the tour guide. She felt her face flush with guilt. Had Aerin seen her sneak into the library and manhandle the precious leather-bound books?
