Page 52 of Irish Rose
“Many years,señora.”
“Before he came here to this house?”
“Before that.”
Like pulling teeth, she thought, determined to pull harder. “Where did you work with him before that?”
“In another house.”
Erin turned from the stove. “Where, Rosa?”
She saw the housekeeper’s lips tighten. “In Nevada. In the West.”
“What did he do there?”
“He had much business. You should ask Mr. Logan yourself.”
“It’s you I’m asking. Rosa, don’t you think I have a right to know who my husband is?”
She saw the brief hesitation before Rosa began to polish glasses. “It’s not my place,señora.”
“I need something.” With an angry flick of her wrist, she shut off the flame. “I don’t care what he did, what he was. If he’s done something wrong it doesn’t matter. How can I get through to him if I don’t understand him?”
“Señora.” Carefully Rosa set down the first glass and picked up another. “I’m not sure you would understand even if you knew.”
“Tell me, and let me try.”
“Some things are better left alone.”
“No!” She wanted to throw something, anything, but managed to hold the need back. “Rosa, look at me. I love him.” When the housekeeper turned, Erin spoke again. “I love him and I can’t stand being kept apart from who he is. I want to make him happy.”
Rosa stood silently a moment. Her eyes were very dark and very clear. For a moment Erin felt a stab of recognition. Then it passed. “I believe you.”
“It’s Burke who needs to believe.”
“For some, believing such things doesn’t come easily.”
“Why? Why for Burke?”
“Do you know what it’s like to be hungry? Truly hungry? For food, for knowledge, for love?”
“No.”
“He grew up with nothing, less than nothing. When there was work, he worked. When there was not, he stole.” She moved her shoulders and picked up the next glass. “Not such a bad life for some. Hell for others. He never knew his father. His mother was not married, you understand?”
“Yes.” Erin sat and made no objection when Rosa moved over to the stove to fix her tea.
“His mother worked very hard, though she was never well. But in such places a person always owes much more than they could ever have. At times he went to school, but more often he worked in the fields.”
“On a farm?” she asked, remembering the way Burke had looked over hers.
“Sí. He lived on one for a while so that he could give his mother his pay.”
“I see.” And she was beginning to.
“He hated the life, the dirt and the stench of it.”
“Rosa, how did you know him when he was a child?”
