Page 25 of Irish Brute
As she steps away from the wall, Braiden says, “Grace looks after Aiofe.”
“Hello, Grace,” I say, but she doesn’t answer. Instead, she ducks her head and slinks around Aiofe, passing through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Braiden scowls as he heads over to the sideboard where a massive samovar stands amid an array of teacups, saucers, and spoons. “Do you take milk?” he asks. “Or sugar?”
I takecoffee.
But I don’t say it, because he already looks so brittle. “Milk,” I say. “Just a little.” I can’t believe I’ve married a man who doesn’t know how I prefer my caffeine.
Then again, I’ve married a man who has a surprise child sitting at his table, so I’m surrounded by proof that I haven’t thought this through at all.
Braiden brings me a cup, and then he prepares one for Aiofe—a splash of tea in mostly milk. His own is black, so dark it looks like ink.
He takes his seat as Fairfax bustles in from the kitchen. The man looks like a cartoon character, with three serving plates balanced on his left arm and two in his right hand. He hums as he offloads bacon and sausages, a bowl of baked beans, fried eggs and mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, and a monstrous pile of hash. Before I can say a word, he darts back into the kitchen, only to return with three silver racks for toast and generous pots of butter, marmalade, and raspberry jam.
“Thank you,” Braiden says.
“Shout if you need anything,” Fairfax says before he ducks back through the door.
“Please,” Braiden says to me. “Help yourself.” But he watches like a vengeful eagle until I have some of everything on my plate.
He serves Aiofe everything but mushrooms. I wait until he’s got his own fork in hand before I say, “Just so I understand. Is Aiofe your daughter?”
I force a tight smile as I ask. It’s not the girl’s fault this is the first I’ve heard of her.
“My ward,” Braiden says—like that’s an ordinary word used in everyday conversation by normal people everywhere.
“I see.” But I don’t.
And nothing becomes more clear as Braiden turns toward a stack of newspapers, neatly laid out beside his place. I catch a glimpse of theThe Wall Street Journal, The New York TimesandThe Washington Post.He’s gotThe Philadelphia Enquirertoo, and at the bottom,The Irish Times.He flips to theJournal’sstock reports, shaking the pages into place with brusque authority.
Annoyed to be dismissed when I already don’t want to be eating, I turn to Aiofe. “So,” I say. “Are you in school, Aiofe?”
I know she hears me, because she looks up from corralling beans onto her fork with a piece of bacon. But she stares at me so blankly that I wonder if she speaks English.
“Aiofe prefers to say silent,” Braiden says, using the exact same tone and rhythm as the first time he told me.
“How old are you Aiofe?” I ask. I put down my own fork to hold up all my fingers. “Ten?”
She chews slowly, like she’s counting to some secret number inside her head.
I give up and eat my breakfast.
I can’t get past the absurdity of the situation. Braiden sits at the head of the table like some lord in an English manor, poring over his newspapers as if they hold the secret to the universe. Aiofe eats steadily, shoveling in more food than I ever imagined a child could manage. I can hear Fairfax in the kitchen, his voice rising and falling, and I imagine he’s talking to Grace.
And I’m sitting in my wedding dress, chewing and swallowing and washing down breakfast with tea, certain I’ve made the biggest mistake in my life.
But Braiden was right about one thing—I needed food. I was too upset to even think about opening the refrigerator in the safe room. With our afternoon wedding, I barely ate lunch yesterday—a turkey sandwich and chips shared with Alix in the church basement before we did my hair and makeup. My only breakfast was a gallon of coffee—hot, rich, with just a shot of cream.
So I clean my plate. And I go back for more hash. I finish by slathering my toast with butter and preserves.
And I refuse to look abashed when I catch Braiden sitting back in his chair, a slow smile curling his lips when I finally place my napkin beside my plate.
“Ready to see your room?” he asks.
I am. I want to know where I’m going to live. And I want to take a shower and change into normal clothes and get on with my life. “Please,” I say.
We’re halfway out of the dining room before Braiden thinks to turn back to Aiofe. “Go on, then,” he says to her. “You have more than an hour before Mr. Bell arrives. Go to Grace.”
