Kate Hoffmann
Ian
The tenth book in the Mighty Quinns series, 2006
Prologue
THE HOUSE WAS QUIET except for the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. Ian Quinn tried to focus on his grandmother’s words but his mind continually returned to the clock as he counted the seconds. His younger brothers stood on either side of him, dressed in their Sunday best of well-worn pants and ill-fitting jackets.
Just five years old, Marcus clung to Ian’s arm, his face half-hidden from their grandmother’s piercing gaze. Declan’s rigid posture hid the fear they all felt, cast into this strange place with a woman they’d never met.
“Well,” she said, folding her hands over the head of her cane. “I suppose we must make you something to eat.”
Ian shook his head. “We had supper on the plane, ma’am. We’re not hungry.”
She frowned, then slowly rose from the high-backed chair she sat in. Marcus’s grip tightened on Ian’s arm and he winced. “You may call me Nana Callahan, not ma’am. Though we are strangers, we are family and there is no need to be so formal.”
“Yes, Nana Callahan,” Ian said obediently. He jabbed Declan in the ribs and his brother nodded his assent, mumbling the words. Marcus simply retreated farther behind Ian’s arm.
They’d arrived at the big stone house just a few minutes before, transported from the airport by a black car with leather seats. The flight across the Atlantic Ocean had taken almost seven hours with Ian trying to entertain his younger siblings with cards and books. In truth, he’d been trying just as hard to distract himself from his own fears.
He knew he ought to be thankful for the chance to visit a place as famous as Ireland, thankful that his grandmother had sent the money for the tickets, thankful that the plane hadn’t crashed into the ocean and they’d all died. But Ian was having a hard time being thankful for anything right now.
Since his mother’s illness had been discovered last fall, the family had been in turmoil. Though Marcus and Declan had been oblivious, Ian had overheard the conversations, mostly about money, insurance, hospital bills, treatments. No matter how hard his father worked, there wasn’t enough to make his mother well and support seven children.
Grandmother Callahan had money. A lot of money. But their mother had steadfastly refused to ask her for help. When the annual invitation had come from Ireland for all the Quinn children to visit during summer vacation, Paddy and Emma Quinn were finally forced to accept. But only for the three younger boys.
Ian’s other brothers, Rory and Eddie, were old enough to find jobs and his sisters, Mary Grace and Jane, would help keep the house and care for their mother. Ian had begged to stay, promising his father that he’d find work, but in the end, he was sent away, too. Nine years old just hadn’t been old enough.
There had been no hugs or welcoming smiles when they’d arrived at Porter Hall, no assurances that they’d have a good time during their summer vacation. Instead, they’d been hustled inside by their grandmother’s driver, Mr. Grady, then escorted into the library by her butler, Mr. Dennick.
“Well, then, how is your mother?”
Ian blinked. He wasn’t sure how to answer. “She’s fine, ma-I mean, Nana Callahan.”
“She’s not fine or you wouldn’t be here,” the old woman snapped. “I know she’s sick.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ian murmured. The fight between his mother and his grandmother must have been a big one, he mused. His father’s parents wrote lovely long letters and sent cards and gifts on their birthdays and at Christmas, at least until Grandma Quinn had died last year. But no one ever talked about Grandma Callahan. Only whispered.
For good reason, Ian thought. He already hated her. She looked down her nose at them as if they were nothing more than trash. And though her house was ten times bigger than the house they’d left behind in South Boston, it was cold and dark and smelled of musty, old things. The sooner the summer was over, the happier he’d be.
“And I suppose your mother told you you’ve been sent here because they can’t afford to keep you anymore.”
Ian blinked, her words slicing into him like shards of glass. “That’s not true,” he shouted. “My ma and da love us. They sent us here because they feel sorry for you. You’re old and you’re mean and you don’t have anyone who gives a shit about you. And I can see why!”
Her only reaction was a slight tilt of her head. “You speak your mind,” she said. “I suppose you got that from your father.” She paused. “If you speak to me like that again, I will not be afraid to use the strap.”
Go ahead, his mind screamed silently. She could beat him until he was black-and-blue and he still wouldn’t love her. “We’re tired,” Ian said. “We’d like to go to bed now.”
Her lips pressed into a tight line and she nodded at the butler who stood behind them. “We’ll speak more in the morning. Breakfast is at eight. You’ll be expected to be dressed by then. Dennick, show them to their rooms.”
Ian gave her a cold look before he grabbed his brothers’ hands and led them from the room. Why the hell had his parents sent them here? They didn’t belong half a world away from the people who loved them. He felt tears pressing at the corners of his eyes and he swallowed them back, refusing to surrender. This wouldn’t be a vacation, it would be like spending time in a horrible prison.
“Can we go home now?” Marcus asked as they climbed the stairs.
“Not yet,” Ian whispered.
“She’s a witch,” Declan said. “I swear if she would have hit you, I would have pounded her face.”
“Shh!” Ian sent Dec a warning glance, then nodded to the butler, who was waiting for them on the landing. “You’ll listen to me now. Da said that I was in charge. I’m to take care of you both. I’ll make sure it’s all right. I swear.”
When they reached the landing, the butler led them into a dimly lit hallway and pointed to the first door. “This would be Master Marcus’s room,” he said as he opened the door and stepped inside.
“We share a room,” Ian said. “At home. The three of us. We’ll do that here.”
“I don’t wanna sleep alone,” Marcus said.
The butler’s eyebrow arched. “Madam says you are each to have your own room. It would go better for you lads if you minded her.” He paused. “You grandmother sleeps in the east wing. She won’t disturb you here.”
Ian gave the butler a nod, understanding the man’s meaning. “It’s all right, Marky,” Ian said, giving his brother a gentle shove. “Dec and I will just go see our rooms and then we’ll come back and tuck you in.”
Marcus nodded mutely then slowly walked into the room. He stood right by the door, watching as Dec and Ian followed the butler down the hall, peering around the doorjamb with wide eyes.
Ian had always complained about sharing a room with his younger brothers, but now that he had the chance to have his own room, it didn’t seem like such a treat. Each room was dominated by a huge bed with heavy fabric hanging off the posts at the corners. The same fabric hung at the windows, faded by the sun and time.
When Ian reached his room, he walked over to the fireplace and stared at the huge portrait hanging over the mantel. A young boy sat astride a beautiful horse. His face looked familiar, but Ian knew he’d never met the boy.
“That’s your grandfather,” Dennick explained. “This was his room when he was a lad. You look like him.”
Ian glanced over his shoulder. “What happened to him?”
“He died in the war. He was a soldier and was killed by the Germans in France.”
“Did you know him?” Ian asked.
Dennick shook his head. “I wasn’t yet born when he passed. My father cared for the family back then. He told me Edward Porter was good and kind man.”