In the Abbot’s Quarter, as Bronte sat down, Harlie gave her a thorough scan—and I could read her mind. A lash and brow tint, some red-cancelling primer followed by a decent coverage foundation. Maybe even a handful of hair extensions to give those poor, broken strands some body.

Bronte removed her jacket to reveal a T-shirt that said ‘I’m Sorry I’m Late, I Didn’t Want To Come’.

‘Morning, all,’ I said. ‘As you can see, a new member has joined us. Bronte, would you like to introduce yourself?’

‘Um. Okay.’ In a low voice, she said, ‘My name’s Bronte. I’m…’ She cleared her throat. ‘…addicted to heroin. I was clean for over four years. Nine months ago I broke my ankle, got put on Vicodin and…relapsed.’

Chalkie was checking her out—the humongous ring, her slender, elegant limbs, all of it.

‘Nice T-shirt,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ Bronte barely glanced at it. ‘It’s my daughter’s.’

‘You’ve kids?’

‘Three. A daughter, eighteen. Two sons, sixteen and thirteen.’

‘What age are you, Bronte?’ Dennis asked. ‘Yourself, like.’

‘Dennis!’ Giles hissed. ‘You crass oaf! You should know better than to ask.’

‘It’s okay.’ Bronte shrugged. ‘I’m forty-three.’

‘How do you make ends meet, Bronte?’ Chalkie asked. ‘Feed your kids? Pay your rent?’

‘So…my husband…It’s his money.’

‘What way does he…earn a crust?’

‘He—well, we run a farm.’

‘He’s a farmer?’ Troubled eyes roamed over her. ‘You don’t look like any farmer’s wife I’ve ever seen.’

‘How would you know?’ Giles rounded on Chalkie. ‘Have you ever left the, quote, “impoverished inner city”? You told us you wouldn’t sully your man-of-the-people lungs with the “oxygen of privilege”!’

‘Where’s your farm?’ Chalkie kept his eyes on Bronte.

‘County Meath.’

Dennis interjected. ‘How many acres?’ This was one of his areas of interest.

‘…Two thousand.’

‘Fuck!’ Chalkie almost levitated.

‘Is that a lot?’ Ella asked Dennis out of the side of her mouth.

‘’Tis fecken huge.’ Dennis leant towards Bronte. ‘That’s a fierce big amount of land ye have. Are ye dairy? Tillage? Mixed?’

‘…Most of it is leased. We breed horses.’

‘Horse-breeders?’ Chalkie was delighted. Here was a chance for real outrage. ‘Lady Bronte.’

‘Actually, I’m a viscountess—’

‘—you’re joking!’

‘Chalkie,’ I asked. ‘How relevant is any of this?’

‘If I was living in privilege,’ he spluttered, ‘because I’d stolen land from other people, the guilt would have me racing off to buy heroin. No wonder Lady fucking Bronte here—’

‘Lady fucking Kilsharvan,’ Bronte interrupted.

Dumbfounded by her arrogance, Chalkie swivelled to stare at her.

‘But there’s no need to use my title.’ Her tone was tart—but her smile was minxy.

29

‘Ella, you’re reading your life story,’ I said.

‘Sure!’ Perky as can be.