The Irish Upstart

chapter 4



Evleen O’Fallon could not understand the feeling of discontent that had just swept over her. What’s the matter with me? she wondered. Wasn’t it Sunday afternoon and a balmy spring day? Wasn’t she out for a pleasant stroll with Timothy Murphy, the man she would probably marry? She should be bursting with joy at the very thought of marrying jolly, handsome Timothy, whose fleet of fishing boats made him one of the richest men in County Clare. No matter that she didn’t think she loved him. Of course I’ll be happy, she told herself. She would learn to love him later on. Other brides had doubts, yet after their weddings seemed content.

She and Timothy were taking their usual Sunday stroll along a promontory that jutted into Galway Bay. Usually her heart lifted when they came to this particular spot in the narrow dirt road where suddenly a grand view of both the ocean and sparkling Galway Bay lay revealed below, and it seemed she could see the entire Connemara Coast of Western Ireland, as well as practically clear across the ocean to lands far away. She felt no special thrill today, though. Timothy was pressing. She must give him her answer soon. And she would, too, even though a nagging feeling within her said she was making a mistake. But she must make the best of it. Timothy Murphy was a “catch,” everyone said so. And besides, her needy family was sure to benefit from her marriage to Timothy.

So there is no way out, she told herself firmly. Besides, her troubles were nothing compared to some, and she should stop vacillating.

Evleen stopped, shaded her eyes and peered to the north-west. “It’s so clear you can see the Aran Islands today, and Connemara and North Clare.” She turned to the east, where the extensive sand and mud flats of Ballyvaughn lay exposed at low tide. This was springtime, when migrating birds stopped to feed before heading to their breeding grounds. Evleen pointed overhead at a majestic V-formation of geese flying out to sea. “Look, Timothy, those are Brent Geese going home. Just imagine, they’re flying all the way to arctic Canada.” Her heart lifted and she smiled. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could grow wings? We could fly all the way to Canada... China... South America... any place we pleased.”

“Are you daft?” Timothy’s usually cheerful face furrowed in a frown. “I’ve fish to catch and a business to run. Sure an’ I wouldn’t have time for such foolishness.”

“But I didn’t mean literally...”

Why finish? What was the use? She must learn to overlook Timothy’s shortcomings and concentrate on the good things. He was, after all, a pleasant man, not half bad-looking with his open, smiling face, full head of curly dark hair, broad shoulders and impressive height. He was well-educated, too, at least compared to most of the men in County Clare, and had even attended Trinity College in Dublin for a year. Still, Timothy was a simple man, engrossed in making a living with his fishing fleet. Evleen had long-since discovered he had little interest in poetry, art, or music, in other words, all the things she loved.

Marriage with Timothy Murphy would be dull, indeed, but at least she would be secure.

And it was what Mama wanted.

“Where would you find a finer man than Timothy Murphy?” Mama asked but yesterday. “Isn’t he the vicar’s son? Doesn’t he earn a good income with those fishing boats he owns? Doesn’t he go to church like clockwork every Sunday? Doesn’t he stay home with his dear old mother every night instead of drinking himself blind at The Shamrock and Thistle?” Mama wagged her finger. “Young ladies of twenty-four had best not be too choosy.”

“But in Dublin...” She stopped herself and said no more. Nothing would be gained by a another futile recollection of happier days long gone.

Mama didn’t let Evleen’s words go unnoticed and said softly, “Ay, you could have had your pick of society’s finest, back when we were rich. But we’re not in Dublin anymore, and we’re not rich anymore.”

You’re right, Mama, we’re poor—oh, so very, very poor, thanks to the Englishman. Evleen smiled up at Timothy. She would make herself love him—she would try very hard. After all, he was a hard worker, honest and trustworthy, who would gladly help her family. They needed help desperately, now that the eight hundred pounds was nearly gone.

If only he had a bit of wit. If only he could see when she was only joking or when her imagination took flight. But perhaps in time she’d learn to love him, especially when he became father of the children she expected to have.

As she stood gazing pensively at the sea, she sensed Timothy’s gaze upon her, no doubt with that puppy-dog, full-of-love expression in his eyes. Stop that, she chastised herself. That he loved her, there could be no doubt. She shouldn’t be thinking unkind thoughts about him.

“What are you thinking?” Timothy asked. No doubt he’d seen the far-away look in her eyes.

“I’m thinking it’s a beautiful day.” He needn’t know what else she was thinking. “I should get back. Mama’s not feeling good, as well as... there are other problems.”

As they strolled home, Evleen still could not shake off the feeling of something not being right. Perhaps it wasn’t Timothy. Perhaps it was the state of the family finances that was causing her woeful state of mind. To say the least, their lives had not gone as Mama had expected when they moved from Dublin to the little stone cottage that overlooked the sea. She thought the eight hundred pounds she received from the sale of the townhouse would last forever, supplemented by the lessons in deportment, French, and watercolors she would give the local gentry.

What a rude awakening she received! What Mama failed to realize was that in this barren county with its rock-hard, unyielding soil, there was no local gentry, not to speak of, anyway. The vast majority of the citizens of County Clare lived a hand-to-mouth existence, eking barely enough sustenance from the sea and poor soil to stay alive. The ladies of County Clare did not spend their time planning balls, nor did they spend hours on fittings for fancy clothes or conduct “at homes” with liveried servants serving tea. Few had servants. There was hardly time to be a lady, either, because the women of County Clare were occupied with such matters as digging potatoes, cooking meals over an open fireplace, hauling water from the well, and cutting peat in the nearby bogs.

Evleen and Timothy approached her family’s cottage. Built of stone, with lime-washed walls, it faced directly west, high on a hill that provided a magnificent view of the sea. The view was the only good thing about the cottage. Evleen would never forget that awful day nine years ago when, during a rainstorm, their wagon pulled to a stop in front of the Englishman’s small, bleak plot of land. Nothing green was to be seen. No shrubbery, flowers or trees, just coarse brown grass broken here and there by low, stone walls, the stones not cemented but just piled up. The walls were not laid out in neat squares, but instead slanted this way and that, acting as wind breaks to retain the thin layer of arable soil. For no apparent reason, two walls ran far up the hill behind the cottage where a few sheep huddled to protect themselves against the rain and cold.

To Evleen’s relief, the house itself was a cut above most of the cottages they had passed, some of which were constructed of mud with only one room and no windows. The floors were of dirt, and the roofs were made of sod and earth, laid on timber rafters and covered with a thatch of straw. At least this cottage was of a fairly good size, two stories and six rooms altogether, lime-stone painted walls, several windows, and a reed-thatched roof, which was a cut above the straw. Still, it could hardly compare with their Dublin townhouse. The big room—one could hardly call it a drawing room—had simple, plastered walls, one of which consisted totally of a huge fireplace where the cooking, and most of the living, was done. Evleen had been shocked when she saw it. Her sisters were in tears. Mama was appalled.

“We cannot stay here, it has no kitchen,” she declared, her face grim. “We can surely afford better than this. We’ll stay here the night and then tomorrow we’ll go back to Ballyvaughn where I shall seek something better.”

That was nine years ago. They had yet to move. Mama, always frugal, realized early-on they could not afford a better house, especially when she discovered that few of the poverty-stricken citizens of County Clare had the least interest in the lessons in deportment, French, and watercolors she intended to teach. For the most part, they were more concerned with the constant struggle to keep themselves and family from starving to death. Mama’s only salvation came from the Gaelic-speaking citizens of County Clare who wished to learn English. The small sums she earned from her English lessons, combined with her prudent management of the eight hundred pounds from the townhouse, enabled the O’Fallons to eke out a meager existence for nine years.

Now the money was almost gone.

At least Mama had added a kitchen, and spent some of their precious money for a stove. Evleen, in particular, was grateful. After Mama, who had never prepared a meal in all her life, cooked one disastrous dinner, Evleen took over the kitchen. For these past nine years, while Mama taught her lessons, Evleen was in charge of the cooking, as well as the housekeeping and care of the younger children.

When someone asked why she hadn’t married, she could honestly answer she hadn’t found the time.

But now the children were of an age to take care of themselves. At twenty-three, Darragh was ready to marry, that is, if any man would have her. Sorcha was fifteen, Mary fourteen, and Patrick a very wise ten. Evleen had thought more than once with some amusement that her excuses for not marrying were wearing thin. She had been putting Timothy off for years, but it was time she made up her mind.

When Evleen and Timothy arrived back at the cottage after their stroll, they found Evleen’s half-brother, Patrick, outside taking feed to his rabbits, kept in hutches at the back of the cottage. His face lit when he saw Timothy, and he called, “You’re stayin’ for dinner, are you not?”

“If I’m invited.”

It was a ritual. Of course, Timothy was invited. He came for dinner every Sunday. And I’ll be having Sunday dinner with him all the rest of my life, and the rest of the days, as well. The prospect did not fill Evleen with delight. What’s the matter with me? She reached to ruffle Patrick’s red hair that was so like their mother’s, or, to be more accurate, the color Mama’s hair used to be before it faded and finally turned white. “Timothy’s staying for dinner, Patrick. Why don’t you show him your new baby rabbits?”

As an enthusiastic Patrick led Timothy away, Mama came to the door. How wan she looks. She used to stand straight as a board, but now her shoulders slump and she leans against the door. But then Mama smiled, and when Mama smiled she lit up the world. “Did you have a nice walk with Timothy?” she asked.

“Yes, we did.”

Mama lowered her voice. “Did you talk about a wedding date?”

“Not yet.”

Mama crossed her arms and sighed. “Evleen, you have been the best daughter in the world. You’ve had little fun these past nine years. Hard work is all you’ve known, never thinking of yourself, but sacrificing for the family.” Mama drew herself up. “Well, that’s an end to it. You must put yourself first now. Darrah will be marrying soon, I’m sure. It’s time you got yourself married and had your babies. It’s time... what on earth?”

Mama was looking beyond her, down the steep, rutted driveway that led to the cottage. Evleen turned to see what her mother was staring at. To her astonishment, a coach with a fancy seal emblazoned on the side, drawn by four matched bays, came rolling up the narrow, bumpy driveway. There appeared to be one male passenger inside, an elegantly dressed gentleman in a polished beaver top hat. He was slender, dark-haired and dark-skinned, and appeared to be thirty or so.

Evleen frowned in puzzlement. How utterly out of place the elaborate coach looked in this God-forsaken little part of the world where rough-hewn ox-carts were more the vogue. Not that they had many visitors. What few they did have arrived either on foot or in a cart drawn by a donkey or some nag of a horse. Never had a coach or carriage even half as fancy as this one come up that hill, not even the vicar’s. “Whoever can it be?” asked Evleen.

A look of foreboding came over her mother’s face. “I don’t know who it is,” she replied. “I can only hope my scoundrel of a second husband hasn’t come back to haunt us.”

* * *

Good God, so this is Trevlyn’s Irish estate?

As his coach rolled along the narrow road overlooking the sea, Thomas looked out in increasing disbelief at the barren landscape, broken only here and there by low stone walls and sparse trees that had somehow managed to survive the salt air and winter storms. His disbelief increased as the coach turned up a steep driveway to a small, two-story cottage that sat half-way up the barren, wind-swept hill. A few sheep grazed on the hillside behind the cottage. Two moth-eaten donkeys grazed directly alongside. At least there was a small, low-walled garden in front, but still, the sprinkling of daisies, delphiniums, and lupines hardly began to relieve the bleakness. Thomas leaned his head out the window to have a word with the coachman he’d hired, as well as the coach, in Galway.

“O’Grady, are you sure this is the place?”

“Positive, sir,” the coachman called back in his thick Irish brogue. “‘Tis the land owned by the Englishman, Lord Trevlyn.” Almost under his breath he muttered, “Another blasted Englishman who’s never seen the place.” He raised his voice again. “A widow and ‘er flock ‘av been livin’ there a good nine or ten years now. Two girls, grown, two in their teens, and a boy of ten or so. Never been ta school, they say. She’s an educated lady and teaches ‘em at home.”

With a thanks, Thomas sat back as the coach, harness jangling, horses snorting in the midst of rising dust, came to a halt in front of the single doorway of the cottage. I’ve gone far out of my way for this? What was Trevlyn thinking of, sending him to check on this worthless piece of land?

Two women were standing in front of the doorway. One was somewhere in her middle fifties, he would guess, tall, white haired, with the strained look of poverty on her tired face. She wore a plain cotton gown that had seen better days, covered with a white apron. She’d been leaning against the doorjamb in a tired sort of way, but now she’d pulled herself straight and was regarding him with wary eyes.

Thomas was about to speak when his gaze fell upon the younger woman. Something about her immediately gripped his attention. She was deucedly attractive, he thought, as he gazed at her slender white neck, milk-and-apricot skin, delicate-featured face with its firm chin, and pert, up-tilted little nose. As Thomas watched, a brisk breeze from the sea lifted her raven black hair so that it streamed back from her face, long, wavy, and shining. The breeze caught hold of her skirt, too, and pressed it tight against her tall, slender body, molding to nearly every enticing curve she possessed. He wondered if she had any idea what a fetching picture she presented with that tiny waist, those full, high-perched breasts, slender hips, and shapely thighs.

But this was not the time to be distracted, Thomas thought as he sprung lightly from the coach. If these were indeed tenants who had not paid a pittance toward their rent for the last nine years, his mission was indeed a delicate one and he must be the soul of tactfulness and diplomacy. Thomas addressed the older woman, who stood seemingly composed, yet he detected increasing wariness in her eyes. “Good afternoon,” he said, smiled, removed his beaver hat with a flourish and bowed.

“You’re English,” she replied, not returning his smile.

What was that supposed to mean? “Indeed I am English, madam. My name is Thomas Linberry”–no need to throw in the title–”from Hertfordshire County, England, a town near–”

“Hatfield,” she replied in an unfriendly tone.

“Er... yes.” Her frosty reception had thrown him off-stride, but he gathered his wits and continued, “And might I ask to whom I am speaking?”

“First, why don’t you tell us why you’ve come, sir?” asked the younger, just barely polite. He could have been offended, but instead found himself captivated by the soft silkiness of her voice, coupled with the potent appeal of her melodious Irish brogue. He turned to answer her and was immediately struck by the beauty of her deep, wide-set eyes that were a stunning sapphire blue, fringed with an abundance of thick, dark lashes. His breath caught. He was hard-put not to let his feelings show but managed a slight, grave bow. “I have come on the behalf of Charles, Lord Trevlyn, the fifth Earl of Alberdsley, who owns this land.”

A small gasp escaped the mouth of the older woman. She stiffened and placed a hand over her heart.

“Mama, are you all right?” asked the younger, casting a withering glance at Thomas.

If looks could kill, thought Thomas, I’d be lying, dead as a herring, on this rocky ground.

“I am fine.” The older woman proudly brushed back her white hair and stood tall. “I must say, it took the earl a while.”

“A while for what?” he asked.

The younger narrowed her eyes at him. “She means it took a while for the earl to give a thought to his dead son.”

Thomas still did not understand. Who were these women? They dressed like peasants, lived in a simple farmhouse, yet their speech was so refined they would be at ease in London society... well, except for the Irish accents, of course, which the ton would no doubt scoff at. Had the older woman somehow been acquainted with Randall? Perhaps she’d been a servant... one of the upper servants... yes, that had to be it. She had worked for Randall, perhaps as a cook or housekeeper, and now, through some arrangement, lived upon his land, or rather, now Lord Trevyln’s land. “Might I ask your name?” he inquired.

The older woman proudly lifted her chin. “I am Sinead O’Fallon, widow of Randall Trevlyn.”

Widow? Thomas was thunderstruck. He had a hard time keeping his mouth from dropping open. “Do you mean you are the widow of Randall, Viscount Montfret, the son of Lord Trevlyn, Earl of Alberdsley?”

The younger woman placed a protective hand on the older’s shoulder. “Of course that’s what she means,” she firmly stated, regarding him with those amazing deep blue eyes that at the moment were full of accusation. “What reason would you have to doubt her?”

“I didn’t mean, I...” Thomas cursed himself. In polite society, he was known for his suave demeanor. Now he was bumbling about like some half-wit. And it wasn’t simply the shock of discovering that Randall had been married. It was also the effect those blue eyes were having on him. “Of course I do not doubt you. Rather, I’m surprised. I was not aware Lord Montfret had ever married, nor was his father aware of it, I’m sure.”

An ironic smile crossed Sinead O’Fallon’s lips. “I’m not surprised. You are aware Randall was estranged from his father?”

“I am.” Not estranged, the man was disowned, he thought, but decided not to say.

“Then you can understand why Randall felt under no obligation to inform his family he had wed. I never knew exactly why, but he had compelling reasons for keeping our marriage quiet.”

Thomas knew better than to ask what she meant by compelling reasons. Doubtless they were all in the form of those angry creditors who hounded Randall until he was forced to flee to Ireland. Thomas’s thoughts were churning. This wasn’t what he expected. “Do you suppose we could talk, Lady... er... Trevlyn? Or did you say your last name was–?”

“O’Fallon,” said the younger woman stepping forward protectively. “My mother goes by her first husband’s name”–she wrinkled her nose–”most assuredly not the second’s. I am her daughter, Evleen. So, sir, do you know enough about us now that you can state your business?”

Before he could answer, Sinead O’Fallon gave a warning nudge to Evleen’s shoulder. “Let us not be hasty.”

Evleen ignored her and continued to glare at Thomas. “You’ve come about the rents, haven’t you?”

Sinead frowned. “Daughter, we must remember our manners. It’s nearly dinner time. Our guest must be hungry. After dinner will be soon enough to hear what he has to say.” She looked at Thomas. “Will you stay?”

“I am honored.”

Thomas smiled to himself when he saw the thundercloud descending over Evleen’s face. But no doubt remembering her manners, she had the grace to quickly smile and say, “So it appears you are invited to dinner, Mister Linberry.” She placed a hand on her hip and cocked her head appraisingly, her gaze sweeping him up and down. “Or perhaps it’s Lord Linberry, judgin’ from that elegant coach and the fine clothes that you’re wearin’. We’ll be having a bit of fresh salmon, poached, I think, along with cabbage and potatoes. A simple meal, I’m afraid, not like those fancy banquets you must be accustomed to at home.”

He could tell the girl was seething underneath all that ridiculous chatter. She knew full well he’d come about the rents, but no doubt for her mother’s sake, she had dredged up the decency to maintain a facade of politeness. He would set her straight about the titles. “Not that it matters, but I am known as Lord Thomas. I am the second son of a marquess, you see, and so–”

“We are well aware of all that English folderol about titles,” Evleen interrupted with a disdainful sniff.

He answered wryly, “I can see how I’ve impressed you.”

She tilted her chin, thus revealing the sweet curve of her neck which, to his chagrin, he found himself wanting to touch and explore with his fingers. “If you want titles,” she declared, “this family has them in abundance. My father was Ian O’Fallon, son of Daniel O’Fallon, who was the eighth Earl of Dunkerry, who was directly descended from the Duke of Connaught, who was—”

“Enough, Evleen,” said her mother. “I doubt Lord Thomas is interested in our family’s history, no matter how much royal blood runs through your veins.” She looked toward the coach, and the coachman waiting patiently atop. “Greetings to you, O’Grady. You’d best come in for dinner, too.”

After O’Grady climbed down from his perch on the coach, and Sinead led him inside, Evleen said airily, “What a pity it’s the cook’s day off.”

“A pity,” Thomas remarked with caution. He had detected her gritty undertone.

“It is also the butler’s day off, as well as the footman, the parlor maid, the scullery maid–”

“I do get your point,” Thomas interrupted dryly. He wanted to tell her he didn’t give a groat for titles, that they didn’t mean a damn thing, but he stopped himself. Why should he defend himself? Why did he want to impress this girl? The bubbly young belles in London were mostly docile creatures who deferred to his supposed lordly presence with much manipulating of fans and fluttering of eyelashes. He had never given much thought to it, but wasn’t that the way girls were supposed to act? But this Irish lass was different.

Never had he encountered a girl quite this bold, who didn’t care one whit about impressing him and apparently said anything that came into her head, no matter how outrageous.

Now she had tilted her head to the side and was looking at him quizzically. “I can hardly wait to hear why you’ve come so far out of your way to this God-forsaken corner of the world.” She smiled wryly. “If it’s a dip in the ocean you want, shouldn’t a fine gentleman like you be in Brighton?” She made a show of shading her eyes and gazing up and down the distant coastline. ‘I don’t see any fancy resorts around here.”

“I’m not looking for a resort, I—”

He was distracted by a tall, pleasant-faced man and a freckle-faced boy with bright red hair who were rounding the corner of the cottage. They were speaking in a strange language, he guessed Gaelic, when they spied him, and both stopped in surprise. “We have a guest,” Evleen called. “Lord Thomas, this is my good friend, Timothy Murphy, and this is my brother, Patrick O’Fallon.”

Startled, Thomas took a second look. There was something about the boy... something around the nose and the eyes that reminded him of... Lord Montfret. Even though Thomas had been but sixteen or so at the time, he clearly remembered when the debt-ridden rascal fled England, creating a juicy local scandal, causing his family great pain.

Could Montfret be this boy’s father? No, that was absurd. Except for that uncanny resemblance, this boy looked as pure Irish as his name. O’Fallon suited him perfectly, what with his red hair, eyes as blue as Evleen’s, and open face covered with freckles. No doubt the boy and Evleen shared the same father, as well as mother, and unless Patrick had an older brother, he most certainly was the tenth earl of... whatever that Irish title was. Thomas knew little of Ireland’s nobility. In England, it carried little esteem.

With a graceful bow, surprising in one so young, Patrick said, “I am most pleased to meet you, sir. Are you from England?”

There’s a surprise. The boy knew his manners, as opposed to most of the Irish Thomas had met on this trip. Likeable all of them, and most friendly and helpful, yet their speech and manners were far from the polished perfection of the ton. Come to think of it, Evleen spoke like a lady, too, except for the brogue, of course, but it was melodious sound that touched off something inside him that made him yearn to hear more. Thomas bowed to Patrick in return. “I am indeed from England.”

“That’s too bad, sir. My mother doesn’t like the English.”

“Patrick!”

“But it’s true, Evleen,” the lad told his sister earnestly. “She hates everything English. You’ve heard her say so many a time.” Patrick made a face. “You hate them, too.”

“We must remember our manners, Patrick. We must be polite”—Evleen cast a disdainful glance at Thomas—”even if he is one of them.”

Amused, Thomas returned an easy laugh. “I admire a streak of independence in a child. He speaks his mind, an admirable quality as far as I’m concerned. He’s very bright, isn’t he? I am amazed at how well he speaks.”

“For an Irishman?” Evleen asked, lifting her eyebrows.

The devil. I cannot get it right. “For anybody,” he answered smoothly. “Patrick would do well among the most prestigious gathering of the ton, as would your mother—” he paused slightly for effect “—and you.”

“Well!” she said, and seemed at a loss as to what to say in answer to his flattering words. Rude creature. He could not imagine why he found her so fascinating.

The tall man she’d addressed as Timothy spoke up. “Sure an’ he’s a bright lad–” he placed a protective arm around Evleen’s shoulders “—as is this colleen.”

Ah, so she’s his, thought Thomas, recognizing the age-old male sign of possession. “If your mother hates the English, then I am indeed most flattered she has asked me to stay.”

She replied, “My mother is a generous soul. The devil himself could appear at her door and she’d invite him in for tay.”

Tay? Of course, she must mean tea. Thomas was silently amused. Despite Evleen’s well-educated speech, still and all she was Irish and it was bound to show. “Your mother is most charitable.”

“Patrick’s right, you know,” she went on. “My mother does hate the English. We all hate the English, and with good reason.”

He executed a slight bow. “Then I am most grateful for her tolerance, as well as yours.” He wondered if, despite Evleen’s obvious prejudice, he might somehow persuade her he wasn’t such a bad sort, despite being English through-and-through. His spirits dipped as he realized his chances were slim. She’d been right about the rents. After dinner, when she knew for a certainty why he was here, she would dislike him all the more.