The Irish Upstart

chapter 8



Loughrea... Ballinasloe... Athlone...

The melodious names brought a flood of memories to Evleen as she, Patrick, and Lord Thomas began their trek. It had been nine years since she and her family traveled across Ireland along this very same Dublin-to-Galway Mail Post Road. Not much had changed. The village names might be as beautiful as ever, but the sad irony was, the countryside was still barren, the mud huts along the wayside still among the poorest she had ever seen. I have changed though, she thought wistfully. When she’d left Dublin she’d been a girl of fifteen, full of hope for the future despite the loss of Mama’s fortune. But now...

A flash of wild grief ripped through her. To leave her mother and sisters was bad enough, but Ireland too. Ah, how she wanted to cry, but she couldn’t, not only because of Patrick, but she would not give Himself the satisfaction.

She flicked a glance toward Lord Thomas, having to admit that since they’d been on the road this morning, he had been courteous, kind, and most patient with Patrick, even when the child asked a dozen questions all in a row.

“Lord Thomas, do we get the horses for free?” Patrick was asking now. They were heading for Athlone, having just started down the road again after a stop at a posting station for fresh horses.

“No, we must pay for them,” he answered, his eyes attentive on the narrow, bumpy road ahead as he guided the two bays. Noting the easy, self-confident way he handled the reins, she had to admit he had a ruggedness and vital power about him, and a toughness that could not have been gleaned from leading a dandy’s frivolous life in London. So far on this journey, he had been rather distant, which was as it should be. She didn’t want to get too close. Still, she was curious about the man and couldn’t resist remarking, “You look as if you’ve spent much time with horses.”

He glanced to where she sat on the seat beside him and replied, “I’ve just returned from managing a sugar plantation in Jamaica for three years. I practically lived on the back of a horse.”

“How you must have missed the delights of London.”

“Hardly.” He gave her an odd glance, raising an eyebrow. “I leave the delights of London to my brother.”

Surprising. She wanted to ask more, but Patrick spoke up again. When would he be quiet? “Lord Thomas, how much does it cost for the horses?”

“One shilling six pence a mile, paid for the horses, and six pence to the postboy.

“Why didn’t you hire a coach?”

“There’s only the three of us. A curricle is sufficient.”

Thomas was forced to veer to the side of the narrow road as a coach and four came thundering by, the coachman, whip in hand, riding high and haughty in the seat box atop.

“I think I should like to be a coachman when I grow up,” Patrick announced. “I think it would be great fun. I’d feel like the king of all I surveyed.”

Evleen and Thomas exchanged amused glances. “That's an admirable ambition, Patrick,” Thomas said thoughtfully, “but you had best wait to decide. You might find being a lord and managing a vast estate will take much of your time.”

“Will we get clear to Dublin today?”

“I think not,” Thomas replied patiently. “Tonight we shall stay at an inn in Athlone.”

An inn? Evleen felt definitely uncomfortable at the thought. In all the excitement, and agony of parting, she had not given any thought to the journey itself when here she would be, alone, except for her little brother, in the middle of nowhere, with this tough, attractive man and he... what? Timothy had warned her about his intentions, but as far as she could tell, Lord Thomas was treating her with politeness and that was all. No wonder, she thought glumly. This man came from a world where women adorned themselves in satins, silks, and laces; where they had lady’s maids to coif their hair and iron their gowns; where they would consider themselves disgraced if ever they had to lift a finger to do for themselves. What must he think of me? Evleen uncurled her strong, slim fingers and surreptitiously examined her hands. True, they were tidy and neatly kempt, yet they didn’t have the pampered softness of a lady’s hands. Tending the garden most definitely did not help, she thought, bemused, nor did cooking, or scrubbing the floors.

No wonder Lord Thomas was being only merely polite. He must think of her, if he thought of her at all, as just another poor Irish peasant, so totally beyond the realm of his privileged world that he hardly recognized her as a genuine human being. Doubtless he was counting the hours until this onerous favor he was doing for his father’s friend was completed and he could get back to... his betrothed, perhaps? Or, like so many men, did he have an arrangement? Perhaps not, if he’d just returned from Jamaica. She smiled to herself, thinking how she would love to ask, oh, by the way, Lord Thomas, do you have a mistress?

She caught herself, and wondered why on earth she was bothering to speculate upon the love life of an Englishman. He can have a dozen mistresses, it’s fine with me, she thought, glaring at him. She caught herself again and silently laughed. If the man had seen the resentful glance she’d thrown him, he would not have the faintest idea what she was thinking.

Lord Thomas pointed to the south. “Patrick, there’s an old monastic site not far from here called Clonmacnoise. It dates clear back to the sixth century.”

“Can we see it?” asked Patrick, instantly alert.

Lord Thomas glanced at Evleen. “Shall we? It should not take long. We can take the Marconi Coach road that passes close to Clonmacnoise. The boy would enjoy seeing the old ruins and so might you.”

“Why, I...” Evleen hesitated and bit her lip. The idea of doing something pleasurable had not even occurred to her.

“Why not?” Thomas asked. “How long has it been since you did something purely for enjoyment?”

She replied flatly, “I haven’t had time for enjoyment.”

“That’s evident, Miss O’Fallon.” He gazed at her with his dark, probing eyes. “You’ve done nothing but work and worry about your mother these past few months, haven’t you?”

“So what if I have?” She had spoken defiantly, yet inwardly she was touched by his unexpected perceptiveness.

Thomas appeared to ignore her, and addressed Patrick. “I believe a bit of sight-seeing is in order, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy added earnestly, “My sister used to laugh a lot, but she doesn’t anymore.”

“Well, then, we’re off to Clonmacnoise.” Lord Thomas gave a smart flick to the reins. “See just ahead? There’s where we turn.”

A short time later, Evleen stood with Patrick and Lord Thomas on the bank of the River Shannon, all taking in the breath-taking view of a green, quiet valley where stood the ancient stone tower and the ruins of the nine churches that made up the monastic site of Clonmacnoise. The site was overgrown and neglected, but beautiful, nonetheless.

“It’s very old, isn’t it?” asked Patrick.

“Founded by Saint Ciaran in five-forty-five AD,” Lord Thomas replied.

Evleen was surprised. “I would not have guessed you had an interest in ancient history.”

“I once had a tutor who delighted in pounding ancient history into my skull.” Thomas shaded his eyes and smiled as he took in the view. “Imagine, Patrick, a weary pilgrim in the year eight-hundred-something, walking across the midland bogs to this mystic place. Or a merchant boating his way down the mighty River Shannon, bringing goods.”

“I can see it, Patrick eagerly cried. He looked down upon the many ruins of old churches, and the vast graveyard with its tall crosses exquisitely carved of stone. “Evleen, can I go explore? I want to see if I can climb inside that big, tall tower.”

“If you’re careful—”

Patrick darted away before she finished. Evleen exchanged amused glances with Lord Thomas again, then both watched until the boy disappeared behind the ruins of an old church. In the silence Evleen became aware that except for an old caretaker in the distance, she and Lord Thomas were alone. An awkwardness came over her, she could not imagine why, for she was usually at ease with people. Not this man, though.

“Shall we stroll?” he asked with great politeness.

“I don’t see why not,” she cautiously replied. They made their way down a gentle slope and for a while strolled upon the emerald green grass in comfortable silence amidst the stone crosses and clusters of ruined churches.

In the distance, Patrick reappeared. “I’m going to climb inside the tower now,” he called and disappeared again.

“What a fine lad,” remarked Lord Thomas.

She asked, “Is he not driving you daft with his questions?”

“On the contrary. I greatly admire an inquiring mind. He’ll do well in England, mark my words.”

“Will he?” A flood of doubts coursed through her. Mama’s decision and their departure all happened so fast that until this very moment she had hardly given a thought to exactly what the future held. “What kind of a family will we be living with?”

“You will find Lord Trevlyn most amiable and kind.”

“And the rest? You said there was a brother and his wife?”

“Yes, Lord Trevlyn’s brother, Walter Trevlyn, his wife, and their three daughters.” They came to the arched entryway of an old stone church. “Shall we go inside?”

Evleen started through the entrance, stopped in her tracks, jolted by a startling realization and quickly turned to face him. “They were not aware of Patrick’s existence, were they?”

“No, they were not.”

“So the brother presumed he was the heir?”

Thomas stopped, too, and turned to face her, nodding reluctantly. “‘Presumed’ is correct. Up to now he’s been the heir presumptive, not the heir apparent.”

Suddenly she understood. “Be that as it may, can you honestly say that Patrick will be welcomed with open arms by the brother and his family?”

Thomas exhaled, shut his eyes the fraction of a moment before he replied, “I don’t suppose he will. Naturally, Walter and his family will not be particularly pleased when they find out about Patrick.”

She was horrified. “You mean they still don’t know?”

“If they don’t, they soon will.”

This was getting worse and worse, thought Evleen, her spirits plunging. Bad enough Patrick had been wrested from the only home he had ever known, but worse, he was bound to meet with hostility at this utterly foreign place where he was going to live. And what of me? How would the women of the family deal with a strange young woman from one of the poorest counties in all Ireland? “Tell me about the family.”

Although Lord Thomas was obviously striving to appear unconcerned, she perceived the gleam of solicitude that flashed in his eyes. “The daughters are of a marriageable age,” he began, and went on to describe how Mrs. Trevyln was a “forceful individual albeit truly a grand lady,” how Charlotte, the eldest daughter, was “indeed a great beauty, both refined and delicate,” how Bettina, the middle daughter, excelled in embroidery, and how Amanda, the youngest, was “rather on the shy side but extremely well-mannered.” Having said all that, he added, “I shall be blunt. Neither you nor Patrick are likely to be welcomed with open arms.” He looked down at her, his dark eyes keenly assessing, yet admiring, too. “But doesn't the blood of Irish kings runs through your veins, Miss O’Fallon? If there’s anyone who can handle them it’s you.”

Although she had mixed feelings, her spirits lifted at his reassuring words. She was beginning to realize he was not just another dissolute Englishman. In fact...

As they stood close in the archway of the ancient stone church, the midday sun shining down upon them, a bird swooping low overhead, she found herself intensely conscious of how drawn she felt toward Thomas Linberry, and how keenly she was aware that this was a man to be reckoned with, who, if she judged correctly, possessed a fierce virility but thinly veiled. Lord Thomas most certainly had no place in her future plans, though. She would be a fool if she allowed herself to be attracted to him. He thought of her as strong? Well, strong she would be. She tilted her chin. “How right you are about my Irish blood. No matter what, I’ll not let them plague me.”

He smiled and was about to speak when the wizened old caretaker they had seen in the distance came limping around the corner of the church. “Ah, I see ‘tis visitors we have,” he said in his thick brogue. “‘Tis not many who make their way to Clonmacnoise.”

“It’s most beautiful,” said Evleen.

“Ay, beautiful it is. Do ye know where ye be standing?” When both Evleen and Thomas shook their heads, he continued, “Ye be standin’ by the cathedral, largest of the churches, built in nine-hundred-nine. This be the north doorway, carved in limestone. They call it the Whispering Arch. Courting couples ‘ave been comin’ here for centuries. They stand, one on each side, whisperin’ their words of love to one another.”

“We’re not courting, I’m afraid,” said Evleen.

“Ye must be cousins then, or mayhap brother and sister.”

When Thomas told him no, the old man cocked his head and regarded them appraisingly. “Well, from the looks of ye, ye should be courting,” he announced abruptly, and hobbled away.

When he was gone, Evleen and Thomas broke into laughter, but it was not an easy laughter and was soon stilled. “What a funny little man,” said Evleen. She felt self-conscious and had groped for something to say.

“Very,” Thomas echoed. He seemed perfectly at ease, and yet some strange force seemed to be preventing him from moving from the spot, just as it was preventing her from moving, too. As they stood staring deep into one another’s eyes, a current of something intense flared between them. Evleen quickly looked away. God in heaven, her pulse was racing, she felt dizzy. This man had just made her senses spin. He also was affected, she could see. She could tell from the sudden tenseness of his shoulders and the way he’d pulled in his breath just now, that he had also felt this... this... what? Deep attraction, she supposed. Yes. Foolish, impossible though it was, that look they had just exchanged had been full of unspoken desire. She had felt a vibrant excitement that made her forget herself for one tiny moment and want very much to fling herself wantonly into his arms.

“Lord Thomas, Evleen! I climbed inside the tower. Come see.” Patrick again. What a welcome interruption.

“Did you now, Patrick?” she called, collecting herself post haste. The look she cast Lord Thomas was as cool and indifferent as she could make it. “Would you care to go see the tower, sir?”

“Indeed,” he answered, bowing slightly, equally composed. “I cannot get enough of ancient monasteries.”

* * *

Disgusted with himself, Thomas could hardly believe what he had almost done. Despite his stern resolve, during that dizzying moment with Evleen at the Whispering Arch, he had been sorely tempted. The woman was betrothed. Spoken for. Honor alone would prevent him from touching her, yet he had let his guard down enough that he’d come close to pulling her soft, tempting body tight against him and crushing her soft, rosebud lips with his own. And then...

A quiver surged through his veins, but he commanded himself to ignore it. He must stop all thought of her except as her escort to England. Had he gone mad? What was the matter with him? Not only was Evleen betrothed, but eventually he, himself, would be committed to Miss Bettina Trevlyn, who was far better suited to him than this bold-spirited Irish girl.

“Shall we go find Patrick?” she asked.

“Indeed, time is flying,” he answered, forcing himself to sound brusque. From now on, he must not dare allow himself to become too friendly again, or he would...

Would what? Flout society’s rules? Thomas laughed to himself. If that were the case, he would have done far more than kiss Miss Evleen O’Fallon there, under the old man’s Whispering Arch. God, what a tempting woman. If he’d had his way, society’s rules would have been more than flouted, they would have been ground into dust, much like some of the ruins of Clonmacnoise. He spotted Patrick. “Ah, there he is, Miss O’Fallon,” he remarked, noting with satisfaction how cool he sounded, how very aloof.

And he would remain aloof from now on. Evleen had enough on her hands right now. Their recent conversation concerning Walter and his family had reminded Thomas of the inevitable problems that lay ahead. He wondered if Lord Trevlyn had informed Walter he was not the heir presumptive anymore. A black premonition of impending trouble came over Thomas as he realized Walter might go quietly, but most assuredly not greedy Lydia and her three daughters.

* * *

Surprised, yet not overly upset, Walter Trevlyn stepped from the mahogany paneled library of Aldershire Manor where his brother had just delivered the supposedly ghastly news. “I know this comes as quite a blow,” Charles had compassionately added at the end, “but I could wait no longer. I have just received word from Lord Thomas that he, Patrick, and his half-sister, Evleen, will be arriving any day now.”

Walter knew he was supposed to be stunned, devastated, outraged. Instead, more than anything else he felt a vast sense of relief that he would not be compelled to become the sixth Earl of Alberdsley. He had never fancied being addressed as His Lordship, with people bowing and scraping to him as if he had just descended from Heaven and was a touch above the rest. He was comfortable as he was, and most certainly did not need a vast fortune when he already had his books, his bird-watching expeditions to the woods, his sketch pad and paints. What more could he ask for? After all, he’d no expectation of inheritance during Randall’s lifetime. Then, as now, his life was happy and complete, except... oh, Lord, Lydia.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

He pictured the look on his wife’s face when informed her dream of ruling over Aldershire Manor as “Her Ladyship” would never be fulfilled. Now she would never assume the title she coveted, which was very bad news indeed. Over the years, how many times had he heard Lydia lament her lack of a title? If she told him once, she told him a thousand times the dreaded day was coming when the husband of her arch rival, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, would inherit his mother’s title. When he did, Mrs. Drummond-Burrel, esteemed Patroness of Almack’s, would become Lady Willoughby de Eresby. Who knew when this woeful event would actually occur? All he knew was that when it did, if Lydia was still plain Mrs. Trevlyn, her life would be ruined. Never could she hold her head up, or appear in polite society, ever again. Not that she wished Walter’s dear brother ill, of course, but after all, he was quite old, and getting feeble, and how much longer must she wait to be called “Her Ladyship,” a title she justly deserved?

And then there were the girls...

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

The more Walter thought, the more he realized this whole affair was nothing but trouble no matter how he looked at it. Lydia would doubtless have a fit when she found out. Daughters, too. Although... good grief. How could he marry them off now? It had been bad enough before, despite the large dowries.

The butler encountered him in the hallway. “Dinner is served, sir. The family is waiting.”

The remains of Walter’s brief spell of euphoria fast disappeared. He heaved a sigh and heartily wished he could just go to his rooms and read Euclid. But no, he must face his family and give them the devastating news. Truth be told, he would rather face Napoleon’s army than dinner tonight.

“Is something the matter, Walter?” asked Lydia when he entered the dining room. She and the girls were already seated at the dining table, engaged, as usual, in their lively discussion of suitors and the coming London Season which they were about to attend.

Lydia asked, “Lord Trevyln is dining in his bedchamber this evening?”

“As usual.” Walter seated himself at the head of table, a habit Lydia insisted he pursue since his brother seldom came down to the dining room anymore.

“Cook has fixed Westphalian ham tonight, Walter, your favorite, as I recall.” Lydia frowned and peered closer. “Are you all right? You look... strange.”

He smiled, discovering that despite his kindly nature there existed a tiny part of him that anticipated with keen delight the horrified expression that would soon occupy his ambitious wife’s face. Must be the devil. He should be ashamed of himself, but he would save that until later.

“I have something to tell you, m’dear. Something you won’t like.”

He proceeded to relate the news, noting as he talked his wife’s slow change of expression from mere interest, to incredulity, to now, as he finished, pure horror. He ended his discourse with, “So there you have it. Nothing to be done, I’m afraid,” and sat back in his chair.

There was a moment of stunned silence. They all sat round-eyed, forks suspended in mid-air. Charlotte was the first to recover. “You cannot mean this, Papa.”

“You heard correctly. I shall not be the sixth Earl of Alberdsley after all. Much as you may dislike the idea, Randall’s son is next in line.”

Until now, Lydia had resembled a sleeping volcano, quiet but gathering steam. Now, much as he anticipated, she erupted, “Do you mean to tell me some scrawny little whey faced urchin from Ireland is to inherit Charles’s estate?”

Walter shrugged. “It would appear so.”

She glared at him, transmitting a mixture of incredulity, rage, and stupefaction. “Well, don’t just sit there. Do something.”

He felt a nudge of guilt because that tiny part of him that was enjoying this debacle refused to be squelched. He shrugged again, fully aware his seeming indifference would drive her mad. “Not much I can do.”

“But what of us?” She gestured dramatically around the table. “Are we to be thrown out into the cold and snow?”

The devil got the better of him again. With great deliberation he peered toward the window. “I do believe Spring has arrived. I don’t recall it snowed once this past month. Now, last month—”

“Oh... oh.” Her little pursed mouth kept opening and closing but nothing came out.

At last feeling a modicum of guilt, Walter hastened to say, “Charles won’t throw us out. We are welcome to stay as long as we like, although of course after his demise, I cannot speak for what the new heir might do. But do remember, Lydia, I do have an income of my own. Small it might be, but enough to sustain us, although not anywhere near”—his gaze swept around the luxurious dining room—”this grand a fashion.”

She glowered at him. “Don’t even bother to mention that paltry sum.”

Oh dear. He glanced at each of his stunned daughters and remarked, “Also, Charles has assured me those generous dowries will remain the same.” He could not resist adding—the devil again—”If the need ever arises, which it has not thus far.”

Lydia rose to the bait. “You know full well the girls have so many proposals they don’t know what to do with them.”

“Oh, do they now?” He ventured a slight raise of one eyebrow.

Lydia turned beet red. “This is not to be borne. If you think for one minute I’ll give up my rights to this house for one of Randall’s by-blows, you are much mistaken.”

“Not a by-blow, madam. He and Patrick’s mother were legally married.”

“Oh, Mama,” Charlotte suddenly wailed, “I wanted to be called Lady Charlotte and now I cannot.”

“And I wanted to be the daughter of an earl,” cried Bettina.

“But we still have each other,” Amanda near whispered, but no one except her father heard.

“Oh, one more thing,” said Walter, acting as if he’d forgot, but really he hadn’t. Knowing how this next would be received, he wanted to delay the revelation of this additional outrage as long as possible.

Lydia regarded him with eyes that gleamed like glassy volcanic rock. “And what might one more thing be, Walter?”

“The boy is not coming alone.”

There was a chorus of, “What?”

“My brother has informed me the young lad will be accompanied by his half sister. I believe her name is Evleen.”

Another shocked silence. Oh dear, oh dear.

“Irish trash in this house?” asked Lydia in a voice like ice.

“Er... the boy is only ten. He needed—”

“The Irish are low and common,” said Lydia, “no better than savages, the lot of them.”

“I have heard they live in mud huts and eat dirt,” Charlotte contributed.

Bettina giggled. “Then it won’t cost much to feed them, will it?”

Charlotte grimly smiled. “Perhaps we can clean her up and make a servant of her.”

Lydia spoke again. “This Evleen... Walter, does she even speak English?”

“Er... I’m not sure. Charles did mention, however, that her family on her father’s side is descended directly from the Kings of Ireland. Her mother is descended from royalty, too.”

Lydia sneered. “Who gives a fig for Irish royalty?”

“Oh, I know,” proclaimed Bettina with another giggle, “We shall call her the Irish Princess.”

“Quiet, all of you,” commanded Lydia. “This is no time for frivolity, Bettina. Walter, you must do something.”

“But—”

“I mean it. I’ll not have this. There’s nothing you can do at the moment, but after Patrick arrives, we shall wait and we shall see. And as for the half-sister...” Lydia’s small eyes squinted in concentration. “How old did you say she was?”

“I didn’t say. She’s a grown woman, apparently.”

“Grown, eh? Well, mark my words, I shall not be outdone by the likes of some greedy, grasping little peasant from Ireland.”

“On the contrary, Charles told me Lord Thomas spoke quite highly of her.”

“She’ll be after Thomas if she isn’t already.”

“Perhaps even Montague,” Charlotte chimed in alarm.

Walter threw up his hands. “Please, ladies. You must not pass judgement on someone you haven’t even met.”

“I don’t have to meet her to know what’s going on,” said Lydia, glowering. “At this very moment she’s no doubt sashaying herself across Ireland, throwing herself at Thomas’s head, having herself a marvelous time thinking of the fortune she’s about to get her claws into.” Lydia’s expression grew hard and resentful. “We’ll not have it, will we girls? Irish princess indeed.”