Rescuing Mr. Gracey (18 page)

Now the earl wanted revenge, but no matter the debt owed to the earl by his father, Alec could not,
would not
march against Mary.

He turned and faced his father. Drawing a ragged breath, he folded his arms. “No.”

Gracey’s icy glare frosted the room. “What do ya mean…no.”

Careful…very careful.
To play this dangerous game, Alec must be clever and, most of all, remain outwardly impassive. To do any less might draw suspicion toward the real reason for objecting.

“I’m engaged in the last oversight of the field I mentioned. Perhaps we could reschedule the meeting for next week?” He needed time to mount a defense.

Gracey grunted. “Have ya been drinking too much, son? You do not inform the earl that you must reschedule.” The senior Gracey folded his own stubborn arms. “We’ll meet tomorrow.”

The hair on the back of Alec’s neck warned him to retreat. Yet his heart would not allow the wiser choice. “I am also reluctant to participate in marches this year. Consider the potential political damage.” Alec clasped his trembling hands behind his back and continued with a quiet, thoughtful tone. “The law that prohibited marching on the twelfth of July lapsed only three years ago. Daniel O’Connell died but two years ago. ’Tis not wise to taunt Catholics this year, when the blight is just waning and many suffer from hunger. We could be perceived as bullying those who are defenseless.” Alec shrugged and drew closer. “The wiser, more prudent course may be to avoid that which may so easily turn toward disaster.”

Gracey waved away the suggestion. “Nonsense. Now is the time to engage, whilst the enemy is weakened. The earl demands it,” he said, his clipped tone rising in volume.

Bile rose in Alec’s throat. How could he lead a parade and taunt Mary and her faith…her history? How could he extinguish his conscience for the sake of family? “Many educated Protestants and titled lords of Parliament disagree with the earl. They too find the march to be bigotry, sir. I include myself in that number.”

His father slammed his fist against the desk. “In the name of all that is holy, what have they been teaching ya at that damn university?”

Bender huffed. “Believe me, sir. You need not fear that Trinity College wavers from Protestant allegiance or anti-Catholic devotion.”

As if remembering the presence of the earl’s man too late, Gracey shifted his attention to the advisor. “Bender. Give me a moment with me son.”

Tick, tick, tick
.

The door clicked shut.

Gracey’s voice lowered to a near whisper as he leaned forward. “Ireland belongs to the Anglican faith and to England’s crown. Did ya learn about the Battle of Boyne in your fancy studies? Catholic James surrendered to Protestant William of Orange.” His father’s jaw pulsed with barely contained rage. “We belong to England and her faith. The natives can either join our ranks or get the hell out.”

“They were here first, Father.”

Gracey rose to his full imposing height, his face flushed with heated passion, his brows a furious slash. “The march celebrating the Glorious Twelfth reminds the stupid natives of their place in history.”

Suffocating silence shrouded Alec.
Coward. Tell him.
Shielding his irritated eyes, he tilted his glass of whiskey and swallowed a sharp retort.
Tell him…tell him how you feel.

Tick, tick, tick.

Alec locked upon the fiery blue sparks shooting from his sire’s eyes.

“There are few who do not know of it, sir.”

Gracey’s teeth clenched, the words snarled. “We align with the earl, who insists upon loyalty.”

“Only because he blackmails you and forces me.”

Gracey shuddered as his head hung. “Stop. For your own safety, do not speak those words out loud. That business is between me and the earl.”

“Obviously, your
business
now involves me. At least give me the option of how I will accomplish the earl’s goal.”

“What the hell are ya sayin’?”

Impatience bunched his neck, tightened his stomach. Alec closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. “Perhaps we need to let hate-filled history rest.”
Finish it…say it.
“I believe the marching season only highlights ugly prejudice and ignorant inferences and has no benefit to the Gracey name, especially considering the tragedy of the blight.”

As expected, a large fist slammed the desk again. “That so-called tragedy was a gift from God to the true believers. We are finally ridding ourselves of superstitious natives who make the nation weak.”

Alec pointed a hard finger at his father’s chest, his own voice rising. “I have no wish to be rid of the natives. To do so would be to deny talent and grace to a land that belonged to them long before we took ownership.”

The elder man came to the other side of the abused desk and stood inches from his son. Like
 
a bull ready to gore a target, fury huffed inside Alexander’s enraged breaths. “In case ye’ve forgotten, the stinking Catholics don’t have talent or grace. They are drunkards and gypsies who breed nothing but filthy brats they can’t afford.”

Tick, tick, tick.

The ignorant statements, the arrogance, even his father’s own ridiculous temper squeezed the air from the room. Alec had no time left to debate this argument. He must leave and attend to the most beautiful girl in Ireland—a Catholic girl—so that she may deliver laundry to Protestant homes.

“I am too tired to have this”—Alec waved his hand as if to brush away the harmful words that hung in the air—“intellectual discussion tonight.”

Gracey’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Should the earl discover your misguided notions, the plan collapses, as will our family.”

Alec’s hands flinched. He could not…
would not
raise the white flag about marching, no matter the cost. “I refuse to march.”

Gracey’s voice boomed, a terrifying noise that shook the rafters. “You will fulfill the commitment. I command it.” Thumping the table, Gracey restated his will. “You will attend the meeting with Roden tomorrow. You will be silent about your opinions, and you will do as instructed by the earl.”

I will not hurt Mary Smyth.
Like a grown cub confronting the elder lion, Alec leaned aggressively forward, challenging his father with a jutted jaw. “I agree to attend rallies in Belfast and Banbridge for the sake of the crown and the union. I agree to meetings with the earl for the purpose of election.” Emotion tightened his voice to a raspy, angry growl. “However, I will not march. I will not destroy my already shredded conscience in order to cruelly persecute those so badly afflicted by the blight.”

Alec forced his fists to unclench, and then, with measured restraint, he placed the glass on the desk and straightened his evening coat, his cravat. “And I will not attend tomorrow’s meeting unless you wish me to express that opinion to the earl. Please make my apologies for my absence tomorrow and at tonight’s dinner.”

He bowed and turned, ignoring his father’s terrifying bellows that shook the windows. With great measured strides away from the one who deeply offended him, Alec rushed up the stairs and hurried down the hall. He slammed his bedroom door, shutting out his father’s demands with it.

Distractedly, he stripped off the cravat and coat, then searched for his greatcoat, but was interrupted by a light tapping on his door.

“Alec, it’s your mother.” The repeat rapping forced his black thoughts to retreat. “May I speak to you?”

Alec exhaled and closed his weary eyes. Would this evening never stop torturing him? “I am late, Mother. Can you talk with me later?”

The tall, dark-haired woman swished into the room, all quiet elegance and calm emotion. She stroked a wayward lock from his forehead, then said, “I think not, son. I wanted to talk to you about whispers and…”

“What whispers?” he barked, immediately suspecting Bender.

Isabella Gracey merely smiled. “You are speaking to me as a foe, my son.”
Alec blew out a breath. “’Tis nothing, Mother.”

“Alec. I know better.”

He paused, scowling. Darting a quick look at her, he conceded she would insist on an explanation, and he could not afford further delay up to Dolly’s Brae. “I’ve got a dilemma, and I’m most distressed about what to do.”

“Aye.” She sat, tilting her head attentively.

“I’ve met a girl…”

His mother nodded.

“She’s no ordinary girl, Mother.”

“I see.” She waited.

He swallowed, then averted his gaze. “She’s Catholic.”

Alec had expected his mother to gasp or shake her head in denial. Instead, surprisingly, Isabella wordlessly waited.

“I’ve a desire to sort out these…these…” He waved his hand, trying to grasp even a portion of what floated within his heart, his head. “But there are many obstacles, obviously.”

Isabella’s gaze shifted to her clasped hands. “I see.”

“And there’s another complication.” Restlessly, he paced. “Father presses me with his political demands.” Breathing became difficult. An unexpected lump swelled in his throat. “I swear, I will leave Castlewellan rather than join the marching season against Mary Smyth.”

“Mary Smyth. That is her name?”

Nodding, he clasped his hands behind his back and continued. “I wonder if I should return to Dublin. I have my own source of income, and my educational credentials are not without merit.” Exhausted by the idea, Alec rubbed the pounding at his temples. He should not have consumed two whiskeys on an empty stomach. “I would rather not. Yet, if I continue to see her, I endanger my family, to say nothing of jeopardizing our relationship with the earl and Father’s mill.” His shoulders slumped, his head drooped, everything too heavy.

“You’ve managed to place yourself in a very difficult situation.”

Alec shook his head to clear away the webs of bewilderment. “This nation is so hostile to interfaith alliances. A priest was arrested last week for marrying an Anglican to a Catholic.”

“Marriage?”

Shocked at his own statement, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “’Twas hypothetical only. Of course it would be impossible.” He walked toward his window and propped his hands on either side of the frame. Staring blankly at the darkening sky, he sighed. “Besides, she would never have me. The Gracey name means persecution to the Smyths. She does not know who I am.” A long pause helped him to continue. “Hiding my identity from her family has put me on a teetering ledge that I am unable and unwilling to come away from.”

His mother’s rustling gown indicated her approach. “This confirms the rumors that you’ve hired a Catholic native for the mill and have given a washerwoman large sums for the laundry,” she said, her voice a slight tremble.

Alec whipped about. “Who… How did you… Did Bender…”

Touching his arm, she whispered, “Be at peace.” Isabella looked about, as if to assure herself the door was closed. “Daniel investigated for me when some of the servants began talking. Your father knows nothing as of yet.”

“It feels I must be ever ready to defend her.”

“Alec, you must be realistic. There is no future with this girl.” Isabella rubbed little comforting circles on his back. “The Smyths are leaders in the Catholic community. Her father works toward home rule.”

Alec groaned and shook his head. “I did not know…”

“I overheard the earl telling your father that Joseph Smyth is the force behind last year’s incident at Dolly’s Brae.” His mother’s whisper softened even more. “I believe the Orange may be spying on the family.”

Alec released a sharp, sarcastic laugh as he rolled his head on his shoulders. “One more small complication.”

“It is a struggle as old as Ireland itself,” his mother said reflectively. “Not that long ago, when my Presbyterian father immigrated here, England persecuted any of non-Anglican faith. In those days, Catholics and Presbyterians allied and protested and, together, managed to repeal the penal code.” She folded her hands, smiling fondly. “Joseph Smyth’s father, Patrick Smyth, collaborated with my father, Seamus Jordan, toward that cause.”

Bemused, Isabella shifted her gaze to a distant point. “When England realized that the united faiths weakened their political majority, the powerful lords encouraged religious discord for the sake of political stability. Once offered the opportunity, I fear Presbyterians forgot their own persecuted history and eagerly joined the powerful Orange.”

Alec reeled toward his mother, his face taut. “The natives feel fortunate to eat but one potato or imported Indian corn cake in the course of a day.” His hand swept the elegant room. “All the while, we sit in our beautiful manors and stuff our bellies off their starving backs?”

“I’ve seen the horror.” She rubbed her arms as if chilled. “But realize the blight also affects poor Protestants.” Looking down at her hands, she whispered, “We must pray the worst is over, but until that time, many of us raise funds and distribute food in the south and west, where they must haul the dead into mass graves at night.”

“How did I not see the starving?” His throat tightened with unexpected emotion. “I had once believed it all an exaggerated rumor.”

“Right now, your father is blind and deaf as you once were, but trust that he is a good man.” Tiny tears shone in his mother’s eyes. “He is frightened by the earl and wishes to protect the family. I don’t know what dark secret he buries, but I’ve seen how it haunts him. He worked so very hard to get us here.”