Rescuing Mr. Gracey (9 page)

Sir Charles rolled his eyes. The room’s characters shuffled, some edging toward neutral walls while others stepped away from the opposing characters.

Sir Edward turned toward several men to explain. “Last month, the treasury secretary thought us too free with the taxpayers’ money. He cut off all relief for the typhus outbreak. Now, we have no funds to help at all. There are sections of this country where mass graves hide our shame.”

Lord Russell puffed out his chest and tilted a defiant, defensive chin. “We have provided public works for these people.”

Trevelyan nodded agreement. “Please take note of the seven million pounds already spent for relief these four years past. Did we not give biscuits? The treasury simply cannot devote all its funds toward this one nation.”

Sir Edward boomed with indignation, “The destitution in Ireland is so horrible, and the indifference by the landowners so manifest, that it is nothing less than a policy of extermination. Britain has given only a trifling amount to spare itself the deep disgrace of permitting its miserable fellow subjects to die of starvation.”

Numb with the information, Alec sensed fuming embers of disagreement spark from every corner. People shuffled, a small group joining Sir Edward, a larger number edging toward the prime minister. Two adverse columns of opinion stared at each other.

Somehow, he had landed on the earl’s side of the room along with the prime minister and the bigoted Sir Charles Trevelyan. His heart told him he was on the wrong side.

Sir Edward’s face sizzled with bright red blotches. “Do you call forcing children out of the workhouse with the excuse that room is needed to house able-bodied males as noninterference?” He aimed a reprimanding finger at the treasury minister, then swung it toward the prime minister. “’Tis murder, sirs. Nothing less than an effort to exterminate the natives through the elimination of its children…”

“Outrageous lie,” Trevelyan spat.

A collective gasp preceded angry murmurs buzzing like a colony of threatened wasps.

“Expulsion of children became necessary to bring work to the native men.” The handsome man paced, trapped in a cage of conscience before pausing in front of his group of sympathizers. “I am a God-fearing man. I have contributed my own funds toward helping these people when so inclined. Each man needs to be responsible for himself and not rely upon the government to feed his children.”

Alec’s head pounded. If even a portion of the information were true, England had ignored the native plight and then made policy that compounded mass starvation.

The earl calmly reentered the conversation. “Gentlemen.” His hands rose, sweeping the room as if to gather in squabbling siblings. “We have gone off course. Let us calm ourselves and return to a civilized discussion.” Jocelyn waited, his eyes skimming each guest, commanding, calming. “I have the highest assurance that the issue of the blight is an agricultural anomaly and will resolve soon, will it not, Mr. Gracey?”

Thus far, the conversation had flown across the room like stray ammunition. Now, all eyes were targeted on him. Alec wanted to shrink back. The players were too powerful, the agenda too threatening, the question before him too intimidating.

He cleared his throat. “I can state with some confidence that the effect of this particular deteriorating fungus attacking the lumper potato is waning. We may experience one year more, but not to the extent suffered previously.”

Roden gave Alec a pleased smile, and the prime minister nodded approval. However, the two men Alec had grown to respect, Sir Edward and Count Strezelecki, both scowled. Not wishing their disapproval, he expanded his opinion. “Farmers should restrain from planting this particular tuber for another growing season, perhaps two, to purge the problem. I suggest landowners encourage barley, oats, wheat, and flax instead. All are healthy and flourishing and would be a nutritious substitute for the native families. In addition, this allows the fields to replenish nutrients.”

Twistleton’s voice clapped like unexpected thunder. “Mr. Gracey, let me enlighten you.” He mouth twisted with distaste as his intense brown eyes pierced Alec. “The Irish Catholic rarely owns property and as such they are unable to make such decisions about which crop to grow.” His lips thinned. “You see, the ascendancy, otherwise known as the lords of England, absorbed most of the good land after William’s brilliant victory a century ago. Most of these English lords reside in England and leave the tending of properties to landlords who, seeking a hefty profit for their employers, lease the land to tenant farmers who must then make a profit for the owner and for themselves, and so they, in turn, divide the property and give the most worthless rock-filled, weed-infested field to the cottier.” Folding his arms, he leaned his tall, thin frame against a wall and narrowed his eyes at the prime minister. “Barley, oats, et cetera, et cetera, will never grow in those pathetic fields, but even if they could, those grains are exported to make money for the landowner and England alike.”

“The landlords need to see to their own cottiers and tenants. We have interfered in this event too much,” Sir Russell said.

Trevelyan added his opinion. “Sir, are you implying that the lords should feed the Catholic cottier with our export grains? Ireland’s entire economy will collapse.”

The room vibrated, angry retorts flying back and forth. Count Strezelecki shouted above the din. “Mr. Gracey, in summary, the cottiers grow the potato because it is the only crop that will grow in intolerable fields, feed the native family, and give return to the absent landlord.” His voice rose to an outraged roar. “That is why the poor continue to plant a crop of fungus.”

As if sensing a sympathetic shift, Roden snapped an authoritative rebuttal. “Gentlemen. Mr. Gracey assures us the potato is recovering and, therefore, is not of grave concern. As stated before, I did not bring this honored group together to discuss crop failures or government work relief policies. After a decade, such discussion lends no resolution.”

He paused, his gaze touching each person with a possessive intimacy. When he continued, the low rhythm of his voice increased with threat. “The nation of Ireland is on the brink of civil war, and war is a risk to everything—our land, our allegiance, our freedom.” A low murmur of agreement traveled about the edges. His words slowed, stretched with purpose. “The landowner cannot be responsible for managing the sick, weak, and illiterate natives within their county. This action only drains all our resources and fails to improve the situation.” The earl’s piercing brown eyes narrowed, lingering on each man before coming to rest on Alec.

All of a sudden, his eyes flared, his fist clenched, then rose above his head. “I say it again and again. We landowners will not use dwindling resources to feed and clothe the indigent populations, nor will they be allowed rebellion or talk of home rule. God help us all if the Irish native turns our beloved nation into a puppet for an Italian pope.” The teacups trembled. Alec shivered, recalling the priest’s speech from the evening before.

“We landowners must not be distracted by a waning blight.” Thumping upon his desk, Roden pounded home his insistence. “Rather, we must refocus our attention and maintain that which belongs to us.”

The room held its collective breath, waiting for the next emotional rush. The earl swept the room with long, manicured fingers. “I have an answer, gentlemen.” He inhaled, and his scowl melted. A charming, calm smile soothed any tension.

Alec found himself leaning forward in anticipation. “The native problem will be resolved, likely this year or the next, either by death, immigration, or the end of the blight. In the meanwhile, Ireland’s landowners cannot feed the uneducated and lazy masses.”

Roden paced toward the fireplace and relaxed against it, crossing one foot in front of the other. “I intend to lead by example. From this day forward, I intend to enforce the laws and instruct the residents of the rebellious village of Dolly’s Brae what happens to disobedient citizens.”

Inspecting his perfect fingernails, Roden refused to look across the room to his opponents. “Thus, I will prosecute any native who trespasses or poaches on my lands. I have hired a reliable man to monitor all the popular shortcuts used by the residents of Dolly’s Brae until the marching season has ended. Those who break the law will suffer the consequences.”

Alec jolted to his feet, knocking into a side table. The room’s attention turned. Managing an apologetic smile, he straightened the table. Roden’s gaze briefly flicked at the disturbance before, folding his arms, he continued. “I will offer clemency if the offenders forfeit their property and leave my district. Otherwise, they will face imprisonment. I anticipate my financial burden will be greatly reduced within the month.”

Alec’s chest ached; his stomach turned with nausea. It was very likely that Mary Smyth used the earl’s property every day. Worry ate at him. Was Mary bathing now? Had she already been arrested?

Sauntering casually toward the window, he tried to maintain a relaxed poise, but unreasonable urges made his hand tremble. He lifted the corner of the curtain and sighed with relief. Rain leaked from the skies. At least she would not be at the lake today.

“In addition to protecting our investment in this nation, we must also groom a new generation of leaders. We must flood the House of Commons with like-minded men.” Roden walked to the middle of the room and turned so that he faced the prime minister and then surveyed the entire room. “Sirs, I propose support of a young, educated, and loyal leader.”

Roden waited for the perfect climactic moment. Pointing to Alec, he said, “I put forth Mr. Alexander Gracey, a highly educated and respected leader in the agricultural world whose father rose from poverty, making his fortune in linen production.” He smiled warmly, but Alec saw the steel within the cold eyes. “In Gracey, we have the perfect spark and balance for Parliament.”

Bitterly, Alec now understood why he had been chosen. A token Anglo-Irishman, son of a lowly, uneducated man who pulled himself from the streets toward prosperity was, indeed, the perfect banner to wave while in the throes of a blight.

Hesitancy hung in the air as the two sides measured Alec’s worthiness. Roden continued, “I give you Mr. Gracey, the hope for the common man, the leader for our unsteady nation, and a candidate for the by-election to replace Mr. Everstone after his unfortunate accident.”

Roden slung a heavy, oppressive hand upon Alec’s shoulder. Stunned silence followed. A singular clapping sound from James Bender at the back of the room forced others to politely, forcibly join the applause.

So…it begins.

His heart thumped, his body recoiled. He smiled, false but confident.

Hope of the nation, indeed.
He was nothing short of confused, caught between opposing sides. Most of all, he was worried about the bathing habits of a native girl. How was he to be both enemy and protector to a lovely lady who lived a mile from his home? More important, how could he keep his distance yet still ensure her safety?

~ 7 ~

“And the tune we played was

 
‘The Protestant Boys’ right over Dolly’s Brae.”

Within the waning light of day, the three-wheeled cart—already protesting the terrible condition of the road by clattering and squeaking like an unhappy piglet—suddenly wobbled, then tilted into the black muddy soup.

Quaking with exhaustion, Mary closed her eyes, pleading with the holy angels to assist her feeble human effort, then heaved her trembling weight sideways, then backward, pulling and twisting until the mud, with a sloppy sucking sound, relinquished its prisoner.

A tired sigh puffed from her lips as she steered the cart to a safer, grassier spot. Bracing against the blustery wind, she clutched her meager cloak tighter around her shoulders and surveyed the darkening clouds that threatened more rain. Would the trials of the endless day ever cease?

Her gaze shifted toward the forest. Last night, a Ribbonman rebel had knocked on the hut and warned that the earl planned to capture natives who trespassed in the forest. Her father warned her to avoid the shortcut for a while.

      But right now, the thought of saving a precious fifteen minutes one way by cutting through the forest seemed worth any risk. Mary nibbled her lip, pondering the likelihood a hunter scoured the woods at this time of night. Her gaze flitted longingly toward the forest, then back to the long, rocky road ahead.

The cart easily whirled about as she turned toward the forest, her feet rapidly crossing the field, her heartbeat stuttering with the decision.

Thickly leafed trees bowed low, stretching their long limbs downward as if to capture her along with any remnant of daylight. She shivered as she nervously glanced around. The weak lantern light cast eerie shadows that swayed back and forth, and sinister pops and snaps invaded the evening air.
Da must never know how the night deliveries frighten me.

Pressing forward, she soon emerged at the ridge that hung high above the carriage road. Flinging her cloak behind her shoulders, she readied herself to navigate backward down the steep, treacherous trail. Slow, cautious, she leveraged her slight weight against the strain of the heavy cart, testing each footing before taking another.

When at last she landed safely upon the carriage road, she inhaled. The air smelled like rain, and she could see distant lightning illuminate the sky above the Mountains of Mourne. She would never make the trip to Castlewellan and three deliveries before the storm arrived.