The Irish Upstart (2 page)

“
Am I supposed to feel sorry for her? Far as I am concerned, it serves her right. She should have known better than to rise above herself and marry an Englishman.
”

The gall. Tea indeed
. Evleen turned and fled back to the drawing room, unwilling to hear another word.
How could they talk about her mother that way!

“
What’s wrong, Evleen?
”
Her sister, Darragh, stood forlornly by the fireplace. She was pale. Her eyes were red from crying.

“
It’s that wretched English couple who bought the house
. The f
ools. You should hear them talk—going on and on about how superior they think they are to us Irish. I didn’t like the way they talked about Mama.
”

“
Mama,
”
repeated Darragh seizing upon the word with that ominously incensed tone that warned Evleen she was about to start again.
“
How could she have married that man? She has ruined our lives, she–
”

“
That’s enough,
”
Evleen interrupted, kind but firm.
“
I’ll not hear one more bad word about our mother.
”
Her heart went out to poor Darragh. It was hard enough being fourteen under the best of circumstances. She was still a child in so many ways, yet wanting to be treated like a grown woman. Not so very long ago, Evleen, herself, was fourteen, and she could well remember her own feelings. Still, she didn’t think she’d been as rebellious as Darragh, nor so sullen and resentful. At least she hoped she hadn’t.
“
What’s done is done, little sister, try not to make Mama feel worse than she already does.
”

Darragh’s blue eyes narrowed in resentment.
“
Everyone told her not to marry him. Everyone warned her. Well, she did what she wanted and look what happened. Now we’re poor and my life is over. Oh, I shall never forgive her.
”

Issuing a silent prayer for patience, Evleen gripped her sister’s shoulders.
“
What you say is true, Darragh. You have every right to be angry and upset. Mama made a terrible mistake, but it was out of love, don’t forget, so you mustn’t condemn her.
”

“
Love? Ha! How could anyone love an Englishman?
”
A corner of Darragh’s upper lip curled with contempt.
“
Mama was a fool. That scoundrel never loved her. He was only out to rob her of her fortune.
”

Evleen answered softly,
“
That may very well be, but the man is dead now. There’s no sense in nurturing a grudge. He won’t know, and it certainly won’t do Mama any good. You must think of the good things about our mother—all she’s done for us, all--
”

“
It’s time to go, girls,
”
called Mama, entering the dining room carrying Patrick, followed by her two youngest daughters, Sorcha and Mary. All were dressed in warm clothes suitable for travel.

Time to leave. A lump rose in Evleen’s throat.
“
I’ll get my coat,
”
she said, and softly added,
“
and have one last look around.
”
I shall never do this again
.
Evleen lifted her skirts and sped up the three flights of stairs that led to her room. Her heart wrenched as she thought, never again would she ever climb these stairs, or stand by the window of her room and gaze down at bustling Merrion Square, or lie in bed of a morning and drowsily gaze at the flowered wallpaper while she daydreamed of all the parties she’d attend and beaux she would have when she turned sixteen.

Oh, it was so hard to keep from crying.

By the time she was downstairs again, dressed in a warm redinggote, she had regained at least a part of her usual composure.
“
This might even be fun,
”
she said brightly as they piled into the old wagon packed with their belongings, a far cry from the smart Barouche they used to own.
At least we’re all together
, Evleen thought as she looked at Sorcha and Mary, near tears and huddled together; at Darragh, a mass of quivering indignation and despair; and rosy-cheeked Patrick, bundled up and safe in Mama’s lap. He was only her half-brother, son of the hated Englishman, nonetheless beloved by them all. She must try to be cheerful, Evleen reminded herself, and pasted a careful smile on her face.
“
Just think, we’ll get to live near the ocean, and milk the cows and feed the chickens, and herd the sheep.
”

“
Have you lost your mind?
”
Darragh asked in an anguished voice.
“
We are but peasants now, just poor Irish trash. Oh, it makes me ashamed. We can never hold our heads up again.
”

“
Ashamed to be Irish?
”
Mama squared her shoulders; her chin lifted with dignity; pride blazed in her clear blue eyes.
“
You must never forget, my children, that your father was Ian O’Fallon, son of Daniel O’Fallon, eighth Earl of Dunkerry, who was directly descended from the Duke of Connaught, who was a direct descendent of Euchaid, one of the ancient kings of Ireland who reigned over one of the earliest Gaelic kingdoms many centuries ago.
”
She turned to Evleen.
“
Can you tell us more of Euchaid?
”

Evleen promptly answered,
“
Euchaid was a great king, Mama, descended from the first Milesian king, Ollam Fodla, who was a true father to his people, and an able statesman.
”

Mama nodded proudly and looked back at Darragh.
“
Ashamed to be Irish? You, all of you, should be bursting with pride that the blood of Irish kings runs through your veins.
”

Tears glistened in Mama’s eyes, a sight Evleen had never seen, not even when Papa died, most assuredly not when the Englishman drew his last breath.
“
We know,
”
she said gently and clasped her mother’s hand.
“
We’re proud to be Irish. Darragh, too, no matter what she says, and we’ll never forget, no matter what happens or how poor we are.
”

“
Always hold your head high,
”
Mama said, calmer now, and smiling.

“
Yes, Mama.
”

“
And never love an Englishman.
”

“
Yes, Mama.
”

The wagon began to move. Evleen turned her head for a last glimpse of their elegant red brick townhouse with its tall sash windows, wrought iron balusters, and intricately carved wooden front door. Tears sprang to her eyes and she had to turn away, knowing in her heart she would never see it again.

Chapter 2

Hertfordshire County, England, 1816

The medieval towers of Northfield Hall, the ancestral home of the Marquess of Westhaven, rose majestically through December’s evening mist as a lone horseman turned into the long, winding driveway that led to the front portico.

Lord Thomas, second son of Lord Linberry, fifth Marquess of Westhaven, smiled as the beautiful old mansion came into view. A flood of pleasant memories struck him at the sight of the home where he’d spent his happy childhood. He had been away three long years. Despite his fatigue after his journey from London, he was elated to be home.

At the marble steps of the portico, Thomas, a man of medium height, with dark good looks and a sinewy build, swung from his horse with the graceful, fluid ease of a man much accustomed to the saddle. He looked toward the entry way, half expecting his father to burst forth at any moment. In the past, Papa, a florid-faced, blond bear of a man, had always greeted his sons with a warm hug and a booming
“
Welcome home!
”
Apparently not today, though. Instead, Thomas’s sister, Penelope, swung open the door. When she spied him, a look of delight spread across her pretty face.

“
Oh, Thomas, you’re home.
”
She flew down the steps and threw her arms around him.

“
You’ve grown up,
”
Thomas laughingly remarked when they finally broke apart. He held her at arm’s length, his eyes admiring as he looked down upon his slender, blonde-haired sister.
“
Why, Penelope, what a beauty you’ve become. How old are you now, eighteen?
”

“
Nineteen.
”

“
And not yet married.
”

She tossed her head.
“
Hardly. And I warrant I shan’t be if I don’t find the right one.
”

He grinned and said,
“
Independent as ever, I see. You were never one of those bubble-headed girls dead set on finding a husband.
”

“
And what about you?
”
she asked.
“
Has some young belle lured you anywhere close to the altar?
”

“
Not a chance,
”
Thomas replied, eyes twinkling.
“
That’s one of the many joys of being a second son. Nothing’s expected of me, including heirs. Which reminds me, I don’t suppose Montague is here?
”

Penelope made a little moué.
“
Of course not. Our dear brother is firmly ensconced in London. If you’re expecting he’s mended his ways by now, you’re doomed to disappointment.
”

“
He’s still drinking, gambling . . . ?
”

“
And whoring.
”
Penelope grinned impishly at her use of the naughty word.
“
Worse than ever. Poor Papa is so disappointed.
”

Thomas’s gaze flicked toward the door.
“
And speaking of Papa–?
”

“
In his room, in bed.
”
A shadow crossed Penelope’s bright, young face.
“
It’s the gout. He suffers terribly.
”

His father not well? It took Thomas a moment for his sister’s words to sink in. Papa was never sick. Thomas could not remember a time when his vigorous, burly father was not a robust picture of health.
“
Why didn’t he let me know?
”

“
What good would it have done? You were all those many miles away in the West Indies. What could you have done except worry?
”
Penelope frowned.
“
And speaking of that, we received your letter telling us you were coming home, but you didn’t say why. Is something wrong? Will you be returning to Jamaica?
”

“
I’ve come home for good, for reasons I shall discuss with Papa first. Reasons that . . .
“
Thomas shook his head ruefully
“
. . . good Lord, it never occurred to me he might not be well.
”
He bit his lip.
“
That makes telling him all the more difficult.
”
Penelope eyed him accusingly.
“
He won’t like this, whatever your reasons.
”

“
I know.
”
Thomas felt a heavy weight descend on his shoulders. His father was not going to like what he had to say, not at all.
“
Let’s go inside, shall we?
”

As Thomas ascended the main staircase to see his father, he
reflected that in all his thirty years on earth, the one thing he’d learned for certain was that things never turned out exactly as he expected. But even knowing that, in all the agony of indecision he’d gone through, all that torturous soul-searching, he had assumed that when he announced his decision, Papa might bellow and stomp around, like always, but then, like always, Papa would forgive and understand. Never did Thomas expect his father might be ill. An illness meant weakness, disability. He could not even imagine his father a sick invalid.

At the door to Papa’s room, Thomas knocked and was admitted by Whitney, Papa’s valet. He had expected to find Papa in his bed, but instead, the Marquess of Westhaven was sitting in an armchair, his right foot heavily bandaged, propped in front of him on a plump pillow resting on a low stool. For a moment Thomas was stunned. Where was the strong, barrel-chested father he had known? The man in the chair seemed a stranger, shrunken, somehow, hunched over, wan.
“
Papa, I’m back,
”
he said, and started across the room to embrace him.