The Rebel (13 page)

“Jane?” Lady Purefoy replied
skeptically.

“Indeed! Who schooled her in the fine arts?
I am
most
curious to know what kind of professional training
she received. I cannot tell you how impressed I am by all of
this.”

“Professional?” The woman looked at her
guest in bewilderment. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean.
Jane’s education was no different than Clara’s.”

“Even more impressive. Pray show me where in
Woodfield House you have hung her masterpieces. They are surely of
a quality that they might adorn any gallery in England.”

“Well…I…We…I do not believe we have gotten
around to hanging any of Jane’s paintings.” She stopped, obviously
at a loss. “But if you would join me downstairs in the parlor, I
can show you some of Clara’s needlework that I had framed this past
summer. She is quite competent in her own right, I want you to
know. I myself find it the most soothing to look upon her
work.”

Now it was Alexandra’s turn to stare in
disbelief at the waiting woman. Soothing! That is what things had
been reduced to. Clara was soothing and Jane was not. How
disappointing, she thought, knowing deep in her heart that
soothing
was something that would never do for her son.

***

Rita stared incredulously at the bag of
coins in her hand.

Seamus’s widow and the woman she knew as
Egan were standing outside the tiny cottage, a growing breeze
riffling the young mother’s tattered skirts. The rebel leader
closed Rita’s hand around the bag as the eldest child ran into the
yard, the other two children trailing behind.

“Let no one see it. Spend it only a little
at the time and never on the same market day.” Egan whispered. “Now
that I know how much you are doing without, I shall bring some
clothes for the wee ones and some food for you and the old woman.
If I cannot come myself, I’ll send someone.”

The thatched cottage that Rita and her three
children had taken shelter in was half the size of Jane’s bedroom
at Woodfield House. Hardly large enough for the woman and her
brood, the hut was being shared with an older widow named Bridget,
whom disease had made blind in both eyes this past summer. The
arrangement worked well for both women at present, but both knew
better than to get too attached to it. No ground or shelter was
secure. As poor tenant farmers, they knew they lived at the mercy
of their landlords’ next whim. The brutal taking of land by the
Royal Dragoons for their new barracks just north of Buttevant only
added to the increasing number of homeless families.

Rita had fled her own burning cottage in the
middle of night, holding under her arm a Bible she could hardly
read and pushing her three young ones ahead of her. Ignoring his
wife’s pleas, Seamus had stayed behind to face the attackers.

Here, as in so many places across Ireland,
complete villages of tenant farmers were being cleared. Once the
landowner’s crops were taken in, the remaining fields were set
ablaze and the cottages pulled down. Land that had been held as
common land for generations was now being enclosed. Grassland that
had been taken by force and planted by the colonizing English two
centuries earlier was now being turned back into pastureland.
Cattle now grazed where tenants had been struggling to survive by
dint of their hard work and sweat.

Seamus was killed that night, and Rita had
not yet been given a chance to grieve. The stark reality of poverty
that was facing her and her children was a fate far worse than the
brutal but sudden death her husband had met.

Now, standing in the sun with the breeze
pulling at her skirts, she looked down at Egan’s offering of coins.
It was clearly too much to comprehend. Though the money represented
the desperate woman’s first ray of hope since the tragedy, she
could not cry.

“God bless ye, Egan. God bless your
Shanavests.” The woman’s gaze lifted from the treasure in her hand.
“I…I didn’t know how I’d be taking care of us.”

“This is no replacement for your loss. You
take care of yours…and Bridget…but mind that you keep mum. I’ll
come back with more when I can.”

As Egan turned to go, Rita pulled the shawl
from around her own shoulders and extended it in her direction.

“For ye, Egan,” she whispered shyly. “Ye
might be needing this to hide the bruising on yer face.”

The coarse wool shawl had more holes in it
than a beggar’s breeches, but the thoughtfulness of the gift
touched Jane deeply. She accepted the offering and poured her
emotions into the embrace she gave the woman.

“I shall wear it.” And she did, by draping
it over her shoulders and knotting it in front.

The three children escorted Egan to her
waiting horse and even ran after her until she reached the crest of
the next hill. Beyond it, she tried to not stare at the growing
patchwork of ditch-enclosed fields and remember the lives that had
been displaced. Nevertheless, Jane’s mood was black as scorched
soil by the time she arrived at the bridge leading to Buttevant.
She considered for a moment leaving Spencer to his own devices and
heading north toward Churchtown, where she’d heard from Rita that
some of the other families had fled. But she had nothing to offer
those families now, and Clara’s ploy of sending the Englishman
along could not be disregarded without consequences. She had no
option but to escort the rogue back.

At one end of the narrow stone bridge across
the Awbeg, she waited while a cart pulled by an ancient donkey
finished its slow trek across the bridge. A little old man, looking
like some gnarled leprechaun, sat on the cart smoking a clay pipe.
As she waited, she adjusted the knot of the wrap at her throat and
tried to decide on how she could arrange it to hide her chin and
mouth, if need be. She gave up, finally. The blasted bruise was
just too pronounced. She wished now that she hadn’t lost her
mother’s hat.

As the donkey and cart were almost over the
bridge, Jane spotted the tall, lean frame of Sir Nicholas leading
his horse behind. There was someone else following the cart, as
well.

Despite her well-founded bias against him,
at this moment she had to admire the air of confidence that
surrounded the Englishman. Here was a man who was well aware of his
advantages in life. But where the other aristocrats wallowed in
them, Spencer appeared quite unencumbered. The man maintained no
air of hostility to hide his fears of the lower classes. He seemed
to feel no need for cloaking himself in displays of haughty
indifference. She had seen the way he’d treated the grooms at
Woodfield House this morning. She’d also been aware of him on their
ride earlier, looking about with keen interest at the landscape and
at the people. He had sharp powers of observation—that was
obvious—and it was a quality that was sadly lacking in others of
his class. Most, Jane thought, preferred to live in their insulated
lives, moving about with blinders on.

He was one that would bear watching.

The cart neared the river’s edge, and Jane
knew the moment when Sir Nicholas turned his gaze upon her. Their
eyes met for only an instant, and as an already familiar warmth
washed through her, she immediately looked away.

This was a future brother-in-law, she
sharply reminded herself, totally appalled by the sensations racing
through her body. The image in her mind of Clara standing beside
Spencer calmed her immediately.

As the loaded cart went over the last bump
and cleared the bridge, the old carter raised his battered hat to
her, but said nothing. Nodding in return, Jane pushed her horse
forward to meet their guest, and noticed with whom Sir Nicholas was
walking. Her fingers immediately tightened around the reins. Every
nerve in her body became taut, and she fought the desire to ride
away.

“Top of the morning, Miss Jane. I cannot
believe my good fortune today.”

She made no pretence of returning the
exuberance of Sir Robert Musgrave’s greeting. Instead, she turned
her attention to Spencer, trying to imagine how well these two men
might be acquainted. She considered once again the possible reason
for his silence about her secret at Woodfield House. She frowned,
realizing that she simply didn’t want to believe that he’d just
been biding his time until he could meet with the magistrate. His
expression revealed nothing.

“I must apologize for keeping you waiting,
Miss Jane,” Nicholas said as the two men finally reached her. “I
was intercepted by the magistrate here. It appears that he was
planning a visit to Woodfield House for the purpose of interviewing
me. I tried to finish our business and save him the ride over.”

“Good morning, Sir Robert,” she said
tersely. “No company of dragoons to accompany you this
morning?”

“Not on so fine a morning as this,” the man
answered, his gaze lingering on the bruise by her mouth. “But to be
completely honest, Sir Nicholas, I did have a second reason for
calling at Woodfield House…and here she is before me.”

From the very start of the magistrate’s
arrival this past spring, Jane had found herself at odds with the
man. The ordeal had begun at a fair in Mallow where, after their
initial introduction, Musgrave had been almost belligerent in
attempting to make himself her escort. Jane’s refusals of him had
fallen on deaf ears, unfortunately. And when she finally put her
foot down—rejecting his continuing advances in no uncertain
terms—others had overheard, and word of it had circulated
quickly.

Of course, all of this had occurred before
the new magistrate had learned of the scandals of Jane’s past.

And that had made the insult cut much
deeper.

Jane refused to flinch beneath the man’s
predatory stare. “What business have you with me, sir?”

“I think you know, Miss Jane.”

“I fear that you are mistaken, Sir
Robert.”

“But you see, I have decided to improve my
last offer…substantially.”

Jane restrained her temper. Having seen
Queen Mab in passing at the Buttevant Horse Fair this past July—and
having observed Jane’s attachment to the horse—the magistrate had
suddenly developed a keen desire to acquire the animal. Since then,
he had been pressing to purchase the horse, claiming he wanted Mab
to breed with his own prize stallions. Feeling Jane’s resistance to
sell, Sir Robert had made an offer to Sir Thomas for the purchase
of the mare.

Naturally, Jane had been irate. Though it
was her horse, there was no telling what her father might do. Sir
Thomas, however, had apparently not been particularly inclined to
satisfy the whim of the new magistrate—a man he had openly called a
fop before the family—for he had bluntly declined the offer.

“I have learned my
lesson, Miss Jane. I now know that it is wiser to talk of
purchasing your fine mare with you—the person who obviously has the
final say.”

Sir Robert’s words smacked more of
condescension than humility. Even as she considered this, she
watched the confident smile steal across his face as he let his
gaze travel the length of her before coming to rest again on her
bruised mouth.

“I would have been far more comfortable
discussing with Sir Thomas such decidedly earthy activities as
mounting, coupling, and breeding…”

“I shall take you at your word on that, Sir
Robert.”

His eyes narrowed at her insinuation, but
she didn’t care. She was tired of the sexual innuendo that the
magistrate insisted on weaving lately into his conversations with
her. Always—at the edges of his words, in the inflection of his
voice, in the look in his eye—she found his sly intimations.

“But before we get to that, miss, I am most
curious to know how you came by such a nasty bruise to your lovely
face. Indeed, your lips are...”

“Accidents happen, sir. This bruise is none
of your concern. But if you have any thoughts of making another
offer for my horse, the answer is the same. She is
not
for
sale.”

He nudged his horse a step forward, until
his boots brushed against her own. Mab stood firm, and Jane too
refused to be intimidated. She patted the horse’s neck.

“But you haven’t even heard the new
offer.”

“The answer is the same.” She drawled each
word as if she were speaking to a small child. “And I beg that you
not make this the source of any further unpleasantness.”

“I let it rest for now. But about the
bruis...”

“And now, sir, if you will forgive us,
Reverend Adams is expecting us.”

She wheeled Mab away from the magistrate and
found herself looking into stern face of Spencer. The murderous
glare that the man was directing toward Musgrave somehow pleased
her.

“I fear that I cannot allow you to go, just
yet. Accidents
are
my concern,” Musgrave called out, turning
his horse, as well. “Especially when they happen to a charming
damosel that I have sworn to protect.”

“Sir, I am no
damosel
, and I have
never
needed your protection.”

“Say what you will.” The man’s dark eyes
narrowed—his gaze focusing more on her mouth. “But it is my
responsibility to tame all rebelliousness in Cork…and that might
arguably include solving the mystery of how and why someone like
you should sustain such violence to her face.”

Clara had been right. The excuse she’d used
the day before would only make matters worse and draw the
magistrate’s suspicions. But her mind was empty of any other
explanations.

“I am responsible for the condition of her
face.”

Jane whirled about to look at Spencer.

Musgrave’s attention focused on the visitor,
as well. “Is that so, Sir Nicholas?”

“The kind lady is simply trying to protect
my reputation, I fear. A clumsy accident in the stables yesterday,
and one for which I must bear total blame.”