The Widow and the Rogue (2 page)

Lord Bangford Langtry was the parish’s elderly magistrate. With nary a look of regret on his pasty face, Uncle Lynch introduced her to the decrepit old man.

“My good sir, may I present to you my ward and niece, Lady Kathleen Dargheen,” he said, giving a low bow. The braces supporting his artificial muscles audibly squeaked beneath his yellow silk coat.

She remembered her uncle practicing for hours in front of the mirror, the perfect serpentine
S
for the bow. She stood beside him at the entrance to the hall’s oriental salon in her simple, gray walking gown.

She curtsied to the old gentleman, eyeing him warily. Surely he must be my prospective groom’s grandfather, she told herself reassuringly, not imagining for a moment that her uncle expected her to wed this relic of decaying manhood.

She’d thought long and hard about her fate, and reluctantly she’d accepted it. She had no choice. Running away was not an option.

Orphaned, alone, and friendless, she was entirely at the mercy of these two men. She had no monetary resources, proper education, or ability to do anything but what was expected of her. She had no choice. The law, she knew, would not help her. Legally, she was under her uncle’s care, and therefore his thumb. And now she was about to become his unwilling sacrifice.

No words were spoken. Lord Langtry, seated in an ornately carved walnut bishop’s chair, waved them into the silk-tented room. The chair upon which he sat had once belonged to a Roman Catholic bishop.

The original monastery had been ransacked and burned to the ground by Oliver Cromwell in 1641, during the notorious massacres. The chair, along with the monastery and the lands surrounding it, had passed into Protestant hands and eventually into the wealthy English lord’s.

He had the monastery transformed into Dovehill Hall, a Regency Gothic mansion situated on a high knoll, overlooking a bucolic lake. The hall was designed by an Italian architect who’d attempted to emulate James Wyatt’s and Robert Smirke’s graceful and refined medieval styles. But instead of a whimsical Gothic structure, a glum, square building arose, a four-towered monstrosity unsuccessfully incorporating the old with the new.

The old lord removed a gold monocle from his smoking jacket. Squinting through it, he looked her over from head to toe.

“Take off your bonnet,” he commanded.

She released the faded blue ribbons with trembling fingers. Careful, so as not to disarrange her hair, she removed it. Her uncle had warned her beforehand that the old lord was particular about appearances.

The gold-colored strands shone under the room’s candlelight. Her hair was considered to be one of her most remarkable features. There were not many women who had the unusual color. In the past it had been much commented upon, along with her large china-blue eyes.

She, however, felt wretched.

She was ill at ease standing there in front of the old man as he minutely inspected her. She did not have the comfort of being well-gowned for this important meeting. The walking frock she wore was outdated and fitted poorly.

Inwardly, she sighed, thinking about all the beautiful clothes she had once owned. They’d been sold off long ago to pay for her uncle’s many gambling debts.

The faded attire was an embarrassment. Her ankles showed immodestly below the hem. And adding to her unease was the tight bodice. Her young bosom filled it to almost bursting . . . it was discomforting.

She stood in this imposing building, the home of her future groom, dressed in castoff clothes like a lowly scullery maid.
What must his grandfather think of me?
She wondered miserably as his watery eyes observed her.

She pulled her shawl tightly over her exposed bosom.

He must surely think me the most immodest of women, not fit to marry his grandson . . . and I would not blame him if he refused to accept me.

But the old lord said nothing about her attire as he carefully looked her over.

His balding head was covered by a round Turkish cap with a dangling gold tassel. He held in one hand a long polished walking cane with the head of a roaring lion carved in gold. He looked as if he were leaning forward. This, she noted, was due to his humped back. A deformity brought about by the ravages of old age.

“She is as you described her, Squire,” he said at last, nodding.

The gold tassel on his cap swung back and forth like a pendulum. “She is quite splendid to look at, young, delicate of bone, with dainty ankles, a fine bosom, and a trim figure to match. Aye, she may very well do as my future bride. Many men, including those much younger than I, would envy me.”

Upon hearing the old lord’s pronouncements concerning herself as his future wife, she suddenly felt lightheaded. A roiling, sick feeling entered the pit of her stomach.

Three servants standing discretely in a corner of the room noted her reaction.

The oldest servant, a woman with graying hair, wearing a black-striped house dress, openly glowered at her. Her slanted eyes sparkled dangerously. It was as if she was silently daring Kathleen to faint. The other two, a teenaged serving girl and a footman, looked over at the young beauty with unspoken compassion.

The salon was cluttered with ivory miniatures, marble-white pedestal tables, sandalwood pagodas, painted white elephants, as well as silk wall coverings. But she cared not a wit for any of these exotic ornaments. It felt as if she was standing on the edge of a damning abyss instead of in a silk-covered salon.

She took a horrified step back.

One thought repeated itself in her mind . . .
my uncle expects me to marry this dreadful old man
. . .
my uncle expects me to marry
. . .

Stunned by the terrible realization she was being given to this leering, old codger, her face turned ashen.

Lord Langtry made a bored circling gesture with his cane. It reminded her of the local auction hawker. When he was selling off horses, he prodded the animals into a galloping motion using a sharp stick. She was being treated in the same uncaring manner.

“Turn around, my dear, so Lord Langtry may see the back of you,” her uncle said, interpreting the gesture.

“Oh my . . . yes . . . yes, indeed . . .” The old man sighed, with the click clacking of his false front teeth, as if indeed she was a dumb animal and had no feelings.

Slowly, trembling with fear and loathing, she turned.

Lord Langtry never took his eyes off her. Smiling, he tapped her with his cane’s lion head.

“She’s quite untouched you say . . . Never been kissed, girl?” he asked, his few remaining teeth contrasting with the porcelain ones.

Silently, she shook her head no.

Not caring about his niece’s obvious distress, her uncle agreed. He rubbed his hands together with glee. He happily noticed the wealthy lord’s interest.

“See the fleece I wear about my neck, child? It’s quite soft to the touch . . . come here and I will let you feel it,” Lord Langtry said.

Fearful, hating the way he ogled her, she took another step back. But her uncle pushed her towards him.

“Touch it,” commanded the old man, fingering the skin.

She leaned over. With the tips of her fingers, she did as she was told. The lambskin was soft and wiry. She didn’t know why, but the thought of the dead animal brought tears to her eyes.

Lord Langtry roughly pulled her onto his lap.

She squirmed, trying to remove his hand. But surprisingly, he held her firmly in place. His arms were strong. He brought his hand around her, using his gold cane as a barrier, blocking her attempt to escape.

His left hand, the color of faded parchment, picked up a handful of her gold hair. He let the strands fall gently through his trembling fingers. He reached out and touched the smooth pink of her unblemished cheek.

“Release me, sir.” She breathed, continuing her struggle. He would not budge. He smiled blissfully at her distress.

Exasperated, angry at being held against her will, she gave him a sharp kick in the shins. The manservant standing in the corner snickered.

“My dear Kathleen, you really should not have done that,” her uncle protested weakly, afraid the bags of coins he had seen earlier would now disappear.

Lord Langtry, with a grimacing wince of pain, opened his arms.

She quickly jumped off his lap and walked to the ornate French doors. But her way was blocked. The old woman dressed in the black-striped gown stood in front of them. She later learned the old bat was Mrs. O’Grady, the housekeeper.

She glared angrily at Kathleen.

“You kicked Lord Langtry,” the woman muttered, “and embarrassed him in front of the servants. That’s unforgivable. You ought to be punished.”

She could have sworn the snarling woman blocking her way would have taken great pleasure at that moment, if she could, at pulling out every hair on her head. She had balled her hands into defensive fists.

She decided if the older woman dared to touch her, she would give her a facer. One the interfering hag would not soon forget.

Lord Langtry interceded, slowly inclining his head. The housekeeper obediently stepped aside. Kathleen walked with determined dignity through the doors into the hall’s foyer. There she broke into a run, making her short-lived escape.

The last words she heard were, “So how much do you want for the chit?” And she knew her fate was sealed. One week later, special license in hand, a bribed priest in tow, she was hastily married off to the old lord she had been forced to call “husband” these past three years.

*    *    *

Looking down at the body of the man she had once been forcibly wed to, she didn’t feel anything. She was numb. If he had been kind to her, and caring, she could have been content, no matter his age, after having spent her young life at the mercy of her selfish uncle . . . but her husband had never been kind, or caring . . . and now he was gone. She was no longer his plaything, an object he owned, and wanted other men to envy and admire. She was no longer to be ordered about.

He was dead.

Bangford will never be able to touch me again,
she thought, hugging herself.

Perhaps it was instinct or simply the need to be nearer to the one who held power over life and death that propelled her to walk up to the front of the chapel, but when she reached the altar, she noticed an object lying upon it.

She picked it up.

It appeared to be an antique brooch from the medieval period. Made of gold and copper, it was studded with glass and covered in Celtic motifs. In particular, she noted the intricate design.

Stamped in gold, twining itself around the clasp, the unbroken Celtic interlacing, known as the lovers’ knot, ornamented the pin. She knew it was symbolic of the connection each person shared with others in both life and death. The knot was representative of the eternal nature of love. It went on and on . . . never ending.

Some of the servants, upon seeing what she held, quickly crossed themselves. They looked at each other apprehensively. The piece of jewelry might contain black magic.

A few whispered, “The banshee left it there for her to find . . . it’s a gift from the dead.”

No one asked to examine it.

The servants believed the object to be from the underworld. They feared it might be enchanted or cursed. Another evil omen foretelling a future demise, they believed, was woven within its elaborate golden design. It was best, they told each other, to stay away from such dark magic. It could kill you.

Kathleen, fascinated by the unusual ornament, pinned it onto her shawl.

For a reason she could not explain, she too felt it was a sign. Her life had been forever changed. She was at last free of the odious man who had possessed her, but had never loved or respected her.

Perhaps
, she told herself,
I will at last be free and find the happiness that has eluded me since I was a child living with my parents, and finally live the way I want.

She envisioned herself for a moment as an old woman surrounded by her children and grandchildren. She would have her portrait painted wearing the brooch as she held her youngest grandchild on her lap—his tiny, chubby hand would reach up to touch the enchanting ornament.

She sensed, as she imagined this family scene, that one day she would at last find what she had been missing to make her life a happy one . . . love. From that moment onwards, she never took off the brooch. It became her talisman of hope.

The funeral was a quiet affair. The mourners comprised of the servants of the hall, a few of the villagers, her uncle, and some of the local aristocrats, including her late husband’s sister, the Countess Henrietta Deuville and her corpulent son, Henry. The latter had the family trait of watery gray eyes. Of course, Mrs. O’Grady, the housekeeper, was there as well, frowning as usual.

But there was one gentleman who had made an unexpected appearance. The sight of this handsome dandy standing at her late husband’s gravesite caused her to take a quick breath of surprise.

“Beau Powers,” she whispered to herself, upon sighting the profile of the noted Corinthian.

She’d heard he was now a renowned solicitor. He’d gained a reputation after handling several high profile cases for the Golden Clover elite, the titled and wealthy of Irish society, many of whom the solicitor counted as friends. Over the years, she’d also heard the maids and local townspeople gossip about his mistresses, including a famous ballerina from Russia and an actress from London. Yes, he was known, almost as much for his romantic affairs as he was for his legal ones.

It had been a little over a year since she had last seen him. She’d been seventeen at the time, an unworldly young woman confined to living a restricted life in the village of Urlingford. The sight of such a handsome, self-assured gentleman up close, she remembered, had been like seeing a shooting star for the first time, completely unexpected and thrilling.

She quickly noted that he’d remained the same manly nonpareil she’d first observed him to be. The arrogant tilt of his head was unmistakable. His thick, guinea-colored hair, however, was not coiffed in the fashionable style inspired by the legendary Lord Wellington, the hero of the decisive battle of Waterloo. Instead, he wore it in a simpler manner, one that would not require hours of styling.