An Officer, Not a Gentleman: A Traditional Regency Romance (Brethren in Arms Book 3)

by Elizabeth Johns

  “You are of age. She cannot force you to do anything.”

  “Unless something has changed drastically, she can and she will. It is her house and her money. Unless my father left me more than my dowry, I will have no choice.”

  Tobin did not know what to say. At times like these, he hated the aristocracy. “Did she have someone in mind?”

  She barked a laugh, so different from most ladies of her station. “It does not matter. Perhaps I will be fortunate in my father’s will. Go back to your bunk and sleep, Tobin.”

  He would sleep now, but that was the only instruction he would obey. He had letters from the Duke of Wellington and Waverley to help with the solicitors. He would wear his uniform and be acting in their stead and if the crotchety old aunt did not approve, then he would take Bridget away from there.

  Despite his musings Tobin slept, because his body forced him to. His last thought, as he drifted away, was the hope that the nightmares would stay away this time, but he feared returning to Ireland would cause new ones. Even if he saw people he knew, no one would expect him to be an officer, and people saw what they expected to most of the time.

  He awoke when they docked. He had slept hard. It was dark in the cabin and he did not know if Bridget was still there. He did not want to light a candle and wake her if she was. He crept out of the cabin and climbed to the deck to find she was already up and watching them berth. They had travelled all night and dawn already past. It was grey and cloudy, threatening rain… very much how he remembered his homeland.

  “Good morning,” he said as he joined her against the railing.

  “Good morning. I expect this is goodbye. Thank you for accompanying me here and for being my friend throughout everything,” she said stoically.

  “I am not leaving you, lass. You might as well accept it. Besides wanting to see you safely established, I have letters from Wellington and Waverley to deliver to your father’s solicitor.”

  “You are like a leech that will not loosen its grip.”

  “I have been called worse, but that is apt. I knew you would discover soon enough you did not want me.”

  “You know that is not what I meant.” She shook her head and turned away.

  As soon as they had pulled into the quay, Tobin left the ship and went to arrange for transport. He hoped they would not have to ride with the coffins. Dungarvan was not a large port, but they were not too far from the village. The people there were familiar with Lord Dungarvan’s manor house and happy to help, especially when they heard what the errand was.

  He had decided it would be best for him to take a room at the local inn and behave as though his interest in Bridget was purely professional, as a representative of Wellington and the army. Surely, her aunt could not object to that?

  By the time it was all arranged to Tobin’s satisfaction, the wagon was to arrive to transport the coffins as soon as the carriage pulled away. The less Bridget had to see, the better.

  Dungarvan was a beautiful place. The O’Neill family was from the north. Tobin had never liked that his mother had chosen to give him his father’s surname, though it made little difference. He was still a bastard.

  Bridget said nothing as they rode through the picturesque coastal village, the quay filled with fishing boats, and multicoloured houses lined the streets. They passed into the countryside which was as lush and green as he remembered.

  “Not long now, if memory serves,” Bridget remarked as she looked out of the window.

  “Shall I go in first and pave the way?” Tobin asked.

  “It would do little good.”

  Hours later, the carriage turned into a tree-lined drive which overlooked a beautiful valley. Tobin felt a sinking feeling that this was going to be no simple cottage or house. The grounds rivalled Waverley.

  Tobin stepped from the carriage to hand Bridget and her maid down, then he directed the driver to wait for him. He would need to return to the village to seek an inn and the solicitor.

  He turned to find Bridget waiting for him, standing in front of a large, grey stone mansion. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but the fire had gone out of her. She had receded into herself somehow. There was no longer a sparkle in her eye or a smile. Dressed in her mourning blacks, he supposed it was only natural, but he had a sinking suspicion it was something to do with the aunt who lived in this house.

  He held out his elbow for her. “Shall we go in?”

  She took his arm but hesitated.

  “It is not too late to leave, lass.”

  “I warned you not to come, Tobin.”

  “I have never been any good at obeying directions,” he teased.

  “My aunt is a bully,” she said quietly.

  “Then you will have to be strong, lass.” He gave her hand a squeeze where it lay on his arm. “I will not leave you to the wolf.”

  She looked up at him, resigned, a sadness in her eyes, before she took a step forward and knocked on the door.

  Tobin had a troubling sensation his acting skills were about to be put to a severe test.

  So many memories intruded upon Bridget that she struggled to maintain her composure. Many happy memories with her mother had happened during visits here when she was a child. That, of course, had been long before the horrible time she had spent here one summer, when her aunt had tried to force her to wed… Bridget had written to her father to come and fetch her. She had been only sixteen and grieving the loss of all she had ever known when her father decided army life was no longer suitable for her. Looking back, she understood why her father had left her there. It was no easy life, following the drum—especially without a mother—but Bridget still believed anything was better than living with Aunt Betha.

  An unfamiliar butler opened the door, looking displeased that anyone would call so early. It was early at half eight, but Bridget had little patience for society hours. This was not Town.

  She handed the butler her card as she walked past him into the entrance hall. “I am Miss Murphy, her ladyship’s niece, and this is Lieutenant O’Neill. We have brought my father’s and brother’s remains home from Waterloo for burial. If you would be so kind as to inform her we are here, we will wait in the drawing room.”

  The dour man bowed. “Yes, Miss Murphy.”

  Tobin followed her, holding his hat under his arm. He was looking a little better every day, and he had removed his bandage this morning, covering his wound with his hair.

  The house had changed little. It still smelled of a mixture of mustiness and beeswax, masked with fresh flowers. The same pink velvet curtains hung from the tall ceilings above the windows, while a rug with matching pink, gold and blue hues showed wear. Uncomfortable wooden chairs were placed around tables in groups for entertaining. It felt stuffy, which suited its owner perfectly.

  Bridget walked to the window where Tobin was standing and looked out at the view of a river forming one boundary and rolling hills another. It was beautiful outside.

  Half an hour later, the butler announced her aunt. “Lady Dungarvan.”

  Bridget began to feel guilty as she turned to see a shrivelled old woman, stooped over a cane.

  “Well, gal, I imagine you are regretting not marrying Riordan now.”

  The guilt faded quickly. Her aunt hobbled forward and found a seat.

  “It is good to see you too, Aunt. I hope you are well?” She did not mask the bitterness in her voice.

  “Do I look well? I cannot stand straight and every joint is rheumatic. Are you going to introduce me?”

  Bridget closed her eyes for a second to find some courage.

  “Lady Dungarvan, this is my friend, Lieutenant O’Neill. He risked his own life to recover Father and Patrick.”

  Tobin stepped forward and bowed. “My lady.”

  “Any relation to Wrexford? I can see that you are,” Lady Dungarvan said, surveying him through a quizzing glass and not giving him a chance to answer. “You escorted her alone?”

  Bri
dget answered, “My maid is with me. The Duke and Duchess of Waverley accompanied us as far as Portsmouth. They had undertaken to see Lord Thackeray safely home.”

  Her aunt grunted her disapproval.

  Tobin stood near the window, his hands behind his back, observing. Why had he stayed?

  “So, your father and brother managed to get themselves killed, and you have come back to beg my forgiveness. I have not changed my mind. If you do not marry Riordan, then you are not welcome here, or to your inheritance.”

  What did she have to say to Bridget’s inheritance?

  “I have merely come to bury Father and Patrick, ma’am.”

  “And then what will you do?” she snapped. “You have nothing to offer anyone else.”

  Bridget saw Tobin shuffle a bit.

  “Be that as it may, I do not intend to trouble you with my presence beyond the funeral. I must attend to the arrangements at once. I will take a room at the inn and not inconvenience you further. Will it be acceptable to bury them beside Mother?”

  “Still as insolent as ever! You will do no such thing. As if you can parade about town unchaperoned with Wrexford’s boy and stay at an inn without tongues wagging. No one has ever had cause to call me inhospitable and they will not start now.”

  She looked at Tobin. “You, too, soldier. Have your bags brought in.”

  “It is no trouble to stay at the inn, ma’am. I have errands to run in the village.”

  “All the more reason to stay here, then. You did not bring your horse or carriage with you, did you? No; that is what I thought. I will hear no more about it.”

  Tobin glanced at Bridget. She had little sympathy for him. She had tried to warn him.

  He bowed and clicked his heels. “I will be off to the village to visit the vicar. I assume he resides near the church I saw when we docked?”

  “Yes, that is the one. He is deaf as a door nail.”

  “As long as he is available to perform the service with haste, I do not care much what else he is or is not,” Tobin replied.

  “I want to go with you,” Bridget said, knowing her aunt would try to argue. “I wish to have a say in the service. Just because we must make haste does not mean it should be without taste.”

  “Just so,” Tobin answered and held the door for her.

  “We will return this afternoon, Aunt. Please do not trouble yourself over us or rearrange any of your plans. We will not be staying long.”

  Bridget hurried through the door before her aunt could find a reason to keep her there.

  As soon as they were back in the carriage, Bridget exhaled a heavy sigh.

  “She is a bully,” Tobin remarked.

  “You have only seen the surface of it,” Bridget warned.

  “Do you truly intend to leave here?” Tobin asked, looking concerned.

  “I can only hope, but much will depend on what the solicitor has to say.”

  “Where else can you go?” He was scowling now.

  “That is not for you to worry about. I will contrive something.”

  They arrived at the vicarage, and the vicar was, in fact, quite deaf. He could still speak, but the conversation was mostly one-sided. He read lips a little, it seemed.

  “Good morning,” Bridget said as they were shown into a study by a housekeeper. The vicar was plump with a friendly face and stood to greet them with a smile.

  “Welcome!” he shouted.

  “Reverend, I am Miss Bridget Murphy, Lady Dungarvan’s niece. I have come with sad tidings. I need you to perform the funeral for my father and brother as quickly as possible. They fell at the Battle of Waterloo and I have brought them home to be buried beside my mother.”

  “A funeral, you say?”

  “Yes, two together. My father and brother,” she said slowly. “As soon as possible.”

  The man looked confused, and Tobin walked over to the desk and pointed to the pen and paper lying there.

  “May I?”

  “Yes, please. Forgive me; I am a little hard of hearing.” Tobin and Bridget exchanged amused glances.

  Tobin explained in writing what they needed, and it was arranged for the next morning. Bridget was grateful Tobin had been there. He surprised her by handing the vicar some words to read out from the Duke of Wellington himself.

  “Oh, this is jolly good of him! I only knew the general a little, myself. Good man, of course, but this makes it personal, Lieutenant. Well met.”

  “I am glad to be of service, sir,” Tobin said loudly. They shook hands and took their leave, once again feeling relief to be leaving somewhere.

  “Do you wish to return to the house or do you want to see if the solicitor is available? I can see him myself on your behalf,” Tobin offered.

  “I appreciate your willingness to help, but it is not necessary. You should go back and rest.”

  “To the lion’s den alone? Nay, thank ye. I told you, I am not leaving you yet. Certainly not before the funeral. Now, where do we find the solicitor?”

  Bridget pulled out of her reticule a piece of paper with the address written upon it. Tobin took it and read the direction to the driver before climbing into the carriage.

  “I could have handled all of this for you, lass.”

  Bridget nodded. She did not want to tell him she would do anything to avoid being alone with her aunt. The Lion’s Den was an apt description.

  They arrived at the offices of O’Brien and Flynn, Esq. Bridget’s hands were shaking as they were shown into the small but tidy office. She had never been anywhere like this and so much of her future depended on what he had to say.

  “Good afternoon,” a gentleman said as he stood up behind his desk. “How may I help you?”

  “Good afternoon, sir. I am Miss Bridget Murphy and this is Lieutenant O’Neill. My father and brother fell at Waterloo. I have come to request the execution of my father’s will.

  “The funeral is to be held tomorrow morning,” Tobin informed him. “Here are some letters to verify the claim Miss Murphy makes, although I do not think there is anything to contest.”

  Mr. Flynn frowned as he looked through the letters Tobin handed him. “My father handled the accounts for the Murphy family.”

  “May we see him, then?” Bridget asked.

  “Unfortunately, my father perished in the same fire which destroyed all the records several years ago. We sent notices to all of our clients. However, your father would have been given a copy of the will at the time it was made. Unless you have that copy, I am afraid I cannot help you.”

  Bridget stared at the man.

  “What is to be done if she cannot find the copy?” Tobin asked.

  “I was expecting the funds from my dowry to be released to me to live on,” Bridget explained.

  Mr. Flynn looked acutely uncomfortable. “Whenever there is no will to direct the distribution of funds, it goes to the Chancery Court to make sure there are no other claims to any of the property left by the deceased. I am terribly sorry.”

  Bridget nodded and walked out as if dazed. She could not trust herself to speak. It felt as though a nail had been driven into her own coffin.

  Chapter 10

  Tobin helped Bridget into the carriage, then climbed in after her. Instead of taking the opposite seat, he sat next to her and pulled her into his arms. He was so very tempted to offer her marriage, but they would be no better situated. In the eyes of Society his name would not be considered respectable, and she was not accustomed to living in the manner prescribed by a lieutenant’s pay. Tobin had no other income. Perhaps he should consider the business offer Major Fielding had made to the brethren last winter, in Paris.

  She rested her head on his chest and it was the sweetest sensation he could remember.

  “Have you looked through your father’s belongings? Could a copy of the will be there?”

  “I have no idea. My aunt might have it—not that she would give it to me.”

  “I suggest we return and look through his possessions. Is
everything here with you?”

  “No. We kept a small house in London. I suppose there is a chance he kept some papers there.”

  “I can write to Waverley and request a search to be conducted, if that is acceptable to you?” he asked. “I am sure he would know where to seek the appropriate authority to do so.”

  “That would be most helpful. I can include a note for the butler. He and his wife keep house there year round.”

  Tobin nodded, but his head was beginning to throb and he was experiencing strange, swirling lines in his vision. He tried to ignore it, but could not keep his hand from lifting to his temple. Slight pressure seemed to help a little.

  “Your head is hurting. You will go to bed as soon as we return,” she ordered.

  “As soon as we return, Miss Murphy, I will first write the letter to Waverley and then help you look for the will.”

  She shook her head. “You are too stubborn for your own good. I would like to plead a headache myself to avoid dining with my aunt.”

  “Then you should. The sooner we find the will, the sooner you can leave.”

  “If only it were that simple.”

  Tobin feared he would have no choice but to go to bed with this megrim. He was having them so often he wondered if this was his future—that and the nightmares.

  “Why did you not deny being Wrexford’s son?” she asked.

  “Because I am.”

  She looked up at him, perplexed.

  “His natural son, lass.”

  She vaguely remembered Waverley mentioning something of the sort. “Oh…” She broke off, looking apologetic. “Is that why you left Ireland? Forgive my inquisitiveness. If you do not wish to talk about it, I quite understand.”

  “Yes, ’tis why I left. ’Tis complicated.”

  “Did he acknowledge you?”

  Tobin hesitated. “In his own way. He paid for my keep and sent me to school, where the legitimate sons reminded me every day exactly what I was.”

  “Why must children be so cruel?”

  “Do not be sad for me. ’Twas where I learned to fight and look out for myself. It came in most handy when my stepda would take his anger out on me.”