by Beverly Adam
Over the next two days a quiet truce was established between them. She continued to help him prepare for the festivities, secretly regretting the manner in which she had turned down his marriage proposal, wishing she had worded it differently, but wisely she did not reopen the topic.
* * *
Guests arrived at the castle first in a trickle, then in droves, as the week celebrating the twelfth Earl of Drennan’s peerage approached. Carriage after carriage arrived at the castle’s grand, front entrance. Each arrival represented another cartload of guests for Beatrice to sort out, another limp hand to press, and another deep curtsy to perform. Her childhood governess, a thin, tightlipped spinster her father had imported from England with the express instructions to give her some polish would have been as proud as punch if she’d lived to see how well Beatrice handled all the various titled gentry who made their appearance at the earl’s doorstep that day.
She checked the list in her hand carefully, grateful that the number of guests was not quite as high as those invited. Many of the invited, members of the haute-ton, had chosen to remain in London.
The fall season had been in full swing for some time in London. It was approaching the moment of supreme ennui, brought on by viewing the same gaggle of lisping debutantes and obnoxiously sneering lords at the same ballrooms and salons day after day. It became tediously boring. A new Irish earl, particularly one who had not only served valiantly in the war but was still alluringly eligible for marriage, was a most intriguing and welcome diversion. However, no one dared to miss a moment of the latest ton events. The impending appointment of the Prince of Wales as the Regent of England had just been announced in the House of Lords.
The old king, whom everyone had affectionately named, “Our farmer,” was now said to be madder than a rabid dog. There was talk of having him locked away on a secluded estate and having his son, the Prince of Wales, appointed as regent to reign in his place.
Under the guise of honoring the recently dethroned French court, most of whom had taken refuge in England to escape the terror of Madame Guillotine, the prince planned to celebrate his future regency. The daily gazettes made it known that the future king planned to hold a party at his residency, Carlton House. Outdoor tents, it was being reported, had been set up on the vast grounds. A mere thousand or more guests were expected to attend the lavish banquet and ostentatious fireworks display at the estate. A tremendous crush was naturally to be expected. Anyone whose name could be connected with a peer of the realm intended to be there for the festive event.
Many courtiers murmured to the press that soon their corpulent Prinney would be their new sovereign. Life for the ton would be almost perfect, especially for those who depended on the royal patronage of the prince. Thus, with the announcement of the impending celebrations, not one member of the crème de là crème intended to miss the fête. It might very well be, the London papers said, “The highlight of what was turning out to be a decidedly flat season in town.”
It’s a blessing in disguise, thought Beatrice when she read the news from her Dublin Gazetteer. What with there being only two wings in which to house all the titled gentry who’d deemed it important to make their appearance at Drennan Castle, not to mention the hordes of servants they brought with them to dance attendance upon them, the castle was fast being filled to the brim with guests, despite the absence of many of the invited.
“His Grace would’ve been better served by a juggler,” she told her aunt, glancing down at her guest list.
She checked off another name as she passively watched a carriage deposit its travelers at the front portal. It moved to the right to wash its wheels of the heavy mud collected from the unpaved roads. The newly dug duck pond created for the washing of carriage wheels, she was pleased to note, was being put to use. Her suggestion of having the bottom paved with cobblestones, which allowed the conveyances to easily pass through without getting stuck in the muddy bottom, had been taken into consideration when it had been dug.
“It has struck me as rather odd, Auntie, that not one member of His Grace’s family has made the slightest effort to put in an appearance,” she said, as the footman came and gave her their august guests’ titles. “Not even the usual assortment of poor relations have made an effort to appear. For sure now, ’tis really most peculiar, if you were to ask me.”
“Not a bit, darlin’. Perhaps they’re all very elderly and infirm, and therefore cannot make the long vigorous journey from London to here,” suggested her aunt, explaining the matter away as nothing but a problem of mundane logistics. “Not many my age have the superb constitution I enjoy. Or the wherewithal to stand such long, tedious journeys,” she added.
She waved cheerfully in greeting to some elderly dowagers on the steps as she continued talking. “You needn’t be worrying that pretty head of yours, Bea’. I’ve heard the Earl of Drennan’s family is all that is supposed to be respectable. His mother is, after all, the Duchess of Huntington. A lady of such rank and prestige that I’ve heard even royal princesses are afraid to let their shadows cross her path. And as the earl is one of that lady’s offspring, his family will not delay laying accolades at his feet.”
She patted Beatrice reassuringly on the shoulder. “And for sure, darlin’, such an exalted family would know better than we their duty towards their own kinsman, now wouldn’t they?”
“Aye,” nodded Lady Beatrice in thoughtful agreement, “they’re probably just preparing to send some collectively extravagant gift by livery with words of regret.” She hesitated, doubt filling her voice, “But still, ’tis odd, Auntie.”
Her aunt’s assumptions were correct in one aspect. A liveried letter arrived that afternoon from England bearing the dowager Duchess of Huntington’s name upon the engraved parchment. Lady Beatrice looked towards the earl who stood by the great hall door reading over the parchment. The messenger stood respectfully to one side to see if there was any reply forthcoming to give to his mistress.
“Will any of your family be attending the celebrations, sir?” she asked, wondering where she would put them if they did decide to make an unannounced appearance. It would mean shuffling everyone about again. Someone’s feelings were bound to be ruffled in the process. “Oh, this is going to require the devil’s own luck,” she muttered to herself, bracing herself for the worst.
The earl heard her and turned in her direction, a half-smile on his rugged face. “You need not concern yourself, Lady O’Brien,” he said, putting aside the letter from his mother. “They’re not coming. To be truthful, I did not expect them to.”
She breathed a sigh of relief at the news, cringing at the thought of one of their guests being forced to vacate their chambers. Some had already looked down their noses at what had been offered. Not knowing that they had been fortunate to be given a bed at all.
“I suppose these meager quarters are what one must expect in a foreign land,” she overheard one English dowager say the day before to her maid as she lifted a scented handkerchief to her long white nose upon inspecting her assigned chambers. “These Irish lords are, after all, merely glorified peasants, aping their manners and tastes after us who are in every way their betters.”
Beatrice decided then and there that if anyone had to be moved, it would be she of the long nose. “I wonder if the barn’s been occupied yet,” she mused to herself as she walked away from the English cow. “A little mucking out of the stalls and it would be perfect for her exalted ladyship.”
There was no more room in the castle. Even the barrack-styled dormitories, where the male servants slept in bunks and on the floor in bedrolls, were layered with people. Thankfully, many of the artisans and servants who came to the castle to work were from nearby villages and made the daily trips to and from their cottages without any need to pass the night. But if another carriage full of guests should suddenly appear, it would ruin the delicate balance she’d somehow miraculously been able to create in the cramped keep’s quarters.
James fol
ded the letter and slipped it into this pocket. He shrugged, as if the matter of none of his relations attending was of no consequence to him. He then turned to the livery and told him, “There is no reply.”
The weary servant turned heel and headed towards the kitchens where he would receive welcome rest and food before returning to England.
“Why did you say that you weren’t expecting them, Your Grace?” she asked, not knowing how matters stood between him and his august family. He never spoke about them either with warmth or cold derision. It was almost as if they didn’t exist.
“The one family member whom I’d have liked to have witnessed this moment has gone on to his glory. And if it were not for that gentleman, I wouldn’t be here at all,” he said bluntly. His cold glance told more than words of his walled-off emotions concerning his family.
“My uncle Dermott was the late earl, as you may have heard. It was he who also inherited the title unexpectedly when his two elder brothers died. He was, before becoming the Earl of Drennan, the family’s priest. It’s tradition in my family for younger sons to take the vows of the Church. And as it were, those vows would have been my vocation, as well. That is if my uncle had not intervened and paid for my commission to become an officer in his majesty’s service.”
Her eyes widened. She was beginning to understand. If it had not been for his uncle’s intervention, he would have been expected to join the priesthood!
“And being the lowly third son, my widowed mother considered me to be the least worthy to merit the great title my uncle kindly bestowed upon me.”
She wisely said no more. She stood beside him and understood at last his cool aloofness concerning his relations. Simply said, the illustrious Huntingtons cared not a farthing about one of their own sons, or his exalted new title. They rejoiced not a bit, because he had gone against what his mother had decreed.
One would have thought that a word of congratulations was in order. Or at the very least a small memento of his father’s to mark the occasion. Nothing arrived, except this curt message sent to bluntly inform him of the family’s refusal to attend the celebrations. They collectively turned their backs on him and his household.
How did he feel about being the proverbial black sheep of that renowned family? To be considered such an outcast even the lowest ranks of the family refused to pay their respects? She could only wonder how he’d managed to remain aloof and untouched by their collective snub.
This stiff, unsmiling gentleman beside her and the one she’d dined with last night, seemed to come from different sides of the same shining mirror. The face and body were the same, ’twas true, but all the spirit and fire of the man was completely different. It was disconcerting to see this sullen gentleman standing rigidly next to her, coolly collected, in complete control of his emotions.
Strangely enough, she wanted the devilish, smiling rogue. The man who’d so audaciously forced her hand over a game of cards, to appear once more. The same man, who with a mere smile and a few teasing words could spark flaming roses in her cheeks and spin her into a dither over whether or not she looked a pretty picture that day.
“Lady O’Brien, you needn’t look so concerned. I am quite resigned to their contempt of me,” he explained ruefully. “By not entering the profession that they chose, they believed I became a traitor to my family name. I became better than what I was born to be and made myself the proverbial upstart of the family. I suppose my mother thought my eldest brother, Rodger, the Duke of Huntington, ought to have inherited the title. My second brother, Edward, having properly joined the navy and become a sea captain, wouldn’t have qualified.”
“That’s utterly ridiculous.” She gave a half-laugh of disbelief. Surely he was jesting? If anyone merited the title of the Earl of Drennan, to her thinking, he most certainly did.
She recalled all the many improvements he’d made on both the castle and the local estates. They were quite astounding.
She doubted any other gentleman would have had the muster, mettle, and strength to do so splendid a job. By taking firm command of what looked to be a broken-down castle and poorly run estates, he’d begun to make Drennan Castle sturdy and strong once more. The tenant holdings were turning into something more than just promising properties. The wool trade in town was thriving. Plenty of fine, healthy sheep were available to be raised. Hectares of unused plots were being planted with potatoes, insuring a good food source in hard times.
Many thought, upon seeing the improvements, a good firm future was now to be had in Urlingford for anyone willing to work. And all that was due to the new Earl of Drennan’s involvement.
“Your not being worthy to be the earl is complete and utter rubbish,” she said, a note of derision towards his family in her voice.
She put her hands defiantly on her hips, speaking in a voice she would have used to convince a wool dyer that he was looking at the finest wool in the parish.
“Your Grace, were you not legitimately named your priestly uncle’s predecessor before his death? Surely your family is blind not to realize how fortunate it is that the late earl decided to pass the title on to you, instead of deeding it all to the Church, or worse, forfeiting the title back to the crown?”
“Aye, so thought I. But my mother believed it ought to have gone to someone else,” he answered in a weary voice. “Never once did she contemplate that I might choose to disobey the family by leaving the seminary. I found a career that suited me better than what they’d planned.”
“By becoming a soldier,” she supplied.
“Aye. And not of the holy cross, as she had expected. But that of loyally serving king and country.”
“She expected you to become a . . . uh, celibate priest?” She almost choked on the words, so improbable was the idea.
Faith, the Duchess of Huntington must have been utterly mad. Try as she might, she could not picture this handsome figure of a man as a scholarly priest living a tranquil life in a tiny country cottage, his life dictated by the whims of the rich patrons of the surrounding parish.
This was not a man who took orders from anyone, unless he chose to. Nay, he would only take commands from someone as grand as himself, someone like Wellington perhaps, or the great Lord above. But as that higher power had not commanded him to take holy orders, she could not imagine anyone else dictating to him that he must take those most sacred vows.
She glanced back up at his saber scar, an outward reminder of his adventurous life. It added ruggedness to his handsome face. No indeed, no one could command this gentleman to do as they wished, unless he chose to let them.
She shook her head. Nay, this was a man of courage and the good Lord above had surely meant by his very nature for him to be out and about in the world seeking adventure and love. It was utterly, preposterously unthinkable that he should have become other than what he had chosen: a soldier, a gentleman, a rogue adventurer.
She smiled, remembering the intimate moments they’d shared together. The way he made her tingle with excitement and expectation like no other man, not even her ex-fiancé, had ever done before. Faith, this third son made a levelheaded spinster think the most wicked of thoughts just by being close to him!
A glimmer of a grin lined his stern face. It broadened into a smile and before she knew it, a low rumble of manly mirth was heard warming the air. His blue eyes sparkled with the joys of life.
“It’s a good joke that, isn’t it?” he chortled, slapping his breeches that encased his broad thighs. “Me, a priest?”
“Aye, Your Grace, that would’ve been a merry jest.” She nodded, her own light laughter joining his as she smiled warmly up at him. She was pleased to hear him laugh again, even if it was painfully over his family’s rejection of him.
“Come,” he said, brushing away his gloom with a broad gesture of his arm, taking hers companionably. “Let’s go over this confounded list one more time. Demme if we shan’t have a glorious celebration. Why even Prinney himself will wish he had attended!”
The sun broke through the habitual dark clouds of Kilkarney on the first day of the fête. The guests assembled were, for the most part, members of Ireland’s gold clover circle, the best the Emerald Isles had to offer. That is, when they were not busy carousing about London, or any of the other fashionable spots visited by the English court.
Notable among these dandies was the young Irish aristocrat, Beau Champ of Dankeckney House, who was known to keep a brace of pistols loaded and waiting on his supper table in case anyone said something he construed as an insult.
“I heard he even broached a cask of claret one time with a single shot,” whispered the footman to the cook, Mistress Reagan, upon the arrival of the gentleman’s well-sprung carriage and matching team of grays at the castle’s front portal. “The gossipmongers say a bet was made over the shot. He won one hundred guineas.” He nodded in admiration.
“Well, lad, he best be behaving himself and not make such foolish bets here, or the master will saber ’im with that walking stick of his,” answered the stalwart cook with a disapproving shake of her white-frilled cap. Beau Champ had a tidy brown beard and corpulent round figure. A couple of equally well-fed spaniel dogs trotted closely at their master’s red-heeled shoes.
“Who are they?” the lad asked, giving a low whistle of admiration as another white phaeton with a matching team of blacks arrived. It carried one of the most interesting families in Ireland.
“That’s Laeticia and Edmund Powers, brother and sister, they be. I’ve seen them before when I worked in Dublin last season.” The cook nodded knowingly.
“He’s a magistrate with an estate in County Tipperary. They call the brother, ‘Beau Powers.’ He’s here, no doubt, for the grand hunt the master has planned. Loves his horses and wine, that gentleman does.” Mistress Reagan sighed, thinking of the many casks she’d stored in the cellar in anticipation of such gentlemen as Beau Powers. She eyed the country gentleman with approval. He was wearing dark leather breeches, shiny Hessian top boots, and a snowy white cravat.
