Some Enchanted Waltz, A Time Trave Romance

by Lily Silver

  “Wait, Tara, don’t touch —” That deep voice echoed in her mind again and again.

  “Don’t touch what?” She gasped, lifting her still tender palms up in front of her face. The pink skin still held the imprint of touching something very hot. As she studied the delicate, newly healed flesh, she recognized the cause of the bizarre injury. “I must have been touching the mast.”

  In that brief flash of memory, the man had been lying at her feet, cautioning her not to touch something as a jolt of lightning snaked down through it. Was he her father?

  It was late afternoon. Adrian hadn’t returned, and his mother had become roaring drunk, again. Tara stood in front of the tall, mullioned windows of Lady Fiona’s red parlor, gazing out at the rain for a sign of him coming up the drive.

  The older woman was sitting near the fireplace with a sullen look, having given the staff a stern tongue lashing that Tara knew they didn’t deserve. At lunch, she slapped the maid who served her creamed soup that she insisted had been made with curdled milk. After that, she tossed the bowl at the footman and summoned the entire household staff into the dining room and gave them a severe set down.

  Tara was so taken aback by her mother-in-law’s irrational behavior, she hadn’t intervened. She did go to the kitchens to apologize for the scene, and found the poor maid who had taken the brunt of Lady Fiona’s abuse weeping while the cook, the housekeeper and the other servants stood watching with tight lipped, grim faces. Tara had vowed in that moment that she would do something about Lady Fiona’s temper tantrums. What that something might be, she had no idea. And yet, Tara knew as the mistress of the house she had to stop the bitter woman from bullying the staff.

  At the moment, Lady Fiona was passed out on the sofa. Tara turned away from the large mullioned windows spattered with the constant rain. Crossing the room, she pulled the servant’s bell. Within moments the door opened and a timid looking girl entered with a worried face.

  “Send Mrs. Gray to me.” Tara sighed.

  Moments later, Mrs. Gray, the gentle housekeeper, entered the parlor. “You asked to see me, my lady?”

  Tara glanced at the prostrate form of Lady Fiona and back to the housekeeper. “Did Lady Fiona have a drinking problem before Miss Althea’s death?”

  The gentle woman looked at her with wariness, fumbling with her keys as she seemed to evaluate Tara’s motives before answering. Tara began to wish she had kept her mouth shut, except that she couldn’t endure the thought of living indefinitely with such a dreadful woman, especially if Adrian intended to be absent most of the time, leaving her to deal with it.

  Mrs. Gray stepped closer to her as she said in a barely audible tone, “If she enjoyed a bit more than is considered proper now then, why, who are we to say anything? The elder viscount’s death was unexpected, him being the consummate equestrian.”

  “You mean Adrian’s father?”

  The housekeeper nodded. Tara continued her interview. “I am not familiar with the details of his death, Mrs. Gray. My husband never speaks of his father.”

  “T’was said that my lord James fell from his mount while hunting and broke his neck. There was an uncommon amount of blood for such a wound, I daresay. The sheets were saturated, all of them. They used every sheet in the house before he was done bleeding out. I remember it well, as I had to order new ones. I’ve often thought, to myself, mind you.” The housekeeper stopped, looking about furtively before continuing. “I’ve often wondered if he didn’t in truth die from a musket wound.”

  “You were not present at his death?”

  “Oh, no Madame, they wouldn’t allow any of the servants in the room with him when he was dying. Since his passing, my lady fairly doted on young Althea, who was only thirteen at the time and it seems her death last autumn was my lady’s undoing. Now the poor creature believes your husband will be taken from her as well and she’ll live to a ripe old age alone, bereft of her husband and both of her children.”

  “I don’t understand.” Tara prodded, stepping closer to the small woman. “Adrian is strong and healthy.”

  “Since her husband’s death she’s become obsessive about her son. They have had some fearful rows about him going out late in the evenings. No one is supposed to know that he does, but, we’ve eyes and ears, Milady, we are not statues as our betters wish to believe. She weeps, pleads and screams at his lordship. In the end he always leaves, with her screaming after him that he’s bound to come to the same end as his father.”

  “Please, Mrs. Gray, have the footmen carry her upstairs, and see that she is placed comfortably in bed.”

  Tara returned to the hearth to warm herself as she sought out the age old wisdom of the flames. She turned the housekeeper’s words about in her mind.

  In the end he always leaves, with her screaming after him …

  “Where does he go?” Tara whispered.

  Chapter Nine

  “Lady Fiona requires your presence in the morning room directly.”

  Mrs. Gray had entered the room and stood waiting to escort Tara to her mistress. The stiffness of the request made Tara’s insides turn into a knot. What could the Dragon Lady want with her? She’d pointedly ignored Tara in the two weeks following her arrival from Seafield House.

  The Grand Matron of Glengarra Castle was ensconced in her red and gold parlor, dressed in her usual widow’s weeds, waiting for Tara to attend her. When Tara entered the room, she patted the sofa beside her, intimating her desire for Tara to sit with her. A tea tray was laid out, complete with fresh baked sconces and seed cakes.

  “Do sit, my girl. We’ve much to discuss. Do you take a twist of lemon?”

  Tara gingerly took the seat beside her mother-in-law, wondering what had brought such a pleasant mood to the dour woman. Was she drunk? If that was the case, she wasn’t behaving in her usual manner, spiteful and sullen. The older woman waited for her to answer, holding the teacup as she waited with raised eyebrows.

  “Sugar, Madame.” Tara mumbled, twisting the soft velvet fabric of her skirt between her fingertips. She felt like a serving girl having been summoned to take tea with the Queen.

  Lady Fiona placed sugar in the cup then a twist of lemon, just as if Tara had asked for that, too. “Do they still drink tea in America or has coffee become all the rage since the rebellion?”

  Tara stared at her, wondering how to answer. Starbucks came to mind, the famous coffee shops that graced every sizeable city. “There are a lot of Coffeehouses in America. Starbucks has the largest Franchise, and even they serve tea.”

  “I suppose you Americans hold with this new fangled tradition of allowing the servants to brew the tea?”

  The teacup was passed from Fiona’s steady hand to Tara’s jittery one. She gazed down into the rich amber liquid for courage. “I—I’m not one to be dependent on others, my lady. I prefer to do things for myself.” Tara sipped the warm tea, taking comfort in the fragrant aroma as she hoped her words would placate the woman’s curiosity.

  “That is a comfort. Why, in my day, a body had to be able to do the same chores as the servants and do them better. Ach, with this new generation girls are schooled only to flirt and simper, as silly and helpless as newborn babies. ‘Tis a comfort to know the colonists haven’t thrown out sensibility with their tea.” The older woman paused to sip her dish of tea and continued the conversation.

  “I wanted you to know I’ve come to accept this odd marriage. It gave me quite a turn at first. Adrian has always done just as he pleased, with or without my blessing.” The matron’s face took on the same expression of stoic resolve that she had seen in Adrian’s handsome features. The same deep, brooding gray eyes looked back at Tara.

  Tara nodded from behind her cup as she gazed at Fiona Dillon. She was still a very attractive woman. She had a grace and charm that would please many an older man. If her disposition could be more pleasant; if she would smile on occasion, she might have a parlor of distinguished suitors vying for her attentions. As that lady notice
d Tara’s scrutiny, Tara set the cup down on the table and smoothed her skirts. Why did this woman make her feel so inadequate?

  “I would have preferred he marry a nice Irish girl from a decent family, but he has made his choice and I will abide it.”

  It was like walking through a minefield just to converse with this woman. Minefields? The word emerged from the depths of her memory with it the image of wet rice paddies and men dressed in splotchy green clothing as they clutched their rifles and moved through the barren field mired with explosives.

  “I was speaking.” Lady Fiona’s acerbic tone jerked Tara from her introspection.

  “Pardon me. I would like more tea.” Tara found herself chattering by way of making polite conversation.

  The granite eyes narrowed with reproof. “You Americans are bold as brass, demanding what they will, not waiting for their hostess to serve them as gentle women of polite society are in the habit of doing.”

  Tara had no idea what faux pas she might have made, yet the woman glared at her as if she’d just insulted her, deliberately and immensely.

  “When you wish for more tea you discreetly put your cup on the table right side up. If you wish no more, you place the cup in the saucer upside down to signify you have had enough. Have you lost your manners as well as your memory, girl?”

  The heat on her face told Tara her complexion was as red as the wallpaper surrounding them. “Maybe I have. When you’ve awakened in a foreign land with strangers claiming you to be their family I should like to see you behave with perfect decorum at every moment of the day. Try living in a day in my shoes without softening it with a pint of brandy.” As a final stroke Tara lifted the empty cup from the saucer and plunked it upside down to signify that she was finished having tea with Fiona Dillon.

  “I wondered if you had a backbone beneath those swishing skirts my son is fond of watching. You’ll need it if you’re to be spending your life with Adrian.”

  The woman didn’t even flinch? Tara blinked. Lady Fiona should be furious at Tara’s insult. Instead, she was as calm as a priest.

  “Perhaps I’ve been a bit hard on you.” Fiona conceded as Tara continued to stare at her. This was no fragile, broken woman, as people assumed.

  The older woman offered her a rare smile and turned her attentions to the tray of letters before them. “A letter arrived for you this morning, along with an invitation from Seafield House.” She handed the parchment to Tara with hungry, expectant eyes. It was out of the question to take it upstairs and read it privately.

  Tara sliced the wax seal from the envelope without looking at it. She handed the jeweled letter-opener back to Lady Fiona and scanned the neatly scrolled note.

  Lady Dillon,

  I look forward to meeting you on Thursday next at the costume ball being given in honor of our new Commander in Chief, Sir Ralph Ambercromby here at Seafield House. I realize you and your husband are in still in mourning. No one will think ill of you if you accept our invitation in light of your recent nuptials and be our honored guests. The outing will do my dear friend Fiona a great deal of good. I await your reply.

  Cordially, Lady Anne White

  Surprised, Tara re-read the note. A Ball? She folded the paper in thirds, the way it had been delivered and set it on the table. She stood slowly and moved about the room without enlightening her mother-in-law as to the note’s contents.

  Fiona Dillon snatched it up, smiling to herself as she read it. ”It will be the perfect opportunity to present you to society.” Lady Fiona rose from the sofa and came to stand behind her. Tara felt sickened, not jubilant, as she contemplated the horror of facing an entire room full of snobbish society women just like Fiona Dillon.

  “I can’t.” Tara breathed, feeling unequal to the task of being presented to the world as Viscountess Dillon of Glengarra Castle.

  “I’ll make certain you understand the nuances of the peerage beforehand. My dear friend Lady Anne has invited us to Seafield House to spend the weekend. We must go to Cork at once.”

  “Cork?” Tara murmured. She was too distraught to be caught up in the excitement. “Is that where Seafield House is?”

  “Seafield House is directly across the bay. Lord White, recently raised to the peerage as Baron Bantry and his mother, Lady Anne, are our nearest neighbors. We will journey to Cork to have new gowns made for you, my dear. Adrian cannot expect you to wear Althea’s girlish gowns forever, and this is the perfect excuse.”

  Tara turned to gaze at the older woman.

  “Yes, I wrote her to inform her of your wedding and of Adrian’s imposed confinement. It’s easy for him to declare we shan’t go about in society until a proper period of mourning is observed for Mr. MacNeill, yet my son has his business to occupy his days while we sit home all winter with nothing to occupy our time. We mean your father’s memory no disrespect, my dear. He would wish you to be happy in your new life.”The gray eyes reflected compassion and a certain degree of triumph.

  Tara was taken aback by this new, softer side of Lady Fiona.

  “What of Lord Dillon?” She asked quietly. “He won’t like this.”

  “Let me handle him.”

  Lord Dillon was not amused.

  He returned after traveling north to Kenmare to meet the men from Killarney. If he were noticed traversing the barren wilderness, it would seem that Lord Dillon was out exploring the northern reaches of his estates–in the drizzling rain.

  His clothing was saturated, he was dead tired, it was eleven o’clock in the evening and he intended to retire as soon as his wife could be located. The thought of her waiting for him had spurred him homeward in the chilling weather when it would been more prudent to seek shelter nearby until the weather improved. Tara would miss him, he told himself, and so he’d driven onward with that thought.

  At least, Tara should be here awaiting his to return.

  “Your mother is waiting for you, sir. She says you are to attend her at once.” Rupert, his man relayed the command to him. “She’s most adamant, Sir.”

  One look at his valet told him he’d best see to his mother’s wishes or the entire household would suffer for it in the coming days.

  And so it seemed, Adrian Dillon, Viscount of Glengarra Estates, an esteemed member of the Irish peerage, had been summoned to his mother’s private rooms. Summoned, mind you. He hadn’t been summoned to his mother’s chambers since he was a lad of sixteen, off to Trinity College in Dublin. Worse for it, he had been summoned to her chamber over the requested attendance of a local ball?

  “Listen to me, young man, Lady Anne will be insulted if we refuse. She not only sent us an invitation but also a personal note to Tara welcoming her as the new Viscountess. It is expected that we attend and that we present your wife to society. You cannot keep her shut up in this dreary keep forever. The poor waif has been sorely neglected while you’ve chosen to distract yourself with other affairs.”

  “I have responsibilities, mother.” Adrian paced the confines of his mother’s chamber, resenting the prodding tone of her voice implying he neglected his duty to his wife. “How well you know the precarious position we are in with the government placing more tariffs and taxes on Irish goods. As my father before me, I’ve been forced to find alternative ways of making a profit.”

  “Yes, I know. He was sent to an early grave for his troubles. Now you have a wife, and by God, I hope you will take time out of your smuggling and subversive activities to at least produce an heir for the future. The girl needs you here. She’s lonely—“

  “You could not bring yourself to be a companion to her during my absences?”

  “I’ve been indisposed, not that anyone here would notice.” She whined in a pathetic mien used solely to illicit pity before quickly turning nasty again. “Why did you sneak some strange woman here without my knowledge? Why marry her in secret? Is she with child? Is that what came of your dalliance in Europe? If that is the case, you have not done your duty by marrying beneath you only to make an honest w
oman of your whore?”

  Adrian stopped pacing. “I will not have you talk of my bride in such low terms.”

  “What else am I to believe when you bring this odd girl into my home, hurry her into matrimony and then neglect her for weeks on end? Its past bearing, you can hardly claim to be in love with her.”

  “I am under no obligation to have your blessing, mother. Tara is now Lady Dillon. You must come to terms with that fact and act accordingly if you wish to remain here.”

  “Believe me, it took a considerable amount of will on my part, and yet, I have accepted your marriage, I could hardly do otherwise.” The dowager Viscountess hissed, waving her fan hurriedly to cool her flushed features. “I ordered you here for another reason, The White’s Ball. We must attend and present Tara to society. You can hardly deny the girl such an event given the neglect she’s suffered in the last weeks.”

  Adrian shook his head to clear it. Trying to follow his mother’s meandering logic was like trying to capture the wind in one’s hand. She resented the girl and yet she was pleading her cause. To listen to her drone on, one would think he’d locked his bride in a tower with only bread and water rations.

  Adrian spun about with hands upraised in protest. “As you wish, we are off to Cork the day after tomorrow and on to Seafield House for the weekend.” His eyes locked upon hers, his tone somber. “But hear me; after the Ball I expect you to find lodgings and diversion elsewhere for a time to allow Tara and I time alone together at Glengarra. Now, I wish to remove these wet garments and sit in a steaming bath for the next hour until my bones have thawed. Far be it from me to deny Lady Dillon a social engagement when there is an estate to be managed and a wool business to be run.”

  Adrian didn’t wait for his mother to dismiss him. He took his leave of her and retired to his own chamber at the end of the hall.

  “Tara.” He called out, seeing the doors between their chambers were ajar. Was the little minx hiding away in her chambers, weeping over her desolate life? Well, he had a good cure for boredom; she could attend his needs for a change.