by Lily Silver
Tara stared into his deep blue eyes for what seemed an eternity, trying to formulate an answer that would accurately portray America at the close of the eighteenth century.
“I believe I neglected to mention that my wife has suffered a great deal of memory loss due to the shipwreck.” Adrian interjected in the silence.
Lord Edward kept looking at her, brushing off her husband’s remarks like an annoying insect buzzing as he waited for her to answer. “Yes, I believe you mentioned it, Adrian. Perhaps if she were intellectually stimulated, rather than stifled, she would recover her memory quicker.”
“How is Lady Fitzgerald?” Adrian quipped, his meaning obvious. “I’m surprised you did not bring Lady Pamela with you to Cork.”
“Pamela is well, thank you.” He answered Adrian’s probe and smiled at Tara. “She resides in Hamburg, Germany. She was raised in the court of France, and finds our bonny Ireland to be too remote for her liking. We are ill suited, I fear, and lead separate lives. Such is the way of love. Now, Tara, dear, tell me how you find this new democracy working in your country. I was at the last battle of your War for Independence. I find your liberal idealism inspiring.”
Adrian bristled. His attempt to deflect Edward’s attentions defeated.
With a demure smile, Tara answered Lord Edward’s question. “The democracy you speak of is more in theory than in practice. There are still large plantations that make a tidy profit for the owners while employing slave labor. Those are mostly in the south.”
“Yes.” Lord Edward sipped his wine thoughtfully. “The slave trade is a sorry business. England decries it, yet keeps her own vanquished nations enslaved by her tyrannical rule. What nation deserves her freedom more than Ireland, where a peasant farmer is no better off than the black slaves in America?”
“Ah-ah-ah. No such talk at my table, young man.” Mrs. Sheares scolded.
“Well, perhaps we should leave the ladies to enjoy our cigars in the library.” Jasper Sheares said as he rose. The other men took his lead and followed him. Only Mr. Sheares was left in the dining room, although not for long, as a servant to wheel him out.
“Shall we retreat to the parlor?” Mrs. Sheares rose. “When the men have finished their brandy and cigars, we can play some parlor games.”
Lady Fiona agreed, rising to follow her hostess. Tara wanted sorely to hear the conversation in the library. “If you don’t mind, Lady Sheares, I should like to rest for a few moments, upstairs.”
“As you will.” The gracious woman conceded. “Lizzy, show Lady Dillon to the blue room upstairs so she may lie down.” With that, the two matrons left Tara in the capable hands of the downstairs maid.
Tara allowed the girl to lead her up the large marble staircase to the room allotted to her. She learned from the maid that the library was on the same floor, on the west wing.
After the maid left her Tara peeked into the hallway. Seeing no one, she tiptoed down the hall to the library. Fortunately, the hallway doors were set in about two feet from the hall, with molded panels of dark cherry wood. She could listen to the conversation within and still hide in the shadows from passing servants in the hall.
She placed her ear to the door, yet could make out only mumbled voices. Slowly, carefully, she turned the knob and looked inside with one eye in the crevice. The men were at the far end, beyond the bookshelves, near the hearth. She could not walk in without being seen, as Lord Fitzgerald stood at the mantle, facing her. Adrian and the Sheares brothers sat with their backs to her. At least with the door ajar she could hear their conversation.
“We have yet to decide where the French fleet should land. Adrian, I believe your neighbor, Lord Bantry, has proven to be a liability. His actions last year make it difficult to plan another invasion on the Bay of Bantry. We may go further north this time round.”
“Understood.” Adrian’s calm voice echoed in the large room.
“Traitorous Bastard.” Jasper Sheares spat with disgust. “We should follow our French brethren’s example and execute those who refuse to support a new order.”
Lord Edward spun around. “Jasper. How can you say such things? You recall the horrors of the Revolution claimed the lives of innocent women and children as well. Would you have every peasant in Ireland, every noble woman and child, live in terror of ‘The Committee’, every one of us live in constant fear of being accused of treason and executed within the same day, without the benefit of trial.”
Lord Edward’s face was white with anger as he chided his companion’s rash words. “My God, Jasper Sheares, we would be no better than our British oppressors. Perhaps you enjoyed your time in France too well.”
“I witnessed the execution of Louis. It was a grand triumph for the revolutionaries.”
“Gentleman, please.” Horace interjected. “We will accomplish nothing by arguing.”
“Would you have our lovely dinner companion, Lady Tara, tied to a cart and marched through the howling mob, pelted with foods, offal, and rocks as they dragged her to the guillotine? You forget, Jasper, there are innocents involved, we have no desire to re-invent the days of The Terror here in Ireland.”
“Edward.” Jasper lifted his hand in protest. “Me thinks you doth protest overmuch. Lady Tara is Adrian’s wife, not yours. How conveniently you forget that fact with Lady Fitzgerald in Germany and Lady Dillon sitting beside you at dinner.”
“I used her as an example, to bring the point home. What of your mother, then? Would you have her executed for simply being your mother, should the revolutionary government decide you are a traitor to the cause?” Edward shot back.
“You are being overly dramatic, Edward. We will not make the mistakes that the French made.” Jasper argued.
“And how will we accomplish this great feat of wisdom where France failed?”
Edward began pacing in front of his host with the agitation of a lion trapped in a cage.
”If we decree that the loyalist lords should be executed, how can we be certain we aren’t acting as God, condemning men who have committed no crime other than appearing to conform to the crown to survive.”
He stopped pacing, turning about with his blue eyes ablaze with fury as he continued to rebuke Jasper’s cold blooded fanaticism. “That, my friend, was the failing of the French, and the result was a blood-bath such as the world has never known.”
“Not since Cromwell arrived on the shores of Ireland.” Jasper returned.
“Gentlemen, you are straying, perhaps you would care to continue this debate another time, say, after I’ve escorted my bride home this evening.” Adrian rose and stalked about the room.
“Captain Midnight hears the call of another mistress now.” Jasper laughed. “What shall become of the fair Lady Erin, your homeland? Do you cast her off so quickly for a pair of emerald eyes from across the sea?”
Captain Midnight? Tara drew in her breath. The romantic hero of her dreams actually existed? She studied her husband’s frame, recalling those soft lips in her dream, the masked face, the rich, soothing voice as he carried her through a stone passage. Quiet, reserved, polite Adrian was none other than the bold highwaymen? In her recurring dream, the dashing highwayman had rescued her from English soldiers in a remote barn, and yet, when she had awakened in Glengarra Castle, Adrian had told her she was the sole survivor of a wreck on the bay.
The conversation continued in the library. Tara forced herself to put away her concerns regarding her arrival at Glengarra and concentrate on their secret meeting.
“Presently, the new Commander-in-Chief is touring Ireland, trying to discern the problem areas.” Edward was saying. “He is in County Cork as we speak, being entertained by various lords as he makes his way across the region. I am cautioning all of the captains to keep their men in check. We want to give the appearance of calm, lull the good General Ambercromby into believing we are content.”
“What type of man is this Ambercromby?” Horace asked.
“An Englishman.” Jasper scoffed.
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“An army general who has replaced the arrogant Lord Carhampton in ruling Ireland for England’s benefit.” Adrian interjected. “I’ve learned that he is an honorable man, an independent thinker who is not only a skilled military commander but also a zealot for maintaining a high standard of discipline among his troops. That should prove an advantage for us.”
“I do hope he’s concerned with the disciplining of his own troops, not the peasantry, we’ve had quite enough barbarism from the bloody swine.” Jasper hissed.
“He issued an order almost immediately reminding the officers to merely uphold the laws of the land, not to step beyond them.” Edward replied in a hopeful tone. “Ambercromby received reports of drunken and half-disciplined soldiers before his appointment. He is well aware of the house-burnings and such that have been covered up or deliberately screened by the local authorities. He has set his face against it.”
“And summarily earned the contempt of Lake and Knox, the very men who advocate such tactics of oppression.” Adrian added dryly. “His position here, then, is very precarious. If Lords Lake, Knox, and Clare aren’t plotting to have him removed by now, I should be greatly surprised. Even Dalrymple, the southern commander is seething with envy, for he coveted the high post for himself.”
“Aye, we know not how much time we have before another takes Sir Ambercromby’s place. What news is there from Wolfe-Tone?” Jasper leaned forward.
“Theo is still negotiating for ships. Napoleon has promised to support us and yet refuses to give a directive regarding the time of invasion. He is preoccupied with his other conquests. Theo is tactfully pressing him yet he believes the Emperor will step in if we go ahead and begin the thing ourselves. That, my friends, is where we are. I am calling an emergency meeting, I expect the entire Directory to be there so we can decide when to begin the revolt. We will meet at Dublin, sometime in the next month, I will send word regarding the date and place—“
“Ah-hem.”
Tara whirled about to find the butler standing behind her with a very dour expression on his face. She smiled at him as she backed into the library.
“Tara.” Lord Edward sang out. He rose, as did the Sheares brothers.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Sheares allowed me to refresh myself upstairs before joining her in the parlor. I seem to have become turned about.” Her lips were dry, her throat a desert as she hoped the men before her would not suspect she had been listening to their little conspiracy. She brushed her moist palms on her claret velvet skirt as she waited for their response. The butler grumbled behind her but then moved on.
“Easy enough in this great mausoleum.” Edward smiled, “Shall we escort our dear Tara to the parlor gentlemen?”
Tara wished she could kiss the chivalrous Lord Edward. Instead, she took her husband’s offered arm and followed the Sheares brothers out of the library with a sigh.
The charades that Mrs. Sheares proposed lasted less than an hour. Tara was too distracted by the revelations in the library to be any good, not to mention her amnesia put her at a distinct disadvantage. Every time she looked at Adrian, the image of Captain Midnight, so seductive in his black clothing and mask, gave her a surge of pleasure.
And then she would look to Jasper, and his words of a bloody revolution sullied the image of the gallant masked hero swooping down to save her. Visions of Adrian being led up a plank to a guillotine with Lady Fiona weeping in the background as Jasper looked on with sinister delight seemed all too vivid.
Lord Edward was gallant to a fault, entertaining his hostess while the rest of the party lagged behind in polite disinterest.
Jasper invited the men to join him in a round of poteen. The two ladies beside her merely smiled indulgently at their boys as the four of them filed out of the drawing room.
Another hour passed. Tara dared not risk another espionage episode, so she waited with the ladies in the parlor. The men returned, seeming oddly affected, each in their own way. Lord Edward was excessively jovial, while Jasper devoured her hungrily with his eyes, embarrassing her as well as his mother by his forward behavior. Horace had a ridiculous smile on his lips, which seemed moist with sweat as he dabbed his nose and cleared his throat every few minutes. Adrian sat in brooding silence, giving her dark looks instead of the man who was ogling her shamelessly.
The ride home was somber. Adrian appeared to be upset about something.
His mother retired upstairs immediately, leaving the couple alone in the drawing room. Tara was almost giddy with excitement as she cradled the image of Captain Midnight in her mind with a new tenderness. It came as a shock, therefore, when Adrian rounded on her.
“How much of our conversation did you hear before making yourself known?”
Chapter Twelve
“Don’t look at me like a wounded doe. Were you lost or was that a lie to cover up your spying when the butler caught you.”
“Your mother fears you will be hanged for treason because of your friendship with Lord Edward, she said as much earlier to Mrs. Sheares. I wanted to find out just how intimate the pair of you have become.”
“You have no right.” Adrian began, his face white as he stalked toward her.
Tara put up her hands, assuming a defensive stance. It was a reflex, an instinctual reaction to implied violence. Her dress might hinder her ability to kick but she could use her hands very effectively as weapons, as he well knew.
“Stop that.” Adrian hissed. “I am not foolish enough to attack you.”
She relaxed her stance yet not her guard. “I have every right, Captain Midnight.”
Adrian stopped in his tracks between the door and where she stood at the window. “You were listening in.”
“I have a right to know if you are hell bent on self destruction by throwing in your lot to a cause that is destined to fail.”
Adrian was coldly regarding her with accusing eyes as he stood stock still. The dark brows drew together in a frown as he spoke with unnatural calm. “Destined to fail? You keep saying that, my lady. How is it you know such things? Are you a spy, planted here by the British government?”
Tara was stung. The audacity of it sparked a raw nerve within her. “Yes, damn you. I’m a spy, I can’t even remember if my name is MacNeill or if I really came to Ireland on a merchantmen. I have almost no recollection of my father or anyone else in the entire universe besides you. So, yes, I am a spy. It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? I wake up in your castle with no memory and you conveniently tell me we are betrothed so I marry you without question. But I am a spy and you sir, are a fool.”
She spun about, giving him her back. Her breath came in short gasps. “I am sick to death of not being able to remember the simplest things; like do I know how to ride a horse? Do I know how to dance? I want to go home. I’ve had enough of this pretend marriage. I want to go home, but I don’t know where home is! If I did, I’d be there in a blink of an eye.”
“You are correct, Madame, I am a fool.” Adrian said in a defeated tone.
Now that Tara let loose the tiger of insecurity, now that she voiced her secret doubts and fears a wave of stinging tears filled her eyes. Tara placed her hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs threatening to erupt. She turned about, giving him her back and closed her waterlogged eyes, willing herself to become calm before she succumbed to a long overdue bout of hysterical weeping.
“Tara.” Adrian whispered behind her. “Forgive me. I’ve behaved badly.” He turned her about and pulled her into his arms. “Come, sit by the fire. We must talk.”
Tara allowed him to lead her to the sofa. She couldn’t stop the sudden onslaught of angry tears, and having him sit beside her and wrap his arms about her only made it more difficult to resist her body’s overwhelming need to release the pent up tears.
“Don’t cry, sweetheart. I admit it; I am jealous. Lord Edward and Jasper Sheares would welcome the chance to steal you away from me.”
Male pride. Blame it all on foolish male pride. “You’re delusional.”
She sniffled, wiping the tears away with the handkerchief he so gallantly provided.
“No, my sweet lass. ‘Tis you who leave me begging crumbs at the table while you favor Lord Edward with your attentions.”
“Oh, give me a break.” Tara frowned, sniffled, struggling to clear her voice of that annoying emotional, clogged wobble that made her sound pathetic instead of invincible.
“Another American turn of phrase?” Adrian sighed. “What does it mean?”
“Oh, crap!” She huffed with annoyance. “It means, give me the benefit of the doubt, give me credit for not being an idiot. Don’t pull the wool over my eyes.” She waved her hand to emphasize each euphemism as she said it, hoping there might be one in there he might actually get. Tara brushed at her eyes with hanky again before glancing at him, only to discover that ‘pulling wool over one’s eyes’ was another saying lost on him.
“Edward and Jasper were quite taken with you. Edward spent most of dinner currying your favor.” Adrian returned her heated stare with a serious one of his own.
Tara looked down at the damp, crumpled cloth in her hand. The initials A.D. were embroidered on it in one corner. Very pretty to look at, an yet, Tara hated needlepoint with a passion. He wouldn’t be getting any of these from her. “So in a fit of jealousy, you accuse me of being a spy?”
Adrian looked down at the floor. “It was a ridiculous response. I admit. Tell me, fair Tara, why you believe the United Irishmen will fail to free Ireland.”
Tara looked about the room, at the glowing embers in the fire, the Chippendale furnishings, the painting of an Irish Chieftain on the wall from a century ago. Her voice was fraught with emotion. “I don’t know how I know these things, and yet, I do. Ireland does not achieve freedom from England until 1921, with the Easter Rebellion. All the attempts before that failed, horribly. It’s part of history.”
