Some Enchanted Waltz, A Time Trave Romance

by Lily Silver

  They stopped twice, once in the afternoon for a short rest, then at an Inn along the road for supper. Tara was exhausted and sore from the long ride. Adrian wanted to make Waterford before stopping for the night. He promised her that once they were safely at the posting house in Waterford, they would be at the halfway point to Dublin.

  At Waterford, she hurried through the meal in the private dining room, determined to soak her limbs in a hot bath the innkeeper’s wife promised to prepare for her.

  Something bad was about to happen. Something evil was lurking in their near future. Tara closed her eyes, trying to remember what it was. Ireland in the late eighteenth century was a terrible time in history, a dark time for Irish patriots.

  “Think, damn it.” She cursed.

  Nothing would come, only the same vague image of printed words on a page. No matter how much she concentrated, the words would not focus in her mind. She slipped from the tub, wrapped a towel about her, and stumbled to the bed, fighting the dizziness and the dull aching in her head.

  Okay, start with what you do know: Fitzgerald. The name is familiar. You’ve met him, gone riding in the park, shared hot chocolate at the coffee house in Cork. What is it about Lord Edward Fitzgerald that screams danger to you?

  Nausea welled up. Before Tara knew what was happening she was rushing for the chamber pot. Must be travel sickness. Wouldn’t that make Adrian fit to be tied? He wanted to leave her at Glengarra. The dull ache in her head grew as she heaved out her insides. Her head felt as if it were about to explode. Tara curled into a ball on the floor, cradling her head in her hands. Pain gripped her skull, and then the words at the top of the blurred page focused before her eyes. Lecky’s Irish History, volume VI.

  *

  Adrian smoothed the silken tresses on the pillow beside him.

  As he expected, the grueling journey was difficult for Tara. They had to stop the coach twice that morning to allow her the convenience of spewing her breakfast in the bushes rather than in his lap.

  At his inquiries she became irritable. Yet by the fatigue in her eyes and the frequent rubbing of her temples he could interpret one thing; her head was hurting her again.

  Her father was not faring well, either. The swaying and bumping coach irritated his back, and like his daughter he endured it stoically, not uttering one word of complaint. Adrian noticed the giant sipped frequently from a small flask throughout the day. His breath smelled of brandy, so Adrian surmised the man was drowning his discomfort in the fiery liquid in order to endure the long journey across the southern coast of Ireland.

  Torn between his need to be in Dublin at the appointed time and concern for his new family, Adrian finally made the driver slow their pace to accommodate his ailing wife and her pained father. Once in Dublin, they would be able to rest comfortably while he attended his business with the United Irishmen Executive Committee. Fitzgerald had called an emergency meeting so that they would be able to finalize plans for the seizure of the government on May Day.

  Tara knew nothing of his reasons for this hasty journey. He had been ever careful to keep her innocent of his schemes in the unfortunate event he should be captured, so that she would not be implicated in his activities. Many a night this past month, after loving Tara to exhaustion he’d slipped out of bed, donned the mask of Captain Midnight and went out to lead raids and steal weapons.

  His bride had been blissfully unaware he risked his life to free Ireland from British subjugation—until last week when he’d returned to find his wife seething with anger and threatening to leave him. As they bumped into one another in the hallway, she’d blackened his eye when he’d attempted to grab her from behind and prevent her from screaming and awakening the household. And then her father gave pursuit of what they believed to be an intruder in the night—only to discover Adrian returning from a delivery of smuggled arms to the Killarney brigade at Molls Gap.

  He gazed down at his wife beside him in the narrow Inn bed. Her skin was soft against him. She smelled of lavender. The soft rise and fall of her chest was mesmerizing. Her pale bosom was illuminated in the dim glow of a lone candle on the nightstand. The front lacing of her gown had loosened, giving him a tantalizing view of one rose hued peak as she slumbered softly, unaware of his desire rising against her.

  With a grunt he slipped from the bed, reluctant to disturb her rest with his need when she was clearly not faring well with their arduous journey. He hooked an arm about the bedpost, gazing at her for a moment before turning to the moonlit window. The crisscross of window panes made a precise pattern on the carpet as he stepped carefully about the chamber.

  An ache grew and expanded in his chest as his conscience warred with his resolve.

  Many depended on him; Mick Gilamuir and his men, the leaders in Dublin; Edward, the Sheares and countless others. Theobald Wolfe-Tone depended upon him. Wolfe-Tone remained in Paris, where he was impatiently wooing Napoleon, hoping to convince the fickle Emperor into launching a second invasion against England through Irish shores and thus aid Ireland in her struggle to be free of England’s tyranny.

  And now, there was Tara to consider, his beguiling waif of the mists, the elf who fore-knew the future, knew that their idealist cause was somehow destined to failure. Perhaps that was the reason she’d come to him, to warn him, to warn all of them before more innocent blood was shed in vain.

  Torn within himself, Adrian turned from the window. His eyes searched the dimly lit room to rest upon the lovely form slumbering in his bed.

  Could he live with himself if he abandoned all for her and fled the country?

  Could he stomach his image in the looking glass day after day, knowing his comrades fought and died while he frolicked in the mists?

  It wouldn’t answer. He couldn’t abandon Edward and the others, not on the eve of their most important offensive.

  Tara awoke the next morning with a mild headache, and the words she had seen so clearly the night before obscured. Try as she might, she couldn’t conjure them again. Trying made her nausea worse and she didn’t want that horrible pain in her skull to return, so she let go of the image in the hopes that it would return to her easier without being forced.

  Adrian promised they would arrive at Powerscourt, fifteen miles south of Dublin, in two days. Those long, tedious days of coach travel had everyone grumpy and on edge, despite the majestic views surrounding them.

  They passed through the rich green pasture land with stones lining the main thoroughfare. The Wicklow Mountains shadowed them on the west, and the coastline to the east. The weather had turned deliciously warm, with a gentle breeze coming in off the sea and the earthy scent of fresh grass and damp peat bogs tantalizing the senses.

  Tara hadn’t been able to read the book she brought for diversion, because each time she opened it and gave it her attention, Adrian would start talking to her, or Dan’s snoring would destroy her concentration. She feared she would never find out what happened to the fair Deidre of legend. A druid had foretold a prophecy regarding the girl before she was born; Deidre would be a woman of great, unrivaled beauty with her golden hair and emerald green eyes, and thus, she would know great sorrow and be marked by death. The poor girl was abducted by King Conchobar of Ulster when she was a child. The King so admired her beauty he was determined to keep her hidden until she was of a marriageable age, when he would have her for himself. He placed Deidre in a great Castle, isolated and guarded by his most trusted servants.

  Each day Deidre was allowed to walk about the grounds for a time with the guards watching her. Each day, she wandered a little bit further into the woods. One day, she came upon a warrior, Naoise, who was as dark and handsome as Deidre was fair and beautiful. He met her in the forest each day and they planned their escape from Ulster. When at last Naoise had made arrangements for them, he sent word to Deidre. With his brothers, Ailne and Ardan, the sons of Uisnech, to help them, the lovers ran away to the land of Alba, what was known as Scotland today.

  The King of Al
ba had heard of Deidre’s legendary beauty, and upon discovering that she was in his land, he, too determined to have her for himself. The lovers were again forced to flee. Back in Ulster the nobles felt sorry for the lovers and begged King Conchobar to swallow his pride and let them return. He agreed. King Conchobar sent word to them that all was forgiven and they could come home again. The lovers were about to board a ship and return to their homeland—and yet, King Conchobar waited for their return with an evil plan in his heart …

  “Why is it women in your land regard men with contempt?” Adrian intruded on her for the hundredth time with another odd question.

  “I don’t know.” Tara murmured, re-reading the paragraph regarding Conchobar’s evil scheme.

  “Are the men rakes and reprobates in your era, then, completely without honor?”

  Tara closed the book sharply. “Yes.” She replied with more annoyance than she intended.

  “Your father seems an honorable man.” The pair of them gazed at the snoring man across from them.

  “He’s from an older generation, one that still put a great stock in principles and morality.”

  “And men of your generation do not hold such ideals?”

  “Some do, it’s not that simple.” Tara exhaled sharply, remembering the many dates she’d been on that led to only one thing, sex, and that was the end of it. Most men of her age didn’t want marriage; they wanted to hook up for great sex with no strings attached. She glanced at Adrian. He married her to protect her from his enemies, and to protect her reputation. He was a true gentleman, worthy of the title. “I had to come here to find a noble and worthy mate.”

  Adrian looked back at her with astonishment.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to find out what happens to Deidre and Naoise.”

  “The King kills him, and she throws herself on the sword as Conchobar is about to run Naoise through a second time. At least that’s one version of the legend. The other one is that he kills Naoise and his companions, and locks Deidre up in a tower where she grieved for her lover for the remainder of her days.”

  “Oh—You.” Tara swatted him with the volume, bringing a huff of outrage from his lips, which woke Dan. “I didn’t want you to tell me, I wanted to read it for myself.”

  “The lions of the hill are gone, and I am left, alone—alone.” Adrian quoted.

  “Dig the grave both wide and deep, for I am sick and fain would sleep.

  The falcons of the wood are flown, and I am left, alone—alone,

  So dig the grave both deep and wide, and let us slumber side by side,

  The dragons of the rock are sleeping, Sleep that wakes not for our weeping;

  Dig the grave and make it ready; lay me on my true love’s body .”

  “That’s beautiful.” Tara whispered, moved by Adrian’s quote

  “‘Tis an ancient verse, spoken by Deidre as she lay dying beside her love, there’s more. I cannot remember it all.”

  Tara hugged the book to her and turned the poem over in her mind. Star-crossed lovers like Romeo and Juliet.

  “She said all that.” Dan snapped, as irritable as a bear at being awakened. “As she lay dying on the beach she made up a damned poem about it all.” He frowned, looking from Adrian to Tara with annoyance. “I need a smoke.” He felt his pockets for his pipe and tobacco.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Dublin’s narrow streets wound around and across the River Liffey. The coach passed Dublin Castle and Parliament House. Weary as they were from their long journey, the sights and sounds of that historic city wooed them onward through the streets. The old Guinness Brewery was there on St. James Gate, except it wasn’t the old Guinness Brewery anymore; Arthur Guinness had purchased it less than forty years ago. He had no idea how famous his little venture would prove when Guinness Stout would be exported throughout the world in the 21st century.

  The coach turned onto Merrion Square. Newly built Georgian townhouses of red brick reached four stories above them on either side. Wealth and privilege were advertised in the ornate arched entrances with glass fanlight windows above bright painted doorways flanked by white colonnades. Elegant iron scrollwork fences lined each walkway to the entrances as well as the short lawns bordering the cobblestone sidewalk all down the square. Scrolled balconies dressed the higher story windows, inviting the affluent residents to open the French glass doors and step out on the landings to enjoy the fresh spring air of the capital city.

  The coachman let down the step and Adrian descended. With a smile, he helped Tara from the vehicle and gazed proudly up at his new residence in Dublin. “Quite smart, is it not? I purchased it three years ago. My steward has seen to its furnishings and hired a meager staff. I do hope it meets with your approval, Lady Dillon.”

  They rode through St. Stephen’s Green after breakfast the next morning in an open carriage. Adrian took them past Trinity College on Westmoreland Square, his alma mater and then they enjoyed the open air markets. It was a lovely day of browsing and site seeing, with lunch at the Shelbourne Hotel and more shopping as the day wore on. They had a quiet dinner in the townhouse that evening. Afterward, Adrian and Tara attended the opera while Dan stayed home as opera was not to his liking.

  “I must attend a meeting this morning.” Adrian announced at breakfast on the third morning of their stay in Dublin. “My sweet, if you wish to go out in the city, I insist you have a suitable escort. Take two footmen with you. Dublin’s streets are not our fair Glengarriff town.”

  “I’ll take care of my girl.” Dan winked at Tara, recognizing the Feminist lecture threatening to bubble forth. “And she’ll take care of me, as you well know she can.”

  Tara covered her smile with her napkin as Lord Dillon’s face colored with embarrassment. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and took his leave.

  An hour later, they were strolling down Kildare Street, past Leinster House, a stately gray stone Georgian mansion where Lord Fitzgerald’s brother, the Duke of Leinster, resided. They made their way to St. Stephen’s Green and meandered through the park. It was nearly deserted at this early hour of the morning. Most of the fashionables chose to make their appearance in the late afternoon hours. Enjoying the warm spring air, they made their way to open air markets near the River Liffey.

  Unlike the stately serenity of the upper class neighborhoods, the busy marketplace carried strong undercurrents of tension. Heavy footed soldiers marched through the streets. At every corner and alleyway it seemed there was someone trying to appear inconsequential while looking about the crowds with somber, assessing eyes.

  “Why do I feel like we’re being scrutinized?” Tara asked.

  “Relax. Enjoy the sights. We’re in the big city.”

  “Maybe I am imagining things.” Tara tried to shrug off her impression.

  “Could be.” Dan answered, “Marinette was a hick town. Glengarriff is even more remote. Perhaps we’re too countrified.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself rather than Tara.

  Dan spied a tobacco shop, and led Tara inside with him. He inspected pipes for a quarter of an hour and spent another ten minutes selecting a tobacco. They walked about the market district and stopped to enjoy a cup of coffee in a quaint corner shop while a morning shower passed over. They studied people and commented on the different clothing styles of merchants, servants and nobles from their table near the shop window. When the skies were clear again they set out for home.

  Dan turned about from time to time as they walked, scanning the streets behind them with a grim expression on his face. Tara knew at that moment she wasn’t imagining the queer feeling of being followed and watched.

  They entered the bookstore to evade the feeling of being scrutinized from every angle. While Tara pretended to browse Dan stood behind her and surveyed the streets. The proprietor of the store offered help to an aged man who wanted the works of Jonathan Swift. He found the volume for his customer and moved down the aisle where Tara and Dan stood at the window watching
the Militia drill past them in the street.

  “May I help you find something, Mistress, Sir?”

  “Are we under siege?” Dan asked. “I’ve never seen so many blasted redcoats.”

  “Aye, Sir. The March Winds are coming, soon the air will be clear.”

  “We must stoke the embers, fan the flames and then the winds will come.” Tara found herself answering, recalling the strange words between Adrian and O’Brien in the library at Seafield House. It was some type of code, she was sure of it.

  The thin pated man nodded, smiling benevolently as he pushed his spectacles further up on his nose. “Aye, friends. We must fan the flames, and the winds will come to spread the fire. May I suggest a book for My Lady …?”

  “Dillon, Lady Dillon, good sir, and my father, Dan MacNeill, from America.”

  That pleased the plump man even more. “Thomas Byrnes, my lady, Sir. A pleasure it is. From America, says you, were you a soldier in the Revolution, sir?”

  Dan opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. He looked pointedly at Tara and then back at the window, where a man was being dragged down the street by an armed force of English soldiers.

  Byrnes stood on his tiptoes to follow Dan’s intense gaze. “Aye, ‘tis a dangerous time for those who work for freedom. He who labors must do so with caution.” He reached left, grapping book from a display, Gulliver’s Travels, by Jonathan Swift.

  The same book he’d given the man before them.

  Tara kept her face bland as the bookseller measured her reaction to his offering with sharp, assessing eyes.

  As Tara followed him to the counter, the plump man deftly placed a handbill inside the pages. “May I suggest you pay special attention to page 56, my lady? May God’s grace be upon ye.”