The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “You had best throw it in the creek right now.”

  Somehow the thought of throwing the pebble away did not appeal to her. “Perhaps I shall take it along – just as a kind of souvenir.”

  “Suit yourself.” Mama reached for her hand and clasped it tight. “Whatever happens, always hold your head high. You must never forget you are an Irish princess, that your father was Ian O’Fallon, son of the Duke of Connaught, who was a direct descendant of one of Ireland’s ancient kings who reigned over one of the earliest Celtic kingdoms.”

  “I shall never forget, Mama.”

  And she wouldn’t. Now, with a determined nod, Evleen picked up the portmanteau and resumed her trek up the driveway. No, she would never forget, but what good would being an Irish princess do her here in this strange land? Ah well, no matter. Only the future counted now.

  I shall be brave. I shall make Mama proud.

  “So, Miss O’Fallon, you are from Ireland?”

  Seated on a silk upholstered sofa in the grand salon of Chatfield Court, Evleen hid her disappointment. Lord Beaumont had not been there to greet her, although he was expected back from London at any moment. She gazed into the cold grey eyes of Lady Beaumont, Lord Beaumont’s mother. “Indeed I am from Ireland. County Tipperary to be exact. I lived there all my life.”

  Lady Beaumont, a stout woman with a large face and snow-white hair, cast an amused glance at the two other occupants of the room: Lydia, her daughter, and a giddy young woman named Bettina, soon to become her daughter-in-law. “Fancy that! I don’t know much about Ireland although I understand they are all quite poor.”

  “Don’t they raise sheep and live mainly in hovels?” asked Lydia, a plain young woman in her twenties who appeared to wear a permanent sneer on her lips.

  Of the two young women, Bettina, a slender girl of twenty or so, was the prettiest, with creamy white skin and a circle of bouncy blonde ringlets around her forehead. In a giggly voice she asked Evleen, “Isn’t Ireland where the fairies live? And the elves and leprechauns?”

  Yes, it is, Evleen thought, but wisely didn’t say. “Not all Irish are poor,” she evenly replied. “As for elves, fairies and leprechauns, I cannot say.”

  She’d been invited to the grand salon for tea by these three ladies, who obviously seemed to think she had just arrived from the moon. She knew they were laughing at her. In fact, since the moment she set foot into this huge room with its marble fireplace and plush furnishings, she’d felt acutely uncomfortable. It didn’t help that the outfit she wore – plain wool skirt, wool jacket, simple brimmed hat and high top boots – was acceptable fashion for Ireland, but compared to the elaborate dresses these ladies wore, she might as well be dressed in a gunny sack. And these were just their morning gowns! Already they’d discussed their afternoon gowns, strolling gowns, evening gowns and who-knew-what-else kinds of gowns. Evleen took a sip of tea from her fine china cup, gripping the fragile handle uncomfortably. So different from home, where she drank her tea from a chipped mug and stirred it with a tin spoon.

  Lydia was speaking. “So what did you do in Ireland? Is there a ton? Do you have seasons?”

  “I taught school until my mother took ill,” Evleen earnestly replied. “This past year I stayed home to take care of her. And yes, we have seasons – winter, spring, summer and autumn, just as you have here.”

  For some reason, her reply set up gales of laughter from all three women. “Lydia doesn’t mean that kind of season,” Lady Beaumont explained in a lofty tone. “She means a social season, such as when we go down to London for the parties and balls.”

  “Oh, I see.” Evleen could not prevent the blush she felt spreading up her neck and over her cheeks. Such a gaffe she’d made! And she hadn’t been here an hour yet. She would never fit in with these people, nor them with her. I want to go home.

  The door opened. A tall, powerfully built man in his early thirties entered, followed by a slender, fair-haired boy of seven or so. “Hello, everyone,” he said in a deep commanding voice. He caught sight of Evleen. “I see our cousin from Ireland has arrived.”

  Evleen hadn’t known what she’d expected, but certainly not this devilishly handsome man who stood before her. What gorgeous blue eyes! What a beautiful head of hair, dark, with a slight wave and an unruly lock falling over his forehead. She arose and dipped an unsteady curtsy, hoping she didn’t look too much like a country bumpkin. “I am pleased to meet you, Lord Beaumont.”

  Beaumont bowed in return. “Delighted to meet you, Miss O’Fallon. Welcome to England.” He placed a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is my son, Peter. He’s without a governess right now and I was hoping you might see to his education, at least temporarily. Not as a governess, you understand. I consider you one of the family.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir. I’ll be happy to help any way I can.”

  “Very good then,” Beaumont answered. Evleen noted he had yet to smile. She caught an air of unhappiness about him, a certain remoteness. Perhaps he was still grieving over the death of his first wife, Millicent. But still, she noted, he wasn’t grieving so much that he wasn’t planning to marry again.

  Bettina arose from her chair and went to greet him, thrusting her arm possessively through his. “Richard, darling, so lovely to have you back.” She cast a quick, unfriendly glance at Evleen, as if she resented his wasting even one moment of time on his poor cousin-by-marriage from Ireland. “Your dear mother and sister have been helping with our wedding plans.”

  “How very nice,” Beaumont answered absent-mindedly. Evleen caught a certain indifference in his voice. He ignored Bettina and continued, “We must get you settled in, Miss O’Fallon. There’s a bedchamber on the third floor next to my sister’s. I thought it might please you.”

  Lady Beaumont uttered an audible gasp. “Are you sure, Richard? I had thought—”

  “Thought what, Mama?”

  “A room on the fourth floor would be much more suitable.” Lady Beaumont’s lips had pursed into a tight, disapproving line.

  “The servants’ floor? I think not,” Beaumont answered firmly. “Evleen is Millicent’s cousin’s child. As such, she’s a member of the family and will be treated accordingly.”

  “But of course,” his mother answered with ill-concealed irritation. She cast stone-cold eyes at Evleen. “We’re so happy to have you, Miss O’Fallon. I trust you’ll be happy here. Dinner is at eight.”

  Evleen nodded a thank you and sent a small smile in return. Except for Lord Beaumont himself, she felt as welcome as the plague.

  What a beautiful room, Evleen thought when she stepped into her bedchamber. Never had she seen such luxury. With its fine furnishings and lovely view of the rear gardens it was a far cry from the tiny room off the kitchen she had shared with two sisters. Ordinarily, she’d be thrilled, but the chilly reception she’d received in the drawing room made for a heavy heart. She sank to a chair by the window and gazed at the sculptured gardens that lay behind Chatfield Court. Ah, what wouldn’t she give to be home right now! She closed her eyes and pictured her family’s cottage. Built of stone, with lime-washed walls, it nestled in one of County Tipperary’s lush green valleys. The forested slopes of the Galtees, Ireland’s highest mountain range, lay not far beyond.

  Next to the cottage were the scattered ruins of Tualetha, an ancient monastery, spread over several acres. As a child, Evleen often visited the ruins. She and her brothers and sisters liked to play hide-and-seek amidst the crumbled remains of stone buildings and huge tombstones, decorated with faded Celtic carvings, which towered over their heads.

  Adrift in her memories, Evleen reached to touch the blue pebble that still hung around her neck. Despite her mother’s advice, she could not bear to part with it, although now she always hid it beneath her clothing and had vowed never to use it. As they had countless times before, her thoughts drifted to the day, when she was just eight years old, that she visited the ruins alone. She had brought a book along and was sitting on
a flat rock next to an ancient cairn when the persistent cawing of a bird caught her attention. Looking up from her book, she was surprised to see a huge black raven sitting on the low branch of an oak tree. It seemed to be staring at her. Suddenly the bird spread its wings and flew away. As it did so, a small black feather fell from its wing to the ground.

  Evleen shut her book, slid off the rock, and went to retrieve the feather. As she bent to pick it up, she saw it had fallen next to a curious looking pebble of bright azure blue. How odd. Never had she seen a pebble of such a colour. While she examined it, she heard the cawing of the raven again. It had flown a short distance away and was now perched on another tree limb, staring at her and flapping its wings. Did it want her to follow him? It would certainly seem so.

  Holding the feather and the pebble, Evleen followed the raven to where it sat in the tree. Just as she arrived, it again flew away, heading towards the dense woods close by. When again the bird alighted on a branch and stared at her, she knew for certain it wanted her to follow.

  Her curiosity aroused, Evleen followed the raven on a path that led deep into the woods. The bird continued to lead, then stop to wait for her, until she realized she had gone into the woods deeper than she ever had before. She felt no fear, though, and followed the path up the side of a gently sloping mountain to the entrance of a cave with a yawning mouth. Still unafraid, she entered the cave. Finding herself in near-total darkness, she felt her way along the walls of a short, narrow chamber until she emerged into a room with smooth stone walls that shone like crystal. In the centre of the room, an old man with a long white beard, wearing a white robe, stood behind a steaming cauldron. The room was lit, the light seeming to come from everywhere. Finally she realized it emanated from the crystalline walls. At last a shiver of fear ran through her. She turned to run, but before she could, the old man spoke. “I have been waiting for you.”

  Astounded, she asked, “Who are you?”

  He ignored her and instead waved his hands over the cauldron and intoned, “I call today on the strength of Heaven, Light of the Sun, Radiance of the Moon, Splendour of Fire, Speed of Lightning, Depth of the Sea.”

  She stood frozen during his incantation. When he finished, he addressed her again. “I am Merlin the Magician. Surely you have heard of me, Evleen.”

  “But how did you know my name?”

  The old man smiled. “I have followed your progress since the day you were born.”

  “But why?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “You are a direct descendant of Queen Maeve, who reigned as Queen of Ireland back in the days of the Druids. She was a warrior whom I admired tremendously. Maeve was one of the great female figures of Ireland, a most splendid woman. Originally she was a goddess and only later became the queen of mortal men, although she always kept her magical powers.” Merlin sighed. “I would tell you more, but you’re a little girl and can only understand so much. But it’s time you knew that you, too, have been endowed with magical powers.”

  Evleen gasped in astonishment. “Me? I cannot believe it!”

  “Rub the blue pebble and make a wish.”

  She thought for a moment, searching her mind for something simple to request. Where had the raven gone? Rubbing the blue pebble, she said, “I wish to see the raven again.”

  In a twinkling, Merlin vanished and the black raven appeared, sitting on a nearby perch glaring at her with its beady bright eyes. “It can’t be!” she cried in alarm.

  In another instant, the bird had disappeared and Merlin stood before her again. “Over the years you will find I take many forms and shapes. The raven is only one.”

  “Over the years?” she asked

  “This is only the beginning. My child, it is time you became aware of your magic powers. You must learn to use them wisely.”

  “But how will I always know what is wise?”

  “I shall always be there to help.” In another instant, Merlin had disappeared again, replaced by the raven that, in a great show of cawing and flapping of its wings, left her standing there and flew from the cave.

  Evleen found her way from the cave and ran home. When she reached her cottage, she burst through the door, crying, “Mama, Mama, wait ’til you hear!” When she finished relating her story about the raven, the cave and Merlin, her mother seemed not the least surprised.

  “I have always known there was something special about you, Evleen. Now I know what it is. Bear in mind, you must always use your powers wisely.”

  “Just what Merlin said.”

  “Then you have been warned. You must never take your powers lightly.”

  And Evleen never did. While she grew up, Merlin paid her many visits. Sometimes he taught her such things as the Druidic Symbols of Mastery, or a lesson from the Druid’s Book of the Pherylit. Other times, he let her try out her magic powers. She used them judiciously, casting a spell to heal an animal that was sick, or for a lost item that was soon found.

  Only once did Merlin refuse her request. When her mother lay dying, Evleen pleaded, “Please, can’t we heal her?”

  In reply, Merlin drew a perfect circle on the ground before her. “Within the perfect symmetry of a circle is held the essential nature of the universe. Strive to learn from it . . . to reflect that order.”

  She understood immediately. She could not interrupt life’s cycle. Even Merlin’s magic had its limits.

  Now, in her new bedchamber, Evleen put thoughts of home behind her, turning them instead to her pitiful wardrobe. How she wished she could use her magic powers to replace every shabby piece of clothing she owned. Lady Beaumont had told her dinner was at eight. She must appear suitably dressed, but what could she wear? Nothing she had brought could begin to match the gorgeous gowns she knew the ladies would be wearing.

  Just then, a knock sounded on the door. Evleen opened it to find a middle-aged, prim-faced woman dressed in a maid’s uniform, with a white satin gown draped over one arm. In a French accent, she announced, “I am Yvette, Lady Beaumont’s lady’s maid. Lord Beaumont sent me. He thought I could be of assistance in dressing you for dinner tonight.” She held up the gown. “This was his wife’s, poor thing. She hardly wore it before the typhoid struck her down. You seem about the same size.”

  Yvette proved to be a godsend and, when eight o’clock arrived, Evleen took one final, incredulous look at herself in the mirror. The high-waisted gown fitted perfectly over her slender figure. But it was so low cut! Never in Ireland had so much of her bosom been exposed. “Think nothing of it, miss,” Yvette assured her. “You will find it is quite modest by today’s standards.”

  Evleen regarded her thick, dark auburn hair, which Yvette had piled atop her head in a becoming style with soft curls and fastened with a set of pearl combs. Pearl earrings dangled from her ears, matched by a luminous pearl necklace. The result? Never in her life had Evleen looked so . . . so . . . the word was beautiful, but modesty prevented her from saying so, or even thinking it to herself. Instead, she exclaimed, “Yvette, you have a wonderful way with both clothes and hair.”

  “And here is your fan, miss.” Yvette produced a delicate ivory and white lace fan, which Evleen took reluctantly. Never had she owned such an accessory. A fan was not necessary in Ireland, she thought amusedly, especially when she was scrubbing clothes or cutting peat from the bogs and dragging it home.

  “So what do I do with the fan, Yvette?”

  “You flutter it, miss, and you flirt with it. The fan has a language all its own. You’ll soon learn it if you’re here long enough.”

  When Evleen hurried down the stairs to dinner, she was grateful she looked her best, yet dreaded another confrontation with the hostile ladies who no doubt would have preferred she eat with the servants. She found Lord Beaumont already seated at the head of the table, unsmiling as usual. His eyes opened wide when she sailed, head held high, into the dining room in her lovely gown, daintily holding her fan. “Good evening, Miss O’Fallon,” he said, surprise in his voice. �
��You look quite lovely this evening.”

  “Isn’t that one of Millicent’s old gowns?” Lady Beaumont asked, none too kindly.

  Beaumont replied, “There’s no reason why Miss O’Fallon can’t make use of it.”

  In a voice edged with sarcasm, his sister, Lydia, said, “How charitable of you, Richard, always lending the poor a helping hand.”

  Beaumont replied, “As a matter of fact, I’m sending for a seamstress to refresh Miss O’Fallon’s wardrobe.” Then he nodded towards a balding, thick-lipped man sitting to his right before addressing Evleen. “I don’t believe you have met our cousin, Mr Algernon Kent, who’s just come up from London to stay with us a while.”

  A feeling of dislike overtook Evleen but she nodded politely at Beaumont’s cousin. Something about him was repulsive. Maybe it was the lecherous look in his near-lashless eyes when he gazed pointedly at her exposed bosom. She resisted the impulse to tug up the bodice of her gown.

  Lord Beaumont spent much of the dinner discussing his son. “You will find he’s extremely bright and never stops asking questions. By the way, Miss O’Fallon, the nursery and classroom are a bit cramped. While the weather is warm, you might find the gazebo at the bottom of the garden more accommodating for the teaching of lessons.”

  Evleen gladly thanked him, always happy for the opportunity to be outdoors. Later, after dinner, she became acquainted with a quaint English custom she’d never heard of in Ireland: the women adjourned to the drawing room while the men stayed at the dining table drinking brandy and smoking their cigars.

  “Do you play cards, Miss O’Fallon?” Lady Beaumont asked as the ladies settled in the drawing room. Evleen shook her head. Beaumont’s mother feigned a disappointed sigh. “What a pity. Well, I suppose you could stay here and read while we play, but of course if you’re tired you might wish to retire for the night.”

  Lady Beaumont so obviously wanted rid of her, Evleen instantly said she was tired and left for her bedchamber. On her way out, she overheard Bettina and Lydia discussing Cousin Algernon.