The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  That afternoon, Peter came to the gazebo alone, without Cromwell. “My dog is sick,” he said, his pale face strained. “He’s awfully sick and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Let’s go see him,” said Evleen. Together they walked to the kennel where she found the Border collie lying limp on the ground, panting heavily. Obviously the dog was in great distress. She suspected it did not have long to live.

  Peter sank beside him, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Please don’t die, Cromwell,” he cried in a voice that nearly broke her heart. He gazed with pleading eyes at Evleen. “Isn’t there something you can do to save him?”

  She thought long and hard. Yes, of course there was something she could do, but she had promised never to use her magic again.

  But on the other hand . . .

  What would Peter do without his faithful friend who followed him wherever he went and offered nothing but boundless loyalty and love? The poor little boy had suffered a great loss when his mother died. Now Cromwell, too?

  Evleen took the boy’s hand. “Come along, Peter, there’s someone I would like you to meet.”

  Peter stood next to her in the gazebo. When she rubbed the blue pebble, Merlin appeared before them. “I see you brought the boy,” he said to Evleen.

  Peter gazed in wonder. One moment he’d seen a black raven sitting on a tree limb. The next, a bearded old man seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. “Are you the wizard Merlin who advised King Arthur?” he asked in an awed tone.

  “Indeed, I am, son,” Merlin answered. “But I have been around long before King Arthur and his court.”

  “Evleen says you can help me.” Peter told the magician how much he loved his dog, Cromwell, and would do anything to save him. When he finished, Merlin smiled down at the boy. “Go back to the kennel, son, and see how Cromwell is faring.”

  Evleen watched Peter dart eagerly away. “You have my deepest thanks,” she said to Merlin.

  “I am happy to oblige, but do you think it wise to break your promise?”

  “It’s never wise to break a promise, nor is it wise to allow a child to suffer needlessly.”

  Merlin shook his head in sympathy. “You’re a compassionate woman, Evleen, not deserving of the fate that’s been handed you. Why don’t you allow me to—?”

  “No! I broke my promise once, but it’s not likely I shall do it again. As for casting a spell over Lord Beaumont, I absolutely forbid it. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course.” The image of Merlin began to fade. “Until we meet again.” The next instant, a black raven spread its wings and silently glided towards the sky.

  Evleen heard both a sudden cry and a gasp behind her. Dreading what she would find, she turned. There stood Lydia and Bettina, both staring at her with wide-eyed horror.

  With a shaking hand, Bettina pointed to the spot where Merlin had stood. “He . . . he’s gone! Just disappeared . . . and the raven was there. I don’t know where he went. It was like magic.”

  “It was magic.” Both triumph and scorn blazed in Lydia’s eyes as she addressed Evleen. “You’re a sorceress, just as I suspected all along. Now I have proof of it.”

  Evleen stood mute. How could she defend herself when, in essence, what Lydia said was true? Finally she spread her palms wide. “For Peter’s sake, couldn’t you forget what you saw? It will never happen again, I assure you.”

  “Absolutely not! As far I am concerned, you will never see Peter again. Come, Bettina.” Lydia took her future sister-in-law’s arm. “We must go tell Mama immediately that my brother has allowed a sorceress to live in our home.”

  As they left, a joyous Peter came running through the garden, Cromwell bounding along behind him. It was worth it. Evleen knelt to put her arms around her happy young pupil and receive a lick on the face from an ecstatic Cromwell.

  Alone in the drawing room with Lady Beaumont, Evleen sat stiff and straight in her chair, expecting the worst. Her ladyship sat across, lips compressed, nose quivering with suppressed rage. “I am appalled,” she began. “Both Lydia and Bettina saw you engaging in your black magic, or whatever you call it. Were they wrong? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Not exactly wrong, your ladyship. But you see, I—”

  “I shall not tolerate a sorceress in my home!” Lady Beaumont’s anger had turned into scalding fury. She leaped from her chair and started pacing. “I shall wait for my son’s return. He must make the final decision. Meantime, you are relieved of your governess duties.”

  Her heart sank. “Not teach Peter? But he’s been making such good progress and I—”

  “I don’t want you anywhere near my grandson. To that end, I am moving you to the servants’ floor. You will no longer be welcome in our dining room. You will take your meals in your room. I don’t want to lay eyes on you until Richard returns for his wedding, at which time I shall request he throw you out of this house, which you well deserve.” She pulled herself up, one quivering mass of indignation. “I never wanted you here in the first place. And don’t expect my son will side with you. In this matter he will do as I say.”

  Any further explanation would have been useless. Evleen arose from her chair, determined to maintain her dignity if nothing else. “As you wish, Lady Beaumont.” She left the room, head held high, thankful she’d been able to choke back her tears.

  In the days before the return of Lord Beaumont, Evleen spent most of her time in her tiny room on the fourth floor. With its lumpy bed, battered chest and cold, bare floor, the room in no way compared with the luxurious bedchamber she’d been forced to vacate. But in her despair she hardly noticed. She spent her time reading, or trying to. How could she concentrate on a book when thoughts of Beaumont’s passionate kiss constantly crept into her mind, when she was full of concern about Peter, who she knew must miss her terribly, just as she missed him? Was he keeping up with his lessons? Had they found a new governess? The servants kept their distance. Not one member of the family talked to her any more, so she had no way of knowing.

  As Beaumont’s wedding day approached, the sounds of an increasingly busy household getting ready reached her ears. The wedding itself would take place in the nearby village church. The reception, a glittering affair with 200 expected guests, was to be held at Chatfield Court.

  One sound made her cringe: Bettina’s giddy laughter often wafted up to the fourth floor, reminding Evleen that the feather-brained young woman would soon become Beaumont’s bride.

  Lord Beaumont returned the day before the wedding. In her tiny room, Evleen was miserably wondering if she would even be allowed to speak to him again when a knock sounded on her door. She thought it must be one of the servants, but to her astonishment, Beaumont stood before her. She drew in her breath. “What are you doing here? I’m sure your mother would not approve.”

  “I am not concerned with what Mama thinks,” he answered gruffly, shoving his way past her. “I must talk to you.”

  He sat on the room’s one rickety wooden chair. She sat on the bed. “There’s nothing more to say,” she said. “I’m sure your mother has informed you of all you need to know.”

  Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Is it true? Are you indeed a sorceress?”

  She thought a moment. If she told him the truth, he would doubtless be appalled, as well as angry, thinking she’d deceived him. But her forthright nature decreed she could not do otherwise than be completely honest. She looked him in the eye. “I don’t think of myself as a sorceress, but yes, I have certain magic powers. I have only used them once while here in England and wasn’t planning to use them again. But—”

  To her surprise, Richard burst into laughter. “You know magic? But that’s priceless!”

  In amazement she asked, “But aren’t you angry? Aren’t you frightened I might cast some sort of evil spell on you?”

  “Would you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, then, I have nothing to worry about.”

  She pro
tested, “But your mother is horrified, and very angry. She can hardly wait to get rid of me.”

  Beaumont’s laughter died. He gazed around the tiny room and frowned. “You have been treated abominably. I shall see you are moved immediately.”

  “Stop,” she said with a raise of her hand. “Your mother is right. It’s best I leave Chatfield Court as soon as possible. Better for both of us.”

  A look of anguish crossed his face. “I love you, Evleen. Those days I spent in London made clear to me how empty my life will be without you.” He stood, pulled her to her feet and wrapped her in his arms. “You don’t have to find another position,” he whispered in her ear. “I could set you up in London. You would never have to want for anything. You could—”

  “I will not be a kept woman!” She pushed away from him.

  “Of course.” He swallowed hard. “I am so sorry, Evleen. I should have known you would never allow your reputation to be compromised. It’s just . . . I love you so much. The thought of spending the rest of my life without you is an agony.”

  “I feel the same, but what can we do?”

  “Nothing. Honour binds us both.” Beaumont took up her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of it. “Goodbye, my love, my dearest love. I shall remember you always.”

  He left then, leaving her to sit in her room and contemplate the lonely years that lay ahead. She knew they’d be lonely because she would never find another man like Richard Beaumont, and she would never settle for less.

  The next morning, two piercing screams awoke Evleen from her sleep. They were screams so loud, so terrorizing, she leaped from her bed. Was the house on fire? Had someone been murdered? She flung her robe over her nightgown. Joining the alarmed-looking servants who had also heard the screams, she rushed downstairs to discover bewildered wedding guests, still in their night clothes, milling about, all looking for the source of the curdling shrieks.

  When someone said they appeared to have come from the drawing room, Evleen, along with guests and servants, crowded inside, where she saw a strange sight indeed. Bettina’s mother, the renowned Duchess of Derbyshire, lay in a swoon on the sofa, a letter clutched in her hand. A maid held smelling salts under the Duchess’ nose. Lydia knelt beside her, waving a fan. Lady Beaumont looked on, her face so white and drawn Evleen thought she, too, might swoon at any moment.

  “What is going on here?” Lord Beaumont, half dressed in breeches and a white shirt open at the throat, entered the room. “Mama, you don’t look well. You had better sit down and tell me what’s happening.”

  “What’s going on is beyond belief,” Lady Beaumont said in a voice that rose to near hysteria. She plucked the letter from the Duchess’ fingers and handed it to her son. “It’s a letter from Bettina. Read it.”

  With a curious frown Beaumont took the letter and began to read aloud.

  Dearest Mama,

  It is with deep regret I am cancelling my wedding to Lord Beaumont. I cannot marry him under any circumstances because I have fallen madly, passionately in love with Algernon Kent. Please don’t follow me. By the time you receive this, my dearest Algernon and I will be well on our way to Gretna Green, Scotland, to be married.

  Know that I deeply regret the sorrow this must cause you, as well as Lord Beaumont—

  Bettina

  “Oh, dear God!” Lady Beaumont’s legs buckled. Her son caught her and helped her into a chair. “There won’t be a wedding?” the distraught woman cried. “I cannot believe this is happening!”

  “It would appear that it is,” Beaumont equitably replied. He looked over at the Duchess whose eyelids were fluttering. “I shall go after them, of course. Perhaps it’s not too late.”

  “Don’t bother. That ungrateful girl!” The Duchess sat up straight, waving the smelling salts away. “The butler told me they left last night. There is no way in the world you could catch them now, nor would I wish you to. Algernon Kent? I cannot believe it!” She exchanged incredulous glances with Lady Beaumont and Lydia. “How could my Bettina fall in love with the most loathsome man in the world? I apologize for my fickle daughter, Lord Beaumont. You must be devastated! Heartbroken!”

  Evleen watched, secretly amused, as Beaumont placed a properly sombre expression on his face and make a gracious little bow. “Love works in mysterious ways, your grace. I shall do my best to contain my sorrow. Meanwhile, I want you to know that despite Bettina’s shocking defection, I forgive her and wish her all the happiness in the world.” He caught Evleen’s eye from across the room. In the fleeting moment their eyes met, he sent a message that contained a mixture of astonishment, vast relief, and, best of all, his undying love and joy that at last they could be together.

  Her heart full of gratitude, Evleen turned and left. Life was wonderful again! With joyous steps, she climbed the stairs to her room. Richard was not going to marry Bettina. Such a miracle! But how in the world could the silly girl possibly have fallen in love with the likes of Algernon Kent? Hadn’t she said she loathed him?

  An astounding thought struck her. Could Merlin possibly have had a hand in this? But no, it wasn’t possible. The wise old wizard had promised he would not cast a spell.

  When she stepped into her room, she stopped and gasped. A black feather lay on her pillow. From Merlin? Who else could it be from? Why the feather? What message did it convey?

  She picked up the feather and went to her window. For a long time, she stood clutching it in her hand. Finally, as she knew it would, the message came clear. Of course! Merlin had promised he would not cast a spell on Lord Beaumont. And he hadn’t. He had kept his promise. But he had not promised to refrain from putting a spell on poor Bettina.

  “Why, Merlin, you old rascal,” she said aloud and started to laugh. “What kind of spell did you use to make a woman fall in love with Algernon? I’d wager it was the strongest spell you had.”

  She touched the blue pebble. No more magic from now on. Absolutely not. Tomorrow she would throw the pebble into the nearby creek.

  But then again . . . perhaps she should think about it first. No need to rush.

  The Ballad of Rosamunde

  Claire Delacroix

  Galway, Ireland – April, 1422

  The hour was late and the tavern was crowded. Padraig sat near the hearth, watching the firelight play over the faces of the men gathered there. The ale launched a warm hum within him, the closest he was ever likely to be to the heat of the Mediterranean sun again.

  He should have gone south, as Rosamunde had bidden him to do. He should have sold her ship and its contents, as she had instructed him. Galway was as far as he had managed to sail from Kinfairlie – and he had only come this far because his crew had compelled him to leave the site of disaster.

  Where Rosamunde had been lost forever.

  Instead he returned home, to his mother’s grave and the tavern run by his sister.

  Padraig enjoyed music, always had, and song was the only solace he found in the absence of Rosamunde’s company. He found his foot tapping and his cares lifting as a local man sang of adventure.

  “A song!” someone cried when one rollicking tune came to an end. “Who else has a song?”

  “Padraig!” shouted his sister. She was a pretty woman, albeit one who tolerated no nonsense. Padraig suspected there were those more afraid of her than her husband. “Sing the sad one you began the other night,” she entreated.

  “There are others of better voice,” Padraig protested.

  The company roared a protest in unison, and so he acquiesced. Padraig sipped his ale then pushed to his feet to sing the ballad of his own composition.

  “Rosamunde was a pirate queen

  With hair red gold and eyes of green.

  A trade in relics did she pursue,

  Plus perfume and silks of every hue.

  Her ship’s hoard was a rich treasury,

  Of prizes gathered on every sea.

  But the fairest gem in all the hold

  Was Rosamunde, beau
teous and bold.

  Her blade was quick, her foresight sharp,

  She conquered hearts in every port.”

  “Ah!” sighed the older man across the table from Padraig. “There be a woman worth the loss of one’s heart.”

  The company nodded approval and leaned closer for the next verse. Even his sister stopped serving and leaned against the largest keg in the tavern, smiling as she watched Padraig.

  “She vanquished foes on every sea

  But lost her heart to a man esteemed.

  Surrender was not her nature true

  But bow to his desires, she did do.

  She left the sea to become his bride,

  But in her lover’s home, Rosamunde died.

  The man she loved was not her worth . . .”

  Padraig faltered. His compatriots in the tavern waited expectantly, but he could not think of a suitable rhyme. He remembered the sight of Ravenmuirs’ cliffs and caverns collapsing, his men holding him back so he wouldn’t risk his life to save Rosamunde. He put down his tankard with dissatisfaction, singing the last line again softly. It made no difference. He had composed a hundred rhymes, if not a thousand, but this particular tale caught in his throat like none other.

  “Her absence was to all a dearth,” his sister suggested.

  Her husband snorted. “You’ve no music in your veins, woman, that much is for certain.”

  “The son she bore him died at birth,” the old man across the table suggested.

  Padraig shook his head and frowned. “There was no child.”

  “There could be,” the old man insisted. “’Tis only a tale, after all.” The others laughed.

  But this was not only a tale. It was the truth. Rosamunde had existed, she had been a pirate queen, she had been both beauteous and bold.

  And she had been lost forever, thanks to the faithlessness of the man to whom she had surrendered everything.

  Padraig mourned that truth every day and night of his life.