A Rose in Splendor

by Laura Parker

  “Are you troubled by dreams now, lass?” she asked quietly.

  “Nae, Brigid. ’Tis only that I’m so confused and I cannot name the cause. Lady Elva urges marriage, but surely marriage should wait until I’ve found the cure.”

  “Perhaps marriage is the cure,” Brigid offered gently, but relief flowed through her with the knowledge that Deirdre was not eager to wed.

  Deirdre shook her head. “No marriage for me today. I’ve indulged my wayward emotions enough for one day. It must be Darragh and Conall’s return that sparks my perversity. I’m jealous, ’tis all. They pat me on the head and give Da their entire attention. There, ’tis said. I should be sent to bed without my pudding.” She smiled again, her soft green eyes suddenly bright with guile “You won’t do that to me, will you, Brigid, not when there’s gooseberry tart for dessert tonight?”

  “Get on with ye!” Brigid chided, giving the younger woman a gentle shove. “Ye’ve not changed a whit since ye were a bairn.”

  Deirdre sobered instantly. “I know you care for me, and you worry more than you should.”

  “We’ll be knowing that when ye’re settled, won’t we?” Brigid answered obliquely. “As for yer brothers, why do ye no slip into the study, quiet as a mouse, and settle in a corner to listen? They cannot mind that.”

  The light of hope flared and died in Deirdre’s face. “Lady Elva expects me to help her choose new fabric.”

  Brigid’s broad pale face became mobile at last. “Och, well, I can at last understand yer fears. ’Tis monstrous hard, her ladyship is, to be heaving such a burden on yer young shoulders. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn next that she’s banished ye to work in the scullery.”

  Deirdre smiled at herself, for indeed she did sound petty. “Oh, very well. I will go up to her for an hour. But then I will slip into Da’s study and listen to the menfolk.”

  Brigid watched Deirdre hurry toward the house, the girl’s ankles showing where she had lifted her skirts. “The lass may be nearly a woman, but she’s a bit yet to learn what life holds in store for her.”

  She touched the tiny flint stone that hung from her neck by a string looped through the natural hole in its center. It was a witch-stone, symbol of the Ever-watching Eye, said to protect one from dreams.

  Every night since their arrival in France she had tucked this stone under Deirdre’s pillow and the child had slept untroubled by the bewitchment of dreams. As a beanfeasa, a wise woman, she knew the words to make the stone obey her command.

  The magic of the stone was losing its power. Though Deirdre had denied it, Brigid saw signs in the girl’s restlessness that the dreams were returning. There were other signs, too, things that only Brigid had been chosen to see.

  The charm’s power was failing. It was an omen, a warning that it was time for Deirdre to return to Ireland, and Lord Fitzgerald must be made to accept it.

  Chapter Four

  Deirdre gazed fondly but enviously at her brothers as they sat at the evening meal. Next to them in their emerald brocade coats with gold brandenburgs and lace-edged cravats, she felt like a dowd in her pale yellow-sprigged muslin gown. Nor did her coiffure compare in grandness with theirs. But about that, at least, she felt less ungenerous.

  Her eyes darted toward and then away from Conall’s hair as she hid a smile behind her hand. Officers of the military did not wear formal wigs but shorter campaign periwigs. As Irishmen proud of their red heads, Conall and Darragh had always worn their own hair curled and tied back with a black ribbon. But tonight, for their family’s entertainment she suspected, her brothers appeared at the dinner table sporting enormous blond full-bottomed wigs. The hair rose in peaks on either side of a center part, then cascaded in a mass of curls and ringlets over their shoulders to the middle of their chests.

  “Do I see you smiling, Dee?” Darragh asked as he saw her amused gaze, which her hand did not hide.

  She lowered her head. “I? Nae; that is, I’m only thinking of a certain biblical tale.”

  Lord Fitzgerald exchanged glances with his daughter, his own blue eyes merry. “Could it be that yer brothers’ tales of derring-do have put ye in the mind of a great warrior? King David, perhaps?”

  Deirdre nodded. “I was thinking of a warrior. Samson!”

  Her parents joined in her laughter, as did Darragh and Conall. “Were you thinking, mayhaps, we should be shorn?” Conall questioned.

  “I’d say by the expensive look of the garments ye’re sporting that ye’ve already been fleeced by the Parisian merchants,” Lord Fitzgerald rejoined.

  As more laughter flowed around the dinner table, a warmth settled in Deirdre’s chest. Perhaps she had been wrong earlier. Perhaps things were not so different after all. She smiled at her father, glad to see that laughter had filled his cheeks with color and eased the pain-etched lines about his mouth.

  “’Tis only our poor attempt to show you what you miss by not traveling to Paris,” Conall offered when the amusement subsided. “Lady Elva could see the sights. And a visit to Versailles would do our country-mouse sister a bit o’ good. There’s nothing to compare with it in my travels of the world.” He leaned near Deirdre, who sat beside him. “Not even Ireland has gardens to compare with those of the French kings.”

  Deirdre shrugged, refusing to rise to the bait. “If Ireland does not have it, then, nae doubt, ’tis not overly worth possessing.”

  “Spoken like a true daughter of the old sod,” Lord Fitzgerald pronounced, lifting his wineglass. “Slainte!”

  “Slainte!” his family seconded and gladly drank the toast.

  “Here’s to a return of Ireland to the safe lawful keeping of her own,” Darragh offered when the first toast had been drunk.

  “There’ll be a din to wake Saint Patrick himself,” Conall replied. “The sound of pipes and drums and the sweetest music of the harp as was ever heard inside Tara’s walls.”

  “Aye, and soldiers the like of the mighty Fian of old. Then there’ll not be an Englishman left to tell the tale of their defeat!” Lord Fitzgerald joined in.

  “Soon! It should be soon!” Deirdre declared, as much carried away as her menfolk. “’Tis time for the Wild Geese to return and fight for their own!”

  “When will you be returning, Dee?” Conall questioned blandly as he set down his goblet.

  “Returning? To the convent?”

  Conall smiled. “Nae, cailin deas.” He winked at his father. “What I’d like to know is when will our fierce warrior sister be setting sail for Ireland?”

  Though she guessed what was coming, Deirdre’s cheeks flamed. Yet, she was not a Fitzgerald for nothing. “Were you thinking of accompanying me, Conall? ’Tis said the land is poorly in need of good stock. Another bull would not go amiss.”

  “Deirdre!” her father exclaimed, taken aback by his daughter’s pertness.

  “Do not scold her, Da,” Darragh said. “’Tis the influence of bad company that’s to blame. The poor lass has been cooped up for four years with the daughters of French aristocrats. ’Tis little wonder she thinks constantly of breeding. Have you not yet found a man for her to wed?”

  Lord Fitzgerald snorted. “None would have her. They fear the sharp edge of her tongue.”

  “’Tis not true,” Deirdre answered, her pride smarting. “Le Comte de Quentin finds me quite acceptable company.”

  “Monsieur le Comte, is it?” Conall asked. “Once he was ‘Cousin Claude’ to you. But of course, he was a mere lad and you were all brambles and petticoats. Now he is Monsieur Goubert, le Comte de Quentin, thanks to his merchant grandfather’s good fortune in landing the only daughter of an impoverished aristocrat.”

  He leaned back in his chair and lifted the cloth to look under the table. “I see the good sisters have put you to the habit of wearing shoes, but I wonder that they left you with the habit of dressing your hair like a haystack. As la Comtesse de Quentin, you will need to do better.”

  Deirdre smiled sweetly at him though the barb stung her. All
her life she had hated her wild wavy hair. “’Twould seem I’m destined to marry a poor but honest Irish lad who’s not so afraid of the English that he fights every battle but the one he was born to meet.”

  The table fell silent and she immediately wanted to take back her words but she could not. Her father’s scowl had returned, his thick brows knitted low over his nose. She glanced at her brothers in appeal but they had suddenly found their dinners fascinating and were busy over their plates.

  “Ye always were a lass to speak her mind,” Lord Fitzgerald said into the uncomfortable silence. “There’s no need to task yer brothers with such harsh accusation. ’Twas I who made the choice to leave Ireland.”

  He indicated the length of the table before them with a sweep of his hand. “Life in France has been good to us. There’s meat and bread and wine before ye, and more luxury than was available at Liscarrol since before that bloodthirsty Roundhead Cromwell set foot in Ireland.”

  Lord Fitzgerald’s face grew fierce when he spoke of the English ruler, for he was old enough to remember much more than did his children. “There comes a time when every man knows he’s fought his best and the day is lost.” His frown deepened as he remembered that dark time and his lips thinned into a determined line. “I’ll nae apologize to any man for what I’ve done!”

  Deirdre stared down at her fingers laced tightly together in her lap. What could she say? I’m sorry seemed so inadequate. Before she could even utter that weak expression of her mortification, she heard Darragh say, “Well, I, for one, am grateful.”

  Deirdre lifted her eyes, amazed that her brother would deliberately make things worse by heaping more coals on her head. Smiling reassuringly at her, he continued, “I am grateful to know that the good sisters of the Ursuline convent have not convinced the lass that all she need do is smile prettily and cozen a man to earn a husband.”

  “Aye,” Conall said, winking at her. “Perhaps ’tis nature’s way of protecting her beauty. As for Ireland, you’re welcome to me share of it, Dee. There’s more to keep me in France than ever.”

  “I see a lady’s fine hand in the writing of that declaration,” Darragh suggested in a lazy drawl.

  Conall shrugged. “There’s a lass or two I’ve managed to keep out of your view, thank God.”

  Darragh’s smile widened into a grin as he turned to his sister. “If ’tis a fighting man you want, I’ve the lad for you. He’ll arrive before the end of the week. If he cannot fill your heart’s desire for a brawling bruising soldier, then none can.”

  Deirdre was intrigued. “Is he Irish?”

  Darragh loosed a guffaw. “Is he a man, you might as well ask!”

  “Well, I am asking,” she persisted.

  Conall leaned forward, his eyes moving from his brother to his father and back. “I thought we agreed to ask Da first.”

  Darragh grinned. “Curse you for a timid soul, Conall. There’s no harm in a visit.”

  Lord Fitzgerald put down his fork, his sharp eyes watching Darragh. “Who is it ye invite that yer brother quibbles at the thought?”

  Darragh leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “What name have the dispatches from Italy been full of lately?”

  “Dillon!” Deirdre responded instantly.

  “Burke!” Lady Elva offered more slowly.

  “Do you read nothing but the generals’ names?” Darragh said disapprovingly. “There’s many a brave man whose memory goes wanting, if that’s true. Think again, what name keeps returning to the roster of battles won and honors received? He’s not a great noble such as Dillon or Burke. Some say he was spawned by the Devil himself. He certainly fights the like. ’Tis not for his piety that some men call him the Avenging Angel.”

  “MacShane!” Lord Fitzgerald rose so suddenly that he nearly overset his chair. “Ye’ve invited MacShane here? Without my permission?”

  Lady Elva was on her feet instantly, forcing her sons to rise with her. “My lord, please!” She turned to her stepsons. “What have you done? Who is this man? Och, never mind. You will simply withdraw the invitation.” She looked pleadingly at first one, then the other. “If he’s not due to arrive before the end of the week, there’s time to ride out and meet him. Offer him some excuse that will save him embarrassment. You’ll do that, will you not?”

  Darragh crossed his arms, his eyes hard on his father’s face. “’Twas time you told us, Da, why you hold MacShane in such disdain when the soldiers of the Wild Geese consider him the pride of the brigade. What is between you?”

  Lord Fitzgerald shook his head. “He’s nae welcome in me home. That’s an end to it.”

  “But why, Da?” Deirdre questioned, her curiosity piqued beyond containing. “Did this MacShane insult you?”

  A muscle twitched in Lord Fitzgerald’s lower jaw as he looked at his daughter. “This is no business of yers, lass. Go to yer room at once.”

  “Da!” Deirdre cried, stung by his reprimand.

  “Why do you not tell the lass the story you told Conall and me?” Darragh suggested.

  “Aye, I’d like to know why you would deny hospitality to a famous soldier, and an Irishman at that,” Deirdre declared.

  Lord Fitzgerald turned a savage look on his daughter. “Ye’d like to know, would ye? And who, I’m wondering, gave ye the right to question yer father?” He reached for his cane and waved it menacingly. “Go to yer room! Go at once, before I send ye back to the Ursulines!”

  Conall’s hand closed over Deirdre’s elbow. “Come, lass.”

  “Aye, go, Deirdre,” Lady Elva encouraged. “I will send Brigid to you with tea.”

  “Ye’ll do no such!” Lord Fitzgerald roared. “As for ye, lass,” he continued, pointing his cane at Deirdre, who stubbornly held her ground, “ye’ll leave my sight this minute or I shall damage more than yer pride!”

  Deirdre flinched at his barrage of words but she did not flee. “I will go, Da, but I think you’ve been entirely unfair!” With an accompanying swish of her skirts, she turned and marched from the room with Conall at her elbow.

  Lord Fitzgerald reseated himself when his son and daughter were gone and swallowed his glass of claret, struggling to control his temper. When he looked across at his wife’s white face he knew he had acted badly, but the name MacShane had startled him. He smiled reassuringly at her. “Ye’re much too lenient with the lass. She’s been so long among the arrogant French that she thinks she’s become one of them. A night without a meal will not damage her overly.”

  *

  Deirdre allowed Conall to steer her up the stairs but she was far from cowed. When they reached the second floor she came to a halt, all but tripping her brother. “Da’s never, ever threatened me before!” She turned to Conall and, blinking back tears of hurt, demanded, “Who is this MacShane?”

  Conall scowled and put a finger to his lips. After a brief glance back down the hallway, he beckoned her toward his room.

  The doors of his apartment opened onto a magnitude of disarray that appeared to have been weeks in the making but had been achieved in the few hours since his return. Two huge trunks stood open in the center of the room, spilling their contents of clothing and papers over the furnishings and floor.

  Ignoring the disorder, Deirdre lifted a map from a suspicious pile and discovered a chair.

  Conall hurried over to lift the remainder of the chair’s contents and then waved his sister into the seat.

  “Who is this MacShane?” Deirdre demanded impatiently. “And why did you invite him here, knowing Da’s feelings?”

  “Patience, lass.” Conall seated himself after unearthing a second chair Instead of speaking, he braced his elbow on his knee, dropped his chin into his hand,and stared off into space.

  In an effort to control her curiosity, Deirdre drove her fingernails deep into the palms of her hands. “MacShane?” she prompted when she could no longer bear Conall’s silence.

  Suddenly he smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a pattern
exactly like his father’s. “I should have known any hint of mystery would whet your appetite. MacShane always turns the lasses’ heads, though he does not seem to hold them in so high a regard.”

  “He does not like women?”

  Conall gave her a disapproving glance. “’Tis unladylike of you to inquire, lass. But, as you did ask, he’s a man, as much as any.” A teasing smile lifted his mouth. “Whose business is it, I say, if he chooses to deny himself the more tender pleasures? I suspect ’tis his convent upbringing which formed his character.”

  “Convent?” Deirdre replied in surprise.

  “Aye, convent.” Conall shrugged nonchalantly but his gaze never left his sister’s face. “Some say he’s the misbegotten child of a nun, but I know for a fact that his mother had simply retired to a French convent before his birth.”

  “He’s French?”

  “Nae. MacShane’s blood is as Irish as his name. His mother came as a widow to France and birthed her son inside convent walls before taking the veil. The lad was reared in a monastery.” Conall looked away with a sly smile. “A priest, that’s what he was meant to be.”

  Deirdre waited five seconds before saying, “Until…?”

  “Until that idiot William of Orange invaded Ireland,” Conall finished. “’Twas enough insult to raise dead clansmen from their graves. ’Tis not surprising that righteous anger sprang a courageous lad from the confines of monastery walls to defend his land.”

  “A warrior priest,” Deirdre said wondrously.

  “A damn fool lad with no schooling in the ways of war and less sense than heart, that’s what Da called him—them.” Conall glanced nervously at his sister. He had nearly given away more than he intended, but Deirdre seemed not to notice. “There were many green lads running amok in ninety-one,” he added. “They were the first to run into the thick of battle and the first to die. Da said ’twas bad for morale—green lads bleeding their life’s blood at your feet while a man was trying to separate an enemy’s head from his shoulders.”