The Irish Earl

by Patricia Bray

  “No.”

  His father had inherited the dream of past glories. It had been the seed that fueled his desire for ever grander schemes to bring wealth and the old glory back to the Kilgarvan name. But it had been a fool’s dream, and had brought ruin instead. Now Kilgarvan would be content merely to hold on to what he had, and to see it prosper.

  He turned his back on the castle and looked back down at the lake. From here the end of the lake could be plainly seen, as well as the village of Glenmore. He took a deep breath, and then began.

  “I did not come here to talk about castles,” he said. “I wanted to show you this meadow. There are over two hundred acres here of good, level land. It has been idle too long. What I propose is building cabins here. A dozen this year, and then another dozen the next. Each tenant would receive twenty acres of land for cultivation. We would offer long leases, with a modest rent at first, and then increase the rent as the land began to yield crops.”

  Felicity gazed around the meadow, her brow wrinkling as if she was trying to picture what he had described. “You are proposing a village similar to what Lord Shelbourne has done in Nedeen, am I not right?”

  “Yes, but how did you know of Nedeen?”

  “Arthur Young described the project in his essays,” she said absently. “I take it you have given this some thought?”

  “Mr. Hamilton has already completed the preliminary surveys,” he admitted.

  “I see.”

  He could not tell what she was thinking.

  She slowly walked a few paces away, increasing the distance between them. Then she turned.

  “Did you invite me here to ask my opinion? Or simply because you need my approval for the expenditure?”

  His silence was answer enough.

  “Are there any other projects you have begun that I should know of?” Her tone was deceptively mild, but he knew she was angry.

  His eyes fell before the heat of her gaze. “The cabins in Glenmore are in terrible condition. Some of them will be razed, as the tenants move into the new cottages we build here. But others need repairs now, before the winter approaches.”

  “I assume you know how much all this is to cost?”

  “Five thousand pounds, or thereabouts,” he said. The words were as ashes in his mouth. He felt as if he were begging.

  There was a long pause.

  “I will take a look at the plans,” she said. “And if they seem reasonable, then I will instruct Mr. Clutterbuck to release the funds.”

  She gave him a sideways glance. “Five thousand pounds seems a high price for what you have described. Is there anything else you have neglected to mention? The fishing weir, perhaps? Or the money to pay the crews repairing the roads?”

  He gritted his teeth. “Those, too, of course. And while you are in the mood to open your purse, should I tell you that Father Harrington has asked for a new roof for the chapel, and that the schoolhouse will be needing desks and chairs, as well as books for the pupils? Not to mention the new cattle byre, which we will need before the winter, to protect the bloodstock that Dennis O’Connor is off fetching.”

  “Enough,” she said. “You can present me with a full accounting of what you propose to spend, and I will review it. You do not even need to speak to me, if you find it a bother. Just leave the list with one of the servants, and I will get to it in my own good time.”

  The tone of her voice was matched by the anger on her face. He knew she was angry that he had not seen fit to consult her first. But what right had she to be angry? He was the one who was forced to beg for every farthing to spend, as if he were a child or a lackwit.

  She was the one who had made this impossible agreement, and who showed no signs of relinquishing control of her purse strings.

  His own anger rose. It was demeaning that he should have to beg like this, seeking his wife’s approval over every pound spent, as if he were a spendthrift or lackwit. Each word was like poison gall, and yet Felicity made the task no easier with her insistence that he explain every last farthing to her. What did she know of Glenmore, or Kilgarvan, or even of Ireland, for that matter? By her own account she had lived the life of a vagabond, never pausing in one place long enough to watch the seasons change. And yet she presumed to lecture him on how best to care for his tenants, a woman who had not set foot on her own family’s land for eighteen years.

  The walk back to Arlyn Court was quiet indeed.

  That night, for the first time in a week, Felicity slept alone. Not that she would have welcomed Kilgarvan’s presence. Indeed, she might have spurned him, so great had been her temper. But as the hours dragged on and there was no tap at her door, Felicity felt a chill seep into her heart.

  He did not love her. He had never loved her. She was just a convenience, a wife who came with an ample dowry. How surprised he must have been to have found pleasure in their marriage bed. But that in itself did not prove that he valued her as a person— merely that he found her comely, and in the fashion of men everywhere, was prepared to take advantage of what she had so naively offered.

  A part of her clung to the belief that there had been something special in his regard for her. Some tenderness, and perhaps even passion. But as the clock ticked softly, and the candle sputtered and died, such thoughts could not comfort her. Whatever closeness they shared in bed could not bridge the gap that had grown between them during their waking hours.

  All her efforts at friendship and tolerance—those were as naught. Kilgarvan was still angry over the marriage settlement, and unwilling to see her as anything more than a source of funds.

  How easy it would have been for him to ask her advice about the new village. Apparently he had had no problem sharing his plans with the schoolteacher, who had surveyed the land. Discreet questioning of Mrs. O’Connor revealed that she knew of—and heartily approved—the scheme. According to the housekeeper, lists of prospective tenants were already being drawn up.

  It seemed that everyone in Glenmore, and in the surrounding lands of Kilgarvan, knew what her husband was planning.

  Everyone except his wife.

  And this was the source of her anger and dismay. It was not the money. She gladly would have given him ten thousand pounds, or fifty, if it was needed. If only he had asked, instead of demanded, in his stiff-necked way.

  Briefly she considered denying him the funds. But satisfying as it would be to cast Kilgarvan’s rudeness back in his face, she could not do so. New cottages were desperately needed, no matter how arrogant and insufferable their lord was.

  All she wanted was to be included in Kilgarvan, to feel that she was part of the splendid new beginning that was being made. But as estate matters consumed more and more of her husband’s time, he shut her out more. He had time for everyone except her.

  Which was why she had been so happy this morning when he asked for her company. And then he had ruined the occasion with his ill-chosen words.

  It was as if he were deliberately trying to drive a stake between them, to keep her at arm’s length. But that made no sense either.

  During the journey from Cork, she had thought that they had reached an understanding, and that this would set the pattern of their days. But what if she had been wrong? What if the journey had been simply an interlude? One where Kilgarvan had felt free to cast off his cares, and to accept the friendship that she offered. And now, the interlude passed, Kilgarvan had resumed his old habits—habits that did not include sharing any part of his life with his new wife.

  She smiled grimly as she realized the irony of her thoughts. In truth, when she had proposed marriage, she had envisioned a life much as the one she led now: a conventional marriage based on mutual respect, and adherence to duty. A life where husband and wife each had their spheres of influence, which rarely overlapped.

  And yet, having seen the possibility that there could be so much more, she was now unwilling to settle for what Kilgarvan seemed prepared to offer.

  Sixteen

  The next
morning, Kilgarvan was nowhere to be found. Questioning the maid who served breakfast proved a futile task, since the girl spoke no English. All Felicity could gather was that Kilgarvan was not in the house, but when he had left and where he had gone was a riddle.

  This was absolutely ridiculous, she fumed. She could not run a house where she could not speak to the servants. But as it was, she was forced to wait for Mrs. O’Connor to arrive so she could relay her requests to the servants.

  After consulting with Mrs. O’Connor on the day’s tasks, and leaving instructions that she was to be notified as soon as Kilgarvan returned, Felicity retired to her sitting room. There she drafted orders for provisions and furnishings from Cork, and authorized the payment of tradesmen’s bills. After some consideration, she also drafted a letter to her solicitor, Mr. Clutterbuck, authorizing him to release the five thousand pounds Kilgarvan had requested. She was still angry over Kilgarvan’s high-handedness, but she could not deny that the money was indeed desperately needed.

  The remainder of the morning was spent in the kitchen discussing menus with Nora Murphy. The cook bristled at Felicity’s suggestion, as relayed through Mrs. O’Connor, that perhaps it was time to expand the menus. The suggestion that every meal need not include potatoes was met with stark incredulity and a muttered stream of invective that Mrs. O’Connor refused to translate.

  But Felicity stood firm, and reminded Mrs. Murphy that if she felt unequal to the challenge, then Felicity would simply send to Dublin to advertise for a cook with experience in serving a noble house. This earned her a glare, followed by a grudging promise that the cook would do her best to comply with her ladyship’s wishes.

  Felicity left the kitchen to the sound of clanging pots and muttered complaints.

  “Pay no mind to auld Nora,” Mrs. O’Connor said. “She is set in her ways, but she will come around in time.”

  “I hope so,” Felicity said, though privately she had her doubts. Mrs. Murphy had glared at her so strongly that she suspected tonight’s meal might be burned, or worse yet, consist solely of potatoes. “After her long service it would be a shame if we had to give her notice. But I have my standards, and if Nora Murphy cannot live up to them, then we will simply have to find her another position.”

  After the confrontation with the cook, Mrs. O’Connor excused herself to return to her duties. With no tasks that urgently required her attention, Felicity decided to take a short stroll outside.

  From the south side of the house, the great double staircase descended from the portico to the first of six terraces that followed the gentle slope of the hill. Each level had a large rectangular raised flower bed in the center, flanked on either side by smaller beds. Gravel pathways separated the beds, and stone steps led from one level to another.

  A few hardy roses still grew in the center bed, but years of neglect had taken their toll. Most of the beds were overgrown with weeds and bracken. Ornamental bushes had grown so large they could no longer be seen over. In places the gravel paths had washed away or been overgrown by grass.

  She paused on the lowermost level, looking back up toward the house, closing her eyes for a moment as she tried to imagine how it would look once the beds had been redone and the flowers were in bloom.

  Then she opened her eyes. It had been beautiful once, and she knew she could make it so again. But it would be an enormous task, and there was already so much else that needed to be done. There were not enough hours in the day to oversee all the improvements being made at Arlyn Court. And what laborers were not currently employed in renovating the house would be needed for the building projects that Kilgarvan had planned.

  She sighed. She had always wanted a place with her own gardens, where she could stay long enough to plant flowers and see them bloom. She had never had that kind of security, that sense of belonging that came with knowing that she would have a chance to see the fruits of her labors.

  But there were so many more urgent matters that required immediate attention. She could hardly ask men to work on ornamental gardens when their own cottages were in danger of falling down on their heads. She could wait. Perhaps next spring there would be time for her to fulfill this dream.

  “This used to be so beautiful in the summer,” a voice said, echoing her thoughts.

  She whirled and saw that Kilgarvan had come up behind her, the sound of his approach masked by the soft grass. He moved forward to stand beside her, his arms clasped loosely behind his back as he surveyed the garden.

  “With time and effort we can make it bloom again,” she promised. “If not this year, then the next.”

  He nodded, but he still looked grave—and tired, with shadows under his eyes that revealed that his night had been no more restful than hers.

  “There is a letter for Mr. Clutterbuck in your study,” Felicity said. “He is instructed to make the funds you requested available to Mr. Perry.”

  “Thank you,” he said stiffly, his face assuming the shuttered look that it always wore whenever they discussed money.

  An awkward silence stretched between them. Kilgarvan turned as if he would leave, but she placed her hand on his arm before he could make his escape.

  “I would like to see the plans for the new village, and to discuss them with you before you begin building,” she said.

  “You may not trust my judgment, but you can trust Mr. Hamilton,” Kilgarvan said. “The project is simple enough, and he has wide experience in surveying.”

  “I was not criticizing you,” she said, wondering why Kilgarvan was so prickly. Even the most innocent of comments was interpreted by him as an attack on him or a slur on his judgment. “But there is no harm in another set of eyes. Seeing the plans will make me feel a part of what you are doing. And I may be able to suggest something that you have not thought of.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do. And there is another thing,” she said. “I cannot be running to Mrs. O’Connor every time I need to speak to one of the servants. I need someone to teach me Gaelic. I know you are busy, but I promise I am a fast learner.”

  “No,” Kilgarvan said.

  “Why ever not?”

  “It would be better for them if they learned to speak English,” Kilgarvan said. “That is why I asked Mr. Hamilton to come, to start the school.”

  “But Gaelic is their native tongue. You speak it. Why should not I?” Was this yet another attempt of his to exclude her from his life and his people? How often did she have to prove herself to him?

  “They can learn Gaelic at home,” Kilgarvan said. “But English is the language of commerce. A man who knows only Gaelic is destined for poverty. Only the lowest of jobs are open to him. He cannot bargain fairly with the merchants in Cork for his goods, nor can he understand the bargains that are offered him. Far better for them all to learn English so they can prosper.”

  She stared at him, unable to believe he could be so blind. “What you say may be true, but that does not make it right. The people of Kilgarvan are my people too, now, and the least their countess can do is to master a few words of their language. If you will not teach me, then I will simply ask Mr. Hamilton instead.”

  “You can do as you like. But then again, you always do as you please, don’t you?” Kilgarvan retorted.

  Then, before she could summon up strength for an insult, he was gone.

  Kilgarvan bit down hard on his anger. He knew he had been rude to Felicity, but it was her fault for provoking him. Lately her every comment seemed to have a double meaning, a hidden barb.

  After yesterday’s quarrel, he had expected that she would refuse to release the funds, or would release only part of the sum he had requested. And so this morning he had spent in the village with Dennis O’Connor, trying to decide what they could afford to do with what remained of the thousand pounds he had received as the wedding settlement.

  Then she had surprised him by giving him all that he had asked for. But his gratitude did not last long, for with one hand she gave, while
with the other she took. The price of her money was her interference, her constant questioning of his judgment, her insistence that she knew better than he did what was right for his land and his people.

  Her words grated against his nerves, in part because he had begun to doubt himself. Restoring Kilgarvan to prosperity was an enormous undertaking. It was not enough simply to fix up a handful of cottages, or to provide a lucky few with employment as servants or laborers. No, what was needed here was a sustainable economy. Enterprises that did not depend upon agriculture, or upon the size of the earl’s purse to provide employment for all. To do this would require years, perhaps even a decade or more.

  And over his hopes and plans hung the memory of his father’s failures. The late earl had not been a bad man, or even a greedy one. Just unwise when it came to managing his affairs. But was his son any better? Clearly his wife did not think so.

  He could still remember the horror in her eyes when she had seen the poverty of Glenmore. Nothing would erase that memory from his mind, nor of the sick shame he felt when he had beheld her shock.

  And so he threw himself into overseeing every detail of his projects, not daring to trust anyone else with this responsibility. He sought advice from Dennis O’Connor and Mr. Hamilton, but in the end the responsibility was his, for good or for ill.

  He felt his stomach clench as he promised himself that he would not fail. He could not. He would spend every last ounce of his energy making right what was wrong.

  The next weeks passed in an uneasy truce. Kilgarvan spent more and more of his time away from the house. Felicity knew he was avoiding her, but when she raised this objection, he claimed that it was simply the press of his duties that kept him away from her. And in truth he was busy, returning to Arlyn Court exhausted every night. He worked himself twice as hard as any of his laborers. It seemed that no detail was too small for his attention.

  Most nights he came to her bed, sometimes to make love to her; other nights he fell into an exhausted sleep, seemingly content to hold her. His presence was a source of comfort and confusion, for Felicity found it hard to reconcile the man who came to her in the nighttime with the cold and reserved stranger that Kilgarvan appeared to be during the day. It was as if the Earl of Kilgarvan was a mask that he donned, and only at night, in the privacy of their chambers, did he let the mask slip.