The Irish Bride

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  He heard a step outside and straightened up even more. The door opened. The owner of the house came slowly over the threshold, her skirts rustling with silk unseen. “Mr. Ferris,” she said, her red lips parting in a smile that showed her tiny white teeth.

  “Mrs. Vernon.” His own voice fair shook with the pleasure of seeing her, his plump black-haired witch. She allowed him only one kiss on her cheek, which disappointed him. “Mrs. Vernon?”

  “Oh, well, there.” She kissed him on the mouth with an “mmm” of pleasure. “Now, no more. ‘Deed, you hardly deserve that of me.”

  Sometimes she would play at being injured so that he could pet and pamper her into a more compliant mood, but there was nothing teasing in her glances tonight. She seemed almost sad, as she poked around in a box of chocolates with one finger. She chose one and bit into it, making the same humming sigh she’d given when she’d kissed him.

  Mr. Ferris gazed at her adoringly. She was on the short side, perhaps not more than five foot one. The high-waisted fashions did not suit her rather waistless figure, but she wore them with such an air that one did not notice the deficiency. She emphasized a pair of full breasts to the point where they all but spilled over the top of the inadequate lace frill sewn to the front. Once, when she’d had a drop too much to drink, he’d put his head on her warm, soft breast and she’d not minded, stroking his temple with her cool fingers until the carriage reached her door.

  Thinking of that evening, Mr. Ferris took Mrs. Vernon’s hand and led her to sit beside him on the settee. “What’s amiss, love? Servants give notice?”

  “Oh, I don’t mind that. There’s always another maid to be had. I’d like a French one but things have grown so shockingly dear I’m sure I could never afford to pay her salary.”

  “If you’d only allow me....”

  “Now, we’ve done that and I’m not saying it again. I pay my own way so long as I’m a widowed woman. If I was your wife, it’d be a different tale.”

  “You know how I want that. It’s all I do want. To spoil you.” He kissed her hand. ‘To adore you.” He kissed her wrist. “To make you happy.” He kissed the bend of her elbow and would have continued higher if she hadn’t pushed him away.

  “So you say. My late husband—my first—used to say to me, ‘If a man can’t keep his word, Lucinda, there’s only one thing to be done with him. Eschew his company.’ He was a fearfully clever clock, my first.”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Vernon. Don’t be hasty. I haven’t told you my good news.”

  “Your lanky daughter’s found a husband?”

  “As good as wedded.”

  “ ‘As good as’ is no good at all to the likes of you and me, Mr. Ferris. There’s many a slip between the proposal and the wedding trip.”

  Mr. Ferris laughed at her wit. Mrs. Vernon only looked blank for she never had any idea of being funny and never understood why he sometimes laughed at the things she said.

  “But you haven’t heard it all. Rietta is certain to marry him. He’s handsome and titled.”

  “Rich?”

  “His father made some bad investments, but their land is in good heart.”

  “Title but no money. You watch yourself, Mr. Ferris, or you’ll find him and his whole family hanging on your sleeve, begging for handouts. What Rietta needs is a fellow who’ll stand on his own two feet and not come begging to his father-in-law whenever he needs sixpence.”

  “I doubt he will. Too much pride.”

  “Nobody’s pride ever kept them from being clapped up for debt. He’ll come to you quick enough, if I know men.” Mrs. Vernon mulled her thoughts over. “And I’ll lay you odds Rietta turns out quite the breeder. These spinsters take to making babies like a duck to water. I won’t be having my husband providing for a passel of brats.”

  “Of course not, my love. Once Rietta’s marriage portion is paid, they’ll receive nothing else—not a penny piece, I swear—until I die.”

  “Oh, I hope it won’t come to that!” Mrs. Vernon turned her big golden eyes toward her guest and Mr. Ferris fancied he saw a little moisture gather there.

  “Naturally, as my daughter, Rietta will receive part of my estate. But any wife I have at that time will of course receive her full rights.”

  “What a head you have for business, Mr. Ferris. I’m quite in awe.”

  “Rietta thinks nobody but herself ever understood a ledger. I’m so glad you are more discriminating.”

  “So tell me more about this gentleman who wants to marry our Rietta.”

  When he had, Mrs. Vernon said, “My! 'Tis a romance. When do you think the wedding may be?”

  “She must accept him first.”

  “Tsk. My father didn’t wait for such a thing with my first, nor did my second wait to ask m’father. The first time, they set it up between them that I was to marry and marry I did. In the second case, we set it up between us that we were to marry and we did it before the cat could lick her ear. I don’t like these long, drawn-out affairs. I’d far rather marry in haste than stand about wishing I had.”

  “I want to marry quickly, too, but what can I do?”

  “You say this fellow is handsome and titled? Depend upon it, the girl’s already in love with him. I would be. Why does he wait?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”

  Mrs. Vernon was thinking, so he escaped a scolding for failure. “He’s marrying Rietta for the money, of course,” she said, following her own thoughts. “So how to bring him to scratch? More money.”

  “More money? But my sweet witch—

  “Double her portion. Send her with two thousand pounds, a hundred pounds a year for her clothes, and a proper remembrance at your death. If they’re married before the end of the month, you’ll add an extra fifty quid.”

  “My love, you can’t bribe the gentleman into marriage.”

  “Of course we can. If he weren’t penniless, he never would have made the offer. Such a managing girl, that one. But perhaps he hasn’t realized it yet.”

  With the languid grace that had first attracted him, she rose and went to open the door to let him out. “You should go home and write to him with your improved terms. Send it by the coachman so that he receives it tomorrow. With luck, we’ll see their wedding in a week and ours the fortnight after.”

  Chapter Nine

  Perhaps it was the sea-coal fire that made the room so insupportable. Or Blanche’s innumerable yawns as she paged through a novel, looking for the love scenes. Rietta’s own newspaper had been tossed aside. She couldn’t seem to rouse any interest in the progress of choosing delegates to the Peace Congress.

  Perhaps the tournedos of beef they’d had for dinner had been off. That would explain the unsettled feeling in her middle. “Blanche? Do you feel well?”

  “Of course,” she said, shrugging. “Though I’m dreadfully sleepy. It’s so dull here. I wish our aunt might invite me to come south, where at least there would be assemblies more than once a month.”

  “At least you cannot complain of having no partners worth standing up with.”

  “Oh, David Mochrie dances well enough, I allow you, but he spoils my rhythm with all the pretty speeches he makes. I cannot attend to my steps and to what he’s telling me at one and the same time. Now, Mr. Joyce only gazes at me so I can dance uninterrupted.”

  She read a little in her book and sighed wistfully. “Listen to this. Lady Windrush has just permitted the duke to enter her bedroom.”

  “Blanche?”

  “For breakfast,” she said, smirking at her sister’s folly. Lifting her book, she read aloud. “ ‘Attired in a costly black lace robe over a silken night rail, she sat before her dressing table mirror while her French maid arranged her hair in long ringlets. With her own diamond-beringed hands, she slid three or four sparkling bracelets onto her slender white wrists.’ Wouldn’t Father’s eyes start if I wore that to breakfast?”

  She sighed again, dreaming of herself attired like a sophisticated widow en
tertaining dissipated noblemen in her boudoir. Her sigh was echoed by Rietta, who knew of such a widow. She very much feared that Mrs. Vernon might wear even more “costly” and vulgar clothing with Mr. Ferris’s complete approval.

  Yet she couldn’t help wondering whether Sir Nicholas wouldn’t like to see a woman attired in black lace and silk. Wearing such things, wouldn’t any woman be desirable? Mightn’t a man forget that he’d not married for love, seeing his wife dressed so alluringly?

  “Oh, I can’t think why Arabella made the fire so hot,” Rietta said, beginning to pace. “This room is stifling.”

  “Is it? Seems quite cozy. She said it looks as though it might actually rain later. I can hardly remember such a dry summer.” She turned over another page. “Oh, spite. I thought he was going to kiss her but no. Just another bitter speech. I wonder if the duke is going to turn out to be the villain after all. He makes such a promising hero but he hasn’t kissed her once. Or perhaps it’s Lady Windrush who’s the villain and the duke is going to marry Rose Devere.”

  “What are you talking of?”

  “This book. Of course, it’s only the first volume. I don’t mind reading aloud if you’d like to hear it. Mr. Greeves says I have a very soothing voice.”

  “Thank you, Blanche,” Rietta said, touched by her sister’s awareness of her restlessness. It wasn’t often Blanche noticed anything not having to do with herself. “But I think I shall go for a walk.”

  “A walk? Now?”

  “I often returned from Mrs. Athy’s even later than this,” Rietta said, smiling at Blanche.

  “Yes, but that’s when Father is at home. I shouldn’t be left by myself at night. It isn’t fair to me.”

  “You’ll have Arabella.” She should have known better than to assume Blanche had been motivated by fears for anyone’s safety but her own.

  “A maid is no protection.”

  “I’ll ask Mr. Garrity to come and sit in the kitchen to support Arabella in case of housebreakers. He won’t mind. I believe he’s trying to fix his interest with her.” Somewhat sharply, she added, “Love seems to be everywhere.”

  With a shawl wrapped about her head and shoulders peasant fashion, Rietta set out to walk, having changed her house shoes for thick boots. No sooner had she stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the warm yet fresh air, than the blue devils lifted from her spirits. Obviously, it had been the stuffy room that had oppressed her so.

  She set off, walking up the rising street. The stars were being chased and swallowed up by racing clouds, yet on the ground there was little breeze. The moon shone bright behind her as it rose, sending Rietta walking over her own shadow. The scent of rain hung in the air like a remembered perfume.

  Rietta knew she had been right to refuse Sir Nicholas’s flattering offer. She hoped he had gone away without realizing how much she had been tempted. Not merely by the thought of marrying him, but by the life he’d shown her today. Lady Kirwan was sweet, mild, and gentle. The warmth that had glowed in her eyes when she’d looked upon her children had warmed Rietta, too. If she’d answered “yes” to Sir Nicholas, she would have had the right to call Lady Kirwan “Mother.” Her own mother was little more than a memory of a sad smile and a weak voice, for she’d been ill from Blanche’s birth until her own untimely death.

  Amelia Kirwan could have been her younger sister, far more open-minded and far less self-absorbed than Blanche. She looked to be the sort of girl who would never be above being pleased. Upon parting today, she had not been content with a cool handshake but had kissed her cheek as well. Rietta could not recall the last spontaneous sign of affection she’d received from Blanche.

  Well, perhaps it could not be expected. To Blanche she was an impediment to her future happiness. Which man would she choose were she free to leap before she looked?

  Then there was Nick himself. She’d liked his smile from the first but now she understood the temper behind it. He stood back a little from life, as she did herself, content to observe and to comment. Love might be too much to ask of him. She could not blame him for withholding what she herself found so hard to express. After all, she had not confessed her true feelings to him for she could not have borne to see pity, or worse—laughter—-in his eyes.

  She increased her pace, as if hoping to outrun her thoughts. The street had leveled off somewhat and she saw another woman walking toward her, carrying two bandboxes. Rietta clutched her shawl more tightly about her and kept a watchful eye on the other woman in case she should prove to be someone she knew.

  In all likelihood, she’d seen the last of the Kirwan family. Nick wasn’t the sort to ask a girl twice. So farewell to them all. Good-bye to Nick, to Lady Kirwan, to Amelia, and even to the unseen and unknown Emma Kirwan.

  “What?” the other woman asked as they passed. “Did you say ‘Emma Kirwan’?”

  Embarrassed, Rietta stopped stock-still. Had she been so zany as to say her farewells aloud? “I may have done,” she said cautiously.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Are you Emma Kirwan?”

  The girl gave a quavering sigh. “I am that unhappy creature.”

  The moonlight falling on her face washed away every vestige of color, leaving her haggard. However, it displayed with perfect clarity the dark bruise at the corner of her mouth.

  “Are you hurt, Miss Kirwan?” Rietta asked, putting out her hand to support the girl’s elbow. Tremors were shaking the girl’s entire frame.

  Emma started to cry. “I’ve been such a fool....”

  “We are all fools at one time or another,” Rietta said with feeling. “I’m Rietta Ferris, a... friend of your brother’s.”

  “Oh,” Emma said, staring at her. “Are you really? Amelia said you’d be quite ugly—oh! I shouldn’t have said that. Oh, I don’t know what I’m doing or what is to become of me. I can’t and I won’t go home.”

  “Come to my house. It’s just down the street. Does your brother know you are in Galway?”

  “No, no one knows. That is—I left a note.”

  Emma Kirwan was shivering so much that Rietta could hardly imagine how she’d managed to walk even a few yards. There was, moreover, a slight savor of whiskey on the girl’s breath, which seemed to impart a wobble to her steps. Rietta went from supporting her elbow to taking nearly her whole weight.

  To add to the difficulty, Arabella’s prediction of rain came true before they’d gone half the distance. By the time they’d reached the door, both girls were soaked to the skin and one of the bandboxes had developed a soggy bulge in the bottom. “I dropped it earlier,” Emma explained.

  Arabella exclaimed in horror when she answered the vehement ring Rietta twisted out of her own doorbell. “Miss Ferris? Sweet saints above, who’s that with you?”

  “Never mind the introductions, Arabella. Help me.”

  She left Emma Kirwan to the maid while she herself, in a perfect passion to get warm and dry, hurried out of her own sopping wet things and into a clean dressing gown. There was another sea-coal fire in her room and she did not find it too stuffy in the least.

  In a quarter-hour, Arabella returned, bearing a pot of piping hot tea on a tray. “She’ll do,” she said to Rietta’s inquiry about their unexpected guest. “I’ve tucked her up in bed with a hot brick to her feet. Seems to me you could do with a bit of that yourself, miss.”

  “This tea will cure my chill. Thank you, Arabella.”

  “I’ve given herself warm milk with a dot of vanilla in it. That’ll settle her. When you ain’t used to takin’ a glass ...”

  “She had been drinking, then. I rather thought so.”

  Arabella tossed her head, the ribbons on her cap flying. “She’s not the kind to drink, miss, nor to be brawling. I’d say he that gave her the glass, gave her the bruise.”

  “Tell Mr. Garrity I shall want him to take a note to Sir Nicholas Kirwan. Can he find the house?”

  “Indeed. Hasn’t your father given him directions this very night?”

>   “What? Is Father home so early?”

  ‘That’s why the chain was up, miss. He come in earlier than I’ve ever known him to return from the place he took himself off to tonight.” She sniffed fastidiously. “But Garrity’s not gone yet to take the master’s letter. Takes a powerful lot more than Mr. Ferris’s orders to move a man from my kitchen on a rainy night when there’s rock cakes and tea.”

  “I trust, however, he’ll move at my orders.”

  She couldn’t ask Arabella why her father was writing to Nick for that would fall under the ban on gossiping with the servants. If Arabella had known, she would have volunteered the information already.

  Emma Kirwan looked like a child in the plainest of Blanche’s nightgowns, the only one she could spare out of the dozen or so she owned. The glass of milk sat untasted on the table, while the girl lay flat and straight as a rail under the covers, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, but not as though she drew pleasant pictures there. She did not look at Rietta, even when she sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Pray believe me, Miss Kirwan, I have no desire to pry. Whatever you were doing, I’m sure you had sufficient reason for your actions.”

  “I thought I had,” Emma replied in a deadened tone. “I thought I was in love, but now ... I don’t believe there is such a thing.”

  “Then the cause was a man?”

  The lower lip trembled but the girl controlled it. She nodded. “I had such grand dreams. He said he shared them. Now I realize he was praying for the day he could leave me. He said ... he said ...”

  “Don’t think of it.”

  “He said I was a millstone around his neck. He said I was so earnest that I scared men away. He said he’d rather take a cold poultice to ... He gave me a drink. I didn’t like it.”

  “Did he strike you?”

  The bloodless hand touched the corner of her mouth. “Yes,” she whispered, then the tears came, breaking the unnatural composure that had brought her this far.