An Embarrassment of Riches

by Margaret Pemberton

  Bello:

  hidden talent rediscovered

  Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

  At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

  We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.

  About Bello:

  www.panmacmillan.com/bello

  Sign up to our newsletter to hear about new releases events and competitions:

  www.panmacmillan.com/bellonews

  Contents

  Margaret Pemberton

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Margaret Pemberton

  An Embarrassment of Riches

  Margaret Pemberton

  Margaret Pemberton is the bestselling author of over thirty novels in many different genres, some of which are contemporary in setting and some historical.

  She has served as Chairman of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and has three times served as a committee member of the Crime Writers’Association. Born in Bradford, she is married to a Londoner, has five children and two dogs and lives in Whitstable, Kent. Apart from writing, her passions are tango, travel, English history and the English countryside.

  Dedication

  To my daughter, Amanda.

  With love.

  Prologue

  The highly polished landau with the Clanmar coat of arms emblazoned on the doors creaked away from the railway station at Rathdrum and headed towards the foothills of the Wicklow Mountains. Matthew Clanmar looked out at the lush green countryside and a scattering of neatly walled potato patches and gave a deep sigh of relief. It was 1854 and he had not been home for eight years. The Ireland he had left behind him with such anguish had been a country ravished and putrefying, a country held in the grip of famine. The land he had returned to, though abysmally poor, was a land where potatoes were once again growing, free from blight.

  His arthritic arm tightened fractionally around the shoulders of the child at his side. However deep his homesickness for Ballacharmish, he could not have returned there with Isabel if Ireland had still been suffering in the throes of hunger. The sights he had endured before leaving for St Petersburg had been too horrific for him to have exposed to a seven year old. Even now, after her sheltered upbringing in England, the poverty of the Irish would come as a shock to her.

  In a grim way he was glad that it would. It had certainly never shocked her father. As he thought of his recently deceased son Matthew Clanmar’s lips tightened into a thin line. When he had accepted the posting to St Petersburg he had done so with great reluctance and only because the Prime Minister had insisted that he was just the man for the job. No man other than Peel could have persuaded him to leave Ballacharmish when he was so needed there and he had only done so on the understanding that his newly married son would deputize for him in his absence, continuing his self-imposed task of protecting the Ballacharmish tenants from the worst of the famine.

  With the benefit of hindsight it was obvious that he should never have trusted Sebastian in such a way. As he knew to his cost, Sebastian’s attitude towards the local peasantry was one of high-handed contempt and now it turned into one of criminal negligence. Within days of his own departure, Sebastian and his pregnant wife decamped to his wife’s family home in Oxfordshire. In their absence, with no-one to turn to for succour, scores of Clanmar tenants died hideous, lingering deaths from starvation.

  Sebastian’s flight to England at the first whiff of famine fever was behaviour no different to that of many another English Protestant landlord, but it was behaviour that Matthew Clanmar was unable to forgive. From St Petersburg he had instructed his Dublin solicitor to confer power of attorney upon Liam Fitzgerald, his land-agent. Within weeks, imported oats and potatoes were arriving at Ballacharmish and for Clanmar tenants there were no more deaths from hunger.

  He had never seen his son or daughter-in-law again. When he was recalled to the Court of St James’s, his long illustrious diplomatic career at an end, he did not travel on to Ireland. Instead he accepted an invitation from the Tsar to return to Russia as his personal adviser.

  It had been Sebastian’s death which had brought him back to England. The carriage he and his wife had been travelling in had been overturned by a runaway horse. Sebastian had suffered a blow to the head which had killed him instantly. His wife, severely trampled by one of their own terrified horses, had died five days later.

  Matthew hadn’t hesitated. Although he had never set eyes on his granddaughter he immediately decided that he would make a far more suitable guardian than her widowed and infirm maternal grandmother. He arrived in Oxfordshire in time for his daughter-in-law’s funeral, afforded his granddaughter the kindness she was sorely in need of and a week later, her hand tucked trustingly in his, he had taken the fast train from London to Holyhead. From there they had travelled by steamer to Dundalk and then they had travelled by train, via Dublin, to Rathdrum.

  ‘Do the farmers keep their animals in the little cabins, Grandfather?’ a curious voice asked, breaking in on his thoughts of his dead son.

  They were approaching the straggling clachan of Killaree and were passing the first of its one-roomed, mud-walled, thatched-roofed hovels.

  ‘There are no farmers in this part of Ireland,’ Matthew said to her gently. ‘At least, not the kind of farmers you are referring to, the kind you find in Oxfordshire.’

  From the open door of the hovel a large, begrimed sow ambled out. His eyes darkened. Before he had gone to St Petersburg a fellow ambassador had warned him that he would find the bestial conditions in which the peasantry lived, beyond belief. He had not done so. Dire and terrible as the poverty in the Russian countryside had been, it had not been worse than that suffered by the peasants of his own adopted country. He looked down at his golden-haired granddaughter. If she was to live in Ireland then she had to understand the realities of Ireland and not be indifferent to them, as her father had been.

  ‘The cabins are houses,’ he said as their carriage bowled past a handful of peasant women who were staring at them with round-eyed wonder, shawls clutched beneath their chins, half-naked children clinging to their skirts. ‘But you are right in thinking that animals also live there.’

  ‘Animals like pigs and cows?’ Isabel asked, staring up at him in stunned surprise. ‘Not just dogs and cats?’

  ‘Some of the cabins have byres but in a great many, the family pig, cow or goat lives with the family in the cabin.’

  There was a horrified concern in her eyes and he felt a stab of relief. Sebastia
n, even at seven years old, would merely have shrugged uncaringly. Isabel, it seemed, had inherited his own compassionate nature, a nature that had often resulted in his being dubbed hopelessly eccentric.

  He began to feel happier than he had done for years. Out of the tragedy of his son’s and daughter-in-law’s deaths had come an unexpected blessing. Instead of enduring a retirement in which he would have had nothing to do but rattle around his London club or walk and fish alone at Ballacharmish, he now faced a retirement full of purpose. He would educate his granddaughter himself. She would need a companion and he knew exactly how he would go about obtaining one. For a long time he had toyed with the idea of taking one of his tenant’s lice-ridden urchins as a protégé, intrigued as to what the outcome of such a venture would be. Now, at last, because of Isabel, he would put his long contemplated intention into action.

  As the countryside through which they were travelling grew wilder, and as the Wicklow Mountains loomed ever more distinct, he felt his heart almost bursting within him. Because of the guilt he had felt at having abandoned Ballacharmish to Sebastian’s negligent care, he had delayed returning for five foolish years. Now at last his self-imposed exile was over and he knew, with utter certainty, that the best years of his life lay ahead of him. He and Isabel were going to get along famously together. Despite his advancing years he was still a good horseman and he would teach Isabel and her companion to ride and to fish and together they would walk the foothills of Mount Keadeen and Mount Lùgnaquillia. As the long reach of Lough Suir slipped into view he saw no reason to delay embarking on his great educational project. He withdrew a paperbag from his greatcoat pocket and proffered it to Isabel.

  ‘Have a peppermint,’ he said companionably, ‘and let me tell you about the glorious Battle of Clontarf in 1014, when the great Irish chieftain Brian Boru saved his country from invasion by the terrible Vikings.’

  Chapter One

  Maura Sullivan scrambled up through the larchwoods to where gorse and heather clothed the hillside. From here she had a grand view not only of the dirt-road from Killaree, but also of the big house. The short, spiky, upland grass was sharp on her feet after the soft earth of the woods and, after ensuring that she had chosen the best possible viewpoint, she sat down with relief, brushing her feet free of debris.

  Kieron had told her that she might have a long wait, that Lord Clanmar and his granddaughter might very well stay in Dublin for a few days before continuing on to Ballacharmish.

  ‘But he’s been away so long, now that he’s so near, how can he bear to stay away any longer?’ she had asked perplexedly. Kieron had grinned down at her. ‘You’re not thinking Ballacharmish is his only home, are you? Sure, but he’ll be having grand homes in England and maybe even a home in Russia.’

  Maura did not know where Russia was but Kieron’s tone of voice told her that it was even further away than England and a place of great wonder.

  ‘Is that where himself has been this whileen?’ she asked, knowing that whatever Kieron told her would be the truth, and not a made-up fairy-tale to keep her quiet.

  Kieron called Mr Fitzgerald’s dog to heel, uncaring that at any moment he might be seen talking to an eight-year-old child. Maura’s mother was his mother’s second cousin and ever since Mr Fitzgerald had visited the hedge-school seven years ago, searching for a strong boy to help with menial tasks on the Clanmar Estate and singling him out from among the other boys as being the most likely, he had helped the Sullivans in any way that he could, purloining eggs and extra vegetables for them at every opportunity.

  All such offerings were very gratefully received. Fifteen years ago Mary Sullivan had left Killaree with an uncle, travelling proudly to Dublin on the back of a horse-drawn cart. Within a year her parents were boasting that with the help of her English-speaking aunt she had secured a position for herself as a tweeny at Dublin Castle. The boast was not believed until five years later when Mary returned from Dublin to the hovels of Killaree in order to be with her dying mother. Within days, to the stunned amazement of Flynns, O’Flahertys and Murphys, Mary Sullivan was engaged at Ballacharmish as a downstairs maid.

  Her days of glory did not last long. Within a few short months Lord Clanmar’s son married. The rumour in the clachan was that the bride did not care to be waited on by a peasant, no matter how surprisingly accomplished, and shortly before Lord Clanmar left Ballacharmish for foreign parts, Mary was dismissed.

  Her mother had died by then and once again she left for Dublin. This time, however, there was no employment for her at Dublin Castle. With her uncle and her English-speaking aunt also dead she had returned six months later to Killaree, destitute and hungry and sinfully pregnant, her previous airs of grandeur pathetically absent, her only means of support the patch of family land rented from Lord Clanmar.

  Maura rested her elbows on her scraped knees and cupped her chin in her hands. She knew all about her mother having been a maid at Ballacharmish. To her, it seemed too incredible to be true. Kieron had told her that no-one from the cabins had ever been engaged before to work there, that the domestic staff were all engaged via a Dublin agency. But not her mother. Her mother had been different. She had been special.

  Maura gazed down across the gorse-covered hillside to where Ballacharmish stood in its parkland, a white-walled, Queen Anne manor house, incongruously English and elegant against the wild savage backdrop of the mountains.

  Ballacharmish. Even the word seemed magical. The dream of her life was one day to step beyond the great high walls that surrounded it and to walk up the long tradesmen’s pathway to the rear of the house as her mother had done. To be able to peep into the kitchens and the pantries and perhaps even to see into the grand saloon where her mother had once waited on Lord Clanmar and his family.

  She knew all about the splendours of the grand saloon for although her mother hated to talk of Ballacharmish, Kieron regaled her with story after story. At Christmas time the housekeeper had asked him to bring a fir tree into the house and to stand it in a decorated tub in the corner of the grand saloon in the German manner. He told her of how he had wrapped clean rags around his boots before stepping over the threshold and of how the grand saloon had a dove-grey carpet, soft and springy as a lamb’s fleece and of how it covered nearly every inch of the floor. He told her also of the sofas and chairs covered in lemon silk, of the giant mirrors on the pale painted walls, of the massive chandeliers hanging from the moulded ceilings.

  She sighed rapturously as she struggled to imagine such wonders. Kieron had mentioned that Lord Clanmar’s granddaughter was seven years old and an orphan and that her name was Lady Isabel Dalziel. He had also told her of how Ballacharmish had been in an uproar, with furniture being brought out of store from the attics and extra rooms being made ready for the maid and nanny and governess that Lady Isabel would surely be bringing with her.

  A small movement caught her eye. Far away to the right, on the dirt road leading from Killaree, a dark speck was heading towards Ballacharmish. Maura forgot about maids and nannies and governesses and leapt to her feet, shielding her eyes against the June sun. It had to be them. No other carriage would be moving at such a swift pace along the valley floor. The tradesmen’s carts which came periodically out to Ballacharmish from Rathdrum only creaked along and Mr Fitzgerald never travelled any way other than on horseback.

  For a while the carriage was lost to view by a curve of the hill and then it re-emerged and she could distinguish two seated figures, one much smaller than the other, both of them dressed sombrely in black.

  As the carriage bowled along past the foot of the hill the smaller figure turned, looking upwards. Beneath a black beribboned bonnet Maura saw a pale triangular face and a gleam of corn-gold hair. Impulsively she began to wave. The carriage was heading towards the larchwoods and seconds before it was lost to view Maura saw the girl in the carriage raise her arm in response. Shock felled her to her knees. Lord Clanmar’s granddaughter waving at her? Heaven and all the saints, wha
t on earth had she done? Who could she possibly have been mistaken for?

  Mesmerized she waited for the carriage to appear beyond the larchwoods and then she watched as it approached Ballacharmish, as the footmen jumped down, opening the giant wrought-iron gates, as it rolled through the undulating parkland and up the long, winding drive to the porticoed entrance.

  She couldn’t distinguish the dark-dressed figure waiting to greet Lord Clanmar and Lady Isabel as they stepped down from the carriage but assumed that it was Rendlesham, the Dublin-born butler. Kieron had told her of how Rendlesham had instructed all the household staff to line up in the marble-floored entrance hall at Lord Clanmar’s approach in order that they could properly welcome him back to Ballacharmish.

  ‘And will you be there as well?’ she had asked eagerly. ‘Will you be welcoming his lordship home to Ballacharmish?’

  Kieron had chuckled and ruffled her matted tangle of curls with a strong, capable hand. ‘Away with you, Maura. A fine eejit I would look, standing alongside chamber-maids and ladies-maids. I shall welcome his lordship back to Ballacharmish in my own fashion and in my own good time.’

  ‘And so shall I,’ Maura had said, determined not to be left out of such an exhilarating undertaking. ‘I shall be the very first person to see him when he returns!’

  As the heavy oak door beneath the pillared portico closed behind the three minuscule figures she rose to her feet, well satisfied with herself. She had been the first to see Lord Clanmar and, in her own way, to welcome him back. More incredible still, her wave of welcome had not only been seen by his granddaughter, but had been reciprocated by her!

  As she began to walk back down the hillside towards the larchwoods she began to giggle, anticipating Kieron’s amused chuckles when she told him what had happened. She wondered whether to tell her mother as well and decided regretfully that it might be best not to. Although Kieron had once forced her mother into admitting that Lord Clanmar was the best landlord in County Wicklow and as such could be forgiven for also being English and Protestant, the occasion had been a rare one.