The Rebel

by May McGoldrick

  “Has he?” Clara was surprised by the sharpness of her own tone.

  “Indeed. Thinking on it daily, I should say.” The housekeeper nodded emphatically and opened the door to the parlor.

  The curtains had already been pulled open, and the shutters folded back. Sunshine slanted through the open windows, lighting the spare but comfortable furnishings of the room. A homey, cozy scent of peat and pipe tobacco hung in the air. As she breathed in the smells, a feeling of well-being spread through her, warming her, making her forget the disquiet the housekeeper’s words had caused. She loved this house.

  Mrs. Brown settled herself into her chair by the small peat fire and rang a small silver bell that she took from the pocket of her apron. Clara sat down in the settle across from her.

  “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Clara, but it would have done your sister a world of good if she’d gone off to England with the rest of you this past spring.”

  A young servant poked her head into the room, and Mrs. Brown ordered a pot of fresh tea to be brought in.

  “Aye. As I was saying to Parson Adams this very morning, if Miss Jane were to find an English husband, a good one as you have found, why, the child might just shake off the sadness she’s been carrying all these years. Aye, what she needs is a good one like yours.”

  “Really, Mrs. Brown, I haven’t found myself a husband, English or otherwise. Sir Nicholas is my father’s guest, and he has yet to ask for my hand in marriage. To be honest, I don’t care for people going around and presuming things that may not come to pass.”

  “You are quite right, my dear,” she said, picking up her needlework from a basket beside the chair. “We shouldn’t be counting our eggs…and all that. But I shouldn’t worry. You are so lovely.”

  “This is the baronet’s first visit to Ireland. He might not care for what he sees.” Trying to hide her impatience, Clara stood up and went to the window. In the pretty garden beside the house, one of the year’s last rosebuds bobbed its head in the breeze. “If I may ask, Mrs. Brown, has Parson Adams expressed a position regarding my sister.”

  “Indeed he has. The parson told me, in no uncertain terms, that he does not believe that one English-born noblemen in a hundred—your gentleman excluded—is good enough for your sister.”

  “Is that so?”

  Mrs. Brown continued without looking up. “He thinks most of them are too shallow. And to give him credit, the parson was educated among them, so he should know well enough. And not to bring up a difficult subject, my dear, but he believes once a would-be suitor learns of Jane’s younger years, the average Englishman gentleman would cry foul and leave the poor thing standing at the altar. But I say, find a decent one and tell him nothing. She’s a fine woman for any man, if you ask me.”

  “Well, I believe Jane has no intention of accepting suitors.” She reached up and pulled off her hat. “My belief is that she is perfectly happy at Woodfield House and will remain there for the rest of her life.” She put the hat down on the wide window sill and rejoined the housekeeper by the fire.

  “I’m happy to hear that you feel that way, child, but the parson doesn’t agree with you. He is a very observant man, and he has been watching Jane closely for some time.”

  “Really, Mrs. Brown?”

  “Aye, and if he says your sister is unhappy at Woodfield House, I believe him.”

  Clara held her tongue as the young servant entered the room with a tray containing a teapot with cups, and several small cakes. Mrs. Brown took the tray from her and placed it on the table beside her. Just as she was preparing to pour the tea, however, the parson could be heard coming in through the back of the house.

  “Here he is now.” Mrs. Brown finished pouring the tea and pushed herself immediately to her feet. “I’ll go and tell him that you are here. Oh my heavens, I also need to tell the cook to wait luncheon until Miss Jane and your Englishman get here.”

  Clara watched the round figure of the older woman scurry out of the room. She, too, stood up as a wave of unhappiness regarding everything she’d just been told gripped her stomach. She walked to the window, removed her gloves, and placed them next to the hat. She wished for a mirror, but she knew there was none. Absently, she reached up and tried to arrange the curls.

  “There is no need for that. Your fiancée is not here yet, Miss Clara.”

  The young woman jumped and turned quickly to the door. Henry Adams stood on the threshold, filling the doorway. She saw the gray eyes studying her critically, and she felt the heat rise into her face.

  “Mrs. Brown tells me that you sent your English baronet off with Jane to Buttevant.” He removed his gloves as he entered the room. “You know you are risking your sister’s wrath when you start meddling in her activities.”

  Clara moved to the small table. “May I pour you some tea?”

  He nodded. The breeze had ruffled his short black hair, and his probing gaze only added to her unease. “So how did you manage it? Or, a better question, why send them off together?”

  The cup rattled slightly against the saucer as Clara extended it toward him. “I was hoping for a few moments alone with you…so that we could talk.”

  “What do we have to talk about?” he said coolly.

  “About us.”

  Their fingers brushed as he accepted the cup from her. “We have nothing more to say to each other—in private, that is.”

  Her heart sank, and she fought down the tight knot clawing its way up into her throat. “Please give me a chance to explain.”

  “You have explained, Clara—clearly and utterly. You did so six months ago. I’ve moved on, and there is no point in revisiting that unpleasantness.”

  When she lifted her head, his handsome image was blurred, and she blinked back her tears. “I never knew you could be so cruel.”

  “I? Cruel? Please!” He placed the teacup on the shelf above the hearth and frowned at her. “Shortness of memory has never been one of your failings. But having said that, I must leave you. I find it totally inappropriate to be dallying here with a nearly married woman.” He bowed curtly. “I believe I left my Daily Meditations in the chapel. You can have Mrs. Brown send for me when your fiancée and your sister return.”

  Clara stared for an instant at his broad back as he turned away. Panic seized her, and she ran toward the door, blocking his path. “I beg of you, Henry.”

  He halted a step away. “Clara, you are making a fool of yourself.”

  “So what if I am?” She blindly reached for the door behind her and closed it, leaning her weight against it.

  “You mustn’t jeopardize your reputation this way.”

  “Reputation means nothing to me now.” Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. “I cannot let you go. Not until you hear me.”

  “Clara, open the door.” He took a step closer, and she could see the sparks of temper burning in his gray eyes.

  “I love you, Henry.” The words tumbled out. “Please, you must forgive me for what is past…for the way I behaved before. Those were empty words I spoke six months ago. I know I offended you…hurt you. I was a fool.”

  “Clara, it is too late for this. You have a suitor who has come all the way from England for the sole purpose.”

  “I don’t care.” She threw herself against him, wrapping her arms around him. He stood rigidly as she held him, but she couldn’t stop now. She pressed her face against the coarse cloth of his jacket. “Six months ago you asked me to become your wife. You told me that you loved me…that you wanted me at your side forever. Please Henry, ask me again.”

  “No.”

  “Please just ask me, and I will be yours.”

  “I was not good enough for you then—” His fingers grasped her shoulders firmly, and he pushed her back until he was looking into her face. “—and nothing has changed. I could never measure up to your expectations for a husband. I am still a second son—a poor clergyman who is happy to labor here, away from the pleasures of society. Six months
ago, I was the fool to think I could compete with the advantages you were about to receive in London. Fancy dresses, receptions and balls awaited you. Wealth and fame awaited you. ‘I must marry someone with a title,’ you said.”

  “Please, Henry,” she sobbed. “But you know that wasn’t for myself. I was doing it all for my parents. After Jane—after what she had done to disgrace their name—I had to do something to mend the past.”

  “Jane! Always blaming Jane!” He spat out the words. “I wish you would put aside this pretence of selflessness, Clara. Others might believe you and be fooled, but not I.”

  His words jolted her, tearing the air from her lungs.

  “No,” she gasped. “It’s true. I was doing it for them—and I thought I could go through it.”

  “And now?” He towered over her.

  “I cannot. Now that Sir Nicholas is here—now that I see that he may truly offer for me—I cannot go through with it. I care nothing for this Englishman. I never will. You are the one who has my heart. You are the only one whom I think of. You are the one I want to spend my life with.” She reached up with trembling fingers and touched his lips. “He is too experienced. Too worldly for someone like me. Everything about him intimidates me. But you, Henry…my gentle Henry…”

  She stood on her toes and pressed her lips against his. Softly, tentatively, innocently, she placed small kisses on his firm chin, his clenched cheek, and again on his lips. She kissed him with the same innocence that he had kissed her six months earlier when he’d proposed to her.

  “So what is to happen now?” His hand fisted roughly in her hair, and she cried out as he pulled her head back until he was looking into her face. “So what if I yield to your wishes. I only make a fool out of myself before you again. So what if you send away this suitor that frightens you with his…with his manliness. I’ll tell you. Tomorrow, your restless and greedy nature will again assert itself, and another will appear to take this one’s place.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! For you know that there are no new wardrobes of dresses every season for the wife of a country cleric. There are no journeys aboard. No London parties. No dozen or so dashing rogues chasing you about the drawing rooms of Bath. You would be bored to death, Clara. You would curse me for eternity for leading you into the dull drudgery of a clergyman’s life.”

  She shook her head. “I shall be true to my promise. I shall never regret our lives together.” Tears continued to soak her cheeks. “The love we share will be enough. I ask for nothing more.”

  “And what of your parents? Of the honor that you presumably wanted to restore to your family name?”

  “I cannot think of any of that now. Not when there is a chance of losing you forever.”

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered bitterly, his gaze scouring every inch of her face. “So perfectly young and naïve and beautiful.”

  Before Clara could object, Henry’s lips crushed down on hers. But this was no kiss of innocence, but an unleashing of repressed desire. His strong fingers delved deeper into her hair and his mouth devoured her lips, forcing her mouth open, his tongue surging inside. She gave a stifled gasp and felt her body mold against him. The sudden awareness of her limbs made her long for something more. Her hands reached up around his neck.

  Then, without warning, he abruptly ended the kiss and pushed her away.

  “I understand you better now than I ever did before. Like a child, you only want what you cannot have.”

  She shook her head and tried to move back into his arms, but he kept her away.

  “Well, your ‘gentle Henry’ is gone,” he said mockingly. “He was just a fool who treated you like a rare and delicate flower, but found himself stung by those fair petals.” He pushed her farther away, his voice hardening. “You chose your way six months ago. Marry your Englishman and finish what you have begun. I wish you all the worldly treasures you were born and brought up to possess, but leave me be.”

  In an instant, he was gone.

  Clara stared in shock for a long moment at the closed door, and then turned to the wall. Standing alone, she wept bitter tears of anguish for the one true love she had so stupidly thrown away.

  ***

  Her mount was indeed a fine one, and well accustomed to the soft turf and uneven terrain of the Irish countryside. And Jane was the rider to handle her.

  For a quarter of an hour, the woman led him on a merry chase. Up hill and down. With her black hair streaming wildly behind her, she leaped streams and ditches and hedgerows with stunning ease and grace.

  The pace she set made it impossible for Nicholas to talk to this fiend of a horsewoman. If the ground leveled out into a smooth green meadow, she was sure to cut away to some higher passage where the sharp edges of white rock protruded from the hillside, endangering both horse and rider.

  Emerging from a broad, fast-running stream that left him half a field behind her, Nicholas shook his head at her spirit. He had to give her credit. Jane Purefoy successfully used every racing ploy known to slow him down and create distance between them. She might have been forced to take him along, but that didn’t mean that she had to endure his company. At the top of the next hill, Nicholas saw Jane rein in her steed, and he quickly closed the distance between them.

  Her cheeks were flushed with health, and she turned slightly in the saddle, black eyes flashing, her chest heaving from the exertion of the ride.

  Nicholas didn’t think he’d ever seen a more magnificent site.

  She looked away as he rode up to her. The Awbeg came into view. There, along the steep green banks of meandering river, he saw the buildings and broken walls of an abbey and the neat little village just to the north.

  “You should be able to find the main thoroughfare through Buttevant with no difficulty,” she said, uttering her first words since leaving Clara at Ballyclough.

  “What are those two towers?” Nicholas pointed interestedly in the direction of the village. He was searching for a way to detain her.

  “The ruins of Lombard’s Castle.”

  He noticed the activity beyond it. “And what is being built beyond the town.”

  “A barracks to house troops.”

  “I see.” he raised a curious brow. “Well, that should discourage rebellion, I should think.”

  “With that thought, Sir Nicholas, I take my leave of you.”

  “I thought you planned to visit a friend here yourself.”

  “I do, but she doesn’t live in the village proper. She lives close by, though.” Jane gestured in the vague direction of the abbey. “But the village has an inn and a number of shops and a couple of very fine stables to wile away your time. I shall come after you when I’ve finished my business.”

  She started along the ridge following the river, but stopped and turned sharply to him when he started to follow.

  “That way.” She pointed toward the village. “You go that way. That will take you where you want to go.”

  “Would you at least tell me who it is that you are visiting? Just in case I become lost and in need of your assistance?”

  “Come, Sir Nicholas, it is impossible for you to lose your way. Now please be off. Clara and Reverend Adams are expecting us back by noon.”

  For a moment, he considered being completely disagreeable and trailing after her, but decided against it. With a nod at her, Nicholas nudged his horse down the incline, all the while keeping an eye on Jane as she rode off along the crest of the hill.

  He was a man well acquainted with women of all social classes and types. It had long been a leisure activity to attempt to understand the many feminine moods and needs. For the most part, women liked him and sought out his company. He’d generally expected the same response here.

  Obviously, Jane Purefoy was not to be classed with other women.

  Nicholas reined in and watched her disappear beyond the crest of the hill. Somehow, he had to make her understand that he was not threat to her or her seditious pursuits. At the s
ame time, he wanted to let her know that he no longer had any interest in courting the younger sister.

  He spurred his horse toward the village, knowing that explanation and extrication can be complicated matters at the best of times.

  And these were hardly the best of times.

  ***

  The path from the rectory to the chapel was empty of the town’s inhabitants, and Henry Adams was glad of it.

  His passion had taken control of his reason, and he was already regretting his behavior. He had given way too quickly to his anger. His own personal pride, stung long ago, had possessed his soul far too easily.

  The sun was shining down on his bare head, but he didn’t notice it at all, focused as he was on his own failings. How could a man of the cloth—he thought harshly—possess a character so fallible and weak?

  As he reached the heavy iron-banded door of the chapel, he hesitated, turning instead to the pathway that led across the small stream and up the hill toward the graveyard by the road to Mallow. He would not step into the house of God with the heat of passion still raging in his mind and body.

  Clara’s soft mouth had been so willing. The press of her firm body offered the fantasy of many tempestuous dreams. But her words plagued him. They were words that he longed to believe, but knew not how to trust.

  Henry’s passion for the younger Purefoy sister had taken hold of him a year ago, but the fever of it still raged in his blood.

  Although he had known the family for years, it was Jane that he’d known best from their youth. The two of them were about the same age. The two of them had shared so much of the same outrage over the ill treatment that Ireland endured. When they were younger, they had both even spoken out—with that indignation found so often in the naïve—against the English Penal Laws that afflicted the peasantry and the landowners and the merchants alike. Indeed, despite the gossip surrounding Jane when they were younger, their own friendship had remained true throughout their adolescence and his years at the university. To this day, he knew that she considered him a trusted friend, and he considered her the same.