The Rebel

by May McGoldrick

  Now it was Alexandra’s turn to stare in disbelief at the waiting woman. Soothing! That is what things had been reduced to. Clara was soothing and Jane was not. How disappointing, she thought, knowing deep in her heart that soothing was something that would never do for her son.

  ***

  Rita stared incredulously at the bag of coins in her hand.

  Seamus’s widow and the woman she knew as Egan were standing outside the tiny cottage, a growing breeze riffling the young mother’s tattered skirts. The rebel leader closed Rita’s hand around the bag as the eldest child ran into the yard, the other two children trailing behind.

  “Let no one see it. Spend it only a little at the time and never on the same market day.” Egan whispered. “Now that I know how much you are doing without, I shall bring some clothes for the wee ones and some food for you and the old woman. If I cannot come myself, I’ll send someone.”

  The thatched cottage that Rita and her three children had taken shelter in was half the size of Jane’s bedroom at Woodfield House. Hardly large enough for the woman and her brood, the hut was being shared with an older widow named Bridget, whom disease had made blind in both eyes this past summer. The arrangement worked well for both women at present, but both knew better than to get too attached to it. No ground or shelter was secure. As poor tenant farmers, they knew they lived at the mercy of their landlords’ next whim. The brutal taking of land by the Royal Dragoons for their new barracks just north of Buttevant only added to the increasing number of homeless families.

  Rita had fled her own burning cottage in the middle of night, holding under her arm a Bible she could hardly read and pushing her three young ones ahead of her. Ignoring his wife’s pleas, Seamus had stayed behind to face the attackers.

  Here, as in so many places across Ireland, complete villages of tenant farmers were being cleared. Once the landowner’s crops were taken in, the remaining fields were set ablaze and the cottages pulled down. Land that had been held as common land for generations was now being enclosed. Grassland that had been taken by force and planted by the colonizing English two centuries earlier was now being turned back into pastureland. Cattle now grazed where tenants had been struggling to survive by dint of their hard work and sweat.

  Seamus was killed that night, and Rita had not yet been given a chance to grieve. The stark reality of poverty that was facing her and her children was a fate far worse than the brutal but sudden death her husband had met.

  Now, standing in the sun with the breeze pulling at her skirts, she looked down at Egan’s offering of coins. It was clearly too much to comprehend. Though the money represented the desperate woman’s first ray of hope since the tragedy, she could not cry.

  “God bless ye, Egan. God bless your Shanavests.” The woman’s gaze lifted from the treasure in her hand. “I…I didn’t know how I’d be taking care of us.”

  “This is no replacement for your loss. You take care of yours…and Bridget…but mind that you keep mum. I’ll come back with more when I can.”

  As Egan turned to go, Rita pulled the shawl from around her own shoulders and extended it in her direction.

  “For ye, Egan,” she whispered shyly. “Ye might be needing this to hide the bruising on yer face.”

  The coarse wool shawl had more holes in it than a beggar’s breeches, but the thoughtfulness of the gift touched Jane deeply. She accepted the offering and poured her emotions into the embrace she gave the woman.

  “I shall wear it.” And she did, by draping it over her shoulders and knotting it in front.

  The three children escorted Egan to her waiting horse and even ran after her until she reached the crest of the next hill. Beyond it, she tried to not stare at the growing patchwork of ditch-enclosed fields and remember the lives that had been displaced. Nevertheless, Jane’s mood was black as scorched soil by the time she arrived at the bridge leading to Buttevant. She considered for a moment leaving Spencer to his own devices and heading north toward Churchtown, where she’d heard from Rita that some of the other families had fled. But she had nothing to offer those families now, and Clara’s ploy of sending the Englishman along could not be disregarded without consequences. She had no option but to escort the rogue back.

  At one end of the narrow stone bridge across the Awbeg, she waited while a cart pulled by an ancient donkey finished its slow trek across the bridge. A little old man, looking like some gnarled leprechaun, sat on the cart smoking a clay pipe. As she waited, she adjusted the knot of the wrap at her throat and tried to decide on how she could arrange it to hide her chin and mouth, if need be. She gave up, finally. The blasted bruise was just too pronounced. She wished now that she hadn’t lost her mother’s hat.

  As the donkey and cart were almost over the bridge, Jane spotted the tall, lean frame of Sir Nicholas leading his horse behind. There was someone else following the cart, as well.

  Despite her well-founded bias against him, at this moment she had to admire the air of confidence that surrounded the Englishman. Here was a man who was well aware of his advantages in life. But where the other aristocrats wallowed in them, Spencer appeared quite unencumbered. The man maintained no air of hostility to hide his fears of the lower classes. He seemed to feel no need for cloaking himself in displays of haughty indifference. She had seen the way he’d treated the grooms at Woodfield House this morning. She’d also been aware of him on their ride earlier, looking about with keen interest at the landscape and at the people. He had sharp powers of observation—that was obvious—and it was a quality that was sadly lacking in others of his class. Most, Jane thought, preferred to live in their insulated lives, moving about with blinders on.

  He was one that would bear watching.

  The cart neared the river’s edge, and Jane knew the moment when Sir Nicholas turned his gaze upon her. Their eyes met for only an instant, and as an already familiar warmth washed through her, she immediately looked away.

  This was a future brother-in-law, she sharply reminded herself, totally appalled by the sensations racing through her body. The image in her mind of Clara standing beside Spencer calmed her immediately.

  As the loaded cart went over the last bump and cleared the bridge, the old carter raised his battered hat to her, but said nothing. Nodding in return, Jane pushed her horse forward to meet their guest, and noticed with whom Sir Nicholas was walking. Her fingers immediately tightened around the reins. Every nerve in her body became taut, and she fought the desire to ride away.

  “Top of the morning, Miss Jane. I cannot believe my good fortune today.”

  She made no pretence of returning the exuberance of Sir Robert Musgrave’s greeting. Instead, she turned her attention to Spencer, trying to imagine how well these two men might be acquainted. She considered once again the possible reason for his silence about her secret at Woodfield House. She frowned, realizing that she simply didn’t want to believe that he’d just been biding his time until he could meet with the magistrate. His expression revealed nothing.

  “I must apologize for keeping you waiting, Miss Jane,” Nicholas said as the two men finally reached her. “I was intercepted by the magistrate here. It appears that he was planning a visit to Woodfield House for the purpose of interviewing me. I tried to finish our business and save him the ride over.”

  “Good morning, Sir Robert,” she said tersely. “No company of dragoons to accompany you this morning?”

  “Not on so fine a morning as this,” the man answered, his gaze lingering on the bruise by her mouth. “But to be completely honest, Sir Nicholas, I did have a second reason for calling at Woodfield House…and here she is before me.”

  From the very start of the magistrate’s arrival this past spring, Jane had found herself at odds with the man. The ordeal had begun at a fair in Mallow where, after their initial introduction, Musgrave had been almost belligerent in attempting to make himself her escort. Jane’s refusals of him had fallen on deaf ears, unfortunately. And when she finally put her foot down
—rejecting his continuing advances in no uncertain terms—others had overheard, and word of it had circulated quickly.

  Of course, all of this had occurred before the new magistrate had learned of the scandals of Jane’s past.

  And that had made the insult cut much deeper.

  Jane refused to flinch beneath the man’s predatory stare. “What business have you with me, sir?”

  “I think you know, Miss Jane.”

  “I fear that you are mistaken, Sir Robert.”

  “But you see, I have decided to improve my last offer…substantially.”

  Jane restrained her temper. Having seen Queen Mab in passing at the Buttevant Horse Fair this past July—and having observed Jane’s attachment to the horse—the magistrate had suddenly developed a keen desire to acquire the animal. Since then, he had been pressing to purchase the horse, claiming he wanted Mab to breed with his own prize stallions. Feeling Jane’s resistance to sell, Sir Robert had made an offer to Sir Thomas for the purchase of the mare.

  Naturally, Jane had been irate. Though it was her horse, there was no telling what her father might do. Sir Thomas, however, had apparently not been particularly inclined to satisfy the whim of the new magistrate—a man he had openly called a fop before the family—for he had bluntly declined the offer.

  “I have learned my lesson, Miss Jane. I now know that it is wiser to talk of purchasing your fine mare with you—the person who obviously has the final say.”

  Sir Robert’s words smacked more of condescension than humility. Even as she considered this, she watched the confident smile steal across his face as he let his gaze travel the length of her before coming to rest again on her bruised mouth.

  “I would have been far more comfortable discussing with Sir Thomas such decidedly earthy activities as mounting, coupling, and breeding…”

  “I shall take you at your word on that, Sir Robert.”

  His eyes narrowed at her insinuation, but she didn’t care. She was tired of the sexual innuendo that the magistrate insisted on weaving lately into his conversations with her. Always—at the edges of his words, in the inflection of his voice, in the look in his eye—she found his sly intimations.

  “But before we get to that, miss, I am most curious to know how you came by such a nasty bruise to your lovely face. Indeed, your lips are...”

  “Accidents happen, sir. This bruise is none of your concern. But if you have any thoughts of making another offer for my horse, the answer is the same. She is not for sale.”

  He nudged his horse a step forward, until his boots brushed against her own. Mab stood firm, and Jane too refused to be intimidated. She patted the horse’s neck.

  “But you haven’t even heard the new offer.”

  “The answer is the same.” She drawled each word as if she were speaking to a small child. “And I beg that you not make this the source of any further unpleasantness.”

  “I let it rest for now. But about the bruis...”

  “And now, sir, if you will forgive us, Reverend Adams is expecting us.”

  She wheeled Mab away from the magistrate and found herself looking into stern face of Spencer. The murderous glare that the man was directing toward Musgrave somehow pleased her.

  “I fear that I cannot allow you to go, just yet. Accidents are my concern,” Musgrave called out, turning his horse, as well. “Especially when they happen to a charming damosel that I have sworn to protect.”

  “Sir, I am no damosel, and I have never needed your protection.”

  “Say what you will.” The man’s dark eyes narrowed—his gaze focusing more on her mouth. “But it is my responsibility to tame all rebelliousness in Cork…and that might arguably include solving the mystery of how and why someone like you should sustain such violence to her face.”

  Clara had been right. The excuse she’d used the day before would only make matters worse and draw the magistrate’s suspicions. But her mind was empty of any other explanations.

  “I am responsible for the condition of her face.”

  Jane whirled about to look at Spencer.

  Musgrave’s attention focused on the visitor, as well. “Is that so, Sir Nicholas?”

  “The kind lady is simply trying to protect my reputation, I fear. A clumsy accident in the stables yesterday, and one for which I must bear total blame.”

  “I don’t think that Sir Robert—” she started, uncertain of what was to come or what she could say.

  “The magistrate—” the Englishman cut her off, “—strikes me as an understanding man. Indeed, he knows that accidents do happen. The fact is, sir, I pushed open the upper half of one of the stable doors, not knowing Miss Purefoy was approaching on the other side. It was a grievous mistake, but she has been very gracious in not embarrassing me before her family.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you…?”

  “I mean exactly what I have told you.”

  Spencer turned to Jane, who was having some difficulty hiding her surprise. The tingling warmth that spread through her as his blue eyes met hers briefly did nothing to help, either.

  The magistrate yanked at his mount’s bridle. “It would appear, sir, that you had an exceedingly busy day yesterday. Single handedly rescuing a clergyman from a horde of outlaws, unhorsing their leader, and then this extensive damage. I just wonder what are the chances of…” The words trailed off, but the suggestion hung in the air.

  With deliberate slowness, Spencer removed one of his gloves. “From the tone of your words, sir, it would appear that you have some difficulty accepting statements that are conveyed to you. I hope I am mistaken.”

  The magistrate’s stare locked with that of the baronet for a long, tense moment.

  “My deepest apologies to you and to Miss Purefoy,” Musgrave said finally, bowing with cool courtesy. “One’s duty to the Crown can make one jump at shadows sometimes, I’m afraid. My best to your family, Miss Jane.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Thank you.”

  The words were just whisper in the wind, but Nicholas heard them nonetheless.

  As they topped the next hill, leaving the river valley—and the magistrate—behind them, he glanced over at Jane but did not respond. His anger still gnawed at him, but he was pleased to have her finally riding with him, rather than leading him all over the countryside in another merry game of “fox and hounds.”

  “Is he always so insolent?”

  “Each time I meet him, it seems to get worse.” It was obvious that she was still feeling the effects of the exchange. “But I understand that many of the English gentry find him quite accommodating.”

  “So he is impudent only when he chooses to be.”

  “And when he has considered the social rank of the person he is dealing with.” She gave him a pleased look. “I believe you intimidated him.”

  Nicholas didn’t say it, but he wished he’d done more.

  He had felt Sir Robert’s eyes on their backs as they rode away from Buttevant. Not that he particularly gave a damn. By ‘sblood, he’d come damned close to challenging the unprincipled dog for his treatment of her.

  “I admire your restraint,” he said. The simply spoken compliment earned him a warm smile. “Despite your agitation, you never lost your temper.” Or cursed at him in Gaelic, he silently finished.

  “It might sound like cowardice, but it is not. I prefer not to draw any undue attention to myself, especially from someone like him.”

  She didn’t have to explain more, for Nicholas understood her. Her practiced self-restraint was due to her covert activities with the Shanavests.

  She moved in front of him through a narrow passage at the crest of a hill. Talking with Jane was already settling his frame of mind. He hoped that he had the same effect for her.

  “I should have insisted on coming along on your visit to your friend.”

  She half turned in the saddle. “I don’t believe she is one whom you might generally find in your circle of acquaintances.”

>   “I shan’t correct you on what you do not know. But I will say that anything would have been preferable to hanging about Buttevant and consorting with some bloody government official.”

  “Better you than I, sir.”

  He smiled and noticed for the first time the ragged wrap she had around her shoulders. “I see you have found a scarf to replace your long lost hat.”

  She touched the wool on her shoulder as he came alongside her. “Very observant. It is a gift, and it came from a woman who, I know, valued it highly. Aside from her children, it may have been her most prized possession.”

  He watched the way she touched the wool again as if it were made of the finest silk. The simple gesture revealed another layer of this woman whom he was finding most fascinating.

  They rode along for a few moments, both lost in their own thoughts. Nicholas broke the silence.

  “Despite the little unpleasantness at the bridge, this has been a most enjoyable day. I owe you my sincere thanks for your insistence to have me come along.”

  When she turned her gaze on him again, Nicholas was amazed at the jolt of awareness that ran through him.

  She stared at him for another lengthy moment and then a bubble of laughter escaped her. Delighted by the transformation in her, he joined in. When she laughed, Jane Purefoy threw off the sadness that hung over her like a cloud. Something else took its place. Something free and full of life. She was attractive to the point of being truly stunning.

  “Insistence that you come along?” She shook her head, repeating what he’d said. “Sir Nicholas, you speak as if you heard not a word that passed between my sister and me.”

  “I admit hearing nothing of what was a private conversation. But you must have been agreeable, otherwise I’m sure I would not be riding with you at this moment.”

  She shook her head good-naturedly. “Sir, you know quite well that I was not given a choice. But now that you mention it, I believe you must have been in on this entire scheme.”