The Rebel

by May McGoldrick

  “He is only seven, but has suffered more than someone who is seventy,” Jane said quietly. “And there is more wrong with him than the fever. I think he might have broken some bones in his chest.”

  Jane moved hurriedly to the blind woman as she managed to push herself to her feet. Her hands continued to reach out around her, and she nearly tripped over the steaming pot.

  “Bridget, it is I.” Jane grasped the thin hands in her own. “Feel this…this is the same shawl Rita gave me only three days ago.” She pressed the woman’s hand against the wool and then eased her hold on her, allowing her to feel it on her own.

  Nicholas had seen the tattered shawl when Jane had discarded her cloak. His gaze was drawn now to Maire’s pale face. The little girl’s face had brightened, and she looked alert for the first time. The child moved hesitantly toward Jane. Even little Daniel stopped crying and lifted his head to stare into his sister’s face.

  “Bowie is ill, Bridget.” Jane spoke as the blind woman reached up and lightly touched Jane’s face.

  Nicholas had no faith in Bridget’s state of mind. If this woman were questioned by Musgrave and his men, who could say that she wouldn’t describe Egan to them. It was bad enough that she knew Egan was a woman.

  “I want to take Bowie away…to where I can have a doctor see to him.”

  “Nay.” Bridget shook her head once. “Rita is coming back for them.”

  “I know she is. But Bowie is sick with fever now. He needs help…right away. We have to get him help before his mother returns.”

  At the word ‘fever,’ Bridget took a tottery step back.

  From the other corner of the small room, Maire crept even closer, fresh tears sprouting in her eyes. Nicholas wasn’t certain if Jane was aware of the transformation in the girl since she’d recognized the mother’s wrap. He looked for a way to tell her and then he saw Jane’s hand stretch out toward the girl.

  “I want to take the three of them with me. The children should be kept together.”

  Nicholas’s heart warmed when he saw Maire put her small hand in Jane’s. His gaze was uncontrollably drawn to the woman who continually managed to amaze him.

  “Nay, miss. I don’t want Rita be thinking that I…that I pushed her wee ones out onto the road.”

  “She will never think such a thought,” Jane assured her. “She knew these three would be too much for you. That was why she sent for me.”

  Before Bridget could think of an objection, Jane touched the blind woman’s arm. “I’ll arrange for word to get to Rita about the children. I shall make certain she knows where to find them when the authorities release her.”

  This time, when Jane reached for the baby, he moved willingly into her arms, though his gaze remained on his sister’s face. For her part, Maire once again slipped her hand into Jane’s, pressing herself into folds of the black skirts.

  Bridget mumbled some words about saints and faery folk and went back to the cooking pot.

  Nicholas took charge of the feverish older boy. As he wrapped his coat around the limp body and lifted him gently, the bitter image of the young girl he’d found in the St. James Park on that night just before Christmas came back to him. Bowie was almost as light and as oblivious as she was. Both of them were dressed in nothing but rags. They each seemed like children abandoned to their suffering, though this boy’s situation was also very different. A weak cough sounded in Bowie’s chest, and Nicholas forced himself to shake off the feeling of doom that was afflicting him. There was still time.

  Let there still be time for this one, he prayed. He frowned at the boy’s labored breathing.

  The bright sunshine outside offered a startling contrast to the gloom inside. The brush of the early fall breeze against Bowie’s face made him cough again and bury his face deeper into Nicholas’s chest.

  The baronet started briskly toward his horse, but he paused for moment to brand into his memory the gladdening sight before him.

  Jane had already climbed onto the back of Queen Mab, and the two children were seated before her. She was speaking softly into Maire, and at the same time holding Daniel’s hand and encouraging the little one to caress the horse’s soft mane. There was softness—affection—love in the actions. It occurred to Nicholas that this might be the most beautiful sight he’d ever been blessed to see.

  Jane’s gaze turned at his direction, and he saw her anxious look at Bowie. She then looked up to Nicholas’s face and, as their gazes locked, he saw in her the woman he’d been searching for.

  ***

  Silence hung like a pall over the Morning Room. Seated with her two female guests at a small table by the fire, Lady Purefoy sipped her tea and eyed the French-style pastries tastefully arranged on a small platter. Clara sulked in a chair by the window, ignoring the small plate and saucer of tea on the table beside her. The words of greeting this morning had been brief and perfunctory, and the appetite of the Spencer women scarcely matched their hostess’s.

  Lady Purefoy motioned to one of servants to pour more tea for Alexandra, and glanced over at her daughter, hoping to get her attention. Clara gazed out the window, ignoring her mother.

  Catherine, frustrated with the girl’s aloofness, bit into a pastry that she could do without. It had been the same for the past two days, Clara moping about openly before their company. Not once had the young woman followed her directions to ask Sir Nicholas to go out for a walk—or to give him a tour of the gardens—or even to read to him from one of the books she always kept her nose buried in. Why, Clara had not once tried to initiate a conversation.

  Giving a ball had been a grand idea, but Catherine knew that one night would hardly be enough to settle her daughter’s future. She chose another piece of pastry, but before putting it into her mouth, another idea dawned on her.

  “Have you ladies heard of our legendary Blarney Castle?”

  Their guest turned to her daughter, seemingly waiting for her to answer. But Frances’s surliness had increased daily since they’d arrived. She and Clara made a perfect pair, she thought.

  “Yes, we have,” Lady Spencer finally replied. “On our drive here from Cork City, Frances was telling us all about the gift of eloquence that is rumored to be connected with kissing of some stone in the castle wall.”

  “Yes…indeed. That is exactly the case,” Catherine said excitedly. “I was just thinking…when Sir Nicholas comes down this morning, perhaps we can convince him that he should take my Clara and Miss Spencer to Blarney Castle. I don’t know a young person who would not find it thrilling to…”

  “I would prefer to stay in today,” Frances said quietly. As her mother opened her mouth, Lady Purefoy noticed the sharp look that the sixteen-year-old directed her elder. “I’ve a headache.”

  “Clara, I’m certain, would love to go, anyway. Would you not, my dear?” Catherine pressed.

  Her daughter’s lack of enthusiasm, though unspoken, was very clearly etched in the troubled and pleading blue eyes.

  “Then it is settled.” Catherine turned to Lady Spencer and gave her a reassuring nod. “This is what these young people need these days. Someone to push them out the door and make them enjoy themselves. Now when I was younger, we didn’t need our mothers to tell us how to court a young man.”

  The housekeeper entered the room at that moment, surveying the tea and pastries.

  “Fey, I was just about to send for you,” Lady Purefoy called out jubilantly. “Lady Spencer and I had a wonderful idea that Sir Nicholas and Clara should go out for a picnic today to Blarney Castle. Kindly tell the cook to prepare a basket for them. Oh, and tell Paul it would best if he were to prepare my open carriage.” She smiled at Alexandra’s dubious face. “I know your son is fond of horses, and I assure you my Clara is a most talented rider. Call me old fashioned if you will, but I think a young man and young woman can enjoy their conversations so much more in a carriage rather than on horseback.”

  She saw the housekeeper still in the room, obviously looking for an
opportunity to speak.

  “What is it Fey?” she said curtly.

  “Sir Nicholas has already gone out, m’lady.”

  “Out? Is he out with Sir Thomas?”

  “I’ve no reason to think so. I heard Sir Thomas asking for him when he was taking his own breakfast. When Paul came up, I heard him say that Sir Nicholas had gone out for a ride some time ago.”

  “Alone?” Catherine turned curiously to her guest, who was delicately sipping her tea. “Do you know where he is gone, Lady Spencer? Or when he is coming back?”

  “More years ago than I wish to count, ma’am, I stopped worrying about Nicholas’s whereabouts.”

  “But it is such a beautiful day.” Catherine rose to her feet impatiently and walked to the window glancing outside. “I simply hate to see it go to waste. Don’t you agree?”

  “I do.” Something in her guest’s voice made Lady Purefoy turn in time to see the other woman smiling enigmatically over the rim of her cup. “But perhaps Nicholas is not wasting it, after all.”

  ***

  The two women looked with mutual concern at the ailing child lying on the bed between them.

  “Where did these bruises come from, miss?”

  “On our way here, little Maire told me that Bowie came back just as the soldiers were taking their mother away yesterday. The little fighter picked up a stick and tried to stop them.”

  Jane squeezed the excess water out of towel into the wash basin and gently continued bathing the boy’s face. Mrs. Brown clucked compassionately and tried to remove his tattered shirts as gently as she could.

  “Maire said he was kicked a few times.”

  Mrs. Brown’s ruddy face became even redder as her temper rose. “Sons of devils, they are. Striking down wee ones!”

  Jane swallowed her own anger, but promised herself that there would be retaliation for this. Some of the Shanavests, like Ronan and even level-headed Patrick, had repeatedly suggested that there should be an ambush against the dragoons at the Buttevant barracks for the violence that they were committing more and more freely against the Irish. But Jane had always spoken against it. She did not want to give Musgrave a reason to start searching out the Shanavests. It wasn’t any fear of the magistrate’s successes that bothered her, but the certain knowledge that many who were innocent would be hurt by the fighting that would surely ensue.

  Innocents like Bowie.

  “Has Parson Adams sent for the doctor yet?” Jane touched the boy’s fevered skin again.

  “He went after Dr. Forrest himself. He didn’t want the man tarrying because it was only some Irish widow’s child that needed tending. Ah, no…will you look at that?” Mrs. Brown pointed to more bruises along Bowie’s side.

  “Will he come, though?”

  “The parson will make sure he does,” the housekeeper replied with certainty.

  “The boy’s sister also said that Bowie had been sick for a few days before the soldiers came. Coughing and shivering.” Jane watched the other woman’s capable hands gently open their patient’s mouth and feed him a few drops of water. “The sickness…and then the upset of the mother being taken away…and then the beating. Far too much for one as young as this.”

  The young boy’s throat worked painfully, but he seemed to swallow the liquid.

  “Aye,” the older woman said, straightening her back. “If you don’t mind, Miss Jane, would you go and look in on the wee ones? Cook was trying to feed them, but the lass…”

  “Maire.”

  Mrs. Brown nodded. “I don’t think she’ll take a bite unless you comfort her yourself. She is a worrier, I can tell.”

  The housekeeper raised Bowie’s head on some pillows and pulled a clean sheet over the boy’s chest.

  Jane reluctantly stood up. She knew Mrs. Brown was far more capable than she was in seeing to the needs of this sick child. But she also knew how fragile Maire, in particular, was.

  “Is Sir Nicholas still downstairs, or did he go with Parson Adams?”

  “Neither.” The housekeeper looked up in surprise. “I don’t know where he disappeared to. He carried the lad up here and put him on the bed, and then went down those stairs and out the door.”

  Not surprising, Jane thought. This was surely much more than he’d bargained for. Much more than he’d been ready to commit to.

  But she had no time to think of any of this now. She cast a final glance at the child’s still form and quietly slipped out of the room.

  This was what she was meant to do with her life. And she wouldn’t let herself take a step off this path, no matter what the temptation.

  She told herself she should be glad Spencer had come to his senses.

  CHAPTER 17

  Praying that she wouldn’t be seen, Clara tucked the worn copy of The Castle of Otranto under the blanket she carried over her arm, and scurried past the small grove of fruit trees where she’d accidentally come upon Lady Spencer busily sketching.

  More than anything else, she just wanted a few moments of relief. A few moments alone. One more careless word by her mother, one more vulgar mention of how she could more effectively flaunt herself in front of Sir Nicholas, and Clara knew she would surely go mad.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lady Spencer put down her sketch board, stand up, and stretch. Looking away, Clara moved deeper into the meadow. Though their guests—both mother and daughter—were nice enough people, she simply couldn’t bear to be engaged in conversation right now.

  After breakfast, Lady Purefoy had insisted on having a long chat with her daughter in her workroom. The chat had consisted of a long lecture on how disappointed both her parents were with the way Clara had been conducting herself with their esteemed company. And the scolding had ended with direct instructions about just how Clara should behave in order to win the distinguished gentleman’s attention, affection, and proposal of marriage.

  Clara felt sick at the recollection of some of the things her mother had said. How different now from the instructions she’d received en route to London! She shook her head, realizing how shockingly ruined she would be if she attempted to put into practice most of what her mother had told her. She might as well walk to Cork City and join the streetwalkers along the waterfront.

  And to think that Catherine was quick to object to Clara reading mere books like the one under her arm! And here, when it came to real life…!

  She soon arrived at a favorite spot—a corner of the meadow, close to the paddock but protected by a hedge behind her. Here, with the valley spreading out beneath her, the sun was warm and she could hear the goings on in the paddock and stable without being seen herself.

  Spreading her blanket, she sat down and opened the book on her lap. As she paged through it, Clara recalled the exciting part where she’d left the story last. Isabella had just vanished from the monastery.

  As she searched for the place, she paused for a moment, thinking of the seed of an idea that had occurred to her while she was enduring her mother’s lecture.

  Henry had been invited to the party given this Friday, and Clara knew that he would be here. Now, her mother had made certain that absolutely no one outside of the immediate family and Fey had been told of Sir Nicholas’s rejection.

  How interesting it would be if Henry were somehow to be told…perhaps through a letter. Henry had loved her once. The thought that he might conceivably see it his duty to console her regarding the loss made her tingle with anticipation. And how absolutely delightful it would be to use some of her mother’s suggested methods—not to try to trap the worldly Sir Nicholas—but to seduce the infinitely more kindhearted Henry Adams.

  The very thought sent an excited shiver down Clara’s arms. Without having read a single word, she closed the book and rose impatiently to her feet.

  This was it. She had the way. She’d had a taste of his passion three days ago. He still loved her, despite his hard words. He would succumb if she pursued. And he was far too honorable not to marry her if they were�
�to somehow…find themselves in a compromising situation. All she had to do was send him the letter to start her plan in motion.

  Almost giddy now, she was gathering up her blanket when she heard a horse come up the road. The rider called out to someone in the paddock, and Clara immediately recognized the man’s heavy brogue. The voice belonged to a groom who worked for Henry. She would send her letter to Parson Adams with him. Surely, she thought, this is providence itself at work.

  She stepped through the hedge and walked toward the paddock gate. She would make the letter very short. Perhaps, she wouldn’t even explain anything, but say it was critical that Henry meet with her somewhere…in private.

  Yes. In person and in private. Face to face, she had the greatest chance of success.

  Clara intentionally slowed her steps. She couldn’t look too eager. The man had dismounted and was talking with one of Woodfield House stable boys.

  “Roger,” she called.

  Henry’s groom immediately turned and, recognizing Clara, doffed his cap.

  “Why, Miss Clara! A fine good day to ye. I was just coming up to the house to deliver a letter from the parson.”

  “Perhaps I can take it…since I am here…and I am going that way.”

  The other groom nodded politely to her and walked away with Roger’s horse. The messenger took a letter out of his pocket and offered it to Clara.

  “Thank ye, miss.”

  “Is it for my father?”

  “Nay, miss…I mean aye, miss. Now that I think of it, Parson Adams didn’t say which one of your parents to deliver it to. I just thought to give it to Fey, though I believe there is a name on the outside, is there not, miss?”

  Clara looked at it. “Indeed, there is.”

  “Does it say Lady Purefoy, miss?”

  “I didn’t know you can read, Roger.” Clara tucked it into her pocket. “That’s exactly what it says.”