The Ground She Walks Upon

by Meagan Mckinney

  Other worries assaulted her. How would she present herself? How would she ask about her father? She had tried to think of these things during the trip, but Trevallyan had presented so many distractions, she hadn’t had time to properly think. Now she wished she had given it all more thought. As she walked to the French, gilt-encrusted doors, she remembered the old saying, “Fools rush in…”

  “Who are you?”

  Before she had even time to knock, the door opened, and a butler peered down at her, a man quite the opposite of Greeves. With his missing arm and Irish-English accent, Greeves was only too human. But this man, this cold, aristocratic paragon of pomposity, seemed in no way touched by human feeling. He looked down upon her as if she were the girl who emptied the chamber pots. One who now dared to enter the front of the castle as if she were a peeress.

  “I’ve come to see…” Her words died on her lips. Who had she come to see, after all? She was certain the man who had been her father was dead. So who would tell her about him?

  “Lord or Lady Cinaeth, please,” she announced, hating the fact that the butler’s stare made her want to cower.

  “What is your concern?” The butler flicked his gaze to her wrinkled cloak and dusty hem, as if he were doubtful of her upbringing.

  Bitterly, she couldn’t in all good conscience deny what he thought. All she could do was fight. And fight she would.

  “Show me to Lady Cinaeth or it’ll be the worse for you.” She despised the way her accent came out when she was angry. The last thing she wanted was to look hopelessly Irish to these people.

  “The viscountess, Lady Cinaeth, is trimming the roses in the greenhouse. She cannot be disturbed.”

  Showing more cheek than she thought she possessed, she walked past him into a beautiful hall lined with windows and pastoral Watteau-inspired tapestries. She pointed her finger toward a door and said, with a haughtiness learned by example, “Take me to the morning room and bring me a cup of tea. I’ll wait for your mistress there.”

  The butler stood mutely by the door. She turned her back so that he could remove her cloak.

  A long moment passed while he obviously thought about the consequences should he turn her away. With a small feeling of triumph, she felt him reluctantly slip the cloak from her shoulders.

  “Follow me, miss. I’ll tell Lady Cinaeth you are here.” He led her through an archway that hid a pair of glass French doors. Throwing them open, he ushered her into a small drawing room. Light poured in from a breathtaking twenty-foot window, framed in an astounding amount of plum-colored velvet.

  “Your name, miss?” The butler watched her seat herself on a green and gold settee.

  “Ravenna.” She gave him her best witchy stare. If that wouldn’t ward off his questions concerning her lack of a last name, nothing would.

  “Thank you. Tea will be here shortly.” He gave her a supercilious, dubious look, then bowed and left to fetch his mistress.

  With a shaking hand, Ravenna gripped the serpentine arm of the settee. She had made it this far, but terror struck at her heart at the thought of broaching the subject of her father to Lady Cinaeth. She knew nothing about Lady Cinaeth. The woman could be her grandmother or her aunt, even her cousin. Certainly, it was possible that the old woman would kick her out the door the minute she brought up the subject of her father. Lady Cinaeth could be a dragon.

  Ravenna gazed at the clouds painted on the gilt ceiling above, the view reminiscent of princesses and spellbound castles. An ogre couldn’t be living in such exquisite surroundings. She suddenly grew more optimistic. Perhaps the woman would embrace her as a long-lost relative. The granddaughter she had never had. They would be friends, and Ravenna would finally have a family other than Grania.

  “Who are you to take me from my roses?”

  Ravenna’s gaze riveted to the door. There stood a beautiful brunette woman, perhaps fifteen years older than herself, dressed in a gown of Paris green satin. On her intricately coifed head she wore a chip bonnet laced with lavender ribbon and sprigs of costly artificial violets. Her mouth, though nicely curved, formed a horizontal line as she peered at Ravenna disapprovingly.

  “Who are you?” the viscountess asked, giving her a hazel-eyed, imperious stare.

  “My name is Ravenna. I’ve come from County Lir.” With cheeks pale with fear, Ravenna rose to her feet and faced the beauty.

  “What is your business with me?” The viscountess impatiently slapped her palm with a pair of pruning shears. She wore cheese-colored goatskin gloves that covered her to the elbows, protecting her from thorns. When Ravenna didn’t answer, she threw the shears and gloves onto a Louis XVI commode and stepped into the room.

  “Are you a Gypsy? Hebblethwaite, my butler, thinks you are. He thinks you mean to rob us.” With distaste, Lady Cinaeth took in her loosely bound hair and her soiled hemline.

  Helplessly, Ravenna could do nothing but whisper, “I’m not a Gypsy,” while the woman condemned her with her stare. She couldn’t even blame Lady Cinaeth for her derogatory thoughts. A night spent in a barn had made her look less than presentable, and Ravenna knew she’d always looked a bit wild, a trait Weymouth-Hampstead had valiantly tried to whip out of her. Looking at herself through the eyes of the titled beauty before her, she almost wanted to die. Too late, she could finally understand the merits of Weymouth-Hampstead’s teachings.

  “So what is your business?” Lady Cinaeth raised her hand when Ravenna made to speak. Continuing, she said, “I’ll have you know right now if you try to sell me charms or tell my fortune, I’ll have you arrested. We don’t countenance Gypsies here. The Irish are bad enough, little potato-eating drudges.…”

  The viscountess lowered her hand and waited for the expected denials.

  Ravenna remained silent, her stare fixed on Lady Cinaeth’s hand. Not a scratch marred its creamy length. Each nail was buffed to pink perfection. It was clean and soft. A lady’s hand.

  Then Ravenna thought of Grania’s hands. Her grandmother’s hands had always seemed ancient and work-worn, wrinkled and gnarled with disease. But they had always touched her with gentleness and love. They were never unkind. As these hands could surely be unkind.

  “I’m on a quest to find my father,” Ravenna said, her anger and pride beginning to surface. She was no potato-eating drudge, and if some of the Irish could be described that way, it was only because they were made poor by the English dogs that had raped them of their wealth.

  “Why would I know your father?” The viscountess looked truly irritated.

  “I have reason to believe he hailed from Cinaeth Castle. I know he was a nobleman.…” Ravenna had difficulty finishing. The journey north to Antrim seemed so pointless now. This Lady Cinaeth with her beautiful, cold, hard face was never going to help her. She had come far, and at great cost, for nothing. Clinging to one last hope, Ravenna stared deep into the desert of the woman’s eyes and sought compassion.

  She found no oasis.

  Lady Cinaeth’s beautiful mouth quirked in disdain. “If your father was a nobleman, surely you would know who he was? I do believe propriety dictates one recognize one’s legitimate children.”

  Ravenna felt each word like a knife slicing through her heart. She knew she was a bastard, but hearing the implication from this wealthy, privileged beauty—a woman who was perhaps even one of her own blood relations—cut her to the bone. With a dark, wounded gaze, she whispered, “He loved my mother. I know that. I know it.”

  “Then he ought to have married her.”

  “Lady Cinaeth, are you his sister? My aunt?”

  Ridiculing laughter echoed along the bank of windows. “Don’t be ridiculous. Me, an aunt to you? If the previous Lord Cinaeth spawned a bastard daughter before he died, ’tis my husband’s concern. He was his brother, not mine.”

  “And your husband is Lord Cinaeth? My father’s younger brother?” Ravenna thirsted for the truth. She ached to know anything. Even if it hurt her. Even if it was misery.

  “
My husband is Lord Cinaeth, indeed. Now,” she raised an artful eyebrow and glanced at the door, “be off with you. I haven’t the time to talk with misbegotten Gypsies.”

  “Please,” Ravenna begged, her eyes filling with tears of rage and hopelessness. “I must just know his name. Just tell me my father’s name. What was the name of Lord Cinaeth’s brother?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll tell you nothing. Either you leave at once or I’ll have Hebblethwaite throw you out.” Lady Cinaeth calmly took the garden gloves and the shears from the marquetried top of the commode.

  “Please. I’ve come very far—”

  “Get out. And pray my husband doesn’t find out about this. Why, he would probably put you in gaol for your presumptions.”

  “I will go to gaol then,” Ravenna gasped, desperation pounding through her veins like blood. “Just tell me his name. Give me that much.”

  “Oh, you Irish are all alike. We give you a little charity and soon you expect to have our homes and land, too.”

  “Just tell me his name,” Ravenna pleaded, fighting the tears that sprang to her eyes. Despair threatened to engulf her like floodwaters. She had come so far. Her hopes had been so high. Now her despair was crashing down on her like a wave she had no power to withstand.

  “My lady.”

  Ravenna looked toward the morning-room doorway. Terrified, she found the butler stood there, clearly readying himself to expel her from the castle.

  “Hebble, take this—this—” Lady Cinaeth flicked a dismissive glance down Ravenna’s figure. “Take this creature and deposit her outside Cinaeth’s gates.”

  “No.…” Ravenna choked.

  “Lady Cinaeth, there is another visitor at the door.” The butler shifted uncomfortably. “’Tis Lord Trevallyan from Lir.”

  Ravenna stiffened. The inevitable had finally arrived to once more snatch away her independence.

  Lady Cinaeth rolled her eyes. “Oh, the travails of this day.” She looked down at her pristine satin gown. “And I’m a mess. I can’t very well greet one of the most highly regarded earls this side of the Irish Sea in my gardening frock.” She nodded her bonneted head toward Ravenna. “Throw the chit out, Hebble, and tell Lord Trevallyan I’ll meet him in the drawing room in ten minutes.”

  Hebblethwaite looked decidedly torn.

  “What is it now, Hebblethwaite?” Lady Cinaeth snapped. “Haven’t I enough to do without guessing what’s on your mind? Throw the girl out and bring Lord Trevallyan a drink.”

  “Lord Trevallyan…” Hebblethwaite paused and glanced at Ravenna. Ravenna’s heart rushed in anticipation of what he was going to say. Clearly Trevallyan had come to help her. She hadn’t wanted his help, but now she could see that she must either take it or never know about her father. Ruefully, she comforted herself with the fact that she had at least paid well for the service beforehand.

  “Lord Trevallyan has come looking for his wife.” Hebble glanced at his mistress with the eyes of a chastised puppy. “It seems Lady Ravenna is his wife.”

  Lady Cinaeth’s face drained of all color. Ravenna suffered a bit of shock herself but schooled herself not to show it. Trevallyan had gall, there was no doubt about it. Usually it made her rebel, but this time, even though it made her extremely uncomfortable to be thought of as his wife, she was grateful for his tactics.

  Lady Cinaeth’s gaze darted to Ravenna. The woman murmured an undecipherable apology and quickly exited the room, mumbling something about finding Ravenna’s husband.

  A minute later, Ravenna heard a familiar voice.

  “Ah, there you are, darling. Thank God you’re safe.”

  She gazed at Trevallyan standing in the door, still in his corduroys and black boots. He strode toward her and kissed her forehead like the adoring husband, but his eyes were steely with dormant anger that she knew would awaken the moment they had a chance to be alone.

  “My lord husband…” Ravenna greeted, her gaze flickering in her embarrassment. For some inexplicable reason, as all his reasons were inexplicable, he had chosen to avoid embarrassing her. But she would pay for his mercies. She knew it.

  “When you were lost to me in the woods after our carriage breakdown, I despaired.” Trevallyan looked down at her, the emotion in his aqua eyes ominous. “Now that I’ve found you again, I see I must never let you out of my sight.”

  Ravenna swallowed, her mouth strangely dry. “My lord, I am well. I can, when needed, take care of myself.”

  He lowered his voice for her ears only. “Yes, and how I despise it.” He straightened and cleared his throat. Taking Ravenna’s hand in his own, he said, “Lady Cinaeth, my wife is here on rather a delicate mission. I don’t know how much she’s told you—”

  “Oh! I understand everything, Lord Trevallyan, everything. This situation must be handled with the utmost care.” Lady Cinaeth nodded her head too enthusiastically. “But tell me, my lord, when we last met in London, you were not married and I heard of no wedding—”

  “We were wed quietly, my lady.” The corner of Trevallyan’s mouth lifted in a wicked smile. “My wife’s situation is much like your own, Lady Cinaeth. When Lord Cinaeth chose to marry a cobbler’s daughter, it was prudent to downplay the marital festivities.”

  The woman colored three shades of red. Ravenna was almost heartened to see this grand beauty cut down to size. “Of course, my lord. It was quite prudent,” she mumbled.

  She pressed Ravenna’s hand. Whispering, she said, “You must forgive my earlier behavior.” More loudly, she announced, “I must get Edward. I know he would like to see you—” Her nervous gaze flickered between them. “Both,” she finished, then departed.

  “Allow me to bring refreshment.” Hebblethwaite bowed and then he, too, departed.

  Alone, Ravenna had a difficult time meeting Trevallyan’s gaze. She wandered to the settee and lowered her tired body onto it. “I must thank you for intervening. You arrived just as she was throwing me out the door.”

  “I could have told you that was the kind of reception you could expect.” He stepped to her. His hand gripped her jaw, forcing her head up and her gaze to lock with his. “Why do you do such foolish things? You run away from me, you refuse my offers. What do you hope to get out of this life that is more than what I can provide for you?”

  “Independence,” she whispered.

  His eyes glittered with new anger. “And is it worth dying for? You could have been killed, wandering around in unfamiliar woods, alone and unprotected.”

  “Does Malachi think it’s worth dying for?”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  Quietly she said, “I don’t fight for a country, but rather, for myself. I’m not Catholic, I’m not Protestant. The people of Lir heartily distance themselves from my kind. To them, I’m an outcast, a mistfit. Still, I’ve been victim to the hellish treatment the English dole out upon the Irish. I am nothing, I have nothing, but myself. And I will not let you have that to do with as you wish.”

  Her words seemed to move him. She knew he understood; she knew, too, that his understanding could only bring more anger, more frustration. “Why must you be so bloody articulate?” he cursed softly.

  “You’re the one who sent me to school. I’m your creation.”

  “And now you’ve turned on me.”

  “No. Not turned on you. You were never my master for me to do such a thing.”

  “I hear footsteps.” He heaved a burdened sigh and his grip on her jaw turned to caress. “We’ll discuss more of this in our bedroom.”

  She wanted to protest but suddenly saw the trap he had shut on her. She could either respectably pose as his wife, including sharing a room with him, or announce the ploy and leave in disgrace, her dreams gone of finding her father.

  “You see, I still vow to keep you,” he taunted as the hurried footsteps drew closer.

  “But you’ll never hold me.” She gave him a challenging glance. “I’m an outcast, remember? And when you cannot turn outward, you t
urn inward. My love is so buried, I fear not even a man of your genius could find it.”

  A muscle tensed in his jaw. “I will find it. Just keep in mind who it is you’re denying. And never forget, if the geis is true, you throw misfortune on all of Lir when you say such things.”

  “The geis is frippery and nonsense. But if it isn’t, the failure lies with you, not with me.”

  “Bitch,” he said calmly, unwilling to raise his voice with the approaching visitors. “You’d never know all the fire in your eyes hides a heart of ice.”

  The words stung her, but the tone wrenched her soul. She looked at him and could almost believe he was in love with her. But he didn’t love her. To him, she was not much better than the shepherdess who watched his cows in the pastures, or the seamstress who stitched his fine wool from his flocks of sheep that grazed on the Sorra Hills. She was just another kind of servant to him. One whom he saw merit in courting. One with whom he seemed to find his particular pleasure.

  No, she wanted more than he offered. Even if she found herself falling in love with him—a precipice she wasn’t sure she had avoided—she still must have his love in return. And he would never give that, for he had yet to bow his head and humbly ask anything of her; instead he only demanded and expected her to obey. Asking was not in his nature, not in the social structure to which they were all confined. Somehow, if they were to find love, she must make him see that she was his equal, but that seemed an impossibility because she knew that he, one of the Ascendency, could never admit to such a thing.

  The door burst open with Lord and Lady Cinaeth. Unnerved, Ravenna jumped to her feet and stood mute before the man who might be her uncle.

  “Trevallyan, good to see you.” The viscount heartily shook Niall’s hand. Ravenna watched on the side, analyzing him.

  Lord Cinaeth was a tall, handsome man of almost fifty years of age. Barrel-chested, with a wide, quick smile, he exuded congeniality. Though his hair had gone silver, Ravenna suspected by his coloring it had once been a dark brown or black, and he had astonishing blue, almost violet, eyes, the color of periwinkles.