The Irish Upstart

by Shirley Kennedy

  “I’ve come home for good, for reasons I shall discuss with Papa first. Reasons that . . . “ Thomas shook his head ruefully “ . . . good Lord, it never occurred to me he might not be well.” He bit his lip. “That makes telling him all the more difficult.” Penelope eyed him accusingly. “He won’t like this, whatever your reasons.”

  “I know.” Thomas felt a heavy weight descend on his shoulders. His father was not going to like what he had to say, not at all. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

  As Thomas ascended the main staircase to see his father, he reflected that in all his thirty years on earth, the one thing he’d learned for certain was that things never turned out exactly as he expected. But even knowing that, in all the agony of indecision he’d gone through, all that torturous soul-searching, he had assumed that when he announced his decision, Papa might bellow and stomp around, like always, but then, like always, Papa would forgive and understand. Never did Thomas expect his father might be ill. An illness meant weakness, disability. He could not even imagine his father a sick invalid.

  At the door to Papa’s room, Thomas knocked and was admitted by Whitney, Papa’s valet. He had expected to find Papa in his bed, but instead, the Marquess of Westhaven was sitting in an armchair, his right foot heavily bandaged, propped in front of him on a plump pillow resting on a low stool. For a moment Thomas was stunned. Where was the strong, barrel-chested father he had known? The man in the chair seemed a stranger, shrunken, somehow, hunched over, wan. “Papa, I’m back,” he said, and started across the room to embrace him.

  Papa’s eyes lit. “Son!” Instantly he raised his hand. “Stop. Don’t come close.”

  Momentarily abashed, Thomas stopped abruptly.

  “Sorry, my boy,” his father went on, “Welcome home, but keep your distance. I cannot abide anyone near me. ‘Tis this abominable toe of mine. I live in fear it might get jostled. Whitney, bring wine,” he called, in a muted voice far from the booming one Thomas remembered. “Sit down, son. By God, it’s good to see you. Now, tell me why you’re here and not seeing to my sugar fields in Jamaica.”

  Thomas seated himself, keenly aware the moment he dreaded was at hand. What he was about to say would be a blow to his father. Worse, now that he was sick. Still, Thomas had made up his mind. Nothing on this earth could make him change it. “I shall not be returning to Jamaica.”

  His father’s eyebrows raised. “Damme. And why is that? And who’s watching over the plantation?”

  “Don’t worry, I found a reliable overseer so you’re safe on that score. But . . . “ Frowning, Thomas laced his fingers and earnestly leaned forward. “I could not stomach it another minute.”

  “Stomach what?” his father asked, genuinely confused.

  “Slavery. It’s not right. I refuse to be a part of it anymore.”

  “But . . . but . . . “ Astounded, his father could do nothing but sputter. Finally he gathered his wits enough to say, “How else do you expect to run a profitable plantation in Jamaica but for slaves?”

  “I don’t,” Thomas declared, and added firmly, “and neither should you. You should see the cruelty. For three years I tolerated it, but no more. Men are meant to be free, not treated like animals.”

  “So what would you have me do?”

  “Sell the plantation.”

  “Are you out of your mind? Why, the rum alone turns a tidy profit, and the sugar—”

  “You’re rich. You don’t need the money.”

  Wide-eyed, the Marquess stared at his son. “This is so unexpected. By God, I . . . “ All at once, to Thomas’s astonishment, the Marquess threw back his head and let out a great peal of laughter. “Ah, Thomas,” he finally said, wiping a tear from his eye, “I always wanted a son who would be his own man. Well you are, and every bit as tough and independent as I could ever hope for. If only—” The Marquess heaved a heavy sigh before he shouted, “Whitney, where’s that wine?”

  Thomas had no need to hear his father’s finished thought. Over the years, he had heard the same diatribe many times before:

  “If only you, Thomas, had been born first instead of Montague.”

  “Why must Montague lead that profligate life in London?”

  “What a sore disappointment.”

  “If only your mother were still alive, she might have had some influence on the boy.”

  Thomas said softly, “Montague’s the first son, Papa. That’s the way it is and nothing will change it. Besides, he might come to his senses one of these days and become the son you’ve prayed for.”

  “Not likely,” Papa said with a scowl. “He’ll get it all, you know. This house, the land, the money, which he’ll immediately toss away with both hands on the tables at White’s, or is it Brooks’s these days?” Papa heaved another deep sigh. “Montague’s my first son whom I dearly love, but–”

  “What about the plantation?” Thomas interrupted purposely. He hated to see his father brood about a matter that was beyond his power to change. “Will you sell?”

  The Marquess immediately snapped out of his doldrums. He thought a moment, then judging from the sudden, crafty light in his eye, some sort of solution occurred to him. “I take it you’re quite serious about wanting me to sell.”

  “It’s a matter of principle.”

  “Then I have a proposition. I shall sell the plantation in Jamaica on one condition.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I want you to take a little jaunt to Ireland.”

  Chapter 3

  “Ireland?” Thomas’s voice rose with surprise. “Why on earth would I want to go to Ireland?” Accepting a snifter of brandy from Whitney, he sat easily back in his chair. “Do tell me. I am all ears.”

  “Surely you recall I have property in western Ireland,” the Marquess replied.

  “It was presented to the second Marquess of Westhaven by James the Second, was it not?”

  “Very good, Thomas.” The Marquess beamed approvingly. “You always did have a keen grasp of our family history, as opposed to . . . ah, well. I’m sure you recall the second Marquess was an illustrious warrior, a hero of the Battle of Sedgemoor in 1685. King James was most grateful for his services.”

  “And thus awarded him the land.” Thomas continued, “Good farm land, as I recall. In County Mayo, is it not?”

  Papa nodded. “It’s all rented out, of course, to tenants who raise corn, barley, God knows what else. ‘Til recently, I never had a problem, but lately receipts have fallen off. Since there’s a new overseer, I suspect there might be some sort of chicanery going on. I would go see for myself, but—” he cast a resentful look at his bandaged foot “—you see how it is.”

  “What about Montague?”

  The Marquess let out a snort. “You would never catch my illustrious son and heir that far from Saint James Street. He has no intention of prying himself away from his dissolute life in London, not even for a brief trip to Ireland.” He regarded his younger son with brooding eyes. “Perhaps it’s fortunate you returned home, after all.”

  Thomas said, “You mentioned a little jaunt to Ireland. Are you aware it takes a week to get there at the very least?”

  Papa scowled impatiently. “Will you go?”

  “Did you ever think I might have plans of my own?”

  “Knowing you, I’m sure you do.” Papa sighed in resignation. “So tell me your plans.”

  “As you know, I have always been keen on raising horses. You remember Tanglewood Hall?”

  “That small manor near Abingdon your mother left you?”

  “My grand estate.” Thomas raised his eyebrows in self mockery. “The house is satisfactory, and the land is ideal for raising Thoroughbreds. That’s where I’m going.” Ruefully he added, “I would have started sooner, had I not gone to Jamaica.”

  “I didn’t force you to go. Matter of fact, need I remind you, it was your idea?”

  “I went of my own free will,” Thomas quickly confirmed. “In fact, I insisted.”

>   “Indeed, you did, and I, well aware how obstinate you’ve been since the day you were born, had no desire to stand in your way. I will admit, though, I did nothing to discourage you because at the time I thought running the plantation would be for your own good. You did a fine job of it, too, until you found you had a conscience.”

  “Don’t condemn me.”

  “Oh, surely not. But what was I to do with you, Thomas?” Papa shrugged his shoulders in mock resignation. “I would have been more than happy to buy you a riding, but you had no desire to enter the clergy. I would have gladly bought you a commission in the Navy, but you refused. Then I tried—”

  “Ah, the trials of having a second son.” Thomas cast an amused glance at his father. “Stop fretting. Obviously I’m doing fine on my own. I am quite capable of taking care of myself and making my own decisions, as you well know.”

  “Fine, son. Breeding Thoroughbreds is an admirable ambition, and I shall give you considerable help in that direction, upon your return from Ireland.”

  Thomas felt an urge to throw up his hands. Although he loved his father dearly, years ago he rebelled against his forceful nature. The escape from paternal domination had not been easy. He could have remained the obedient second son, subject to his father’s bidding, but instead had chosen to face his father’s wrath and declare himself his own master. Papa, to put it mildly, had not been pleased, and yet, when he saw that his son would not back down, he gave in, actually most graciously. After making his stand, Thomas most certainly would not back down now.

  He refrained from mentioning that on the long journey from Jamaica, he’d been hard-put to contain his eagerness, so anxious was he to reach England, hasten to Tanglewood Hall, which sat on a lush piece of land, and begin preparations for the breeding of Thoroughbred horses. He had every confidence he could succeed, and was wise enough to recognize a certain nagging disappointment with himself for having, in essence, given up on Jamaica and come running home in defeat. His reasons for leaving were truly altruistic, and most valid—he truly could not stomach the slavery—but still, he recognized that some would call him a failure, no matter what the noble reason. “Sorry, Papa, but I most definitely do not want to go to Ireland.”

  Annoyance flashed through his father’s eyes. “So once again you chose to disobey me.”

  “Is that anything new?”

  “God’s Blood,” declared Lord Linberry, his voice raised. “I need you to go to Ireland.”

  Thomas didn’t bother to react, so accustomed was he to his father’s bellowing, which, when all was said done, amounted to all bluster with no substance behind it. In a gesture that Thomas well-remembered, Papa stabbed an accusing finger at him and was preparing to speak again when, accidentally, he moved his ailing foot, winced, and cried out from the pain.

  Thomas felt an immediate rush of sympathy. In a flash of keen self-observation he realized that whereas fear of his father would not cause him to capitulate, sympathy surely would. He must not convey this new-found feeling of pity to his father, though. If he capitulated, and he was about to, it must appear to be out of filial loyalty; otherwise, Papa would be hurt and highly insulted. “If you want me to go to Ireland, I suppose it’s my duty,” he said with a reluctant shrug. “Although I do think Montague should go. When would I leave?”

  “You’ll not regret it, son.”

  The flash of relief in Papa’s eyes told Thomas he’d made the right decision. He returned a lop-sided grin. “I regret it already, but that’s beside the point.”

  “Excellent,” his father exclaimed, and nearly slapped his hand to his leg before he thought better of it. “Now, there’s just one other small matter.”

  Uh-oh. What was his wily father up to now? Thomas was suddenly alert. “And what might one more thing be?” He braced himself.

  “You’re to go to Aldershire Manor to see Lord Trevlyn. Matter of fact, I’ll send a message over. He’ll no doubt want you for dinner tonight.”

  “The devil,” Thomas exclaimed as memories of previous, utterly woeful dinners at Aldershire Manor came to mind. The food was always excellent, of course, but not the company. Lord Trevlyn’s brother, Walter, was all right, though rather on the meek side, but Walter’s wife, Mrs. Lydia Trevlyn, fancied herself superior to the rest of mankind, most certainly to a mere second son. She was also much given to dominating a conversation with her iron-clad opinions, pontificating in a superior tone that indicated she knew everything while her listeners knew nothing. As for the three daughters... Ah, well, he mustn’t be ungentlemanly. Three years had passed since he’d seen them. Perhaps they’d changed, although he doubted it. Thomas laughed and slowly shook his head. “If you keep this up, I shall wish I was back in Jamaica, toiling under a hot sun.”

  Papa had the decency to look regretful. “I know how you feel about Trevlyn’s nieces, Thomas, but remember, Trevlyn has been a good friend to me over the years.”

  “Are they married yet?”

  “Er... no, not any of the three. Matter of fact, I‘m still waiting for Montague to do his duty and propose to Charlotte. Bettina is waiting for you, Thomas”—Papa raised his brows significantly—”but then there’s Amanda, who’s sixteen now and pretty enough, although not a beauty. I should think Montague would want Charlotte, since she’s the eldest, as well as the most beautiful, although I allow he could pick Bettina or even Amanda, if he chooses.”

  The words, some choice! rushed to Thomas’s lips, but his gentlemanly instincts suppressed them. Instead, he sighed, reflecting not much had changed in the three years since he’d left for Jamaica.

  “Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” the Marquess said with a perceptive nod, “and you’d be right. Things have gone from bad to worse at Aldershire Manor, starting years ago when Trevyln lost his only son.”

  “A real tragedy.” Thomas clearly recalled Lord Trevlyn troubles had begun when Randall, Viscount Montfret, Trevlyn’s one-and-only son, a wastrel if ever there was one, got himself in debt and fled England. “Randall went to Ireland, did he not?”

  “Yes, and died there at an early age, after his father disowned him. Don’t know of what. He was completely out of touch with his family those last years of his life.”

  “A pity,” Thomas remarked, recalling that after Lord Trevlyn’s only son died, he allowed his younger brother, Walter Trevlyn, and Walter’s unpleasant wife, Lydia, to move into Aldershire Manor along with their three daughters. From all appearances, Walter, prodded by his domineering wife, had just about taken over the estate. “Has the situation at all improved?”

  “It’s gotten worse. Trevlyn’s grown quite feeble of late and seems to have lost his grip. His brother and his wife pretty much run the estate and do what they please, although I allow the chicanery is more hers than his.” Papa scowled. “No backbone, that Walter. I don’t much care for him, but, still, he’s now the heir.” His countenance brightened. “As you know, it’s been a dream of mine to conjoin our two estates. Think of it. Montague will marry Charlotte, you will marry Bettina. Thus, Northfield Hall with be forever joined with Aldershire Manor. A grand idea, what?”

  Picturing the three daughters, Thomas smiled wryly. “A lofty ambition, Papa. What does Montague say?”

  The Marquess’ eyes hardened, reminding Thomas that when occasion warranted, his father could be as unyielding as a stone. “Montague will do as I say. I have put him on notice. He will marry one of Trevlyn’s daughters, preferably Charlotte, and soon.”

  Poor Montague, Thomas thought, feeling a rare pang of sympathy for his prodigal older brother.

  His father continued, “And it wouldn’t hurt, Thomas, if you considered marrying Bettina sometime soon.”

  “Not likely,” Thomas said with a smile. “I’ve told you before I’m not the marrying kind, but if I ever do, it will be for love, not because it’s expected of me.” He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “One of the few advantages of being a second son.”

  The Marquess breathed a wistful sigh. “Ah,
Thomas, if only...”

  “Give Montague more time, Papa,” Thomas said softly. “Who knows? Some day he might tire of brandy, women, and White’s every night. Then he might surprise you.”

  The Marquess returned a skeptical sniff. “I no longer delude myself. Montague will never change. What a travesty that he will inherit my estate, whereas you--”

  Thomas raised his hand. “Say no more. I live my life with no regrets. So should you.”

  Love and pride filled his father’s eyes. “You’re a son to be proud of.”

  Thomas arose and smiled. “Send the message to Lord Trevlyn. I shall be happy to see him, for dinner, or whatever he likes. If it’s dinner, perhaps he’ll invite Penelope, too. Then I won’t be totally bored. I don’t suppose you... ?”

  “Dear God, no.” Papa gazed ruefully at his foot. I’m a prisoner in this room until my gout improves.” After a pause, he said, “I appreciate your doing this. Bear in mind there are worse hardships in life than dining with Trevlyn’s daughters.”

  “Of course there are,” Thomas assured him. But at the moment I cannot think what, he thought but didn’t say.

  * * *

  Bored, bored, bored.

  Thomas had never been so bored in all his life. No, take that back. He hadn’t been so bored since the last time he’d come to Aldershire for dinner and the Honorable Miss Bettina Trevlyn, Lord Trevlyn’s niece, had deigned to describe to him, in the most excruciating detail, her latest triumphs in the world of needlework. How much longer must he sit here, regaled by a stitch-by-stitch description of her Europa-and-the-bull pillow cover? Where was Lord Trevelyn? When would dinner be served? How soon could he politely leave? How was it possible that one human being could talk incessantly, without end! about petit-point?

  Parliament should pass some sort of law.

  Across the ornate drawing room, he caught a furtive glimmer of amusement in his sister’s eyes. He would get no sympathy there. Penelope dearly loved to see him suffer.