The Irish Upstart

by Shirley Kennedy

“Lord Thomas? Are you listening?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, of course, Miss Trevlyn.” He focused his attention upon another, thickly embroidered pillow cover she was now displaying. “You were saying about the stitches? Fascinating. Do tell me more.”

  “You will note the seven rows of flat and French-knot stitches done in silk-chenille thread,” Bettina continued in her humorless voice, running her finger lovingly over her latest triumph. “Note they’re done in various shades of pink. I almost made them red, though. In fact, I started to stitch them in red and then I thought, I might like them better in pink. A most perplexing dilemma, as you can see. So then I decided I really did like them better in pink, so I pulled out all the red stitches and put in the pink.”

  God save me. Actually the girl wasn’t that bad looking. Nice figure... brown hair piled stylishly atop her head... pleasantly rounded face, although rather on the bland side, but with eyes that held not one iota of spark or humor. He must try to be kind.

  He was saved when Bettina’s mother, purse-lipped, pinch-nosed Mrs. Walter Trevyln, sitting grandly on the settee across, called sharply, “Bettina, I do believe Lord Thomas has heard enough about your needle-work.” She regarded Thomas with avid curiosity. “So tell me, Lord Thomas, what of your dear brother, Lord Eddington? Did you see him in London upon your return from the West Indies?”

  Thomas was not surprised at her question. For years, it appeared Lydia Trevlyn’s main goal in life was to marry off her eldest daughter to Montague, or if not the eldest, one of the other two. Obviously nothing had changed. “I didn’t have a chance to see my brother. I came straight from the docks to Northfield Hall, stopping only long enough to hire my horse.”

  Charlotte, the eldest daughter, always a model of elegance, beauty, and propriety, awarded him a tight smile. “A pity, Lord Thomas. Of late, we have seen little of Lord Eddington. Do you suppose he’s been taken ill?”

  Not likely, Thomas thought, but tactfully answered, “If he is ill, I haven’t heard.” He had noted an edge to her voice, and no wonder. Miss Charlotte Trevlyn’s beauty was without imperfection. Her deportment was impeccable. She could sing like a lark and play piano with amazing skill. She spoke French like a native. Her watercolors were superb. She was, in essence, everything a young lady of the Polite World should be, but up to now, despite her best efforts, and her mother’s, she had not managed to trap old Montague.

  Thomas knew the reason. “The girl is like a beautiful doll,” Montague once complained. “Such perfection. But it’s all just for show. Underneath she’s hollow, except for greed and vanity, just like her mother.”

  Thomas could not argue with the truth. “All that aside, Montague, Papa expects you to marry her. He’ll be keenly disappointed if you don’t.”

  Thomas remembered his brother’s grim look of resignation as he replied, “I know, and someday I’ll propose, as soon as I can stomach the thought of marrying that block of ice.” Montague made a face and added, “You don’t know how lucky you are to be a second son.”

  But Charlotte’s a beautiful block of ice. Thomas turned his attention to the eldest daughter, admiring her white skin, blonde hair piled high, her figure stunning in her low-cut satin dinner gown. What a pity...

  “Thomas, my boy, how good to see you.”

  To Thomas’s relief, Lord Trevlyn entered the drawing room. Papa was right. His lordship had aged since Thomas last saw him. His hair was completely white; deep lines etched his face; his shoulders were stooped, as if in defeat, and he now walked with a cane. Thomas stood, bowed, and remarked, “And it’s good to see you, sir.” He stopped himself from adding, “You’re looking fit,” because that would be a lie. He had always liked Lord Trevyln who was one of his father’s best friends, despite their being almost exact opposites, both in temperament and interests. Papa was a big, burly man, noisy and outgoing—or at least he had been before the gout. He liked fishing, hunting, and all outdoor sports. Trevlyn, on the other hand, was a reclusive man who spent much time in his study reading the classics in their original Greek and Latin. He turned even more reclusive after his only son died, and now foolishly allowed his brother Walter and his family full run of his estate.

  Lord Trevlyn gazed at Thomas with his soft, kind eyes. “Did your father tell you I wanted to speak to you?”

  “Yes, he did, sir.”

  “Then after dinner, eh?”

  “Of course,” Thomas replied, at a loss to know what Trevlyn could possibly want to discuss.

  * * *

  Despite his misgivings, Thomas enjoyed dinner. Perhaps, he thought wryly, it was because he’d concentrated on his meal, saying little, while Mrs. Trevlyn and her daughters jabbered non-stop about that most exciting event, the up-coming London Season. As always, Lord Trevyln was a gracious host. Even his brother, Walter, who usually remained quiet, was congenial.

  When dinner was finished and the ladies had adjourned to the drawing room, Lord Trevlyn settled with his guest in the library, each with a glass of fine brandy in his hand. “So you’re going to Ireland,” Trevlyn observed.

  Thomas sat back in his chair. “I am indeed, sir, at my father’s behest. He owns land in County Mayo, as I’m sure you are aware.”

  “Did you know that I, too, own land in Ireland?”

  “No, I did not.”

  Trevlyn appeared to be musing as he swirled the brandy in its glass. “My land is not nearly as fruitful as your father’s. Fact is, it lies in County Clare, near Galway Bay. Full of rocks, I’ve been told, and not good for much of anything but growing potatoes and grazing sheep.”

  “That’s interesting, sir.” What on earth did Trevlyn want?

  “As long as you’re going to Ireland, I would be most grateful if you’d check on my land as well as your father’s.”

  More delay. Thomas felt an instant’s squeezing disappointment. But this was his father’s best friend, so there was only one possible response he could make. “I would be most happy to, sir.” But why?

  “You’re curious, aren’t you?” asked Lord Trevlyn with a knowing smile. “You cannot fathom why a man as rich as I, owner of countless tracts of land here in England, could possibly be concerned about one small, barren patch of land in Ireland.”

  Thomas sipped his brandy. “That did occur to me.”

  “I hardly know myself,” came Trevlyn’s surprising reply. “I confess I lost interest after Randall—” a look of sorrow crossed Lord Trevlyn’s face, and he cleared his throat. “It has to do with my son, I think. Randall has been gone these many years now.” He sighed and continued, “I disowned him, and for good reason. Yet, as the years have gone by, I find myself thinking of him more and more. It’s as if... I find it impossible to explain, but I have the feeling Randall wants to tell me something, that there’s something unfinished, there, near Galway Bay, something I should know.”

  “Have you any idea what?”

  “Try not to think me a fool, Thomas.” Trevlyn uttered a self-deprecating laugh. “Although I am one, I suppose. Before he fled England, Randall talked about that piece of land. There was a cottage that overlooked the sea, and a bit of land for raising sheep. He showed an interest in it, although I have no idea if he ever actually visited the place or not. It’s just that... I simply...”

  The poor old man was floundering. Thomas hastened to put his mind at rest. “Say no more, sir, of course I’ll go. If there are people living on your land, what shall I say?”

  “Tell them... well, I suppose you should try to collect the rent,” said Lord Trevlyn, growing thoughtful. “Not the back rent, which I fear would be too great a hardship, but in future, tell them they’ll have to pay. That’s only fair, don’t you agree?”

  “I do indeed, sir.”

  “Well, then, I am most grateful.” A gleam of relief lit the old man’s eyes. “Lord knows, there’s not much joy left in my life, although it’s a consolation knowing my estate will be left... in good hands.”

  That pause before good hands gave th
e old man away. What a bitter pill to swallow, Thomas mused, that Trevlyn’s only child, once his pride-and-joy, was dead, and now his brother and his greedy, tiresome family would inherit his beloved Aldershire Manor, and all the rest.

  * * *

  Later that night, as Thomas drove their curricle the short distance home, he asked his sister, “Where is Galway Bay anyway?”

  “On the west coast of Ireland, I believe.” Penelope patted his arm affectionately. “It’s most generous of you. You did not have to say yes, you know.”

  Thomas remained silent. No need to explain that in the study, after Trevlyn had finished his poignant request, Thomas had easily, almost eagerly, said yes, not only because he felt sorry for Lord Trevlyn, but because he, too, felt a compelling curiosity to see that rocky plot of land near Galway Bay.

  Chapter 4

  Evleen O’Fallon could not understand the feeling of discontent that had just swept over her. What’s the matter with me? she wondered. Wasn’t it Sunday afternoon and a balmy spring day? Wasn’t she out for a pleasant stroll with Timothy Murphy, the man she would probably marry? She should be bursting with joy at the very thought of marrying jolly, handsome Timothy, whose fleet of fishing boats made him one of the richest men in County Clare. No matter that she didn’t think she loved him. Of course I’ll be happy, she told herself. She would learn to love him later on. Other brides had doubts, yet after their weddings seemed content.

  She and Timothy were taking their usual Sunday stroll along a promontory that jutted into Galway Bay. Usually her heart lifted when they came to this particular spot in the narrow dirt road where suddenly a grand view of both the ocean and sparkling Galway Bay lay revealed below, and it seemed she could see the entire Connemara Coast of Western Ireland, as well as practically clear across the ocean to lands far away. She felt no special thrill today, though. Timothy was pressing. She must give him her answer soon. And she would, too, even though a nagging feeling within her said she was making a mistake. But she must make the best of it. Timothy Murphy was a “catch,” everyone said so. And besides, her needy family was sure to benefit from her marriage to Timothy.

  So there is no way out, she told herself firmly. Besides, her troubles were nothing compared to some, and she should stop vacillating.

  Evleen stopped, shaded her eyes and peered to the north-west. “It’s so clear you can see the Aran Islands today, and Connemara and North Clare.” She turned to the east, where the extensive sand and mud flats of Ballyvaughn lay exposed at low tide. This was springtime, when migrating birds stopped to feed before heading to their breeding grounds. Evleen pointed overhead at a majestic V-formation of geese flying out to sea. “Look, Timothy, those are Brent Geese going home. Just imagine, they’re flying all the way to arctic Canada.” Her heart lifted and she smiled. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could grow wings? We could fly all the way to Canada... China... South America... any place we pleased.”

  “Are you daft?” Timothy’s usually cheerful face furrowed in a frown. “I’ve fish to catch and a business to run. Sure an’ I wouldn’t have time for such foolishness.”

  “But I didn’t mean literally...”

  Why finish? What was the use? She must learn to overlook Timothy’s shortcomings and concentrate on the good things. He was, after all, a pleasant man, not half bad-looking with his open, smiling face, full head of curly dark hair, broad shoulders and impressive height. He was well-educated, too, at least compared to most of the men in County Clare, and had even attended Trinity College in Dublin for a year. Still, Timothy was a simple man, engrossed in making a living with his fishing fleet. Evleen had long-since discovered he had little interest in poetry, art, or music, in other words, all the things she loved.

  Marriage with Timothy Murphy would be dull, indeed, but at least she would be secure.

  And it was what Mama wanted.

  “Where would you find a finer man than Timothy Murphy?” Mama asked but yesterday. “Isn’t he the vicar’s son? Doesn’t he earn a good income with those fishing boats he owns? Doesn’t he go to church like clockwork every Sunday? Doesn’t he stay home with his dear old mother every night instead of drinking himself blind at The Shamrock and Thistle?” Mama wagged her finger. “Young ladies of twenty-four had best not be too choosy.”

  “But in Dublin...” She stopped herself and said no more. Nothing would be gained by a another futile recollection of happier days long gone.

  Mama didn’t let Evleen’s words go unnoticed and said softly, “Ay, you could have had your pick of society’s finest, back when we were rich. But we’re not in Dublin anymore, and we’re not rich anymore.”

  You’re right, Mama, we’re poor—oh, so very, very poor, thanks to the Englishman. Evleen smiled up at Timothy. She would make herself love him—she would try very hard. After all, he was a hard worker, honest and trustworthy, who would gladly help her family. They needed help desperately, now that the eight hundred pounds was nearly gone.

  If only he had a bit of wit. If only he could see when she was only joking or when her imagination took flight. But perhaps in time she’d learn to love him, especially when he became father of the children she expected to have.

  As she stood gazing pensively at the sea, she sensed Timothy’s gaze upon her, no doubt with that puppy-dog, full-of-love expression in his eyes. Stop that, she chastised herself. That he loved her, there could be no doubt. She shouldn’t be thinking unkind thoughts about him.

  “What are you thinking?” Timothy asked. No doubt he’d seen the far-away look in her eyes.

  “I’m thinking it’s a beautiful day.” He needn’t know what else she was thinking. “I should get back. Mama’s not feeling good, as well as... there are other problems.”

  As they strolled home, Evleen still could not shake off the feeling of something not being right. Perhaps it wasn’t Timothy. Perhaps it was the state of the family finances that was causing her woeful state of mind. To say the least, their lives had not gone as Mama had expected when they moved from Dublin to the little stone cottage that overlooked the sea. She thought the eight hundred pounds she received from the sale of the townhouse would last forever, supplemented by the lessons in deportment, French, and watercolors she would give the local gentry.

  What a rude awakening she received! What Mama failed to realize was that in this barren county with its rock-hard, unyielding soil, there was no local gentry, not to speak of, anyway. The vast majority of the citizens of County Clare lived a hand-to-mouth existence, eking barely enough sustenance from the sea and poor soil to stay alive. The ladies of County Clare did not spend their time planning balls, nor did they spend hours on fittings for fancy clothes or conduct “at homes” with liveried servants serving tea. Few had servants. There was hardly time to be a lady, either, because the women of County Clare were occupied with such matters as digging potatoes, cooking meals over an open fireplace, hauling water from the well, and cutting peat in the nearby bogs.

  Evleen and Timothy approached her family’s cottage. Built of stone, with lime-washed walls, it faced directly west, high on a hill that provided a magnificent view of the sea. The view was the only good thing about the cottage. Evleen would never forget that awful day nine years ago when, during a rainstorm, their wagon pulled to a stop in front of the Englishman’s small, bleak plot of land. Nothing green was to be seen. No shrubbery, flowers or trees, just coarse brown grass broken here and there by low, stone walls, the stones not cemented but just piled up. The walls were not laid out in neat squares, but instead slanted this way and that, acting as wind breaks to retain the thin layer of arable soil. For no apparent reason, two walls ran far up the hill behind the cottage where a few sheep huddled to protect themselves against the rain and cold.

  To Evleen’s relief, the house itself was a cut above most of the cottages they had passed, some of which were constructed of mud with only one room and no windows. The floors were of dirt, and the roofs were made of sod and earth, laid on timber rafters an
d covered with a thatch of straw. At least this cottage was of a fairly good size, two stories and six rooms altogether, lime-stone painted walls, several windows, and a reed-thatched roof, which was a cut above the straw. Still, it could hardly compare with their Dublin townhouse. The big room—one could hardly call it a drawing room—had simple, plastered walls, one of which consisted totally of a huge fireplace where the cooking, and most of the living, was done. Evleen had been shocked when she saw it. Her sisters were in tears. Mama was appalled.

  “We cannot stay here, it has no kitchen,” she declared, her face grim. “We can surely afford better than this. We’ll stay here the night and then tomorrow we’ll go back to Ballyvaughn where I shall seek something better.”

  That was nine years ago. They had yet to move. Mama, always frugal, realized early-on they could not afford a better house, especially when she discovered that few of the poverty-stricken citizens of County Clare had the least interest in the lessons in deportment, French, and watercolors she intended to teach. For the most part, they were more concerned with the constant struggle to keep themselves and family from starving to death. Mama’s only salvation came from the Gaelic-speaking citizens of County Clare who wished to learn English. The small sums she earned from her English lessons, combined with her prudent management of the eight hundred pounds from the townhouse, enabled the O’Fallons to eke out a meager existence for nine years.

  Now the money was almost gone.

  At least Mama had added a kitchen, and spent some of their precious money for a stove. Evleen, in particular, was grateful. After Mama, who had never prepared a meal in all her life, cooked one disastrous dinner, Evleen took over the kitchen. For these past nine years, while Mama taught her lessons, Evleen was in charge of the cooking, as well as the housekeeping and care of the younger children.

  When someone asked why she hadn’t married, she could honestly answer she hadn’t found the time.

  But now the children were of an age to take care of themselves. At twenty-three, Darragh was ready to marry, that is, if any man would have her. Sorcha was fifteen, Mary fourteen, and Patrick a very wise ten. Evleen had thought more than once with some amusement that her excuses for not marrying were wearing thin. She had been putting Timothy off for years, but it was time she made up her mind.