The Irish Upstart

by Shirley Kennedy

  Chapter 5

  “Why have I never seen this tablecloth before?” asked Patrick as they all sat down to dinner. His bright eyes darted curiously about the long table. “Why are we burning candles when there’s still daylight? What’s that funny thing you put in the middle, Mama?”

  Sinead frowned at her son. “We have a special guest, Patrick.” She ran her fingers lovingly over the chantilly lace tablecloth and looked around the table at Evleen, Darragh, Sorcha, Mary, Timothy, O’Grady, and the honored guest, Lord Thomas. “I have not laid this lace cloth on a table since we left Dublin.” She laughed ironically. “In this cottage, somehow it never seemed to fit. Patrick, someday you’ll learn candles aren’t always meant for simply casting light. As for that ‘thing in the middle,’ it’s the epergne which sat on its silver platform in the center of the table at our Dublin townhouse.” She cast a wistful glance at Evleen. “Do you remember our dining room, all done in shades of pale gold? Do you remember my Chinese vases?”

  Evleen nodded. “Of course I remember. They were displayed on that giltwood console table from Limerick you were so proud of.”

  At Sinead’s deep sigh, Evleen felt guilt that ever since Lord Thomas arrived, she had been upset with her mother for being so nice to him. Mama certainly did not deserve her hostility. She had suffered greatly these past nine years and yet, despite their hardships, had been a pillar of strength. Still, worry nagged Evleen. How could Mama have invited the Englishman to dinner when she knew full well he had come to see about the rents? Evleen had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. No wonder she’d had an uneasy feeling earlier today. Didn’t her mother realize they could be facing total disaster? Evleen was sitting directly across from the Englishman, who, she had to admit, had been the epitome of charm and graciousness since he arrived. Still, for all she knew, he could be just as iniquitous as that other Englishman, who also had exuded charm and graciousness by the bucketful. She had no doubt in her mind this Lord Thomas from Hertfordshire had come to cause them grief.

  How much rent would he want? The only reason Mama was able to make the eight hundred pounds last so long was that they had paid no rent since they moved here. Evleen shuddered to think that Lord Trevyln’s emissary might be bent on collecting every penny they owed for the past nine years. Or worse, what if it wasn’t a question of making up the rent? It was well within the realm of possibility that this pleasant young man—and quite handsome, too, she had to admit—was waiting for the right moment to announce they were being evicted. Sudden panic gripped her. Where would they go? What would they do? The money was almost gone. They’d be out in the cold with no food, no shelter, and no place to go but–she shuddered to think of it—the workhouse. And all because of him.

  Well into dinner, Evleen, her trepidation rising, could not help but glare at their visitor. She didn’t care if he knew she was staring. Besides, how could she avoid him? Sitting directly across from Thomas—oh, excuse me, Lord Thomas, she’d been hard-put not to notice every move he’d made. So far, the dinner had been quite congenial. She’d watched when their visitor had taken his first bite of her poached salmon and smiled with delight, pronouncing the salmon the best he had ever eaten. For some unfathomable reason, she’d felt inordinately pleased, then wondered why she should care if the man who was about to toss them out of their home liked her salmon or not.

  Darragh’s conduct was disgusting. Evleen couldn’t help but note that since the moment her flirtatious younger sister met Lord Thomas, she’d been fluttering her eyelids at him, making silly, feather-brained remarks. Of course poor Darragh didn’t realize what was going to happen, Evleen thought charitably. She would be changing her tune soon enough.

  Even Sorcha and Mary, in their adolescent fashion were taken by Lord Thomas, who had been charming throughout dinner, Evleen had to admit. But how he must pity us. Evleen looked about the room. It was cozy enough with its many pictures on the walls, Mama’s beautifully set table, the air filled with the fragrance of peat burning in the fireplace. Still, it was obvious they were just another shanty-poor Irish family, hardly better than dirt in the eyes of the haughty English. She wondered if he was comparing what must be his own fancy estate in England to this pathetic hovel.

  Timothy seemed to be the only one at the table beside herself who was leery of the Englishman, although she doubted his dislike stemmed from fear Lord Thomas might evict them. Rather, she’d found over the years that Timothy, despite his good nature, tended toward a jealous nature. No doubt he harbored some farfetched fear that Lord Thomas might be a rival for her affections.

  No chance of that.

  At the end of the meal, when all were full and in a relaxed mood, Lord Thomas laid his fork on his empty plate. “A delicious meal,” he announced. “I have never tasted better.”

  Mama nodded her appreciation and smiled wryly. “We have Evleen to thank. She learned how to cook when we came to live in this cottage. And speaking of this cottage...” she looked Thomas square in the eyes “. . . had you something to say us, sir?”

  Evleen braced herself. The blow that would change their lives was about to fall. She waited tensely, trying to read the concerned expression on Lord Thomas’s face. Obviously he was aware that any reference to the family’s fall from riches to rags must be handled delicately.

  Lord Thomas glanced around the table, especially at O’Grady. “I wonder if we might talk in private, Mrs... or is it Lady O’Fallon?”

  “Mrs. O’Fallon will do,” Mama answered briskly. “And let us not worry about privacy. I have no secrets from friends or family. Anything you wish to say can be said right here.”

  “Then...” Lord Thomas paused, no doubt forming his words carefully. “As you already know, I have been sent here by Lord Trevlyn to check on his property. I was to find out why no rents have been forthcoming for these many years, and, if possible...” Lord Thomas cleared his throat, for the first time seeming unsure of himself. “I was to arrange to collect the rents, but that was before I knew of Lord Montfret’s marriage.”

  “That does put a different slant on things,” Mama said flatly. “You must realize, sir, it was my husband’s wish that we move here. This was after he had gotten into... shall we say, certain financial difficulties in Dublin.”

  Evleen spoke up, unable to hold her tongue a second longer.

  “What my mother means is that Lord Montfret squandered her modest fortune after telling her I-don’t-know-how-many lies. By the time he died, all she had left was the townhouse my father left her. Because of Randall’s debts, she had to sell it, which left us with nothing. There was no place to move but here.”

  Mama sighed. “I never heard a word from any of Randall’s family, until now. So I...” She bit her lip. A look of near-panic crossed her face. “What does Lord Trevlyn want? If he wants me to make up the rents for the past nine years, there is no possible way I–”

  “No, madame,” Lord Thomas interrupted, at least having the decency to look disturbed. In fact, his eyes were filled with concern. “Trevlyn was not aware his son had ever married. This, of course, puts a new light on things. Were you not aware of the reason Randall left England?”

  “I was never sure.”

  “Then he never told you he fled from debtors and that he’d been disowned.”

  “That comes as no surprise.” Mama gave him a grim smile. “I know now that Randall was an expert at deceit. He told me his father would be sending money any day. It never arrived, of course.”

  “Ah, I see. Then rest assured, I shall do nothing now. I shall return to England and present the facts to Lord Trevlyn. He’s a kindly man, and quite reasonable. One wonders how he could have had a son so irresponsible... so reprehensible—”

  “Don’t you talk about my father that way!”

  Everyone at the table gasped as young Patrick, eyes blazing, leaped up so fast he knocked his chair over and it clattered to the stone floor. He was trembling. His eyes glistened with tears as he cried hoarsely to his m
other, “He was my father. I don’t care what he did. How can you let that man talk about him that way?”

  Sinead immediately rose from the table and hurried to put her arms around her son. “I am so sorry, Patrick. That was completely thoughtless of me. There were good things about your father, too.”

  After a stunned silence, Lord Thomas, shaking his head contritely, spoke again. “I, too, am terribly sorry, Patrick. I didn’t know. I thought O’Fallon was your father.”

  “It seemed simpler to have Patrick carry the family name,” Sinead explained, still cradling Patrick in her arms. “I never thought to tell you he’s the son of Randall Trevlyn.”

  Evleen watched as their guest actually seemed to turn a bit pale. He started to speak, then stopped. Finally he arose from the table and stood there, blank, amazed, and very shaken. “If you will excuse me, I feel the need for a breath of fresh air,” he said in an odd voice. He turned and left the cottage.

  * * *

  It had turned dark, but a half moon was shining. The air was brisk, moist, and there was a slight breeze blowing as Evleen, upon the request of her mother, stepped outside to find Lord Thomas. She spied him immediately. He was standing, deep in thought it appeared, at the end of the cottage, an arm cocked upon his hip. He was staring out at the blackness that was the sea.

  She could not see him clearly but saw enough to marvel at how handsome he looked, standing there in that most masculine way, his jacket pulled back by the hand on his hip, revealing a trim waistline, powerful chest and shoulders, and a stomach as flat as the back of her hand. She could hardly see his profile, dark in the moonlight, yet already the fine features of his face were etched in her mind: skin bronzed by wind and sun, generous mouth, aquiline nose, touches of humor etched permanently around his mouth and deep-set brown eyes.

  She walked up to him and said, “It appears something is bothering you.”

  He started, not having heard her approach. Now, with a wry laugh, he turned to her and replied, “Bothered is hardly the word. I received quite a shock in there.”

  “I don’t understand,” she replied, truly bewildered. “We were not trying to hide the fact that Patrick is Randall Trevyln’s son. Really, does it matter?”

  “Matter?” Thomas asked with incredulity. “Of course it matters. It matters a good deal.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “Of course you don’t, and it’s my fault for not fully explaining. Were you not aware that Randall Trevlyn’s father is the fifth Earl of Alberdsley?”

  “Not really. We hardly gave it a thought, but even if we had, of what significance is it?”

  “Can’t you see?” She could tell Lord Thomas was trying to control his patience. “Randall was his only son, the heir apparent. His first son, and that would be Patrick, became the heir apparent when his father died.”

  “That may be, but surely by now Lord Trevlyn has made other arrangements.”

  Lord Thomas took a deep breath. He appeared to be trying to control a certain agitation. “As it stands now, there’s an heir presumptive, Trevlyn’s brother, Walter. But can’t you understand? When Randall died, Lord Trevlyn should have been notified at once and told Randall had a son. As matters stand, the brother is first in line to inherit the title, the estate, the entire fortune, which is considerable, I assure you.”

  “Fine, let him.” Mama’s voice. She had come outside to join them. Wrapping a shawl about her thin shoulders, she continued, “I don’t care if Patrick stands to inherit the crown of England. I don’t care how poor we are, he’ll be better off right here in County Clare than he’d ever be in England.” Even in the darkness, Evleen could see her mother proudly lift her chin. “My son is Irish born and bred, sir. This is where he belongs. As long as I have a breath in my body, he’ll not set a foot across the Irish Sea.”

  Shoulders set in a resolute manner, Mama spun on her heel and marched back inside.

  “Then that’s the end of it,” said Evleen.

  “So it would appear.” He sounded regretful.

  She had to admit to herself that Lord Thomas was not at fault. Obviously he had nothing personal to gain, and his genuine concern had been for Patrick, not himself. “I appreciate your interest. It appears you have nothing to gain from this. I must say, you’re not a bad sort, for an Englishman.”

  He laughed. “I’m glad you don’t find me the complete villain. Lord Trevlyn is my father’s best friend. I was simply doing him a favor, checking on his land. Had I known I’d discover he had a grandson—”

  “But you won’t tell him, will you?” She was suddenly concerned, aware this might not be the end of it. She waited for his reply, but he was silent. “Will you?” she repeated suspiciously.

  “I...” Thomas paused, as if in deep thought. “In all good conscience, I cannot promise I won’t inform Lord Trevlyn he has a grandson.”

  “But why?” she asked, suddenly alarmed. “What good would it do? My mother told you what she thought, and I agree. Patrick is Irish through and through. He’s done without Lord Trevlyn and... and...” sputtering, she continued, “all those English relatives all his life. Why would he want anything to do with them now?”

  “Perhaps you should ask Patrick.”

  “I don’t need to ask Patrick,” Evleen replied, her anger mounting. And just when she was beginning to like this man. “Patrick is very bright, I grant you, but he’s still a child. He will do what his mother thinks best for him. And what’s best for him is to stay here in County Clare and not be torn from the arms of his loving family.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–”

  “Is there something wrong, Evleen?”

  It was Timothy, come to check on her. Good. His timing was perfect. “There’s nothing wrong, Timothy. Lord Thomas and I were having a discussion, but now we’re almost done.” She raised her chin, having only one more thing to say to this troublesome Englishman. “You English look down upon us Irish. Don’t deny it. You think because we’re poor, we’re ignorant. You think our children are all illegitimate and we find the ultimate solution to all our problems at the bottom of a glass of Guiness.”

  Even in the darkness she could tell Lord Thomas was taken aback. “But I hardly think–”

  “Let me finish,” she declared, her brogue growing thicker as she talked. “We may not be rich, but we are just as good as you are, sir. Just as smart, and just as capable of guiding our own lives. The O’Fallon’s are a happy family, and that includes Patrick, despite this business you’re tellin’ us now about being an heir apparent. Saints preserve us! He’s an O’Fallon, through and through, so think about what I said, and don’t be causin’ any more trouble than you’ve already caused.” She bobbed her head to signal the end of her pronouncement. “Let’s go inside, shall we, Timothy?”

  Thomas watched as Timothy, his arm still protectively around Evleen, led her back into the cottage. I should be insulted, he thought. Angry. But despite himself, his stomach clenched with a feeling he had never, in all his thirty years, experienced before. Jealousy. He had a sudden, totally unreasonable urge to punch the big Irishman square in the nose and grab the girl away. How totally uncivilized. He could hardly believe it of himself. Despite being a second son, he had never been compelled to lift a finger to attract any woman he chose. Strange, but her words had not stung him in the least. Instead, as he’d listened to her ranting, all he could really hear was the entrancing sound of her melodious voice, her words becoming more and more Irish, flowing from her sweet mouth in that beautiful, lulling brogue.

  When he returned to the cottage, not sure of the welcome he’d receive, Sinead O’Fallon greeted him graciously and apologized. “You must understand how we feel, sir, and it’s nothing personal. You and O’Grady must spend the night if you don’t mind makeshift beds in front of the fireplace.”

  He had said nothing more, and in the morning, after a near sleepless night full of O’Grady’s snoring and his own tossing and turning, they left amidst a chorus o
f friendly goodbyes. Even Evleen shook his hand, but her words were a final plea. “Leave us be. Please don’t tell.”

  “I cannot promise.”

  For a moment, she seemed to pause and reflect, and then smiled gently. “Then I can but wish you siochain leat, sir,” she answered softly. “That means peace be with you.”

  He left, deeply affected by the young woman’s graciousness in the face of his intractability. No truer lady could be found anywhere in England, he thought, and knew that although he would never see her again, he would have a most difficult time forgetting Evleen O’Fallon.

  * * *

  Despite the warm weather, the return journey from Ireland to England was not a comfortable one. The easiest part was his trip across Ireland, via Bianconi Coach, to the port of Ringsend, called by all a “vile, filthy, disgraceful-looking village” which, despite its poor reputation, was the busy port from which Thomas took the packet that crossed the Irish Sea to Holyhead in Wales. The seventy-mile journey took the better part of a day. What a miserable boat ride, Thomas glumly reflected more than once. For the fare of ten and six, he was given the great privilege of taking passage on a ship where facilities were primitive and minimal, where the air was confined and nauseating, and where, for most of the unfortunate passengers, seasickness was a constant misery. At least he’d been spared that final indignity, Thomas reflected, as the ship approached Holyhead. Still, his journey had been a discomfiting one. He could easily tolerate the physical discomforts, but ever since he’d left that little cottage in County Clare, his usual serenity had been shaken to the core. Up until now, his well-ordered life had contained few dilemmas, but over and over, he now wondered, should he tell or should he not tell? Sinead O’Fallon and her daughter, Evleen, had been adamant in their plea that Lord Trevlyn not be told he had a grandson. With good reason, too, Thomas mused. Despite his family’s poverty, the boy was bright, healthy, and obviously happy, right where he was. Why chance fate? If Trevlyn knew of the grandson, he would not only want to see the boy, he would no doubt seek custody. After all, Patrick could live a life of ease and luxury, waited on hand and foot, with everything he could possibly need.