The Irish Upstart

by Shirley Kennedy

  He must be crazy, but the sight of that Irish oaf kissing Evleen made him want to rush to the bottom of the garden and punch the fellow out. An absurd notion, of course. Timothy Murphy was not an oaf. He was a fine, upstanding, honest Irishman who would make Evleen a fine husband. He had better remember that. If this surprising spurt of jealousy struck again, he must guard against acting the fool. In fact, he would have to exercise the utmost control if he were to accompany this tantalizing woman and her brother clear back to England and hang onto the cool detachment he always maintained when dealing with women.

  But I will, he vowed, despite the fact he could hardly keep his eyes off Evleen O’Fallon. How ironic, he mused, thinking of the many beauties of the ton who had thrown themselves at him to no avail. He could not have cared less, despite their elaborate coiffeurs and beautiful gowns. Now here was this Irish girl, her hair worn simply, dressed in a gown that was hardly the height of fashion. He felt a pang of concern, thinking how the women of Aldershire Manor would scoff at Evleen’s coarse blue flannel gown and the yellow and pink shawl she had thrown over her shoulders with such artless grace. But what mattered fashion? What man would not be enchanted by her melodious Irish voice; the wealth of dark hair that swung with such allure about her slender shoulders; the knowing light that twinkled deep in those sapphire blue eyes? Yet, he must contain himself and never let his attraction show. For all her fire and beauty, Evleen O’Fallon could play no part in his future plans. If he married anyone, it would be Miss Bettina Trevlyn. Not now, of course, but some faraway day when and if he could get past the embroidery stitches. Papa not only approved, he expected Thomas to marry her. Not that Thomas did not have a mind of his own, but he, too, recognized that Miss Evleen O’Fallon was from a different world. Besides, she was betrothed to Timothy Murphy, was she not? Actually, despite the conversation at the table last night, he wasn’t sure.

  Darragh had come to stand beside him. He nodded to the couple still standing at the bottom of the garden and asked, “Are they betrothed?”

  Darragh seemed to hesitate before she answered, “Indeed they are. Evleen is madly in love with him. They plan to marry as soon as she returns from England.”

  * * *

  “Goodbye, Mama,” said Evleen, trying unsuccessfully to hold back her tears. “I hate to go.”

  Tenderly Sinead gripped her arms. “Go to England. Keep an open mind. Yes, I hate the English, but I’m not so blind I cannot see how much more England has to offer than impoverished County Clare.”

  “But if you feel that way, why don’t you come to England and bring my sisters, too?”

  Sinead smiled sadly. “Your sisters and I belong here, but you, with your strength, your wit and keen intellect, were meant for better things. In England, you will flower. Embrace every bit of it—the poetry, music, books, art. The glittering social life, the brilliant people. Learn. Enjoy every minute of your life. Never feel guilt and never feel obligated. And most of all, make me proud, Evleen.” She looked toward Lord Thomas. “He’s not a bad sort.”

  Evleen shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “You’ll be thrown together on this journey. I worry.” Her brow furrowed. “Don’t you be falling in love with Thomas Linberry.”

  “I?” Evleen asked skeptically, “fall in love with an Englishman?” She laughed derisively. “I grant you, he’s handsome enough, and rather charming, but he’s English, after all, and I shall never forget what one Englishman did to you and all our family.”

  “Good, and if you find yourself attracted to him, remind yourself he possesses neither wealth nor significant title.”

  “But find an Englishman who does,” Evleen replied warily. She still could hardly believe what Mama had told her a while ago.

  “I meant what I said, Evleen.”

  Evleen’s heart wrenched at the thought of leaving Ireland forever, yet if it was what Mama wanted...

  “I shall try,” she said over a growing lump in her throat.

  Sinead hugged her tight. “Don’t be afraid. If worse comes to worse and all else fails, you can always come home and marry Timothy Murphy.”

  Chapter 8

  Loughrea... Ballinasloe... Athlone...

  The melodious names brought a flood of memories to Evleen as she, Patrick, and Lord Thomas began their trek. It had been nine years since she and her family traveled across Ireland along this very same Dublin-to-Galway Mail Post Road. Not much had changed. The village names might be as beautiful as ever, but the sad irony was, the countryside was still barren, the mud huts along the wayside still among the poorest she had ever seen. I have changed though, she thought wistfully. When she’d left Dublin she’d been a girl of fifteen, full of hope for the future despite the loss of Mama’s fortune. But now...

  A flash of wild grief ripped through her. To leave her mother and sisters was bad enough, but Ireland too. Ah, how she wanted to cry, but she couldn’t, not only because of Patrick, but she would not give Himself the satisfaction.

  She flicked a glance toward Lord Thomas, having to admit that since they’d been on the road this morning, he had been courteous, kind, and most patient with Patrick, even when the child asked a dozen questions all in a row.

  “Lord Thomas, do we get the horses for free?” Patrick was asking now. They were heading for Athlone, having just started down the road again after a stop at a posting station for fresh horses.

  “No, we must pay for them,” he answered, his eyes attentive on the narrow, bumpy road ahead as he guided the two bays. Noting the easy, self-confident way he handled the reins, she had to admit he had a ruggedness and vital power about him, and a toughness that could not have been gleaned from leading a dandy’s frivolous life in London. So far on this journey, he had been rather distant, which was as it should be. She didn’t want to get too close. Still, she was curious about the man and couldn’t resist remarking, “You look as if you’ve spent much time with horses.”

  He glanced to where she sat on the seat beside him and replied, “I’ve just returned from managing a sugar plantation in Jamaica for three years. I practically lived on the back of a horse.”

  “How you must have missed the delights of London.”

  “Hardly.” He gave her an odd glance, raising an eyebrow. “I leave the delights of London to my brother.”

  Surprising. She wanted to ask more, but Patrick spoke up again. When would he be quiet? “Lord Thomas, how much does it cost for the horses?”

  “One shilling six pence a mile, paid for the horses, and six pence to the postboy.

  “Why didn’t you hire a coach?”

  “There’s only the three of us. A curricle is sufficient.”

  Thomas was forced to veer to the side of the narrow road as a coach and four came thundering by, the coachman, whip in hand, riding high and haughty in the seat box atop.

  “I think I should like to be a coachman when I grow up,” Patrick announced. “I think it would be great fun. I’d feel like the king of all I surveyed.”

  Evleen and Thomas exchanged amused glances. “That's an admirable ambition, Patrick,” Thomas said thoughtfully, “but you had best wait to decide. You might find being a lord and managing a vast estate will take much of your time.”

  “Will we get clear to Dublin today?”

  “I think not,” Thomas replied patiently. “Tonight we shall stay at an inn in Athlone.”

  An inn? Evleen felt definitely uncomfortable at the thought. In all the excitement, and agony of parting, she had not given any thought to the journey itself when here she would be, alone, except for her little brother, in the middle of nowhere, with this tough, attractive man and he... what? Timothy had warned her about his intentions, but as far as she could tell, Lord Thomas was treating her with politeness and that was all. No wonder, she thought glumly. This man came from a world where women adorned themselves in satins, silks, and laces; where they had lady’s maids to coif their hair and iron their gowns; where they would consider themselves disgraced if ever
they had to lift a finger to do for themselves. What must he think of me? Evleen uncurled her strong, slim fingers and surreptitiously examined her hands. True, they were tidy and neatly kempt, yet they didn’t have the pampered softness of a lady’s hands. Tending the garden most definitely did not help, she thought, bemused, nor did cooking, or scrubbing the floors.

  No wonder Lord Thomas was being only merely polite. He must think of her, if he thought of her at all, as just another poor Irish peasant, so totally beyond the realm of his privileged world that he hardly recognized her as a genuine human being. Doubtless he was counting the hours until this onerous favor he was doing for his father’s friend was completed and he could get back to... his betrothed, perhaps? Or, like so many men, did he have an arrangement? Perhaps not, if he’d just returned from Jamaica. She smiled to herself, thinking how she would love to ask, oh, by the way, Lord Thomas, do you have a mistress?

  She caught herself, and wondered why on earth she was bothering to speculate upon the love life of an Englishman. He can have a dozen mistresses, it’s fine with me, she thought, glaring at him. She caught herself again and silently laughed. If the man had seen the resentful glance she’d thrown him, he would not have the faintest idea what she was thinking.

  Lord Thomas pointed to the south. “Patrick, there’s an old monastic site not far from here called Clonmacnoise. It dates clear back to the sixth century.”

  “Can we see it?” asked Patrick, instantly alert.

  Lord Thomas glanced at Evleen. “Shall we? It should not take long. We can take the Marconi Coach road that passes close to Clonmacnoise. The boy would enjoy seeing the old ruins and so might you.”

  “Why, I...” Evleen hesitated and bit her lip. The idea of doing something pleasurable had not even occurred to her.

  “Why not?” Thomas asked. “How long has it been since you did something purely for enjoyment?”

  She replied flatly, “I haven’t had time for enjoyment.”

  “That’s evident, Miss O’Fallon.” He gazed at her with his dark, probing eyes. “You’ve done nothing but work and worry about your mother these past few months, haven’t you?”

  “So what if I have?” She had spoken defiantly, yet inwardly she was touched by his unexpected perceptiveness.

  Thomas appeared to ignore her, and addressed Patrick. “I believe a bit of sight-seeing is in order, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy added earnestly, “My sister used to laugh a lot, but she doesn’t anymore.”

  “Well, then, we’re off to Clonmacnoise.” Lord Thomas gave a smart flick to the reins. “See just ahead? There’s where we turn.”

  A short time later, Evleen stood with Patrick and Lord Thomas on the bank of the River Shannon, all taking in the breath-taking view of a green, quiet valley where stood the ancient stone tower and the ruins of the nine churches that made up the monastic site of Clonmacnoise. The site was overgrown and neglected, but beautiful, nonetheless.

  “It’s very old, isn’t it?” asked Patrick.

  “Founded by Saint Ciaran in five-forty-five AD,” Lord Thomas replied.

  Evleen was surprised. “I would not have guessed you had an interest in ancient history.”

  “I once had a tutor who delighted in pounding ancient history into my skull.” Thomas shaded his eyes and smiled as he took in the view. “Imagine, Patrick, a weary pilgrim in the year eight-hundred-something, walking across the midland bogs to this mystic place. Or a merchant boating his way down the mighty River Shannon, bringing goods.”

  “I can see it, Patrick eagerly cried. He looked down upon the many ruins of old churches, and the vast graveyard with its tall crosses exquisitely carved of stone. “Evleen, can I go explore? I want to see if I can climb inside that big, tall tower.”

  “If you’re careful—”

  Patrick darted away before she finished. Evleen exchanged amused glances with Lord Thomas again, then both watched until the boy disappeared behind the ruins of an old church. In the silence Evleen became aware that except for an old caretaker in the distance, she and Lord Thomas were alone. An awkwardness came over her, she could not imagine why, for she was usually at ease with people. Not this man, though.

  “Shall we stroll?” he asked with great politeness.

  “I don’t see why not,” she cautiously replied. They made their way down a gentle slope and for a while strolled upon the emerald green grass in comfortable silence amidst the stone crosses and clusters of ruined churches.

  In the distance, Patrick reappeared. “I’m going to climb inside the tower now,” he called and disappeared again.

  “What a fine lad,” remarked Lord Thomas.

  She asked, “Is he not driving you daft with his questions?”

  “On the contrary. I greatly admire an inquiring mind. He’ll do well in England, mark my words.”

  “Will he?” A flood of doubts coursed through her. Mama’s decision and their departure all happened so fast that until this very moment she had hardly given a thought to exactly what the future held. “What kind of a family will we be living with?”

  “You will find Lord Trevlyn most amiable and kind.”

  “And the rest? You said there was a brother and his wife?”

  “Yes, Lord Trevlyn’s brother, Walter Trevlyn, his wife, and their three daughters.” They came to the arched entryway of an old stone church. “Shall we go inside?”

  Evleen started through the entrance, stopped in her tracks, jolted by a startling realization and quickly turned to face him. “They were not aware of Patrick’s existence, were they?”

  “No, they were not.”

  “So the brother presumed he was the heir?”

  Thomas stopped, too, and turned to face her, nodding reluctantly. “‘Presumed’ is correct. Up to now he’s been the heir presumptive, not the heir apparent.”

  Suddenly she understood. “Be that as it may, can you honestly say that Patrick will be welcomed with open arms by the brother and his family?”

  Thomas exhaled, shut his eyes the fraction of a moment before he replied, “I don’t suppose he will. Naturally, Walter and his family will not be particularly pleased when they find out about Patrick.”

  She was horrified. “You mean they still don’t know?”

  “If they don’t, they soon will.”

  This was getting worse and worse, thought Evleen, her spirits plunging. Bad enough Patrick had been wrested from the only home he had ever known, but worse, he was bound to meet with hostility at this utterly foreign place where he was going to live. And what of me? How would the women of the family deal with a strange young woman from one of the poorest counties in all Ireland? “Tell me about the family.”

  Although Lord Thomas was obviously striving to appear unconcerned, she perceived the gleam of solicitude that flashed in his eyes. “The daughters are of a marriageable age,” he began, and went on to describe how Mrs. Trevyln was a “forceful individual albeit truly a grand lady,” how Charlotte, the eldest daughter, was “indeed a great beauty, both refined and delicate,” how Bettina, the middle daughter, excelled in embroidery, and how Amanda, the youngest, was “rather on the shy side but extremely well-mannered.” Having said all that, he added, “I shall be blunt. Neither you nor Patrick are likely to be welcomed with open arms.” He looked down at her, his dark eyes keenly assessing, yet admiring, too. “But doesn't the blood of Irish kings runs through your veins, Miss O’Fallon? If there’s anyone who can handle them it’s you.”

  Although she had mixed feelings, her spirits lifted at his reassuring words. She was beginning to realize he was not just another dissolute Englishman. In fact...

  As they stood close in the archway of the ancient stone church, the midday sun shining down upon them, a bird swooping low overhead, she found herself intensely conscious of how drawn she felt toward Thomas Linberry, and how keenly she was aware that this was a man to be reckoned with, who, if she judged correctly, possessed a fierce virility but thinly vei
led. Lord Thomas most certainly had no place in her future plans, though. She would be a fool if she allowed herself to be attracted to him. He thought of her as strong? Well, strong she would be. She tilted her chin. “How right you are about my Irish blood. No matter what, I’ll not let them plague me.”

  He smiled and was about to speak when the wizened old caretaker they had seen in the distance came limping around the corner of the church. “Ah, I see ‘tis visitors we have,” he said in his thick brogue. “‘Tis not many who make their way to Clonmacnoise.”

  “It’s most beautiful,” said Evleen.

  “Ay, beautiful it is. Do ye know where ye be standing?” When both Evleen and Thomas shook their heads, he continued, “Ye be standin’ by the cathedral, largest of the churches, built in nine-hundred-nine. This be the north doorway, carved in limestone. They call it the Whispering Arch. Courting couples ‘ave been comin’ here for centuries. They stand, one on each side, whisperin’ their words of love to one another.”

  “We’re not courting, I’m afraid,” said Evleen.

  “Ye must be cousins then, or mayhap brother and sister.”

  When Thomas told him no, the old man cocked his head and regarded them appraisingly. “Well, from the looks of ye, ye should be courting,” he announced abruptly, and hobbled away.

  When he was gone, Evleen and Thomas broke into laughter, but it was not an easy laughter and was soon stilled. “What a funny little man,” said Evleen. She felt self-conscious and had groped for something to say.

  “Very,” Thomas echoed. He seemed perfectly at ease, and yet some strange force seemed to be preventing him from moving from the spot, just as it was preventing her from moving, too. As they stood staring deep into one another’s eyes, a current of something intense flared between them. Evleen quickly looked away. God in heaven, her pulse was racing, she felt dizzy. This man had just made her senses spin. He also was affected, she could see. She could tell from the sudden tenseness of his shoulders and the way he’d pulled in his breath just now, that he had also felt this... this... what? Deep attraction, she supposed. Yes. Foolish, impossible though it was, that look they had just exchanged had been full of unspoken desire. She had felt a vibrant excitement that made her forget herself for one tiny moment and want very much to fling herself wantonly into his arms.