The Irish Upstart

by Shirley Kennedy

  “Lord Thomas, Evleen! I climbed inside the tower. Come see.” Patrick again. What a welcome interruption.

  “Did you now, Patrick?” she called, collecting herself post haste. The look she cast Lord Thomas was as cool and indifferent as she could make it. “Would you care to go see the tower, sir?”

  “Indeed,” he answered, bowing slightly, equally composed. “I cannot get enough of ancient monasteries.”

  * * *

  Disgusted with himself, Thomas could hardly believe what he had almost done. Despite his stern resolve, during that dizzying moment with Evleen at the Whispering Arch, he had been sorely tempted. The woman was betrothed. Spoken for. Honor alone would prevent him from touching her, yet he had let his guard down enough that he’d come close to pulling her soft, tempting body tight against him and crushing her soft, rosebud lips with his own. And then...

  A quiver surged through his veins, but he commanded himself to ignore it. He must stop all thought of her except as her escort to England. Had he gone mad? What was the matter with him? Not only was Evleen betrothed, but eventually he, himself, would be committed to Miss Bettina Trevlyn, who was far better suited to him than this bold-spirited Irish girl.

  “Shall we go find Patrick?” she asked.

  “Indeed, time is flying,” he answered, forcing himself to sound brusque. From now on, he must not dare allow himself to become too friendly again, or he would...

  Would what? Flout society’s rules? Thomas laughed to himself. If that were the case, he would have done far more than kiss Miss Evleen O’Fallon there, under the old man’s Whispering Arch. God, what a tempting woman. If he’d had his way, society’s rules would have been more than flouted, they would have been ground into dust, much like some of the ruins of Clonmacnoise. He spotted Patrick. “Ah, there he is, Miss O’Fallon,” he remarked, noting with satisfaction how cool he sounded, how very aloof.

  And he would remain aloof from now on. Evleen had enough on her hands right now. Their recent conversation concerning Walter and his family had reminded Thomas of the inevitable problems that lay ahead. He wondered if Lord Trevlyn had informed Walter he was not the heir presumptive anymore. A black premonition of impending trouble came over Thomas as he realized Walter might go quietly, but most assuredly not greedy Lydia and her three daughters.

  * * *

  Surprised, yet not overly upset, Walter Trevlyn stepped from the mahogany paneled library of Aldershire Manor where his brother had just delivered the supposedly ghastly news. “I know this comes as quite a blow,” Charles had compassionately added at the end, “but I could wait no longer. I have just received word from Lord Thomas that he, Patrick, and his half-sister, Evleen, will be arriving any day now.”

  Walter knew he was supposed to be stunned, devastated, outraged. Instead, more than anything else he felt a vast sense of relief that he would not be compelled to become the sixth Earl of Alberdsley. He had never fancied being addressed as His Lordship, with people bowing and scraping to him as if he had just descended from Heaven and was a touch above the rest. He was comfortable as he was, and most certainly did not need a vast fortune when he already had his books, his bird-watching expeditions to the woods, his sketch pad and paints. What more could he ask for? After all, he’d no expectation of inheritance during Randall’s lifetime. Then, as now, his life was happy and complete, except... oh, Lord, Lydia.

  Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

  He pictured the look on his wife’s face when informed her dream of ruling over Aldershire Manor as “Her Ladyship” would never be fulfilled. Now she would never assume the title she coveted, which was very bad news indeed. Over the years, how many times had he heard Lydia lament her lack of a title? If she told him once, she told him a thousand times the dreaded day was coming when the husband of her arch rival, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, would inherit his mother’s title. When he did, Mrs. Drummond-Burrel, esteemed Patroness of Almack’s, would become Lady Willoughby de Eresby. Who knew when this woeful event would actually occur? All he knew was that when it did, if Lydia was still plain Mrs. Trevlyn, her life would be ruined. Never could she hold her head up, or appear in polite society, ever again. Not that she wished Walter’s dear brother ill, of course, but after all, he was quite old, and getting feeble, and how much longer must she wait to be called “Her Ladyship,” a title she justly deserved?

  And then there were the girls...

  Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

  The more Walter thought, the more he realized this whole affair was nothing but trouble no matter how he looked at it. Lydia would doubtless have a fit when she found out. Daughters, too. Although... good grief. How could he marry them off now? It had been bad enough before, despite the large dowries.

  The butler encountered him in the hallway. “Dinner is served, sir. The family is waiting.”

  The remains of Walter’s brief spell of euphoria fast disappeared. He heaved a sigh and heartily wished he could just go to his rooms and read Euclid. But no, he must face his family and give them the devastating news. Truth be told, he would rather face Napoleon’s army than dinner tonight.

  “Is something the matter, Walter?” asked Lydia when he entered the dining room. She and the girls were already seated at the dining table, engaged, as usual, in their lively discussion of suitors and the coming London Season which they were about to attend.

  Lydia asked, “Lord Trevyln is dining in his bedchamber this evening?”

  “As usual.” Walter seated himself at the head of table, a habit Lydia insisted he pursue since his brother seldom came down to the dining room anymore.

  “Cook has fixed Westphalian ham tonight, Walter, your favorite, as I recall.” Lydia frowned and peered closer. “Are you all right? You look... strange.”

  He smiled, discovering that despite his kindly nature there existed a tiny part of him that anticipated with keen delight the horrified expression that would soon occupy his ambitious wife’s face. Must be the devil. He should be ashamed of himself, but he would save that until later.

  “I have something to tell you, m’dear. Something you won’t like.”

  He proceeded to relate the news, noting as he talked his wife’s slow change of expression from mere interest, to incredulity, to now, as he finished, pure horror. He ended his discourse with, “So there you have it. Nothing to be done, I’m afraid,” and sat back in his chair.

  There was a moment of stunned silence. They all sat round-eyed, forks suspended in mid-air. Charlotte was the first to recover. “You cannot mean this, Papa.”

  “You heard correctly. I shall not be the sixth Earl of Alberdsley after all. Much as you may dislike the idea, Randall’s son is next in line.”

  Until now, Lydia had resembled a sleeping volcano, quiet but gathering steam. Now, much as he anticipated, she erupted, “Do you mean to tell me some scrawny little whey faced urchin from Ireland is to inherit Charles’s estate?”

  Walter shrugged. “It would appear so.”

  She glared at him, transmitting a mixture of incredulity, rage, and stupefaction. “Well, don’t just sit there. Do something.”

  He felt a nudge of guilt because that tiny part of him that was enjoying this debacle refused to be squelched. He shrugged again, fully aware his seeming indifference would drive her mad. “Not much I can do.”

  “But what of us?” She gestured dramatically around the table. “Are we to be thrown out into the cold and snow?”

  The devil got the better of him again. With great deliberation he peered toward the window. “I do believe Spring has arrived. I don’t recall it snowed once this past month. Now, last month—”

  “Oh... oh.” Her little pursed mouth kept opening and closing but nothing came out.

  At last feeling a modicum of guilt, Walter hastened to say, “Charles won’t throw us out. We are welcome to stay as long as we like, although of course after his demise, I cannot speak for what the new heir might do. But do remember, Lydia, I do have an income of my own. Small it might b
e, but enough to sustain us, although not anywhere near”—his gaze swept around the luxurious dining room—”this grand a fashion.”

  She glowered at him. “Don’t even bother to mention that paltry sum.”

  Oh dear. He glanced at each of his stunned daughters and remarked, “Also, Charles has assured me those generous dowries will remain the same.” He could not resist adding—the devil again—”If the need ever arises, which it has not thus far.”

  Lydia rose to the bait. “You know full well the girls have so many proposals they don’t know what to do with them.”

  “Oh, do they now?” He ventured a slight raise of one eyebrow.

  Lydia turned beet red. “This is not to be borne. If you think for one minute I’ll give up my rights to this house for one of Randall’s by-blows, you are much mistaken.”

  “Not a by-blow, madam. He and Patrick’s mother were legally married.”

  “Oh, Mama,” Charlotte suddenly wailed, “I wanted to be called Lady Charlotte and now I cannot.”

  “And I wanted to be the daughter of an earl,” cried Bettina.

  “But we still have each other,” Amanda near whispered, but no one except her father heard.

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Walter, acting as if he’d forgot, but really he hadn’t. Knowing how this next would be received, he wanted to delay the revelation of this additional outrage as long as possible.

  Lydia regarded him with eyes that gleamed like glassy volcanic rock. “And what might one more thing be, Walter?”

  “The boy is not coming alone.”

  There was a chorus of, “What?”

  “My brother has informed me the young lad will be accompanied by his half sister. I believe her name is Evleen.”

  Another shocked silence. Oh dear, oh dear.

  “Irish trash in this house?” asked Lydia in a voice like ice.

  “Er... the boy is only ten. He needed—”

  “The Irish are low and common,” said Lydia, “no better than savages, the lot of them.”

  “I have heard they live in mud huts and eat dirt,” Charlotte contributed.

  Bettina giggled. “Then it won’t cost much to feed them, will it?”

  Charlotte grimly smiled. “Perhaps we can clean her up and make a servant of her.”

  Lydia spoke again. “This Evleen... Walter, does she even speak English?”

  “Er... I’m not sure. Charles did mention, however, that her family on her father’s side is descended directly from the Kings of Ireland. Her mother is descended from royalty, too.”

  Lydia sneered. “Who gives a fig for Irish royalty?”

  “Oh, I know,” proclaimed Bettina with another giggle, “We shall call her the Irish Princess.”

  “Quiet, all of you,” commanded Lydia. “This is no time for frivolity, Bettina. Walter, you must do something.”

  “But—”

  “I mean it. I’ll not have this. There’s nothing you can do at the moment, but after Patrick arrives, we shall wait and we shall see. And as for the half-sister...” Lydia’s small eyes squinted in concentration. “How old did you say she was?”

  “I didn’t say. She’s a grown woman, apparently.”

  “Grown, eh? Well, mark my words, I shall not be outdone by the likes of some greedy, grasping little peasant from Ireland.”

  “On the contrary, Charles told me Lord Thomas spoke quite highly of her.”

  “She’ll be after Thomas if she isn’t already.”

  “Perhaps even Montague,” Charlotte chimed in alarm.

  Walter threw up his hands. “Please, ladies. You must not pass judgement on someone you haven’t even met.”

  “I don’t have to meet her to know what’s going on,” said Lydia, glowering. “At this very moment she’s no doubt sashaying herself across Ireland, throwing herself at Thomas’s head, having herself a marvelous time thinking of the fortune she’s about to get her claws into.” Lydia’s expression grew hard and resentful. “We’ll not have it, will we girls? Irish princess indeed.”

  Chapter 9

  On the rolling deck of The Countess of Liverpool, Evleen leaned over the bulwark and heaved again. Never in all her life had she been so miserable.

  “Are you all right?” Patrick stood beside her, red hair whipping wildly in the northern gale, his little face pinched with concern. Through some miracle, he remained unaffected by the rolling and tossing of the ship, as did Lord Thomas. She was far from being the only pitiful soul hanging over the side, though. Many of the other passengers were suffering the same as she.

  The bow dipped into a deep trough formed by the churning waves and abruptly rose again, leaving her stomach behind. “Ah, Patrick,” she moaned, “if the sea should open up and swallow me, I wouldn’t mind.”

  Patrick patted her arm. “But you were feeling so fine.”

  “That was an hour ago,” she gasped, “in Ringsend, before we sailed.” Another attack of nausea struck her. She bent nearly double over the bulwark, stomach wrenching as she heartily wished she were dead. Up to now, she had, to her surprise, enjoyed the journey immensely. Last night they had stayed at The Raven Inn at Athlone, which she’d found to be much more comfortable than expected. The rooms were clean, and the food! Oh, she shouldn’t think of food at a time like this, but she remembered how she and Patrick could hardly believe their eyes at sight of a table laden with boiled round of beef, roast loin of pork, peas, parsnips, a roast goose, a boiled leg of mutton, plum pudding and more. She had been hard-put to take dainty bites instead of stuffing her mouth. Patrick, though, was unencumbered by concern about good manners and how it would look in front of Lord Thomas. He dug with gusto into all that delicious, unaccustomed food which now, just the thought of it was making her even sicker than she already was. Not long after dinner, while a fiddler played lively Irish tunes, Patrick had fallen asleep at the table and Lord Thomas was obliged to carry him to bed. Thus far, she reflected, Timothy had been mistaken about Lord Thomas. Up to now, he had been most solicitous and kind. And when he said goodnight at the door to her room after putting Patrick to bed, he had been gracious but remote. It was as if that enthralling exchange of glances at the Whispering Arch never happened. And it probably didn’t, she mused darkly. It must have been all her imagination. How could she possibly think a man with as high a rank as Lord Thomas could have any personal interest in a poor Irish girl? Not that it mattered. She shivered in the cold, biting wind and drew her shawl closer about her. A wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her again. Not that anything matters.

  Thomas arrived, having obtained a blanket from somewhere. “Here, let me wrap this around you.” He draped it around her shoulders. “Are you sure you don’t want to go below?”

  “Mercy, no.” The very thought made her stomach heave again. “It’s so dark and confined and suffocating down there. It’s fresh air I’m wanting.”

  Patrick spoke up. “I guess the boat isn’t so enjoyable after all, is it, Evleen?”

  “No it is not,” she gasped back, remembering—was it only a few hours ago?—how she had stood on the shore of the port of Ringsend and caught her first glimpse of The Countess of Liverpool rocking gently in the harbor. As she recalled, she remarked how eager she was to set sail across the Irish Sea. At the time, it had seemed like great fun—an exciting adventure. Ha. Little had she known.

  “What kind of boat is it?” Patrick asked, equally excited and eager as he looked across the water toward The Countess of Liverpool.

  “It’s a mailboat, cutter rigged,” Lord Thomas answered. “One hundred and five tons, a beam of nineteen feet or so, draught of ten feet six inches, mast of sixty-eight feet. Very strongly built.”

  “There’s a comfort,” she lightly remarked, impressed by Lord Thomas’s broad knowledge of ships. In fact, what didn’t he know?

  Well, he hadn’t known she was going to get deathly sick on the Holyhead packet, she thought morosely as another wave of nausea hit her. How could anything be left? But, alas, th
ere was. To her chagrin, and utter humiliation, she realized Lord Thomas was holding her, gently rubbing her back as she hung over the side. She managed, “I feel so embarrassed I could die.”

  “But you won’t,” he replied, all matter-of-fact, as if he saw young ladies toss their breakfast every day.

  “I...” A wave of dizziness overcame her. Little black dots started dancing before her eyes. She felt herself start to sink, but then a strong arm went around her from behind and with the other, he half-lead, half-supported her across the pitching, rolling deck.

  “Patrick, get the blanket where it’s dragging,” she heard him say.

  “What shall you do with her?” she heard her brother ask.

  “Get her out of the wind. There’s a sheltered spot on the poop deck aft, since she does not deign to go below.”

  She felt an urge to snap, of course I don’t want to be in that awful, smelly hold, but could not sum up enough energy even to open her eyes, let alone her mouth. Gradually, she felt warmer. There was no cutting wind anymore. When she finally raised her eyelids, she found he’d brought her to a sheltered part of the ship and set her upon—she glanced down—it was a hollow coil of line he’d place her on. Not only was it holding her in place, it was much softer than the hardwood of the deck. Thomas knelt in front of her, still half-holding her in his arms. “Feeling better?” he asked, then glanced up at Patrick, who looked deeply concerned. “Run get some water, lad. And stop worrying, your sister will be fine.”