“Will I?” she weakly asked.
“You’ve had a bad case of the seasickness, but of course you’ll survive.”
“I’m not sure I want to,” she said, managing a very small smile.
She struggled to stand, but he felt her fast. “Don’t try it.”
“I don’t want to trouble you.”
“You’re no trouble.” He smiled. “This way I can hold you in my arms and everyone will think I am but a good Samaritan.”
She managed to gasp, “What other reason might you have?”
He gripped her tighter, brought his face to within inches of hers. “You know very well the reason, Evleen O’Fallon.”
Sick though she was, his meaning did not escape her. He likes me, she thought in great surprise. At another time she would have found his remark challenging, perhaps even thrilling, but she was too sick to care, too weak even to form an answer. Patrick returned with the water. With Thomas helping hold the tin cup steady, she drank her fill and asked, “How much longer?”
“Hard to say this time of year,” Thomas answered. “In bad weather, with adverse winds, it could take up to thirty hours, but today I should wager we’ll arrive at Holyhead in another ten.”
When she groaned, he reluctantly added, “I should warn you, it could get worse.”
“What do you mean, sir?” Patrick asked.
“Berthing at Holyhead’s port is sometimes hazardous. Pray the tides are favorable or we might not be able to get ashore.”
“Not land?” she cried, “but then what would we do?”
“Return to Ringsend, then be obliged to wait several days until the tides are right.”
The thought of sailing back to Ringsend over the storm-tossed Irish Sea was so horrifying, she could not find words. Better I don’t find the words.
He gave her an encouraging smile. “But that’s not likely to happen. You’ve been very brave. Hang in, for just a while longer. We’ll be in Wales before you know it.”
Although she took some comfort in his words, at that moment, more than anything on earth, she yearned to be back in the cozy cottage overlooking Galway Bay with her dear mother, and Sorcha and Mary, and even prickly Darragh. Such was not to be, though, and she must be brave for Patrick’s sake, but, oh, it was hard.
And, oh, will we ever get there?
* * *
Thank God, the miserable journey was over. They were not compelled to turn back at Holyhead and return to Ringsend after all. Instead, they landed without incident, Evleen’s health remarkably restored the moment her foot touched shore. Lord Thomas had been remarkably proficient at hiring a fine coach-and-four for their journey through the mountainous country from Holyhead to Shrewsbury. She worried at the start because the motion of the coach felt exactly like The Countess of Liverpool as the ship rocked and beat itself against the heavy sea. Evleen hadn’t got sick again, though, and they’d moved along at a fine pace.
After a change of horses at Shrewsbury, Lord Thomas planned to continue on in the hired post-chaise. Patrick had a better idea, though. He had been watching when one of the crack “flying machines” came rolling grandly into the posting station, announced by the guard riding atop sounding his horn. Before the coach had even come to a full stop, the passenger sitting next to the coachman had unbuckled the ends of the leads and wheel reins. The coach still moving, the guard got down and ran forward to unhook the near leader's outside trace, and then draw the lead rein through the terrets. Next, he changed the near horse and finished by running the near lead rein while the horsekeeper on the offside unhooked the remaining lead traces, uncoupled the wheel horses, and changed the offside horses.
“All done in but two minutes,” Lord Thomas said with approval as the coachman finished changing the leaders.
Patrick had watched in awe. “Can‘t we ride in the Mail coach, Lord Thomas?” he cried, round-eyed with excitement. “I’d like to sit next to the coachman and be the one to unbuckle the ends of the leads and the wheel reins.”
Lord Thomas cast a fond glance at Patrick. Evleen could tell he had thoroughly enjoyed seeing the child so full of awe at the swift and exciting change of horses. There was nothing this exciting in County Clare, and, in fact, she, too, was fascinated by the clattering hoofs, clanging of bugles, slamming of doors and stamping of feet on splash boards, and through all this din the raucous voice of the ostler continually sounding, like the cry of a medieval herald with a cold in his nose.
Lord Thomas ruffled the boy’s hair. “I know exactly what you mean, Patrick. I doubt there’s a man among us, no matter what his rank, who wouldn’t have a go at being a coachman.”
“Really?” she asked. “I would have thought a nobleman such as you would be above such things.”
“‘Noble’ is a term I abhor,” Thomas answered, to her surprise somewhat vehemently. “I am not noble, I am a second son. Even if I were the first son, I would never consider myself a cut above the rest simply because I owned a fancy title. Nor would I be wasting my life indulging in debauchery. I would never—” He seemed to catch himself, making her wonder if he was about to mention Patrick’s father as a shining example of debauchery, but realizing the boy’s presence, thought better of it. “Suffice to say, Miss O’Fallon, I live by my own rules, not society’s. Long ago, I stopped caring what other people think.”
She answered a bland “Indeed,” covering her sudden admiration. He seemed sincere. Could it be not all Englishmen were alike? She had never thought about it, but perhaps they weren’t all scoundrels like Randall.
Thomas looked at her inquiringly. “Well? Shall we take the mail coach?”
“Why not? I’d like it, too.”
The warmth of his smile echoed in his voice as he replied, “You’re a woman after my own heart.”
“Good show,” cried Patrick, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Evleen gave Lord Thomas a grateful glance. How kind and thoughtful of him. Surely a man of his high station would not enjoy riding with the riffraff in a public coach, and yet, on second thought, she supposed he would. His eyes, too, had been full of excitement when he’d seen that flying machine.
Daventy . . Dunstable . . St. Albans... The trip was as thrilling as Patrick expected it would be. Evleen enjoyed every moment, despite being crammed in a coach with strangers. Also, like Patrick, she loved the grandeur and elegance of the inns where they stopped to eat, as well as the excitement of the stops at all the chief posting stations. And like Patrick, she openly expressed her enthusiasm at the sight of the splendid horses, as well as all the crack flying machines that came in many different shapes and sizes, their doors emblazoned with the names of the places where they started and the places they would end.
And always, she sensed Lord Thomas’ attention upon her. More than once, she caught him regarding her with warmth and amusement in his eyes.
“I suppose you don’t think I’m being ladylike,” she said once, when she and Patrick exclaimed over the immense size of one coach’s back and front springs.
“No, I don’t think you’re being ladylike,” he answered equitably, “but that’s a compliment. Some ladies I know are so stiff and proper they would not deign to show an interest in anything as lowly as carriage springs. That you do, only shows what a bright young woman you are.”
Despite herself, she found herself glowing from his praise. Most certainly, Lord Thomas wasn’t as bad as Randall.
The exciting journey ended in London, where Lord Thomas stopped off at his family’s townhouse long enough to appropriate the family coach and coachman. After a quick trip, they were about to arrive at Aldershire Manor.
At last she was going to meet the Trevlyns. Evleen felt vast relief mixed with trepidation as the coach-and-four turned into a long driveway and the stone turrets and gray stone walls of Aldershire Manor came into view.
“Look, Evleen,” Patrick called, “have you ever seen such a big house in all your life?”
As the coach rolled to a stop, Evleen looked down
at herself and bit her lip. How crumpled she looked. Early this morning she had washed and dressed, aware she must look her best, but after six days of traveling, even her Sunday gown looked downright dowdy. At least her straw bonnet hid her hair, which was, she had concluded, a hopeless mess. Patrick also looked bad, she thought, examining the rumpled child. This morning in London she made sure he dressed in his best jacket and trousers, but she suspected his appearance fell far short of the high standards of the Polite World.
As she brushed at her skirt, she realized, to her disgust, that her knees were shaking. “Look at us,” she said to Lord Thomas, “Lord Trevlyn will take one look and send the two of us straight back to Ireland.”
Lord Thomas laughed as he sprung from the carriage and then handed her down as if she were a queen. The moment their hands met, she felt a tingle, as she had every time they had accidentally touched since that moment on the boat that she could not stop thinking about. You know very well the reason, Evleen O’Fallon. What had he meant by that? And here she’d been so seasick she couldn’t even ask, just moan and groan like a fool. But then, she reasoned, if she hadn’t been seasick, he wouldn’t have said what he said because his remark was doubtless out of pity, and nothing more. And yet... there were those glances he kept giving her, as though he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. But on the other hand?
She knew her reasoning had to be correct because ever since they disembarked from The Countess of Liverpool, he’d not said another personal word and had, in fact, conducted himself with the utmost politeness, bordering on remote.
“You look fine, Miss O’Fallon,” Lord Thomas said gravely. “I’ve no doubt Lord Trevlyn will be ecstatic to see you both and more than grateful you’ve come clear from Ireland.”
“And looking like the Irish peasants we are,” she glumly remarked.
“I do not want to hear you talk that way,” he said, and added with a smile, “No matter what happens, don’t ever forget you’re descended from the Kings of Ireland.”
No matter what happens? What did he expect? She was about to ask what he meant by that, and also tell him the Kings of Ireland were of no help to her now, when a white-haired old man with a cane hobbled onto the marble-columned portico. His eyes lit at first glimpse of the young boy now springing down from the coach. “Patrick,” he exclaimed in a voice filled with joy and wonderment. “I am Lord Trevlyn, your grandfather.”
Without hesitation, Patrick stepped forward and held out his hand. “I am delighted to meet you, Grandfather.”
The old man’s eyes misted with joy. He seemed nearly overcome. “You look just like your father,” he said, his voice choked with emotion.
“Did my father have red hair, too, sir?”
An expression of delight crossed Lord Trevlyn’s face as he bent to hug the boy. “I suspect your red hair comes from your mother, Patrick, but you greatly resemble your father just the same.” Over Patrick’s head, he regarded Thomas. “Ah, my boy, how can I thank you? And you must be Evleen,” he remarked, making her instantly feel welcome with his kind, warm eyes. “You are most welcome. From now on I shall consider you one of the family, as much as Patrick.” He raised his arm in a broad gesture of welcome. “Come, the three of you, shall we go inside?”
Lord Thomas demurred, saying he was anxious to see his father.
“Of course, Thomas. Your father still suffers from the gout and will indeed be happy to see you. Also, Montague is home. I know you’ll be anxious to see him, too. But come to dinner tonight, won’t you? You, Penelope, and Montague.” When Thomas nodded affirmatively, Lord Trevlyn placed an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “My brother and his family are out visiting this afternoon, but you’ll meet them soon enough. Now come inside and I shall show you your new home.”
“Evleen, I think I’m going to like it here,” Patrick called over his shoulder as he was led away.
Lord Thomas spoke up. “Miss O’Fallon will be right along, sir. I want to tell her goodbye.”
They were alone, still standing beside the coach. One of the horses pawed the ground and whinnied softly as Lord Thomas took both her hands in his and gazed down on her fondly. “So it’s goodbye.”
“But won’t I see you at dinner tonight?”
“You will, but by then we’ll be two different people.” He smiled ruefully. “We shared the intimacy of a journey, you and I. God knows, it wasn’t all fun, but still, we did what we pleased and had many a laugh, didn’t we? But it’s over now. Tonight we return to society’s rules. I shall be Lord Thomas, all bows and elegant manners. You will be Miss O’Fallon, dipping curtseys and fluttering your fan.”
“I don’t own a fan.”
“Ah, but you will.” He stepped closer and looked deep into her eyes. “I have never enjoyed a journey as much as this one.”
“I, too... well, except for crossing the Irish Sea. That I could have done without.”
“I thought you were magnificent. You never complained.”
He stepped even closer, and there it was again, that mystic force between them that caused her heart to race. “I try never to complain,” she said, shrugging and trying to look as if she didn’t notice how close he was standing when all the time she felt overwhelmed by his presence and hardly knew where to look. He was right about the intimacy of their journey. They had formed a close bond, laughing together, sharing a parents’ kind of joy over Patrick and his antics and bright remarks. They shared the grueling voyage over the Irish Sea when Thomas did all he could to ease her suffering, not too proud to hold her in his arms, comfort her, assure her she shouldn’t be embarrassed. Now, a feeling of emptiness swept over her. In all the excitement, she had not fully realized until this very moment that from now on their relationship could never be the same. Of course, it was obvious she would see him again, but how different would be the circumstances.
“I shall never forget your kindness to Patrick and me.”
A long silence followed. They seemed locked in each other’s gaze. He looked as if he was about to speak, as if he was on the brink of saying forbidden things he shouldn’t say. That would be wrong, though. Anything between them would be wrong. Never love an Englishman. That was mama’s good advice which she most assuredly must heed. Breaking the spellbinding moment, she stepped away. “I like Lord Trevlyn already,” she said, striving to sound casual. “Now that we’re here, I’m sure all will be well.”
A shadow of doubt crossed his face before he said, “I hope it will.” Fondly he touched his finger to her cheek. “But be careful.” One corner of his mouth quirked into a half smile. “Never forget you’re descended from the kings of Ireland.” Before she could answer, he pulled her close and kissed her, only a brief kiss, but it was full on her lips and she’d heard the intake of his breath as, afterward, he quickly thrust her away.
“Goodbye and good fortune,” he called and was in the coach, signaling to the coachman, and then gone.
* * *
When Pierce, the dignified, white-haired butler, showed Evleen to her bedchamber, she was astounded at its size and opulence. Beside her, Patrick exclaimed, “All of this room just for the two of us?”
Pierce concealed a smile. “No, Master Patrick, this is Miss Evleen’s. Your bedchamber is right next door.”
Evleen could not believe it. After Pierce left, Patrick eagerly trailing behind, she wandered about the spacious bedchamber, admiring the plush Administer rug, the fine, damask draperies. She flung herself with abandon on the high, four-poster bed, first delighting over its luxurious softness, then feeling a touch of guilt, wondering how she could possibly be enjoying herself when Mama and the girls slept on straw mattresses. Still, she may as well enjoy herself while she was here. Who knew what might happen? Soon she might very well find herself back in County Clare.
A quick knock sounded on the door, followed by a pretty young woman in a maid’s uniform. In a thick French accent, she said, “I am Celeste, ma’am. Lord Trevlyn sent me to assist you in dressing for dinner to
night.”
In confusion, Evleen sprang off the bed. Years ago in Dublin, her family had servants, but her memories of them were faint. Now the idea of having a lady’s maid to help her dress was so foreign she could hardly comprehend. “I... thank you, Celeste, but I can do for myself.”
“Oh, no, Miss.” Celeste grew round-eyed. “Dinner at Aldershire Manor is always a very formal occasion. Mrs. Trevlyn would insist. She would have my head if you were not properly attired.” Celeste picked up Evleen’s small portmanteau, set it on the bed, and opened it. “We shall see what you have brought to wear.”
With a sinking feeling, Evleen replied, “Not much I’m afraid.”
“Mon Dieux, is this the best you have?” Celeste pulled out Evleen’s Sunday gown, a not-so-new bishop’s blue calico, and held it high. Nose pinched with distaste, she regarded it as if it had just been used to clean the stalls.
Evleen tried to cover her embarrassment but felt herself blush. “That is my very best.”
“Déplorable.” Celeste paused, appearing to ponder. Her eyes lit. “You and Miss Charlotte are about the same size. She has a gown she never wears that I am sure would suit you. It is perfect for you.”
“But do you think I should?”
“Miss Charlotte won’t care.”
“Are you sure?”
After a noticeable pause before Celeste replied, “I’m sure she won’t, and even if she does, I have strict orders from Lord Trevlyn to make you look your very best tonight.”
Although Evleen was suspicious, she decided not to argue. If Charlotte resented her wearing the dress, then she would explain and apologize later, and surely she would understand. “All right, Celeste. Now what do you think my brother should wear?”
“We don’t have to worry about clothes for Patrick. He will take his dinner in his bedchamber tonight, and every night.”
“But we’re accustomed to eating together.”
“Never. The English say children should be seen and not heard, most especially at dinner.”
Parents eat separate from their children? What a strange, heartless notion. Evleen remembered all those family dinners in County Clare when the air was filled with laughter and bright conversation with her lively little sisters and Patrick’s incessant questions. She could not imagine eating separately. Ah, well. She must keep reminding herself she was in a different country now and should stay silent, going along with whatever were the customs. Still, what strange habits these English had!
The Irish Upstart Page 12
