The Irish Upstart

by Shirley Kennedy

  “Magnifique,” exclaimed Celeste when Evleen had finished dressing.

  Evleen turned this way and that in front of the mirror examining herself. She loved her new upswept coiffeur, as well the borrowed gown. “I like the dark orange color,” she said as she admired the sleeves, covered with a network of satin, and the hem trimmed with white satin rouleau.

  “Not orange, Miss, capucine.”

  “Whatever you call it, it’s not bad.”

  Celeste brought clasped hands to her heart in admiration. “Zee color is perfection for your dark hair and fair skin.”

  Evleen agreed, although in modesty, didn’t say. Actually, she was feeling better by the hour, for a myriad of reasons. Not only did she feel she looked her best, but her fears had mainly been allayed. Lord Trevlyn, whom she feared might be some sort of ogre, was most pleasant and kind. Patrick could not ask for a better grandfather. Also, Aldershire Manor was a beautiful mansion, not nearly as formidable as she had feared. She laughed to herself, remembering how her mother feared she might be given a small, cold room in the attic, shared with a scullery maid. Instead, here she was in this beautiful bedchamber, dressed in this beautiful dress after—miracle of miracles!—she had luxuriated in a long, pleasurable bath. Imagine! Maids scurrying up and down the back stairway, hauling buckets of hot water, just so she could bathe. How wonderful it had felt to scour herself all over and finally wash her hair, all with a lady’s maid to assist. It was a good thing Darragh couldn’t see her now, she would be green with envy. Leaning closer to the looking glass, Evleen tweaked the tiny curls that Celeste had arranged around her forehead. Never had she looked so elegant, at least not since she was fifteen and they had lived in Dublin. Now she felt more confident, and sure that despite those veiled little warnings from Thomas and that funny hesitation of the maid, she had nothing to fear.

  The grand, sweeping stairway was a perfect way to make an entrance. Evleen glided down the steps, head held high. Over her protests, Celeste had insisted she carry a white plumed fan, which she held regally high in one white-gloved hand, the gloved fingers of her other lightly touching the polished mahogany railing. Except there’s nobody to see me, she thought when she got to the bottom. Where was she supposed to go?

  Pierce appeared and sensed her dilemma. “They are in the drawing room. Follow me.” He led her to a set of double doors, partially open, said, “Through there, Miss O’Fallon,” and withdrew.

  She started to enter, eager to meet the whole family, heard voices, and stopped upon hearing her name.

  “But it’s my dress,” wailed someone young and female, “not that... whatever is the girl’s name?”

  “Evleen,” said another voice, equally young and female. “I hear from the servants she’s quite beautiful.” There was a giggle. “You’ll have to watch she doesn’t get her claws into Montague. Thomas, too, especially since he’s just traveled clear from Ireland with her.”

  “Over my dead body. I shall snatch my dress right off her back.”

  “But Charlotte, you didn’t even like the dress,” said another female voice, a sweeter one this time. “You always said the color didn’t suit you.”

  “I don’t care about that. Celeste had no right to give it to her.”

  Saints preserve us. Evleen’s spirits plunged like the bow of The Countess of Liverpool dipping into a trough. Suddenly the gown she adored was now but a mere garment, and worse, a garment its owner did not even want her to have. She considered turning on her heel and retreated to her bedchamber, but only for a moment. Since when did a true daughter of Ireland let the English get the better of her? She was here, and here she would remain, for Patrick’s sake, not her own, so she must at least attempt to make them like her. If they didn’t, perhaps they could at least get along.

  Evleen squared her shoulders, took a breath, and swept into the drawing room. The first person she saw was a man with thinish hair standing by the fireplace. Although he was elegantly dressed, his small frame, slumped shoulders, and pinched face did not impress. He smiled when he saw her and said, “Ah, this must be Evleen. I am Lord Trevlyn’s brother, Walter. Come in, meet my family.”

  “I would be delighted.” Evleen forced a smile, keenly conscious of four pairs of female eyes sharply assessing her.

  “My wife, Lydia,” said Walter, nodding toward a thinnish, woman seated grandly upon an empire mahogany fauteuil-de-bureau. “These three young ladies are my daughters,” he went on. “Charlotte—” he nodded toward a pretty blonde girl of twenty or so. “Bettina—” he indicated a round-faced young woman working on her embroidery “—and my youngest, Amanda.”

  Only Amanda, a plumpish girl with nondescript brown hair and the look of a frightened deer about her, returned Evleen’s effort at a smile. “You are most welcome, Evleen. I—” She appeared about to continue, but suddenly wilted, as if she had caught a signal that she should shut her mouth.

  “So,” Lydia said loudly and sharply. “Won’t you sit down, Miss O’Fallon?” Evleen did as requested, seating herself upon a stripped green silk settee. “I hear you are from Ireland. Do tell us about yourself.” It was not a request, it was a command.

  Sitting squarely in the center of the settee, her back as straight and stiff as she could make it, Evleen could feel the resentment aimed in her direction, not from timid Amanda, but from Lydia and the two older daughters. There was more than a bit of rancor here. In fact, she felt enveloped by a deep, thick cloud of hostility and hard feelings. She gulped a deep breath and determined to make the best of it. “Well, I’m from Ireland,” she began.

  “We know that,” said Bettina, seeming to suppress a titter.

  “From County Clare.”

  Lydia interjected, “We know that, too. County Clare,” she repeated, seeming to muse, “that’s one of Ireland’s poorest counties, is it not?”

  “All rocks and mud, from what we hear,” Charlotte volunteered.

  In a voice chill as the wind over the Irish Sea, Lydia continued, “Is it true you and Patrick are descended from the kings of Ireland?”

  What was this, some sort of Spanish Inquisition? Evleen felt her temper rise but determined to control it. “Patrick is my half-brother. As I’m sure you know, his father was Randall, Viscount Montfret.” She enjoyed the gritting of teeth that seemed to occur after her remark and could not resist tilting her chin and parrying, “So if he’s descended from kings, we most likely should include the kings of England.”

  “I see. Hmm.” Mrs. Trevyln’s fighting spirit seemed quashed for a moment, but she quickly recovered and inquired, “So do tell us of your heritage.”

  “We are so impressed,” said Bettina.

  Evleen was not sure if they were jesting or not. Perhaps not. Perhaps she was being overly sensitive because of the remark about the dress, but that was minor and they truly wanted to make her welcome. “You’re sure you want to hear?” They all nodded. “Well, then...”

  She told them of her father, who was Ian O’Fallon, son of Daniel O’Fallon, eighth Earl of Dunkerry, and how he was descended from the Duke of Connaught, who was a direct descendent of Euchaid, one of the ancient kings of Ireland who reined over one of the earliest Gaelic kingdoms many centuries ago. “So that’s why I’m descended from the kings of Ireland,” she concluded. “Would you like to hear about my mother’s side?”

  All were silent a moment. Then Bettina giggled, trying to conceal it by bringing her hand to her mouth.

  “Bettina!” admonished her mother.

  “I cannot help it, Mama, she really is an Irish princess.”

  Evleen hastily began, “Oh, please, I don’t think of myself as a princess. I—”

  Her abrupt halt was caused by the sudden realization that they were making fun of her. Not Walter Trevlyn, who still stood by the fireplace, now with a pained expression on his face. Not by Amanda, who looked downright stricken. But it was clear Mrs. Trevelyn, Charlotte, and Bettina were most definitely not her friends.

  “What we
re you going to say, Miss O’Fallon?” asked Mrs. Trevlyn, faking a solicitous concern. “You were going to tell us about your mother’s lineage?”

  Never in a million years. Evleen answered softly, “I make no pretense at being a princess. I am plain Evleen O’Fallon from County Clare, Ireland, no better, no worse than anyone else on God’s green earth.”

  “Well, we cannot fault her for that, can we, girls?” Lydia asked with a forced laugh. Her eyes drilled into Evleen’s. “And what will you be doing while you’re here?”

  “Looking after Patrick, of course. Until he grows accustomed to his new life.”

  “Then you intend to return to Ireland?”

  “I am not sure of my plans. Much depends on how well Patrick fares here in England.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Trevyln made no attempt to hide her relief, nor did Charlotte and Bettina. “So you’ll be acting as sort of a governess, then.”

  “I suppose... yes, you could say that.” Evleen was bewildered. What was Mrs. Trevlyn getting at?

  “Not a governess,” came Lord Trevlyn’s voice from the doorway. He entered, and despite the slight trembling of his limbs and his heavy dependence on his cane, Evleen sensed from the way all in the room quickly came to attention, his very presence commanded respect. “I thought I had made it clear Evleen is no governess.”

  Looking embarrassed, Walter replied, “Of course, Charles.” He cast a warning glance at his wife and daughters. “We understand that.”

  Lord Trevlyn sank with a weary groan into an armchair. Regarding Evleen fondly, he declared, “You look beautiful tonight, child. Have they been treating you well?”

  She smiled brightly, “Of course. I’ve been made to feel wonderfully welcome.”

  Lord Trevlyn smiled. “You will all meet Patrick tomorrow. Wait ‘til you see him. A fine little lad.”

  “We can hardly wait,” said Mrs. Trevlyn, her daughters all eagerly nodding their heads.

  Beaming with delight, Lord Trevlyn launched into an ecstatic description of his newly-found grandson. “... and he’s an extremely bright boy. Runs in the family, you know. Already the lad knows Greek and Latin, thanks to his mother who has done an outstanding job in educating the child.” He cast an admiring glance at Evleen. “That also applies to Miss O’Fallon, who is a bright, as well as most beautiful, young lady. Is that not so, everyone?”

  Evleen could have sworn she heard the sounds of gritting teeth again as the Trevlyns all eagerly nodded their heads affirmatively. She noted that although Lydia retained a fixed smile on her face, she had slightly flinched more than once as Lord Trevlyn praised Patrick to the skies.

  Lord Trevlyn continued. “Now what is this nonsense about Evleen being a governess? She will be no such thing. She is to be treated like one of the family, and when it’s time for the London Season, we shall all go, and that includes Evleen and Patrick. I want Patrick to enjoy the sights of London. As for our Evleen”—he cast a warning glance at his sister-in-law—”she shall have a Season, just like your daughters, madam. I shall see to it she has the proper clothes, jewels, furbelows, and whatever else that warms the hearts of young ladies.”

  Evleen sat stunned. A London Season? She had not realized. Even in supposedly unenlightened Ireland, she had heard of the London Seasons, where young girls came “out” and had to exhibit the kind of decorum and elegant deportment which would crown a successful Season with marriage.

  “But Lord Trevlyn, I cannot,” she protested.

  “Whyever not?”

  “In the first place, I’m twenty-four, which is much too old. Besides, I have not come ‘out’ and at this late date, I’d look ridiculous.”

  “Nonsense. Everyone will know you’re from Ireland. No need for you to officially come “out” as they say.”

  “But then, I don’t know if I can...” Evleen struggled to find the right words “…I mean, I’ve led a simple life in Ireland. I don’t know if I’m ready for the dances, the fancy manners, the elegant clothes—”

  “The girl has a point,” interjected Mrs. Trevlyn. “In my opinion it would be cruel to foist her upon a society she knows nothing about. She simply doesn’t have the training.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Lord Trevlyn firmly replied. “I trust, Lydia, you and your daughters will take Evleen to your collective bosoms, teach her everything she needs to know.”

  Lydia started to protest but Lord Trevlyn raised his hand. “Enough. Evleen shall have a Season, and that’s final.”

  Evleen could see further arguing would be futile. And now that she was thinking about it, really, what would it hurt? Visions of exciting London danced in her head. They had passed through that awesome city yesterday, just long enough for her to get a taste of how exciting life must be there. How she would love to go back, stay a while, and see all the sights, and no harm done. Perhaps she might even stumble across that rich and titled Englishman Mama wanted her to find.

  Further conversation was cut short when Pierce announced the arrival of Montague, Earl of Eddington, his sister, Penelope, and his brother, Lord Thomas.

  Chapter 10

  “How I detest these affairs,” declared Montague as he, Penelope and Thomas waited in the entry hall to be announced.

  Thomas snorted. “How my heart bleeds for you. I am all sympathy.”

  Montague lowered his voice. “You know I cannot abide that dreary woman and her daughters.”

  “Oh, come now,” said Penelope, looking lovely in a white bombazine dinner gown trimmed with blue lace, “I can see why you don’t like Charlotte and Bettina, but Amanda is not all that bad.”

  “Granted, Amanda is a harmless enough creature, but that boring Bettina. That shallow Charlotte—”

  “Whom you’re going to marry, and soon,” Penelope declared. “It’s time you made the best of it, Montague. It’s Papa’s wish.”

  “Oh, I suppose.” Montague sighed, obviously resigning himself to a dull evening. “You say the Irish girl will be here?” At Thomas’s nod, he brightened. “Then we’ll soon see if she’s truly as beautiful as you say she is.”

  Thomas glared at his brother, heartily wishing he had not even mentioned Evleen, but when he’d arrived home, his thoughts had been so full of her that he couldn’t help describing her in the most glowing terms. “Beautiful or no, Montague, you’re to keep your hands off.”

  “There’s a strange bit of brotherly advice,” Montague declared triumphantly. “Could my stalwart younger brother actually be jealous? Damme, if I haven’t hit a vulnerable spot in his psyche.”

  Thomas was long past the stage where anything his brother said could make him angry, though he did find himself slightly annoyed. He should not even be that, though. More than ever lately, he felt concern for his brother, who, with his drinking and debauching, was throwing his life away with both hands. “Leave my psyche out of this, Montague. Evleen O’Fallon is a fine woman, as you shall soon see. I have nothing but the utmost respect for her.”

  Montague laughed scornfully, but before Thomas could retaliate, Pierce invited them into the drawing room.

  Stunning. That was all Thomas could think when he saw Evleen. Even when she wore her simple Irish garb, he had known she was beautiful, yet he had hardly been prepared for this elegantly coiffed and gowned creature who returned his bow with a graceful curtsey. How striking was the charming contrast of her snow white skin against the deep orange of her low-cut dinner gown. Cappucine, he thought the ladies called it. Whatever the color, just looking at her caused a lurch of excitement within himself.

  This was ridiculous. He must stop acting like a green school boy. Fresh in his mind was the conversation he’d just had with his father, still confined to his room with the gout.

  “So you like and admire this young woman,” the Marquess commented, after Thomas’s detailed description of his journey.

  “Very much so,” Thomas had answered. “I find her witty, intelligent, and charming.” had felt like adding, and intensely exciting, but tho
ught better of it.

  “Surely you have not forgotten Miss Bettina Trevlyn,” the Marquess reminded him, wincing from the pain of his gout.

  “No, I have not, but bear in mind I have not yet proposed to Miss Trevlyn. However...” Thomas carefully formed the words to explain. “Marriage is not a consideration. Miss O’Fallon is betrothed to an Irishman named Timothy Murphy.”

  His father nodded. “There you have it, then. Honor decrees—”

  “I know about honor, Papa,” Thomas testily replied, in no mood for a lecture.

  “Even Montague would not deign to dally with a married woman or one betrothed.”

  “One of his few virtues.” A lie. Thomas knew differently, but his father had been disappointed enough without knowing the whole truth about Montague.

  Thomas proceeded to inform his father how happy he was his journey to Ireland was over and how eager he was to get about the business of breeding Thoroughbreds. He found he was feigning part of his eagerness, though. To his growing chagrin, since the day he’d returned to that small cottage in County Claire, nearly every waking thought in his head had been of Evleen O’Fallon. How could he forget her bravery crossing the Irish Sea, deathly ill, yet still joking? Or, when he was trying to comfort her, how the wind caught her shining dark hair, lashing its softness against his face, taunting him, making him want to thrust his hands through its luxuriant softness. could he forget that moment at the Whispering Arch when their eyes had locked and deep in his belly he’d felt the hot stirrings of desire?

  “Why if it isn’t Lord Thomas.”

  Bettina Trevlyn’s shrill voice swiftly brought him back to cold reality. Seated on a rose-colored satin settee, she patted the cushion beside her. “Come, do sit down,” she said, her many curls bobbing. “I cannot wait to show you my newest pillow cover.”