The Irish Upstart

by Shirley Kennedy

  “Oh, look, Evleen, a palace.”

  And so the day went. After duly admiring Saint James’s Palace, they wandered past a place called Almack’s on King Street, as well as the Golden Lion public house, where they stopped for refreshments, paid for by Patrick’s half guinea. They found the Haymarket, in which stood a grand opera house, but more exciting was the market itself with its produce of every description, performing dogs and monkeys, a fire-eater, and all manner of entertainment.

  Toward the end of the day, they found themselves on a street called Piccadilly. Had they been here earlier? Evleen felt weary, her feet were tired and she began to worry. “How do we get home from here, Patrick? I cannot recollect which way we came.”

  “What street does Lord Trevlyn live in?”

  Heaven help us. Why had she not made note of the street the Trevlyn townhouse was on? “I don’t know the name, but we’ll find it,” she said with a confidence she didn’t feel.

  Lost in London. Such a big city, and so confusing. As the minutes wore on, and they kept wandering, Evleen fought back panic. She must remain calm for Patrick’s sake. “We’ll find it, so don’t worry. I do hope they haven’t missed us at home.”

  * * *

  With eagerness and more than a modicum of annoyance at himself, Thomas mounted the steps of Lord Trevlyn’s London townhouse. If someone were to ask why he was in London, he would say he came to London to view the horses at Tattersoll’s. He, however, knew otherwise. His concern for Evleen was such that despite himself, he could not stay away. Patrick would be fine. Thomas smiled, knowing that bright, likeable lad would get along well wherever he went, especially now, with a doting grandfather to watch over him. Those female dragons of the Trevlyn household would not dare harm Lord Trevlyn’s heir apparent, but Evleen? He would not put any sort of chicanery past Mrs. Lydia Trevlyn and her two older daughters. Evleen was bright, as well as perceptive, but in many ways she was still a simple country girl from Ireland and could hardly be a match for three selfish women who had cut their teeth on the deviousness and cut-throat scheming that went on every day in the ton. He and Evleen had parted only a few days ago, yet he thought of her constantly, not only with that strange longing he could not seem to shake, but with a feeling of unease.

  The moment Pierce opened the door, Thomas noted the expression of distress that covered the butler’s usually impassive face and knew something was amiss. Inside, there appeared to be some kind of controlled chaos going on, what with servants scurrying about and the raised voice of Lord Trevlyn clearly audible. When Thomas was ushered into the drawing room, he noted the whole family gathered there, all solemn faced, the ladies not their usual simpering selves, shy Amanda excepted, of course. Lord Trevlyn, standing by the fireplace in a great state of agitation, greeted him precipitously.

  “Ah, my boy, glad you’re here. My word, what a fix we’re in. You must help with the search.”

  “What search, sir?”

  “My grandson and Evleen have gone missing. Left early this morning. Haven’t heard a word.” Forehead furrowed with concern, Lord Trevlyn started pacing the drawing room. To Lydia he said, “Tell me again, what did they say to Pierce when they left this morning?”

  “Something about wanting to see London,” Lydia replied with a shrug, looking more annoyed than concerned.

  “To see London indeed. Where is my grandson?” In desperation, Lord Trevlyn addressed Thomas. “I’ve sent two footmen out to search. If they don’t come home soon, I’ll turn out this entire household to join the search, servants and family both.”

  “Surely not us, Uncle,” protested Charlotte, who sat primly next to her mother on a settee. “It’s nearly time for tea, and after that we must get ready for the routs we are attending this evening. Lord and Lady Beckford’s in particular—”

  “Confound it,” burst Lord Trevlyn, “here I am beset with worry and you talk of routs? They’ve been gone all day. Thieves swarm the streets of London. Cutthroats! Murderers! God only knows what dire fate has befallen my grandson.”

  “But why did they go out so early?” asked Bettina who sat quietly embroidering. “Everyone knows it’s not fashionable to go out before three o’clock.”

  “God’s blood.” Lord Trevlyn turned beet red. He started to sputter, groped for a chair and sank into its depths. I... I...”

  “I shall go look for them, sir,” Thomas said quickly. “Chances are they’re only out ‘exploring’ as Patrick would put it.” He placed a comforting hand on Lord Trevlyn’s tense shoulder. “Do relax. Have some tea, or better yet, a splash of brandy.”

  “There’s the Irish for you.” Lydia picked up her petit-point and stabbed it vehemently with her needle. “Not here a day and already causing trouble.”

  Thomas would have liked to reply in kind to such vitriol, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut, and besides, he had no time. After a hasty good-bye, he was out the door and into his curricle, urging his two matching bays into a trot down Arlington Street.

  Now where would they go first? His head craned this way and that. Ah. Chances were, they would have been attracted to all the hustle and bustle of Saint James Street.

  Thomas turned into Saint James Street. Slowly, continually searching, he drove to Pall Mall, over to Regent Street, then Haymarket, and surely, if they’d been out to see the sights of London, they would have strolled along here. “Have you seen a boy of eleven with red hair?” he occasionally called to vendors and passers-by, using the most identifiable mark of the two. “He would be with his sister who’s tall, and both of them Irish.”

  At last a fish peddler called, “Seen ‘em this morning, sir, a pretty young lass and a bright little lad with red hair. Kept asking questions.”

  Patrick, indeed. “Which way did they go?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest.”

  Dammit, where were they? It would be dark soon. Lord Trevlyn was right to be concerned. What if they wandered into those pitch black, narrow streets where thieves roamed, carrying knives and bludgeons loaded with lead?

  He must keep searching.

  Back to Saint James Square...

  Over to Piccadilly Circus...

  Traffic was getting heavier. Now the streets were full of well-dressed gentlemen on the backs of fine blooded horses; dashing, beautifully dressed ladies driving their own vis-a-vis; elegant equipages pulled by horses matched with precision and groomed to a high gloss. All seemed to be heading toward Hyde Park, and suddenly it struck him. Of course. This was the fashionable hour of five p.m. Where else would those two be but at the grandest show in London?

  Soon, Thomas was carefully driving along Rotten Row, amidst the press of countless horses and fine carriages, when he spied two bedraggled figures on the footpath, both dragging their feet as if they had been walking for a very long time. Thank God, Patrick and Evleen. The relief that nearly overwhelmed him was an awakening experience that left him reeling. He had not realized until this moment how much he cared. Patrick, of course, but... Oh, Evleen, my sweet Irish beauty, if anything had happened to you I would never have been the same.

  He had to laugh. My God, what if his father knew what he was thinking? What would his sister, Penelope, say?

  At least he could keep such a sentiment to himself. And you will, he thought, as he drew the curricle to the side of the road, reined in his horse, and arranged his mouth in a causal smile. “Fancy meeting you here, Miss O’Fallon, Master Patrick. Out for a stroll?”

  Patrick was the first to spy him. “Look, Evleen, ‘tis Lord Thomas,” the boy called, tugging at his sister’s sleeve. She turned. He saw a quick light of recognition in her eyes, followed by vast relief, then, as he watched, her face took on an expression of indifference.

  “Why, Lord Thomas, what a surprise.” She tilted her chin in that snippy way she had. “Somehow I would never have guessed you would be enamored of the Fashionable Hour, but on second thought, why not? You’re one of the ton, after all.” She gestured at the passing throng. “
Quite a sight, isn’t it, the ton parading themselves and their mounts about? Don’t any of them work? Have they nothing better to do with their time?”

  Her perceptiveness amazed him. It was the rare woman who could look beyond the seductive glitter of the Polite World, into the selfishness and hypocrisy that lay beyond. Galling though it was, he ignored her uncalled-for remark about his being enamored of the Fashionable Hour. “Work is anathema in the ton. You’ll soon learn.”

  “I don’t know that I care to,” she answered, raising her head high, as if she were Lady Jersey herself.

  He sprang down from the carriage, swept off his hat and bowed. “I’m relieved I found you. Your family is concerned. They’ve been looking for you.”

  She looked surprised. “How strange. We were merely out taking in the sights of London. We were about to return home.”

  “But how could we, Evleen?” asked Patrick. “We were lost, remember? You said so yourself. You were worried because you forgot what street Grandfather lives in.”

  “Patrick,” she began, but when Thomas started to smile, she could not suppress a smile of her own. “Oh, very well, I admit it. We had a lovely day, up until I realized we were lost.” Her smile deepened, revealing dimples he’d not noticed before. They made her look even prettier than he already thought she was. “It would appear we are in your debt again, sir. That is, if you could kindly take us home?”

  “My pleasure.”

  He’s being so gallant, thought Evleen, even though I just came close to insulting him. She decided she had been much too shallow, much too glib, and she had best be honest and set him straight. “In truth, I was overjoyed when I saw you. What started out as a lark was turning into a nightmare.”

  “I can imagine. In a strange city, not knowing your way home.”

  “And getting hungry, too,” said Patrick.

  She hardly heard him. Something was passing between Lord Thomas and herself again. Their gazes locked, just as they had that day at the Whispering Arch. I shouldn’t be, but I feel so drawn to him. She got control of herself and shifted her gaze away. “I trust we are not imposing.” Chagrined, she realized that last remark sounded stiff and contrived, which in actuality it was, since she’d been trying to conceal her inner turmoil.

  He, too, seemed compelled to make a deliberate effort to set the spellbinding moment aside and motioned toward his curricle. “Come along, it’s not as far as you think. Patrick, you can ride in the groom’s seat in the back.” He added playfully, “You can be my ‘tiger.’ You’re just the right size.”

  “Excellent, sir, Patrick called and eagerly scrambled into the small seat.

  “Let me hand you up,” said Lord Thomas. Quelling her first response of, I can help my own self up, Evleen obediently took his hand and allowed herself to be assisted to the high seat of the curricle. When she was seated, arranging her skirt around her, he went round, climbed in beside her, and took up a light blanket. “It’s chilly,” he said, and started tucking the blanket in around her. At once, a feeling of security and contentment flowed over her. She was accustomed to taking care of herself, yet how snug and warm she felt in the care of a man whose strength and character she respected and admired. She had another feeling, too, which had nothing to do with security but, rather, with her keen awareness of the gentle pushing of his hands against her thighs, remote though they felt through the blanket. His head was bent directly in front of her. If she leaned but a few inches forward, she could kiss that spot by his ear where a tendril of his dark hair fell casually. Suddenly he looked toward her, his gaze a soft caress, so full of things unspoken she could hardly breathe. Thus they remained, until he finally looked away, sat straight, took up the reins and urged the horses into the crowded roadway. After a silence made almost unbearable by the unspoken emotions swirling around them, he, not turning his head, softly asked, “Evleen O’Fallon, is there something between us?”

  Her heart pounded. Never had she been so physically affected by a man. But what was the sense of it?

  “You know what Mama says,” Patrick called from the back.

  Patrick and his big ears! She might have known. She squeezed her eyes shut. Not another word, Patrick, please, please.

  “Evleen, you must never love an Englishman.”

  She twisted around and glared. “Patrick, without doubt I shall kill you the moment we get home.” She noticed Thomas’s shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “You’re laughing?” she asked, feigning high indignation.

  He answered, “Patrick is absolutely right, you know. We Englishmen are conceited, overbearing, and exceedingly selfish. Highly unsuitable as husbands. Better a handsome Irishman.”

  “I most certainly agree,” she answered lightly. The emotion-filled moment was over. She positively must see it did not happen again. In fact, to further her resolution, she had a question of her own. “And what about you, Lord Thomas? Surely there must be a woman in your life. You never said.”

  He took his time, seeming to concentrate on maneuvering his curricle around a slower-moving coach before he answered, “It is my father’s wish that I marry Miss Bettina Trevlyn. Eventually I probably shall.”

  Her spirits plunged. So ridiculous, but she could not let go. “Do you always do what your father tells you?”

  He cast her a lopsided grin. “Actually, no. Since I’m only a second son, my father leaves me to my own devices. However, in this instance—”

  “Do you love her?” Oh, how rude. She fought the urge to clap her hand to her mouth, astonished at what had just popped out. “Sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”

  “Love and marriage do not necessarily go hand in hand,” he commented dryly.

  So he did not love Bettina. Even knowing the futility of it all, Evleen felt greatly relieved.

  “What street do we live on, Lord Thomas?” Patrick called.

  “Arlington Street, a most prestigious address, by the way. Many dukes have lived on Arlington Street.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Well, let’s see, the Dukes of Hamilton, Beaufort, York. Matter of fact, the Duke of York died quite suddenly in his arm chair while living on Arlington Street. His body was removed to Saint James Palace, where it lay in state.”

  Evleen listened, her admiration for the man growing all the more. How considerate he was to take time to explain. Most men would have ignored Patrick, or told him to keep quiet, but not Lord Thomas. Despite herself, she sneaked a peek at his profile, so clean cut with that firm chin and straight nose. I must stop this, she thought, thoroughly disgusted with herself.

  Lord Thomas spoke again. “Before we arrive home, I must warn you, you might be in for a difficult time.”

  “Lord Trevlyn is angry?”

  “He was sick with worry, but it’s not Lord Trevlyn I’d be worried about, it’s...” he hesitated, as if keenly aware a gentleman must never defame a lady.

  “You don’t have to say it,” she responded. “I know whom you’re talking about, but don’t say.” She cast a swift glance behind her.

  He said softly, “Be aware they are not overly sympathetic and might cause trouble.”

  “I know. But there’s nothing I can do about it, is there?”

  From behind, Patrick asked, “What are you two talking about?”

  Laughing, Evleen turned to look at him. “Some things are none of your business, little boy.”

  “Fair enough,” Patrick answered equitably, sounding very grown up for an ten-year-old. “But I think I already know. You’re supposed to go with them to a rout tonight, and then next week, when your ball gown is made, you’re going with them to Lady Claremont’s ball, and you hope they’ll be nice.”

  “Well said, Patrick,” commented Thomas.

  Patrick asked, “Are you going, Lord Thomas?”

  He shook his head. “Routs and balls hold little interest for me, although I always receive an invitation. But I consider them a waste of time.” He glanced at Evleen. “So will you, I’d wage
r, after you’ve attended a few, but for now you may as well savor the so-called delights of London.”

  “You sound old and jaded.”

  “That’s better than young and naive.”

  She ignored the barb and inquired, “What exactly is a rout?”

  “They are absolutely dreadful affairs. You’re in a for a rude awakening. In fact, it would almost be worth it to see you there, fighting for air, crushed in the crowd.” He smiled, thinking about it.

  “Does that mean you’re coming?” she asked archly.

  He looked back to see if Patrick was listening. Apparently he wasn’t. “Who knows? Perhaps I shall be there. You needn’t worry. At a rout you would not have to fear I would get you alone.”

  Instantly she knew his meaning. “I don’t fear you, Lord Thomas, no matter where we are or what the circumstances.”

  “Perhaps you should,” he said simply and turned his attention to driving the curricle.

  Chapter 12

  Misery sat on Evleen’s shoulders like a huge iron weight. She wished she could sink from sight when Lord Trevlyn called her into his study and chastised her for what he referred to as her “ill-thought-out escapade.”

  “I cannot express to you how concerned I was.” He gazed at her with saddened eyes. “You’ll not do that again?”

  She assured him she would not, feeling terrible that she’d caused this kindly old man such great distress. She explained that in Ireland she was accustomed to roaming about as she pleased, with nary a thought for the hour of the day or the need for a chaperone.

  “Say no more, I understand.” Grateful to have his grandson back, Lord Trevlyn could not bring himself to be too harsh. “The incident is forgotten.” He glanced at the jeweled ormolu clock on the mantle. “Aren’t you ladies planning to attend a rout tonight? You had best get ready.”

  “Must I go?”

  Trevlyn’s shaggy white eyebrows raised in surprise. “You would rather not?”

  “Isn’t it obvious I don’t fit in with your so-called cream of society? After today, I should not even try.”