The Irish Upstart

by Shirley Kennedy

  “But, my dear, I promised your mother you would be treated like one of the family. Bear in mind, when Patrick becomes the Earl of Alberdsley, he’ll hold a position of high rank and prominence. I shall do all within my power to ensure he’s educated for the position and feels at home among the ton. As his sister, you must feel at home, too. Please, for Patrick’s sake won’t you give it a try? “ He gave her a warm smile of encouragement. “You can do it. You have the looks, the charm, the brains. You could be the most popular belle in London, if you cared to.”

  “Me, a London belle?” Evleen asked, laughing. “I don’t think so. All I want right now is to look after Patrick.”

  “Won’t you humor an old man?”

  There was such a pleading in Lord Trevlyn’s eyes she could hold out no longer. “All right, I shall go to the rout. I can only hope I don’t commit another faux pas.”

  * * *

  “Mon Dieux,” muttered Celeste. Lips pursed in disapproval, she stepped back to view the result of her efforts to dress Evleen for the rout.

  Evleen turned this way and that in front of her full-length mirror. How ugly, she thought, regarding the newly borrowed, dark brown dress with distaste. It fit well enough, and the simple style with its modest neckline could not be faulted, yet something was wrong. “Why is it I look so drab?” she asked.

  “Mud is most definitely not your color,” replied Celeste.

  Of course! That dark brown did look like mud. “It makes my skin look dull and lifeless.”

  “Not like zee capucine.” Celeste frowned. “Too bad Miss Charlotte said she might want to wear it soon, herself. It would have been perfect for you.” Her frown deepened. “Before she wears it, hell will freeze.” She cast Evleen’s gown a look of aversion. “No one has ever liked that mud-colored atrocity. For years it’s hung at the back of Miss Charlotte’s wardrobe.”

  “Beggars cannot be choosers, Celeste.” Evleen perceived exactly what the lady’s maid was hinting at, yet after her transgression today, she had no wish to find fault with anyone.

  “You will need a fan,” said Celeste. “I shall go borrow—”

  “I don’t need a fan. I carried that silly plume thing to dinner the other night, and found it nothing but a bother. All it did was tickle my nose.”

  Celeste persisted, but Evleen was adamant. Shortly, wearing the mud-colored dress, not carrying a fan, Evleen descended the stairs to the drawing room, wishing heartily she could just stay home.

  * * *

  Evleen was relieved Lord Trevlyn had forgiven her, but now, as she sat in the drawing room with the Trevlyn ladies, waiting for their carriage to come around, she felt like an accused prisoner in the Old Baily docks. Except for Amanda, how formidable they looked, all dressed to the nines for the rout tonight. Lydia Trevlyn was a study in mirthless severity in severe black; Charlotte looked more like a beautiful wax doll than a real person in her peach satin gown, her blonde hair perfectly arranged; Bettina was all frills, lace, and tiny bouncy curls. Only Amanda, unattractive in a plain, dull-colored gown, did not have that accusing gleam in her eyes. It occurred to Evleen that Amanda would actually be pretty if she sat straight, not hunched over with her shoulders slumped.

  Lydia spoke to Evleen, her lips pursed in disapproval. “What I cannot understand is what possessed you to go wandering about the streets, especially at that indecent hour of the morning.”

  Evleen wondered how she could possibly explain that at the time, she had not given her and Patrick’s “little stroll” a thought. And how was she to know whether an hour was “indecent” or not? There was no such thing as an indecent hour in County Clare since most of its citizens arose early in order to do their work. She would try to explain. “You see, in Ireland—”

  “It simply is not done,” interrupted Bettina, looking down her nose. “A lady on the streets alone? Whoever heard of such a thing?”

  “And on Saint James Street,” Charlotte contributed, her expression properly horrified. “Everyone knows a lady must never show her face on Saint James’s Street.”

  “Yet there you were,” Lydia went on, “wandering alone, with only a little boy for company—hardly a chaperone—going wherever you pleased for the world to see.”

  “I cannot see the harm,” Evleen answered, knowing in advance they wouldn’t like her answer.

  “You cannot see the harm?” repeated Lydia in horror. “We are only concerned for your welfare, Miss O’Fallon, and can only hope the people who count didn’t see you on Saint James Street alone. If they did, your reputation is in shreds before you’ve hardly started.”

  Charlotte bobbed her head in agreement. “And furthermore, you have endangered the reputation of the entire Trevlyn family.”

  And just who were “the people that count?” Evleen wondered. Best not to ask. “Perhaps I should be drawn and quartered,” she murmured, seeing the humor despite her discomfit.

  Only Amanda caught the whimsy in her remark, and to Evleen’s surprise, threw her a fleeting smile. Alas, her mother caught it, and demanded, “What is funny, Amanda?”

  “Nothing, Mama.” Amanda pulled herself straight, obviously gathering her courage, and burst out, “But perhaps we should remember that Evleen just arrived from Ireland, where things are different, and she cannot possibly be expected to learn all our customs at once.”

  The sound of Lydia’s sigh of exasperation filled the room. “I am surprised at you, Amanda. Henceforth, I suggest that you, not being knowledgeable of the situation, would do well to remain silent.” Lydia turned back to Evleen. “You are not in Ireland now, are you? I trust you’ll know how to conduct yourself at Lord and Lady Beckford’s rout tonight.”

  “Also called an ‘at-home,’ Evleen,” Charlotte loftily informed her, “just in case you didn’t know.”

  Evleen heartily wished she had not promised Lord Trevlyn she would go to the rout, or at-home, or whatever it was called, but she had promised, and there was no getting around it. “I shall do my best, Mrs. Trevyln. That’s all I can do. You may as well know, I am not keen on going.”

  Lydia gazed pointedly at the mud-colored gown. “You don’t wish to attend? After we took all the trouble to find something suitable for you to wear?”

  “Don’t mistake me. I promised Lord Trevlyn I would go and so I shall.”

  Not appeased, Lydia heatedly continued, “You disgraced us all today with your thoughtlessness and unthinking behavior. Oh, don’t think I don’t sympathize. Coming from a country as uncivilized as Ireland, you simply don’t know any better. I fear you’ll be dreadfully out of place. Quite frankly, if it were up to me, I would most readily grant your wish not to attend the at-home tonight, or any events of the Season. However, Lord Trevlyn insists you go. Imagine. He actually thinks you can learn the social graces overnight and become an accepted member of our Polite World.”

  Bettina whinnied. Charlotte burst into a gale of giggles and exclaimed, “Our Irish princess will never fit in. You know that yourself, don’t you, Evleen?”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” said Amanda, boldly speaking up again. “Did you not see Lord Thomas when he brought her home? He seemed quite taken with her.”

  All laughter ceased abruptly. A silence followed, during which Evleen could almost see the waves of resentment wafting in her direction.

  Lydia finally responded, “Lord Thomas is a most compassionate man, Amanda. You would be wise not to mistake charity for affection.”

  Charlotte glared at her younger sister. “Anyway, you’re mistaken. Lord Thomas harbors a secret affection for me, and always has. A pity he’s only a second son, or I might have considered him, especially since he is rather handsome, and most charming. However–” she shrugged a shoulder in mock indifference “—Montague will be proposing soon.”

  Bettina sniggered. “The way things are going, you’ll turn into a dried-up old ape leader waiting for Montague.”

  “Girls,” Lydia said sharply. “Not another word. We all know Montague is on
the brink of proposing.”

  “What if he doesn’t?” asked Amanda.

  “Then there are other first sons in this world,” declared Lydia.

  Bettina said, “If you ask me, I’m the one Lord Thomas holds a special affection for. Just look how he dotes on my embroidery. He’ll be proposing soon, too,”

  “I’m sure he will, Bettina,” Lydia said fiercely, “and your father and I shall approve, even though he’s only a second son.” She sighed wistfully. “I would have wanted first sons for all of you, but apparently that’s not to be.”

  Pierce announced their carriage had arrived at the front entrance. Accompanying the Trevlyns from the drawing room, Evleen wondered, first son? second son? How could a man’s station in life so totally depend on the order in which he was born? Apparently it did, though, and she thought it very strange.

  * * *

  “So this is a rout?” Evleen murmured, incredulous.

  She had pictured a dignified evening in which elegantly dressed men and women would dance, congenially converse, take refreshments, and play cards. Her first indication that her expectations were woefully wrong came when the Trevlyns’ carriage became caught in a horrific jam of horses, coaches and carriages, all waiting to approach Lord and Lady Beckford’s front portico. At least fifteen minutes passed before they reached it, then had to fight their way through a crowd of elegantly dressed men and women to obtain entrance. After a hasty greeting by their harried-looking hostess, they fought their way up the packed staircase to a series of rooms on the first floor where everyone seemed to be milling about with no purpose. There appeared to be no place to sit. “Where are the chairs?” asked Evleen.

  “Nobody sits,” whispered Amanda.

  “But what on earth are we supposed to do? Where’s the conversation, the cards, the music? Where’s the food?”

  “You don’t understand. All we’re supposed to do is elbow our way through the crowd, and then, after a quarter of an hour or so, we leave.”

  “But how could they enjoy this?” Evleen asked, gazing at Lydia, Charlotte and Bettina, who despite the crush, were smiling brightly, appearing to be having a delightful time.

  “We come to see and be seen,” answered Amanda. “It’s essential in high society. We have to entertain and be entertained to maintain our standing. That’s just the way it is.”

  Standing indeed. Evleen refrained from voicing her opinion of what utter foolishness she thought this all was, or how she could make better use of her time staying at home with a good book. She breathed a sigh of relief when, after she’d been jostled and her toes trampled several times, they finally reached the street again. As they waited amidst the milling crowd for their carriage, Evleen took a gulp of fresh air and said softly to Amanda, “Thank the saints, that’s over. Now we can go home.”

  Charlotte overheard and arched an eyebrow. “We have just begun. Lord and Lady Beckford’s was only the first. There are several more at-homes we plan to attend this evening.”

  Trapped. Evleen considered walking home—it was not very far—but she could well imagine how such a course of action would be perceived, considering the heinous crimes she’d already committed this day. She could imagine, too, how short a time it would take for news of her latest transgression to reach Lord Trevlyn. Not a good idea. She wouldn’t want to hurt him again. They continued waiting, jostled by the crowd. Would the carriage never come? She stepped back, felt herself shoved away from the rest, just as she heard a voice proclaim, “Why Miss O’Fallon, what a delightful surprise.”

  Montague. She recognized his oily voice and immediately felt repelled, remembering his salacious attitude toward her that night at Lord Trevlyn’s country estate. “Good evening, Lord Eddington,” she said coolly as she dared. Such a handsome man he was, almost pretty with his extremely pale complexion—did he never venture into the sun?—and flattering brown ringlets encircling his thin, patrician face. Even so, she sensed the debauchery that dwelt behind that beauteous facade. Determined to say something polite and then move on, she gathered her shawl more closely around her and politely inquired, “Have you just arrived or are you leaving?”

  “Leaving,” Montague answered with a smirk. “I have done my duty for tonight. Now it’s on to White’s.”

  His breath reeked of alcohol, bringing Evleen a fleeting memory of the men of County Clare, quaffing their glasses of Guiness at The Shamrock and Thistle of a Saturday night. “Delightful to see you again, sir,” she said, pulling away, “now I must get back to my–”

  “Don’t go yet.” He took hold of her arm and drilled her with a gaze of blazing intensity. “Where are you going next?”

  “To another rout, but I don’t know which one. Now I must get back.”

  She tried to pull away, but, staggering slightly, he held her fast. “I should think it’s Lady Fanshawe’s.” He appeared to hit upon an idea and glanced toward the curb. “Ah, I see my carriage has arrived. One more rout won’t hurt me. Come, my pretty Evleen, I shall give you a ride to Lady Fanshawe’s rout.”

  She would as soon ride with a tangle of writhing snakes. Besides, what would the Trevlyns say if she rode merrily off with this object of their desperate pursuit—this ultimate prize, a first son? The thought was too horrible to contemplate. “Thank you, but I most definitely think not.”

  “Oh, come now, where’s your spirit of adventure? Go inform the old dragon if you like. She cannot object.”

  “If you mean Mrs. Trevlyn, she most certainly can object.” How stupid could he be? Evleen had no intention of prying into Montague’s personal affairs, but still, something must be said, albeit tactfully. “I am aware you’re not yet betrothed, but I believe there exists some sort of commitment between you and Miss Charlotte Trevlyn.”

  “Nonsense, I am committed to no one,” declared Montague. His eyes raked her boldly. “When we met, I was immediately impressed not only by your beauty but by your independent attitude—your spunk, if you will. Was I right? Or are you simply a poor peasant girl from Ireland, too awed by this noble assemblage to break a rule?” He raised a mocking eyebrow. “My dear Miss O’Fallon, I dare you. Come ride in my carriage.” A lecherous smile played on his lips. “I assure you, you’ll be perfectly safe—on my word as a gentleman.”

  Did he think she was daft? She was certainly not frightened—after all they were standing in the midst of a crowd of people—but she was thoroughly disgusted. She tried to break free, but he gripped her arm tighter.

  “I have heard about you wild Irish girls,” he murmured in her ear. “Are you one? How I yearn to find out.”

  “Is my brother bothering you?”

  Thomas. Just the sound of his voice caused her anxiety to drain away.

  Montague instantly released his grip on her arm. “What is the matter with you, Thomas? I am not bothering the young lady, we were simply having a chat.”

  Thomas smiled. “Of course you are, Montague. As always, you’re a paragon of virtue.”

  Montague said, “Er... I think I shall be going.”

  “Have you not paid your respects to the Trevlyns?” Thomas asked in mock astonishment. With pointed words, he added, “Most especially to Miss Charlotte Trevlyn, to whom you will soon be betrothed.”

  Looking exceedingly discomfited, Montague backed away. “We’ll talk later, Thomas. White’s awaits. Good evening, Miss O’Fallon, perhaps another time?”

  Evleen stared after Montague as he made a hasty retreat. In Gaelic she muttered, “Go nithe an cat th is go nithe an diabhal an cat.”

  “I take it you were not wishing my brother a pleasant evening?”

  “It’s an old Irish saying. I said, may the cat eat him and may the devil eat the cat.”

  Thomas looked amused. “What a fitting end for Montague.”

  Evleen smiled up at him, noting he looked more handsome than she had ever seen him in a double-breasted frock coat with claw-hammer tails, long trousers, a fine linen shirt, and an “Oriental” tied cravat. “You ca
me along at the right time. Sure and I’m happy to see you.”

  “Sure and I’m happy to see you, too,” he said, mocking her Irish brogue but in an endearing kind of way.

  “I thought you never went to routs.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then why—?”

  “Your fault. I couldn’t stay away.”

  Her pulse quickened at his startling reply. But what could she answer? She would take the wisest course—find another line of conversation. “I had best go find the Trevlyns. They’re waiting for their carriage to—” she could not keep from wrinkling her nose in distaste “—take us to another rout.”

  “So at last you’re getting a taste of life in the ton,” he said pleasantly. “And how are you enjoying hobnobbing with society’s finest?”

  “So far, I am not enjoying it at all, what with this ridiculous rout, and then Montague—” She cut her sentence short, wise enough to realize she had said enough about his brother. Besides, it was hardly politic to keep disparaging the esteemed Earl of Eddington, destined to be the Marquess of Westhaven some day. “Sorry, that slipped out. I didn’t mean—”

  “Have you read Childe Harold?” asked Thomas, growing serious. It was written by—”

  “Lord Byron. Does it surprise you we have books in Ireland? But we do, and, yes, I’ve read the poem.”

  He ignored her barb. “The poem concerns a debauched young nobleman, the weary survivor of many a love affair and many a night of riotous living. One line reads, ‘Apart he stalked in joyless reverie.’ That’s Montague, miserable in his debauchery. The line suits him perfectly. I suspect Byron used him as a model.”

  Ah, so Thomas did perceive his brother’s shortcomings. Even so, politeness decreed she should search for something complimentary to say. “But Montague has his charms, certainly.”

  “I love my brother, but he is an arrogant, joyless man, drugged with pleasure and hell-bent on self-destruction.” Thomas grinned unexpectedly. “But enough of such a grim subject. Come, I shall escort you back to the Trevlyns.”