“I remember.” Evleen wondered what the woman was trying to say.
Lydia raised her chin firmly. “I just want you to know I meant what I said—that I shall always put the best interest of my girls before anything and anyone.”
The truth dawned. Evleen felt sick inside but knew her only recourse was to confront the woman. “Mrs. Trevlyn, you have considered me a threat from the beginning. At first you thought I might ‘steal’ Montague. Now that he’s dead, you’re afraid I might do the same with Thomas, so you’re willing to let untrue rumors circulate that surely will ruin my reputation. Am I not correct?”
Lydia Trevlyn’s silence gave Evleen all the confirmation she would ever need.
“Then why are you even bothering to tell me? Is this some kind of apology?”
“Not an apology but a warning.” Lydia gave Evleen a long, withering stare. “You know Lord Thomas fairly well, don’t you?”
“He accompanied Patrick and me from Ireland.”
Lydia cocked her head. “Do you consider him attractive? I am only asking because—”
“You want me to stay away from him, don’t you?”
“Exactly. He belongs to Charlotte now. I trust you understand.”
In the face of Lydia’s appalling warning, Evleen threw caution to the winds. Bitterly she replied, “I understand all right. You said you put the best interests of your girls before anything and anyone. It is obvious you put them ahead of honor and integrity, as well.”
Not wanting to hear another word, Evleen spun on her heel and left. Shocked, feeling totally isolated, she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, wondering if there was any way she could set straight the Trevlyns’ accusations. Amanda knew the truth, of course, but Evleen wasn’t sure the girl could stand up for herself. The more Evleen thought, the more she realized there was nothing she could do. How could she prove Montague had been drunk and insulting when here were the high-and-mighty Trevlyns implying Montague was a saint, and his death was caused by that rude, selfish upstart from Ireland who had for no reason insulted him?
Her chances were nil.
The brief period of euphoria Evleen had experienced at the ball was forever gone. Ah Thomas, our dreams are shattered. Evleen’s heart ached as she perceived with fearful clarity that the sudden, tragic death of Montague had changed her life. The man she loved was not plain Lord Thomas anymore. How ironic! Mama had wanted her to marry a rich and titled Englishman, and now Thomas was, but the barrier between them was higher than ever. As Lord Eddington, new heir of the Marquess of Westhaven, he would be a different person and things between them could never be the same.
Chapter 16
Evleen spent a sleepless, tortured night. Despite the Trevlyns’ appallingly unfair accusation, she spent much of her time thinking of that pitiful dark bundle lying in the street and hearing Thomas’s anguished cry. She felt so sick about Montague that tortured regrets assailed her.
True, he’d been obnoxious on the dance floor, but perhaps if she hadn’t walked away...
True, he’d been intoxicated, but why had she made that terrible remark? If only she’d been kinder, more tolerant!
If only... if only...
But regrets would get her nowhere. Nor, she suspected, would any further protests regarding those horrible accusations that she was somehow responsible for Montague’s untimely death.
And Thomas. What shall I do about Thomas?
In the morning, she yearned to stay in her bedchamber and hide, but she knew such a course would be a coward’s choice. Feeling numb inside, she dressed carefully and went down for breakfast, head high but with a heart full of dread. Except for Amanda’s smile, she was met by silent hostility at the breakfast table until finally, as she sat picking at her food, Lydia Trevlyn asked, “So what will you do now, Evleen?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Is it not obvious what I mean? Must I say it?”
Slowly, with great deliberation, Evleen set down her fork on the fine china plate. She lifted her crystal goblet and took a sip of water, then drew herself up. “I shall say this one more time. There is a misunderstanding about last night. I did not, in any way, cause the death of Montague.”
A stony silence met her words. How unjust this all was! But unjust or not, she realized she was helpless to prevent Charlotte from spreading lies or Lydia from backing her up. Evleen looked around the table and saw nothing but antipathy except for Amanda, whose sympathetic eyes seemed to offer encouragement.
I do not have to stay here, I could go home to Ireland, she thought, with a sudden awareness that there was no reason in the world why she should tolerate this treatment a day, an hour longer. And yet...
Her mother’s words came back to her: Make me proud. She knew what she had to do. “You asked what I was going to do, Mrs. Trevlyn,” she said. “My answer is, I shall continue on as before. I want to attend Montague’s funeral and shall do so. As for Lord Thomas, he is a grown man who will decide his own future with no help from you, or me.”
Amanda, seated next to her, boldly whispered, “Good for you.”
“We shall see,” Lydia said in an ominous tone.
It was a veiled threat, but Evleen knew there was nothing she could do about it. She managed to smile and said, “Never fear, Mrs. Trevlyn, I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your match-making.” She shifted her gaze to Charlotte. “Lord Thomas is yours, Charlotte... if he’ll have you.”
* * *
Early the next morning, Thomas hastened to Northfield Hall where Papa, his gout worse than ever, was still confined to his room. Thomas had expected to break the sad news concerning Montague, but one look at his father’s pale, drawn face told him he already knew.
“I’ve already heard, son,” said the Marquess in a stricken voice. “Bad news travels swiftly.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Montague gone. I can hardly believe it.”
“It was quick, if that’s any consolation.”
“None at all.” The Marquess heaved a deep, desponding sigh. “Ah, Thomas, there’s no consolation in any of this. My first son dead...” he choked up, for a moment unable to continue “... at least I shall always know I did my best for him. The most excellent tutors—fine clothes—the grand tour, I don’t know what more a father could have done. He had everything, yet you know how he chose to spend his recent—his last—years.” Tears formed in his father’s eyes. Thomas had never seen him cry before, not even when Mama died. “Ah, Thomas, I loved him more than life itself, despite his weaknesses.”
Thomas was hard put not to throw comforting arms around his father but he knew the gout would not permit. Still, he could hardly bear to see his beloved father in such a state of grief.
As he watched, Papa sat taller, seeming to try to pull himself together. An ironic smile touched his lips as he remarked, “So you’re no longer the second son, Thomas. Have you considered what that means?”
“Do you think that matters to me now?”
“Not at the moment, but it will.” The Marquess waved his arm in an encompassing gesture. “All this will be yours now. The estate, my many properties, investments, titles—all yours.”
“I would give them all up in a second if it would bring Montague back.”
“I’m sure you would, but that won’t happen, will it? So we must be practical.” Papa slanted a warning gaze. “The management of this estate is a tremendous responsibility. I wanted Montague to learn, but—” his shoulders slumped dejectedly “—I can only hope you will take your duties more seriously.”
“You know I shall.”
“You must marry soon.”
Evleen. Was it less than a day ago they’d been carefree and laughing at the ball? When the excitement of their meeting had been almost palpable between them? He had said he would call, knowing she knew he would propose. Unless he was totally mistaken in his judgement of women, he was positive she would accept. But of course all that was before the death of Montague.
“I do
plan to marry soon, Papa,” Thomas said, “after the appropriate period of mourning, of course.”
“Ah. Charlotte will make a fine daughter-in-law, and the perfect mistress of Northfield Hall.”
“Not Charlotte, Father. I am in love with Evleen O’Fallon.”
His father’s eyes went wide. Aghast, he regarded Thomas. After a stunned silence, he declared, “Are you daft? Over my dead body will you marry that selfish, cold-blooded Irish tart.”
Thomas was so stunned that for a moment he could not speak. “Why do you talk of her like that?” he finally asked.
“Because she’s responsible for Montague’s death and don’t you tell me otherwise.”
“That’s absolutely absurd. Montague fell off his horse because he was drunk.”
“That’s not what I heard. Montague was distraught because of what that woman said to him. I heard that from a very good source, so you’ll not dissuade me.”
That much was true, Thomas thought disconsolately. Once his father made up his mind, nothing could change it. “You’ve heard lies. Evleen is guilty of nothing more than rejecting Montague’s advances.”
Papa bristled. “Whether she’s guilty or not isn’t the point. In any event, Evleen O’Fallon would not make a suitable wife. Under no circumstances are you to marry her.”
Thomas stared in disbelief at his father. “I am amazed. She’s been the toast of London for weeks and now you say she’s not suitable?”
“There’s no noble blood in her, not like Charlotte Trevlyn. Do you really want your children to be half Irish?”
Thomas was suffused with anger. “Now see here—”
Reaching toward his bandaged foot, Papa flinched. “God’s blood but it hurts,” he cried in anguish.
Thomas’s flare of anger instantly subsided. “I hate seeing you suffer. Is there anything I can do?”
“Don’t marry that Irish girl.”
“But you don’t understand. I love her.”
“I don’t give a groat if you love her or not. You’ve been stubborn all your life. Always did what you pleased, even when you were a little boy. Now that you’re grown there’s been no controlling you. But now... Ah, Thomas,” his father cried, gazing up at him with pleading eyes. “Can you not do this one thing for me? I’m old. I’m sick. My older son just died. How can you defy me?”
Not easily, Thomas thought as a lump rose in his throat.
But I must.
“All that is true, sir, and I deeply sympathize, but you may as well know that nothing on this earth will prevent me from asking Evleen O’Fallon to be my bride.”
Thomas braced himself, waiting for the eruption that was sure to follow his rebellious stand. But instead, with baleful softness his father remarked, “So you choose to defy me.”
“You have never even met her. If you did, you would see—”
“I have no wish to meet her,” Papa snapped. “There’s nothing I can do to dissuade you?”
“You can disown me if you like.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re my only son and heir now. Nothing will change that.”
“Then I take it you’re agreeable to my marrying Evleen?”
“We shall see, son.”
“I want an answer now,” Thomas demanded.
“I have no desire for any further discussion concerning that Irish girl.”
What did Papa mean? Although Thomas initially felt pleased that his father appeared to capitulate, he felt a certain unease. Later, his disquiet grew as the more he thought about it, the more he suspected this wasn’t the end of his disagreement with an ever-stubborn, ever-domineering, father who, one way or another, nearly always managed to get his way.
* * *
In the small family burial plot at Northfield Hall, Montague, Lord Eddington, was laid to rest under the spreading branches of an ancient oak tree. Most of the black-garbed crowd attending had come up from London for the day. They remained a somber lot during the services. Afterward, inside the magnificent mansion, when servants passed among them serving refreshments, the atmosphere lightened considerably.
For Evleen, dressed in borrowed black, it had been a most difficult day. Not only did she grieve for Montague, she was in an agony of doubt over Thomas. Did he believe the rumors flying around? She had not spoken to him since before the accident. Now it seemed a lifetime ago when they were laughing at the ball. She recalled the urgency in his voice when he said he wanted to speak to her. Did he still? Today would he greet her warmly or would he blame her for Montague’s death and cut her dead? As it was, she sensed a certain coolness among many whom she thought were her friends. Nobody snubbed her completely, though, until she was given the cut direct by Lady Chatsworth, an old friend of the Marquess. There could be no doubt. The elderly woman ignored Evleen’s greeting, stuck her nose in the air, and moved away.
“You must ignore her,” said Amanda as she and Evleen stood together in the ornate drawing room. “She’s a silly old lady who doesn’t know any better. I shall go set her straight this instant.”
“No, you mustn’t,” Evleen replied. “Your mother will strongly disapprove if you do.”
“There are times when you must do what you know is right.” Amanda flashed Evleen an admiring smile “You taught me that. You do not deserve such treatment and I shan’t allow it. Here I go. Wish me luck with Lady Chatsworth.”
Evleen watched gratefully as Amanda moved away. Truly, the girl had changed of late. Evleen wasn’t sure if she should take credit, but Amanda had recently discovered she had a backbone. Her new attitude showed in the way she held her shoulders back and the manner in which she looked people square in the eye.
Lord Thomas had been busy acting the host. Evleen surreptitiously watched as, deeply grieved, yet alert to the comfort of his guests, he moved among the crowd accepting condolences. Finally he came to her. She held her breath, not knowing what he would say. What a relief when he took her hand in both of his and said warmly, “I’m glad you could come today.”
He listened carefully as she told him how sorry she was about Montague. When he finished, she hesitated, wondering what more she should say, deciding it was best he know what was in her heart. “I know there have been stories going around, but—”
“But we shall pay no attention to them, shall we?” he said, a world of love, concern, and comfort in his dark eyes. He bent toward her and in a soft voice said urgently, “I must see you later, Evleen, after the guests have gone.”
Someone interrupted. With a quick nod he moved away, but nonetheless she felt a vast relief, He wasn’t angry. Thomas wants to see me. She felt suddenly buoyant and had to suppress an urge to laugh aloud, which most certainly would not be seemly at a funeral.
Not long after, the butler took her aside. “His lordship would like to see you, Miss O’Fallon.”
Thomas’s father? What could he possibly... ? She had met the Marquess briefly when four male servants carried him down for his son’s funeral. He appeared to be in pain, and as soon as the services were over, was carried back upstairs. “He wants to see me now, this very minute?”
“Now, Miss.”
An oddly primitive warning sounded in her brain. This was not going to be good, she knew it. With each step up the massive winding staircase, she grew more apprehensive.
* * *
“Do come in, Miss O’Fallon,” said the Marquess.
As Evleen entered the bedchamber and seated herself, her heart went out to the white-haired old man sitting with his bandaged foot propped upon a low stool. He had lost a son. He was obviously in pain. Thomas mentioned once what a robust man of action his father used to be, but obviously not anymore.
Evleen offered her sincere condolences, then sat back to hear what the Marquess had to say.
He wasted no time. “Were you aware my son wants to marry you?” He fastened her with his piercing gaze.
She was taken aback and had to collect her wits before she replied, “I suspected as much, but I wasn�
��t sure.”
“And what will you say when he proposes?”
The effrontery! If this were anyone but Thomas’s father, she would surely get up and leave. At least she readily knew the answer. “I would say yes. I love Thomas very much, although I have yet to tell him so.”
The Marquess cocked his head and examined her thoroughly. “You’re pretty enough. Well-spoken, too, I see.”
She’d had enough. He had a reason for saying all this and she wanted to know what it was. “With all due respect, sir, what are you getting at?”
He wasted no time in replying, “Young lady, what I’m getting at is that I do not want Thomas to marry you.”
This had not been a good day to begin with. Now the effect of the Marquess’s words seemed to her the final, shattering blow. Over the lump growing in her throat, she managed to inquire, “May I ask why?”
“Do not take this personally, Miss O’Fallon. You’re a lovely woman, obviously well-bred, but you’re not...” He appeared to be searching for the least hurtful word.
“Quality?” she inquired, hardly able to speak. A wave of bitterness struck her. “What you mean is, I am ‘below your touch’ as you English so quaintly say. Worse, I come from Ireland, that God-forsaken land where only the lowliest of savages dwell.”
“Now, now, I have no wish to insult you.”
“I am sure you don’t, yet I don’t hear you denying what I just said.”
“The facts remain,” the Marquess stated firmly. “My son will soon inherit a vast estate. Surely you can see he must have a wife of impeccable breeding, not to mention unimpeachable propriety.”
She asked incredulously, “Are you implying there’s something wrong with my propriety?”
“I have heard the rumors.”
“About... Montague?” His nod caused her to fling out her hands in simple despair. “I did not, in any way, cause the death of your son, but you won’t believe that, will you?”
He squeezed his eyes shut a moment. She could see this horrid scene was as difficult for him as it was for her. In a deadly calm voice he said, “I wish you no harm, Miss O’Fallon, but the fact remains you are not... of our element. Please, I beg of you, do not marry Thomas.”
The Irish Upstart Page 23
