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Authors: Shirley Kennedy

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Papa’s eyes lit.

Son!

Instantly he raised his hand.

Stop. Don’t come close.

Momentarily abashed, Thomas stopped abruptly.


Sorry, my boy,

his father went on,

Welcome home, but keep your distance. I cannot abide anyone near me. ‘Tis this abominable toe of mine. I live in fear it might get jostled. Whitney, bring wine,

he called, in a muted voice far from the booming one Thomas remembered.

Sit down, son. By God, it’s good to see you. Now, tell me why you’re here and not seeing to my sugar fields in Jamaica.

Thomas seated himself, keenly aware the moment he dreaded was at hand. What he was about to say would be a blow to his father. Worse, now that he was sick. Still, Thomas had made up his mind. Nothing on this earth could make him change it.

I shall not be returning to Jamaica.

His father’s eyebrows raised.

Damme. And why is that? And who’s watching over the plantation?


Don’t worry, I found a reliable overseer so you’re safe on that score. But . . .

Frowning, Thomas laced his fingers and earnestly leaned forward.

I could not stomach it another minute.


Stomach what?

his father asked, genuinely confused.


Slavery. It’s not right. I refuse to be a part of it anymore.


But . . . but . . .

Astounded, his father could do nothing but sputter. Finally he gathered his wits enough to say,

How else do you expect to run a profitable plantation in Jamaica but for slaves?


I don’t,

Thomas declared, and added firmly,

and neither should you. You should see the cruelty. For three years I tolerated it, but no more. Men are meant to be free, not treated like animals.


So what would you have me do?


Sell the plantation.


Are you out of your mind? Why, the rum alone turns a tidy profit, and the sugar



You’re rich. You don’t need the money.

Wide-eyed, the Marquess stared at his son.

This is so unexpected. By God, I . . .

All at once, to Thomas’s astonishment, the Marquess threw back his head and let out a great peal of laughter.

Ah, Thomas,

he finally said, wiping a tear from his eye,

I always wanted a son who would be his own man. Well you are, and every bit as tough and independent as I could ever hope for. If only—

The Marquess heaved a heavy sigh before he shouted,

Whitney, where’s that wine?

Thomas had no need to hear his father’s finished thought. Over the years, he had heard the same diatribe many times before:


If only you, Thomas, had been born first instead of Montague.


Why must Montague lead that profligate life in London?


What a sore disappointment.


If only your mother were still alive, she might have had some influence on the boy.

Thomas said softly,

Montague’s the first son, Papa. That’s the way it is and nothing will change it. Besides, he might come to his senses one of these days and become the son you’ve prayed for.


Not likely,

Papa said with a scowl.

He’ll get it all, you know. This house, the land, the money, which he’ll immediately toss away with both hands on the tables at White’s, or is it Brooks’s these days?

Papa heaved another deep sigh.

Montague’s my first son whom I dearly love, but–


What about the plantation?

Thomas interrupted purposely. He hated to see his father brood about a matter that was beyond his power to change.

Will you sell?

The Marquess immediately snapped out of his doldrums. He thought a moment, then judging from the sudden, crafty light in his eye, some sort of solution occurred to him.

I take it you’re quite serious about wanting me to sell.


It’s a matter of principle.


Then I have a proposition. I shall sell the plantation in Jamaica on one condition.


And what is that?


I want you to take a little jaunt to Ireland.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 


Ireland?

Thomas’s voice rose with surprise.

Why on earth would I want to go to Ireland?

Accepting a snifter of brandy from Whitney, he sat easily back in his chair.

Do tell me. I am all ears.


Surely you recall I have property in western Ireland,

the Marquess replied.


It was presented to the second Marquess of Westhaven by James the Second, was it not?


Very good, Thomas.

The Marquess beamed approvingly.

You always did have a keen grasp of our family history, as opposed to . . . ah, well. I’m sure you recall the second Marquess was an illustrious warrior, a hero of the Battle of Sedgemoor in 1685. King James was most grateful for his services.


And thus awarded him the land.

Thomas continued,

Good farm land, as I recall. In County Mayo, is it not?

Papa nodded.

It’s all rented out, of course, to tenants who raise corn, barley, God knows what else. ‘Til recently, I never had a problem, but lately receipts have fallen off. Since there’s a new overseer, I suspect there might be some sort of chicanery going on. I would go see for myself, but—

he cast a resentful look at his bandaged foot

—you see how it is.


What about Montague?

The Marquess let out a snort.

You would never catch my illustrious son and heir that far from Saint James Street. He has no intention of prying himself away from his dissolute life in London, not even for a brief trip to Ireland.

He regarded his younger son with brooding eyes.

Perhaps it’s fortunate you returned home, after all.

Thomas said,

You mentioned a
little jaunt
to Ireland. Are you aware it takes a week to get there at the very least?

Papa scowled impatiently.

Will you go?


Did you ever think I might have plans of my own?


Knowing you, I’m sure you do.

Papa sighed in resignation.

So tell me your plans.


As you know, I have always been keen on raising horses. You remember Tanglewood Hall?


That small manor near Abingdon your mother left you?


My grand estate
.

Thomas
raised
his eyebrows in self mockery.

The house is satisfactory, and the land is ideal for raising Thoroughbreds. That’s where I’m going.

Ruefully he added,

I would have started sooner, had I not gone to Jamaica.


I didn’t force you to go. Matter of fact, need I remind you, it was your idea?


I went of my own free will,

Thomas quickly confirmed.

In fact, I insisted.


Indeed, you did, and I, well aware how obstinate you’ve been since the day you were born, had no desire to stand in your way. I will admit, though, I did nothing to discourage you because at the time I thought running the plantation would be for your own good. You did a fine job of it, too, until you found you had a conscience.


Don’t condemn me.


Oh, surely not. But what was I to do with you, Thomas?

Papa shrugged his shoulders in mock resignation.

I would have been more than happy to buy you a riding, but you had no desire to enter the clergy. I would have gladly bought you a commission in the Navy, but you refused. Then I tried—


Ah, the trials of having a second son
.

Thomas
cast
an amused glance at his father.

Stop fretting. Obviously I’m doing fine on my own. I am quite capable of taking care of myself and making my own decisions, as you well know.


Fine, son. Breeding Thoroughbreds is an admirable ambition, and I shall give you considerable help in that direction, upon your return from Ireland.

Thomas felt an urge to throw up his hands. Although he loved his father dearly, years ago he rebelled against his forceful nature. The escape from paternal domination had not been easy. He could have remained the obedient second son, subject to his father’s bidding
,
but instead had chosen to face his father’s wrath and declare himself his own master. Papa, to put it mildly, had not been pleased, and yet, when he saw that his son would not back down, he gave in, actually most graciously. After making his stand, Thomas most certainly would not back down now.

He refrained from mentioning that on the long journey from Jamaica, he’d been hard-put to contain his eagerness, so anxious was he to reach England, hasten to Tanglewood Hall, which sat on a lush piece of land, and begin preparations for the breeding of Thoroughbred horses. He had every confidence he could succeed, and was wise enough to recognize a certain nagging disappointment with himself for having, in essence, given up on Jamaica and come running home in defeat. His reasons for leaving were
truly
altruistic, and most valid—he truly could not stomach the slavery—but still, he recognized that some would call him a failure, no matter what the noble reason.

Sorry, Papa, but I most definitely do not want to go to Ireland.

Annoyance flashed through his father’s eyes.

So once again you chose to disobey me.


Is that anything new?


God’s Blood,

declared Lord Linberry, his voice raised.

I need you to go to Ireland.

Thomas didn’t bother to react, so accustomed was he to his father’s bellowing, which, when all was said done, amounted to all bluster with no substance behind it. In a gesture that Thomas well-remembered, Papa stabbed an accusing finger at him and was preparing to speak again when, accidentally, he moved his ailing foot, winced, and cried out from the pain.

Thomas felt an immediate rush of sympathy. In a flash of keen self-observation he realized that whereas fear of his father would not cause him to capitulate, sympathy surely would. He must not convey this new-found feeling of pity to his father, though. If he capitulated, and he was about to, it must appear to be out of filial loyalty; otherwise, Papa would be hurt and highly insulted.

If you want me to go to Ireland, I suppose it’s my duty,

he said with a reluctant shrug.

Although I do think Montague should go. When would I leave?

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