The Irish Upstart (6 page)

Evleen and Timothy approached her family’s cottage. Built of stone, with lime-washed walls, it faced directly west, high on a hill that provided a magnificent view of the sea. The view was the only good thing about the cottage. Evleen would never forget that awful day nine years ago when, during a rainstorm, their wagon pulled to a stop in front of the Englishman’s small, bleak plot of land. Nothing green was to be seen. No shrubbery, flowers or trees, just coarse brown grass broken here and there by low, stone walls, the stones not cemented but just piled up. The walls were not laid out in neat squares, but instead slanted this way and that, acting as wind breaks to retain the thin layer of arable soil. For no apparent reason, two walls ran far up the hill behind the cottage where a few sheep huddled to protect themselves against the rain and cold.

To Evleen’s relief, the house itself was a cut above most of the cottages they had passed, some of which were constructed of mud with only one room and no windows. The floors were of dirt, and the roofs were made of sod and earth, laid on timber rafters and covered with a thatch of straw. At least this cottage was of a fairly good size, two stories and six rooms altogether, lime-stone painted walls, several windows, and a reed-thatched roof, which was a cut above the straw. Still, it could hardly compare with their Dublin townhouse. The big room—one could hardly call it a drawing room—had simple, plastered walls, one of which consisted totally of a huge fireplace where the cooking, and most of the living, was done. Evleen had been shocked when she saw it. Her sisters were in tears. Mama was appalled.

“
We cannot stay here, it has no kitchen,
”
she declared, her face grim.
“
We can surely afford better than this. We’ll stay here the night and then tomorrow we’ll go back to Ballyvaughn where I shall seek something better.
”

That was nine years ago. They had yet to move. Mama, always frugal, realized early-on they could not afford a better house, especially when she discovered that few of the poverty-stricken citizens of County Clare had the least interest in the lessons in deportment, French, and watercolors she intended to teach. For the most part, they were more concerned with the constant struggle to keep themselves and family from starving to death. Mama’s only salvation came from the Gaelic-speaking citizens of County Clare who wished to learn English. The small sums she earned from her English lessons, combined with her prudent management of the eight hundred pounds from the townhouse, enabled the O’Fallons to eke out a meager existence for nine years.

Now the money was almost gone.

At least Mama had added a kitchen, and spent some of their precious money for a stove. Evleen, in particular, was grateful. After Mama, who had never prepared a meal in all her life, cooked one disastrous dinner, Evleen took over the kitchen. For these past nine years, while Mama taught her lessons, Evleen
was
in charge of the cooking, as well as the housekeeping and care of the younger children.

When someone asked why she hadn’t married, she could honestly answer she hadn’t found the time.

But now the children were of an age to take care of themselves. At twenty-three, Darragh was ready to marry, that is, if any man would have her. Sorcha was fifteen, Mary fourteen, and Patrick a very wise ten. Evleen had thought more than once with some amusement that her excuses for not marrying were wearing thin. She had been putting Timothy off for years, but it was time she made up her mind.

When Evleen and Timothy arrived back at the cottage after their stroll, they found Evleen’s half-brother, Patrick, outside taking feed to his rabbits, kept in hutches at the back of the cottage. His face lit when he saw Timothy, and he called,
“
You’re stayin’ for dinner, are you not?
”

“
If I’m invited.
”

It was a ritual. Of course, Timothy was invited. He came for dinner every Sunday.
And I’ll be having Sunday dinner with him all the rest of my life, and the rest of the days, as well
. The prospect did not fill Evleen with delight.
What’s the matter with me?
She reached to ruffle Patrick’s red hair that was so like their mother’s, or, to be more accurate, the color Mama’s hair used to be before it faded and finally turned white.
“
Timothy’s staying for dinner, Patrick. Why don’t you show him your new baby rabbits?
”

As an enthusiastic Patrick led Timothy away, Mama came to the door.
How wan she looks
.
She used to stand straight as a board, but now her shoulders slump and she leans against the door
. But then Mama smiled, and when Mama smiled she lit up the world.
“
Did you have a nice walk with Timothy?
”
she asked.

“
Yes, we did.
”

Mama lowered her voice.
“
Did you talk about a wedding date?
”

“
Not yet.
”

Mama crossed her arms and sighed.
“
Evleen, you have been the best daughter in the world. You’ve had little fun these past nine years. Hard work is all you’ve known, never thinking of yourself, but sacrificing for the family.
”
Mama drew herself up.
“
Well, that’s an end to it. You must put yourself first now. Darrah will be marrying soon, I’m sure. It’s time you got yourself married and had your babies. It’s time... what on earth?
”

Mama was looking beyond her, down the steep, rutted driveway that led to the cottage. Evleen turned to see what her mother was staring at. To her astonishment, a coach with a fancy seal emblazoned on the side, drawn by four matched bays, came rolling up the narrow, bumpy driveway. There appeared to be one male passenger inside, an elegantly dressed gentleman in a polished beaver top hat. He was slender, dark-haired and dark-skinned, and appeared to be thirty or so.

Evleen frowned in puzzlement. How utterly out of place the elaborate coach looked in this God-forsaken little part of the world where rough-hewn ox-carts were more the vogue. Not that they had many visitors. What few they did have arrived either on foot or in a cart drawn by a donkey or some nag of a horse. Never had a coach or carriage even half as fancy as this one come up that hill, not even the vicar’s.
“
Whoever can it be?
”
asked Evleen.

A look of foreboding came over her mother’s face.
“
I don’t know who it is,
”
she replied.
“
I can only hope my scoundrel of a second husband hasn’t come back to haunt us.
”

* * *

Good God, so this is Trevlyn’s Irish estate?

As his coach rolled along the narrow road overlooking the sea, Thomas looked out in increasing disbelief at the barren landscape, broken only here and there by low stone walls and sparse trees that had somehow managed to survive the salt air and winter storms. His disbelief increased as the coach turned up a steep driveway to a small, two-story cottage that sat half-way up the barren, wind-swept hill. A few sheep grazed on the hillside behind the cottage. Two moth-eaten donkeys grazed directly alongside. At least there was a small, low-walled garden in front, but still, the sprinkling of daisies, delphiniums, and lupines hardly began to relieve the bleakness. Thomas leaned his head out the window to have a word with the coachman he’d hired, as well as the coach, in Galway.

“
O’Grady, are you sure this is the place?
”

“
Positive, sir,
”
the coachman called back in his thick Irish brogue.
“
‘Tis the land owned by the Englishman, Lord Trevlyn.
”
Almost under his breath he muttered,
“
Another blasted Englishman who’s never seen the place.
”
He raised his voice again.
“
A widow and ‘er flock ‘av been livin’ there a good nine or ten years now. Two girls, grown, two in their teens, and a boy of ten or so. Never been ta school, they say. She’s an educated lady and teaches ‘em at home.
”

With a thanks, Thomas sat back as the coach, harness jangling, horses snorting in the midst of rising dust, came to a halt in front of the single doorway of the cottage.
I’ve gone far out of my way for this?
What was Trevlyn thinking of, sending him to check on this worthless piece of land?

Two women were standing in front of the doorway. One was somewhere in her middle fifties, he would guess, tall, white haired, with the strained look of poverty on her tired face. She wore a plain cotton gown that had seen better days, covered with a white apron. She’d been leaning against the doorjamb in a tired sort of way, but now she’d pulled herself straight and was regarding him with wary eyes.

Thomas was about to speak when his gaze fell upon the younger woman. Something about her immediately gripped his attention. She was deucedly attractive, he thought, as he gazed at her slender white neck, milk-and-apricot skin, delicate-featured face with its firm chin, and pert, up-tilted little nose. As Thomas watched, a brisk breeze from the sea lifted her raven black hair so that it streamed back from her face, long, wavy, and shining. The breeze caught hold of her skirt, too, and pressed it tight against her tall, slender body, molding to nearly every enticing curve she possessed. He wondered if she had any idea what a fetching picture she presented with that tiny waist, those full, high-perched breasts, slender hips, and shapely thighs.

But this was not the time to be distracted, Thomas thought as he sprung lightly from the coach. If these were indeed tenants who had not paid a pittance toward their rent for the last nine years, his mission was indeed a delicate one and he must be the soul of tactfulness and diplomacy. Thomas addressed the older woman, who stood seemingly composed, yet he detected increasing wariness in her eyes.
“
Good afternoon,
”
he said, smiled, removed his beaver hat with a flourish and bowed.

“
You’re English,
”
she replied, not returning his smile.

What was that supposed to mean?
“
Indeed I am English, madam. My name is Thomas Linberry
”
–no need to throw in the title–
”
from Hertfordshire County, England, a town near–
”

“
Hatfield,
”
she replied in an unfriendly tone.

“
Er... yes.
”
Her frosty reception had thrown him off-stride, but he gathered his wits and continued,
“
And might I ask to whom I am speaking?
”

“
First, why don’t you tell us why you’ve come, sir?
”
asked the younger, just barely polite. He could have been offended, but instead found himself captivated by the soft silkiness of her voice, coupled with the potent appeal of her melodious Irish brogue. He turned to answer her and was immediately struck by the beauty of her deep, wide-set eyes that were a stunning sapphire blue, fringed with an abundance of thick, dark lashes. His breath caught. He was hard-put not to let his feelings show but managed a slight, grave bow.
“
I have come on the behalf of Charles, Lord Trevlyn, the fifth Earl of Alberdsley, who owns this land.
”

A small gasp escaped the mouth of the older woman. She stiffened and placed a hand over her heart.

“
Mama, are you all right?
”
asked the younger, casting a withering glance at Thomas.

If looks could kill
, thought Thomas,
I’d be lying, dead as a herring, on this rocky ground.

“
I am fine.
”
The older woman proudly brushed back her white hair and stood tall.
“
I must say, it took the earl a while.
”

“
A while for what?
”
he asked.

The younger narrowed her eyes at him.
“
She means it took a while for the earl to give a thought to his dead son.
”

Thomas still did not understand. Who were these women? They dressed like peasants, lived in a simple farmhouse, yet their speech was so refined they would be at ease in London society... well, except for the Irish accents, of course, which the ton would no doubt scoff at. Had the older woman somehow been acquainted with Randall? Perhaps she’d been a servant... one of the upper servants... yes, that had to be it. She had worked for Randall, perhaps as a cook or housekeeper, and now, through some arrangement, lived upon his land, or rather, now Lord Trevyln’s land.
“
Might I ask your name?
”
he inquired.

The older woman proudly lifted her chin.
“
I am Sinead O’Fallon, widow of Randall Trevlyn.
”