The Rebel (38 page)

***

Jenny’s cottage consisted of three rooms. In
size and in its furnishings, it was far more comfortable than many
a tenant’s hovel. But still, when it came to someone of Lady
Spencer’s quality, it would normally be considered hardly suitable
for entertaining.

Jane, however, was relieved to see that the
visitor so comfortable in the cottage. She made no hint of finding
anything offensive in Jenny’s home. In fact, as Jane watched the
two women chatting amiably before the small peat fire, she was
extremely pleased with Alexandra’s affability and natural charm in
her manner toward Conor’s aunt.

Jane waited, impatient to learn the reason
for this unexpected visit. Nothing could have been wrong with
Nicholas, or Lady Spencer would not be so calm, she decided. But
there had to be a good reason. Fey and Paul would not, under normal
circumstances, reveal Jane’s whereabouts to anyone. Nonetheless,
Alexandra had been brought here by their direction.

Jenny soon excused herself and left the two
of them alone. Lady Spencer turned her sparkling eyes on Jane.

“I have seen your paintings.”

“You have?” she replied, surprised.

“Yes. Jane, you have tremendous talent. I
cannot tell you how impressed I was in seeing them. Your work
is…inspiring!”

“I don’t know if…”

“But I have a favor to ask of you,” she
said, going on to explain her elaborate plan of displaying some of
Jane’s paintings during the ball for the purpose of regaining the
local English gentry’s respect. Jane tried patiently to listen to
everything the good lady said.

“But none of this I care one whit about,”
she interrupted finally, not wishing to give Lady Spencer any false
hope by her continued silence.

“It is an artist’s natural inclination to
fear sharing her work with others. We all fear the rejection of an
audience. None of us wish to be embarrassed by criticism or even by
some offhand remark. I believe it is quite normal to want to keep
our work and ourselves safely in seclusion. Most of us claim that
we only like to paint for ourselves.”

“I do not
claim
that, Alexandra. I
do
paint for myself. To me, taking a brush to the canvas or
charcoal to paper is not for the sake of creating a piece of art. I
do it to let out the emotions that are trapped inside of me.” Jane
spoke passionately. She followed the other woman’s gaze to the
drawing tablet on the windowsill beside her. Jane had been
sketching when Lady Spencer had arrived. “I hope you will forgive
my bluntness, m’lady, but even if I had even the slightest desire
to share my work with others, these people would be among the last
I would choose. Gaining the respect of my father’s friends is not
high on what I wish to do with my life.”

Jane wished she could get up and walk about
the room. She was feeling frustrated, crowded. But her bruised
ankle stopped her.

“But, my dear, people need something to talk
about. Rather than prattling on about the past over and over again,
would it not be far more pleasant if they had something as
thrillingly powerful as your art to discuss?”

“I care nothing for their pleasantries.”
Jane shook her head in disagreement. “I have never cared about what
they think of me, but I refuse to put myself in a position of
having to endure their criticism in any public arena. I do not need
them, and they have no use for me. I am quite resigned to things as
they are.”

“I understand your bitterness.” Alexandra
leaned forward in her chair, lowered her voice, and touched Jane
gently on the knee. “But can you not see that what I am trying to
do has a purpose far grander than allowing you to make peace with a
few provincial snobs who cling to the outdated prejudices of
yesterday?”

Jane’s heart started beating faster in her
chest. She had feared that Lady Spencer’s true purpose today had
nothing to do with the paintings.

“My purpose is far more selfish. I am trying
to do this for Nicholas…and for you,” the older woman continued. “I
have watched what your absence over the past few days has done to
my son. For the first time in his life, Nicholas appears…well…lost.
His spirit, his
joie de vivre
…it all seems to have lessened
dramatically since you have been away from Woodfield House. And
now, here I am…and I find the same kind of melancholy afflicting
you.”

Jane blinked back the tears suddenly burning
her eyes.

“You two simply
must
resolve your
differences.” She clutched Jane’s hand. “And though I know that
nothing of your past matters at all to Nick, I also know that
you
would be far better resolved to a future together if you
were able to walk away from some of the darkness of your past.”

Jane had made love to Nicholas. She had
given her body and her heart to him. But looking down now at her
own black apparel, she knew she still had far to go to leave her
past behind.

“My dear, I am here to help you in what ever
way I can. I have connections in England, you know, and there is
always a way to improve on matters of the past.” The intense blue
eyes were pleading when they met Jane’s. “Please allow me to make a
difference.”

The young woman looked down at her own
fingers clutching at Alexandra’s hand like a sailor gripping a
lifeline. A desperateness was wracking her body and soul. By all
the saints in heaven, she needed help in more ways than she could
name. Jane believed her only chance of ever finding happiness again
lay with Nicholas…and her love for him. Despite the endless tears
she’d shed since arriving at Jenny’s cottage, though, she didn’t
need to remind herself that she was still there because of her
sister’s request. She could not ruin Clara’s chances when her own
future was so uncertain.

“No one can make a difference.” Jane shook
her head, avoiding the older woman’s gaze. “And I truly appreciate
your belief in me. But there is just too much scandal in my past…in
my life now…”

She let go of Alexandra’s hand and stared at
the fire.

“Nicholas and I have no chance of happiness.
I should have stopped it before anything began. It is my fault. I
am to blame for his situation. I am sorry.”

Despite the pain in her ankle, Jane pushed
herself to her feet and stood by the window. The view before her
was a blur, but she held back her tears, refusing to allow herself
to fall apart before this woman. Not after everything that she’d
just said.

Lady Spencer said not a word more, but Jane
heard her rise from her chair and walk out of the room. Only after
the door had closed behind the visitor did Jane allow the tears to
come. They were bitter tears, helpless tears, angry tears…for she
knew there would never be another chance for her. She was now a
captive to her own past and family for life. There could never be
an escape for her.

Jane quickly wiped the tears from her face
when she heard Jenny enter shortly after.

“I…I am sorry, Jenny, that you were forced
to entertain this afternoon. I never thought…I never imagined
anyone would be coming here…like this.”

“Never ye mind, lass. I don’t mind that one.
In fact, I should say I liked yer Lady Spencer a great deal. In
many a way, she reminded me of ye, my joy. Aye, she’s the kind of
woman I’d like to be seeing ye become when ye reach her age.”

Jane looked over her shoulder at the older
woman and tried to smile. But the small boulder lodged in her
throat would not allow it.

“Why are ye doing this to yerself, child?”
Jenny scolded. Seeing Jane’s stricken face, she hurried to her side
and wrapped her arms around her. “When are ye going to stop
punishing yerself?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Stop the mourning. Let him go, my dove.
Nine years is far more than enough. Conor is dead, and ye must be
living. Do ye hear me? Ye must be living!” Jenny voice was becoming
increasingly urgent, impatient. She drew back and looked into
Jane’s face. “’Twas not yer fault that he was hanged. The lad knew
what he was doing. He understood the dangers and the risks, both
with the Shanavests…and with wanting ye. He lived every day of his
life as he pleased. I was his kin. I raised him as my own. And I
tell ye now that my Conor would not be having anything to do with
ye if he saw how ye’re fading away with him gone.”

“I am not fading away.” Jane stepped to the
hearth. The peat threw very little heat, but she could feel her
face burning. “I picked up where he left off. I have kept our band
of Shanavests to the course…”

“Nay, my joy. You have lost the spirit of
Egan. I think ye are no longer Conor’s ‘wee fire.’” Jenny moved
beside her. “Egan would know how to let that boy’s memory rest. Ye
talk about guilt. How would ye feel if your situations were changed
about? What if, after these many years, ye were looking down from
St. Brigid’s right hand, only to see such sadness afflicting
him
? Do ye think ‘twould make him happy to see ye throwing
away a chance like the one ye just sent packing with Lady Spencer?
Do ye truly believe our Conor would be one to hold a grudge if ye
were to settle with this woman’s son and finally begin living?”

Of course, she thought, considering the size
of the cottage, it would only be natural for Jenny to hear
everything that had been said. “I…Sir Nicholas…”

“I have ears, child.” Jenny placed a gentle
hand on Jane’s shoulder again. “With Ronan’s big mouth yapping,
everyone from Cork to Limerick knows the baronet is sweet on ye.
And everyone knows that ye have feelings for him, too.”

Before Jane could say a word, Jenny
continued. “And that’s the way it should be. Finally, someone has
come to call who is deserving of my Egan.” The older woman smiled.
“Just knowing that he didn’t give you away that first day! And
later, hearing what he did for Rita—old fool that I am—sure ye
can’t blame me for hoping something might happen between the two of
ye. And today, after meeting himself’s own mother…well, darling, I
can only ask what ye could possibly be waiting for.”

“I cannot.” Jane shook her head adamantly.
“There is more dividing us than Conor and the Shanavests and…” She
drew a deep breath. “It is no use, Jenny. He and I…we just
cannot.”

The older woman frowned at her for a long
moment before speaking.

“This has something to do with yer sister,
does it not?” she asked, her disapproval evident in her tone.
“Everything, no doubt.”

“Leave Clara out of this.” Jane ran her
hands up and down her arms. “Please just accept what I say and let
me be.”

A lengthy silence fell over the room while
Jane once again found herself struggling in her own thoughts.
Jenny’s tone was much softer when she spoke again.

“Ye still must go back for the doings at
Woodfield House tonight.”

Jane looked with surprise into the woman’s
face. “But I…”

“Liam sent me a message. Finn wants you to
go back—ye must make yerself visible, he says. Ye must attend yer
mother’s ball. Ye must pretend that there is nothing wrong and that
ye know nothing of what happened last night.”

After her years with the Shanavests, Jane
had mastered the ability to block the dangers of raids and their
aftermath from her mind. With the exception of tending her swollen
ankle, she hadn’t given much thought this morning to the trap and
to her unmasking last night. It had been dark, though, and she had
never really come face to face with anyone after the mask had been
torn off.

She frowned. Queen Mab, though, had been
seen close up by a number of soldiers. And it was possible that
someone might have guessed that Egan was a woman. “Has there been
any significant news? I am certain no one saw me.”

“All I know is the message that he
sent.”

Finn had said the same thing to her last
night—about resuming her other life.

“But the complications of going back…I
cannot just walk in with that ball tonight…” Not to mention that
she would need to face Nicholas again. Perhaps it had been a
cowardly path, but she hadn’t thought she could face him. She knew
she could not explain things to him after her meeting with
Clara.

“This is not for ye that I am speaking, now.
You must do this for the rest,” Jenny insisted. “Even the smallest
of suspicion falling upon ye, and more than a few of us would be
tied to the band through you. That includes those at Woodfield
House. Jane, ye have no choice.”

Jane sat down in the nearest chair. The
pounding in her head was now a hundred times worse than the ache in
her ankle. She couldn’t argue what Jenny was saying. With
Musgrave’s sharp claws poised over her, it was very well possible
that he would make the connections. “I…I wish I had thought of
this…while Lady Spencer were still here.”

“She
is
still here.” Jenny shrugged
at Jane’s immediately suspicious glare. “I asked her to wait in her
carriage and give me a chance to talk to ye. I knew ye had to go.
And as I listened, I thought, ‘What better ruse than this…”

The older woman continued to explain, but
Jane had an uncomfortable feeling that she had been duped.

There was no time to be wasted.

Jane was not at the parsonage at
Ballyclough, and Mrs. Brown said she had not seen her sister in the
past few days. Clara asked about the whereabouts of Parson Adams,
but then refused the housekeeper’s offer of waiting for him there.
Setting off on foot and in the direction she was pointed toward the
lower village, she walked as fast as her legs could take her until
she saw him coming along the knoll, beyond the Mallow road.

Her customary reaction to seeing him—the
inability to breathe, the hammering of her heart in her chest, the
images of them together in her mind—all of this quickly came and
went as the pressing nature of her search washed them away. Clara
ran toward him for a few steps, slowed to a fast walk, and then ran
again until she reached him breathlessly.