The Irish Upstart

chapter 2



Hertfordshire County, England, 1816



The medieval towers of Northfield Hall, the ancestral home of the Marquess of Westhaven, rose majestically through December’s evening mist as a lone horseman turned into the long, winding driveway that led to the front portico.

Lord Thomas, second son of Lord Linberry, fifth Marquess of Westhaven, smiled as the beautiful old mansion came into view. A flood of pleasant memories struck him at the sight of the home where he’d spent his happy childhood. He had been away three long years. Despite his fatigue after his journey from London, he was elated to be home.

At the marble steps of the portico, Thomas, a man of medium height, with dark good looks and a sinewy build, swung from his horse with the graceful, fluid ease of a man much accustomed to the saddle. He looked toward the entry way, half expecting his father to burst forth at any moment. In the past, Papa, a florid-faced, blond bear of a man, had always greeted his sons with a warm hug and a booming “Welcome home!” Apparently not today, though. Instead, Thomas’s sister, Penelope, swung open the door. When she spied him, a look of delight spread across her pretty face.

“Oh, Thomas, you’re home.” She flew down the steps and threw her arms around him.

“You’ve grown up,” Thomas laughingly remarked when they finally broke apart. He held her at arm’s length, his eyes admiring as he looked down upon his slender, blonde-haired sister. “Why, Penelope, what a beauty you’ve become. How old are you now, eighteen?”

“Nineteen.”

“And not yet married.”

She tossed her head. “Hardly. And I warrant I shan’t be if I don’t find the right one.”

He grinned and said, “Independent as ever, I see. You were never one of those bubble-headed girls dead set on finding a husband.”

“And what about you?” she asked. “Has some young belle lured you anywhere close to the altar?”

“Not a chance,” Thomas replied, eyes twinkling. “That’s one of the many joys of being a second son. Nothing’s expected of me, including heirs. Which reminds me, I don’t suppose Montague is here?”

Penelope made a little moué. “Of course not. Our dear brother is firmly ensconced in London. If you’re expecting he’s mended his ways by now, you’re doomed to disappointment.”

“He’s still drinking, gambling . . . ?”

“And whoring.” Penelope grinned impishly at her use of the naughty word. “Worse than ever. Poor Papa is so disappointed.”

Thomas’s gaze flicked toward the door. “And speaking of Papa–?”

“In his room, in bed.” A shadow crossed Penelope’s bright, young face. “It’s the gout. He suffers terribly.”

His father not well? It took Thomas a moment for his sister’s words to sink in. Papa was never sick. Thomas could not remember a time when his vigorous, burly father was not a robust picture of health. “Why didn’t he let me know?”

“What good would it have done? You were all those many miles away in the West Indies. What could you have done except worry?” Penelope frowned. “And speaking of that, we received your letter telling us you were coming home, but you didn’t say why. Is something wrong? Will you be returning to Jamaica?”

“I’ve come home for good, for reasons I shall discuss with Papa first. Reasons that . . . “ Thomas shook his head ruefully “ . . . good Lord, it never occurred to me he might not be well.” He bit his lip. “That makes telling him all the more difficult.” Penelope eyed him accusingly. “He won’t like this, whatever your reasons.”

“I know.” Thomas felt a heavy weight descend on his shoulders. His father was not going to like what he had to say, not at all. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

As Thomas ascended the main staircase to see his father, he reflected that in all his thirty years on earth, the one thing he’d learned for certain was that things never turned out exactly as he expected. But even knowing that, in all the agony of indecision he’d gone through, all that torturous soul-searching, he had assumed that when he announced his decision, Papa might bellow and stomp around, like always, but then, like always, Papa would forgive and understand. Never did Thomas expect his father might be ill. An illness meant weakness, disability. He could not even imagine his father a sick invalid.

At the door to Papa’s room, Thomas knocked and was admitted by Whitney, Papa’s valet. He had expected to find Papa in his bed, but instead, the Marquess of Westhaven was sitting in an armchair, his right foot heavily bandaged, propped in front of him on a plump pillow resting on a low stool. For a moment Thomas was stunned. Where was the strong, barrel-chested father he had known? The man in the chair seemed a stranger, shrunken, somehow, hunched over, wan. “Papa, I’m back,” he said, and started across the room to embrace him.

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.”