The Irish Upstart

chapter 9



On the rolling deck of The Countess of Liverpool, Evleen leaned over the bulwark and heaved again. Never in all her life had she been so miserable.

“Are you all right?” Patrick stood beside her, red hair whipping wildly in the northern gale, his little face pinched with concern. Through some miracle, he remained unaffected by the rolling and tossing of the ship, as did Lord Thomas. She was far from being the only pitiful soul hanging over the side, though. Many of the other passengers were suffering the same as she.

The bow dipped into a deep trough formed by the churning waves and abruptly rose again, leaving her stomach behind. “Ah, Patrick,” she moaned, “if the sea should open up and swallow me, I wouldn’t mind.”

Patrick patted her arm. “But you were feeling so fine.”

“That was an hour ago,” she gasped, “in Ringsend, before we sailed.” Another attack of nausea struck her. She bent nearly double over the bulwark, stomach wrenching as she heartily wished she were dead. Up to now, she had, to her surprise, enjoyed the journey immensely. Last night they had stayed at The Raven Inn at Athlone, which she’d found to be much more comfortable than expected. The rooms were clean, and the food! Oh, she shouldn’t think of food at a time like this, but she remembered how she and Patrick could hardly believe their eyes at sight of a table laden with boiled round of beef, roast loin of pork, peas, parsnips, a roast goose, a boiled leg of mutton, plum pudding and more. She had been hard-put to take dainty bites instead of stuffing her mouth. Patrick, though, was unencumbered by concern about good manners and how it would look in front of Lord Thomas. He dug with gusto into all that delicious, unaccustomed food which now, just the thought of it was making her even sicker than she already was. Not long after dinner, while a fiddler played lively Irish tunes, Patrick had fallen asleep at the table and Lord Thomas was obliged to carry him to bed. Thus far, she reflected, Timothy had been mistaken about Lord Thomas. Up to now, he had been most solicitous and kind. And when he said goodnight at the door to her room after putting Patrick to bed, he had been gracious but remote. It was as if that enthralling exchange of glances at the Whispering Arch never happened. And it probably didn’t, she mused darkly. It must have been all her imagination. How could she possibly think a man with as high a rank as Lord Thomas could have any personal interest in a poor Irish girl? Not that it mattered. She shivered in the cold, biting wind and drew her shawl closer about her. A wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her again. Not that anything matters.

Thomas arrived, having obtained a blanket from somewhere. “Here, let me wrap this around you.” He draped it around her shoulders. “Are you sure you don’t want to go below?”

“Mercy, no.” The very thought made her stomach heave again. “It’s so dark and confined and suffocating down there. It’s fresh air I’m wanting.”

Patrick spoke up. “I guess the boat isn’t so enjoyable after all, is it, Evleen?”

“No it is not,” she gasped back, remembering—was it only a few hours ago?—how she had stood on the shore of the port of Ringsend and caught her first glimpse of The Countess of Liverpool rocking gently in the harbor. As she recalled, she remarked how eager she was to set sail across the Irish Sea. At the time, it had seemed like great fun—an exciting adventure. Ha. Little had she known.

“What kind of boat is it?” Patrick asked, equally excited and eager as he looked across the water toward The Countess of Liverpool.

“It’s a mailboat, cutter rigged,” Lord Thomas answered. “One hundred and five tons, a beam of nineteen feet or so, draught of ten feet six inches, mast of sixty-eight feet. Very strongly built.”

“There’s a comfort,” she lightly remarked, impressed by Lord Thomas’s broad knowledge of ships. In fact, what didn’t he know?

Well, he hadn’t known she was going to get deathly sick on the Holyhead packet, she thought morosely as another wave of nausea hit her. How could anything be left? But, alas, there was. To her chagrin, and utter humiliation, she realized Lord Thomas was holding her, gently rubbing her back as she hung over the side. She managed, “I feel so embarrassed I could die.”

“But you won’t,” he replied, all matter-of-fact, as if he saw young ladies toss their breakfast every day.

“I...” A wave of dizziness overcame her. Little black dots started dancing before her eyes. She felt herself start to sink, but then a strong arm went around her from behind and with the other, he half-lead, half-supported her across the pitching, rolling deck.

“Patrick, get the blanket where it’s dragging,” she heard him say.

“What shall you do with her?” she heard her brother ask.

“Get her out of the wind. There’s a sheltered spot on the poop deck aft, since she does not deign to go below.”

She felt an urge to snap, of course I don’t want to be in that awful, smelly hold, but could not sum up enough energy even to open her eyes, let alone her mouth. Gradually, she felt warmer. There was no cutting wind anymore. When she finally raised her eyelids, she found he’d brought her to a sheltered part of the ship and set her upon—she glanced down—it was a hollow coil of line he’d place her on. Not only was it holding her in place, it was much softer than the hardwood of the deck. Thomas knelt in front of her, still half-holding her in his arms. “Feeling better?” he asked, then glanced up at Patrick, who looked deeply concerned. “Run get some water, lad. And stop worrying, your sister will be fine.”

“Will I?” she weakly asked.

“You’ve had a bad case of the seasickness, but of course you’ll survive.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” she said, managing a very small smile.

She struggled to stand, but he felt her fast. “Don’t try it.”

“I don’t want to trouble you.”

“You’re no trouble.” He smiled. “This way I can hold you in my arms and everyone will think I am but a good Samaritan.”

She managed to gasp, “What other reason might you have?”

He gripped her tighter, brought his face to within inches of hers. “You know very well the reason, Evleen O’Fallon.”

Sick though she was, his meaning did not escape her. He likes me, she thought in great surprise. At another time she would have found his remark challenging, perhaps even thrilling, but she was too sick to care, too weak even to form an answer. Patrick returned with the water. With Thomas helping hold the tin cup steady, she drank her fill and asked, “How much longer?”

“Hard to say this time of year,” Thomas answered. “In bad weather, with adverse winds, it could take up to thirty hours, but today I should wager we’ll arrive at Holyhead in another ten.”

When she groaned, he reluctantly added, “I should warn you, it could get worse.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Patrick asked.

“Berthing at Holyhead’s port is sometimes hazardous. Pray the tides are favorable or we might not be able to get ashore.”

“Not land?” she cried, “but then what would we do?”

“Return to Ringsend, then be obliged to wait several days until the tides are right.”

The thought of sailing back to Ringsend over the storm-tossed Irish Sea was so horrifying, she could not find words. Better I don’t find the words.

He gave her an encouraging smile. “But that’s not likely to happen. You’ve been very brave. Hang in, for just a while longer. We’ll be in Wales before you know it.”

Although she took some comfort in his words, at that moment, more than anything on earth, she yearned to be back in the cozy cottage overlooking Galway Bay with her dear mother, and Sorcha and Mary, and even prickly Darragh. Such was not to be, though, and she must be brave for Patrick’s sake, but, oh, it was hard.

And, oh, will we ever get there?

* * *

Thank God, the miserable journey was over. They were not compelled to turn back at Holyhead and return to Ringsend after all. Instead, they landed without incident, Evleen’s health remarkably restored the moment her foot touched shore. Lord Thomas had been remarkably proficient at hiring a fine coach-and-four for their journey through the mountainous country from Holyhead to Shrewsbury. She worried at the start because the motion of the coach felt exactly like The Countess of Liverpool as the ship rocked and beat itself against the heavy sea. Evleen hadn’t got sick again, though, and they’d moved along at a fine pace.

After a change of horses at Shrewsbury, Lord Thomas planned to continue on in the hired post-chaise. Patrick had a better idea, though. He had been watching when one of the crack “flying machines” came rolling grandly into the posting station, announced by the guard riding atop sounding his horn. Before the coach had even come to a full stop, the passenger sitting next to the coachman had unbuckled the ends of the leads and wheel reins. The coach still moving, the guard got down and ran forward to unhook the near leader's outside trace, and then draw the lead rein through the terrets. Next, he changed the near horse and finished by running the near lead rein while the horsekeeper on the offside unhooked the remaining lead traces, uncoupled the wheel horses, and changed the offside horses.

“All done in but two minutes,” Lord Thomas said with approval as the coachman finished changing the leaders.

Patrick had watched in awe. “Can‘t we ride in the Mail coach, Lord Thomas?” he cried, round-eyed with excitement. “I’d like to sit next to the coachman and be the one to unbuckle the ends of the leads and the wheel reins.”

Lord Thomas cast a fond glance at Patrick. Evleen could tell he had thoroughly enjoyed seeing the child so full of awe at the swift and exciting change of horses. There was nothing this exciting in County Clare, and, in fact, she, too, was fascinated by the clattering hoofs, clanging of bugles, slamming of doors and stamping of feet on splash boards, and through all this din the raucous voice of the ostler continually sounding, like the cry of a medieval herald with a cold in his nose.

Lord Thomas ruffled the boy’s hair. “I know exactly what you mean, Patrick. I doubt there’s a man among us, no matter what his rank, who wouldn’t have a go at being a coachman.”

“Really?” she asked. “I would have thought a nobleman such as you would be above such things.”

“‘Noble’ is a term I abhor,” Thomas answered, to her surprise somewhat vehemently. “I am not noble, I am a second son. Even if I were the first son, I would never consider myself a cut above the rest simply because I owned a fancy title. Nor would I be wasting my life indulging in debauchery. I would never—” He seemed to catch himself, making her wonder if he was about to mention Patrick’s father as a shining example of debauchery, but realizing the boy’s presence, thought better of it. “Suffice to say, Miss O’Fallon, I live by my own rules, not society’s. Long ago, I stopped caring what other people think.”

She answered a bland “Indeed,” covering her sudden admiration. He seemed sincere. Could it be not all Englishmen were alike? She had never thought about it, but perhaps they weren’t all scoundrels like Randall.

Thomas looked at her inquiringly. “Well? Shall we take the mail coach?”

“Why not? I’d like it, too.”

The warmth of his smile echoed in his voice as he replied, “You’re a woman after my own heart.”

“Good show,” cried Patrick, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Evleen gave Lord Thomas a grateful glance. How kind and thoughtful of him. Surely a man of his high station would not enjoy riding with the riffraff in a public coach, and yet, on second thought, she supposed he would. His eyes, too, had been full of excitement when he’d seen that flying machine.

Daventy . . Dunstable . . St. Albans... The trip was as thrilling as Patrick expected it would be. Evleen enjoyed every moment, despite being crammed in a coach with strangers. Also, like Patrick, she loved the grandeur and elegance of the inns where they stopped to eat, as well as the excitement of the stops at all the chief posting stations. And like Patrick, she openly expressed her enthusiasm at the sight of the splendid horses, as well as all the crack flying machines that came in many different shapes and sizes, their doors emblazoned with the names of the places where they started and the places they would end.

And always, she sensed Lord Thomas’ attention upon her. More than once, she caught him regarding her with warmth and amusement in his eyes.

“I suppose you don’t think I’m being ladylike,” she said once, when she and Patrick exclaimed over the immense size of one coach’s back and front springs.

“No, I don’t think you’re being ladylike,” he answered equitably, “but that’s a compliment. Some ladies I know are so stiff and proper they would not deign to show an interest in anything as lowly as carriage springs. That you do, only shows what a bright young woman you are.”

Despite herself, she found herself glowing from his praise. Most certainly, Lord Thomas wasn’t as bad as Randall.

The exciting journey ended in London, where Lord Thomas stopped off at his family’s townhouse long enough to appropriate the family coach and coachman. After a quick trip, they were about to arrive at Aldershire Manor.

At last she was going to meet the Trevlyns. Evleen felt vast relief mixed with trepidation as the coach-and-four turned into a long driveway and the stone turrets and gray stone walls of Aldershire Manor came into view.

“Look, Evleen,” Patrick called, “have you ever seen such a big house in all your life?”

As the coach rolled to a stop, Evleen looked down at herself and bit her lip. How crumpled she looked. Early this morning she had washed and dressed, aware she must look her best, but after six days of traveling, even her Sunday gown looked downright dowdy. At least her straw bonnet hid her hair, which was, she had concluded, a hopeless mess. Patrick also looked bad, she thought, examining the rumpled child. This morning in London she made sure he dressed in his best jacket and trousers, but she suspected his appearance fell far short of the high standards of the Polite World.

As she brushed at her skirt, she realized, to her disgust, that her knees were shaking. “Look at us,” she said to Lord Thomas, “Lord Trevlyn will take one look and send the two of us straight back to Ireland.”

Lord Thomas laughed as he sprung from the carriage and then handed her down as if she were a queen. The moment their hands met, she felt a tingle, as she had every time they had accidentally touched since that moment on the boat that she could not stop thinking about. You know very well the reason, Evleen O’Fallon. What had he meant by that? And here she’d been so seasick she couldn’t even ask, just moan and groan like a fool. But then, she reasoned, if she hadn’t been seasick, he wouldn’t have said what he said because his remark was doubtless out of pity, and nothing more. And yet... there were those glances he kept giving her, as though he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. But on the other hand?

She knew her reasoning had to be correct because ever since they disembarked from The Countess of Liverpool, he’d not said another personal word and had, in fact, conducted himself with the utmost politeness, bordering on remote.

“You look fine, Miss O’Fallon,” Lord Thomas said gravely. “I’ve no doubt Lord Trevlyn will be ecstatic to see you both and more than grateful you’ve come clear from Ireland.”

“And looking like the Irish peasants we are,” she glumly remarked.

“I do not want to hear you talk that way,” he said, and added with a smile, “No matter what happens, don’t ever forget you’re descended from the Kings of Ireland.”

No matter what happens? What did he expect? She was about to ask what he meant by that, and also tell him the Kings of Ireland were of no help to her now, when a white-haired old man with a cane hobbled onto the marble-columned portico. His eyes lit at first glimpse of the young boy now springing down from the coach. “Patrick,” he exclaimed in a voice filled with joy and wonderment. “I am Lord Trevlyn, your grandfather.”

Without hesitation, Patrick stepped forward and held out his hand. “I am delighted to meet you, Grandfather.”

The old man’s eyes misted with joy. He seemed nearly overcome. “You look just like your father,” he said, his voice choked with emotion.

“Did my father have red hair, too, sir?”

An expression of delight crossed Lord Trevlyn’s face as he bent to hug the boy. “I suspect your red hair comes from your mother, Patrick, but you greatly resemble your father just the same.” Over Patrick’s head, he regarded Thomas. “Ah, my boy, how can I thank you? And you must be Evleen,” he remarked, making her instantly feel welcome with his kind, warm eyes. “You are most welcome. From now on I shall consider you one of the family, as much as Patrick.” He raised his arm in a broad gesture of welcome. “Come, the three of you, shall we go inside?”

Lord Thomas demurred, saying he was anxious to see his father.

“Of course, Thomas. Your father still suffers from the gout and will indeed be happy to see you. Also, Montague is home. I know you’ll be anxious to see him, too. But come to dinner tonight, won’t you? You, Penelope, and Montague.” When Thomas nodded affirmatively, Lord Trevlyn placed an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “My brother and his family are out visiting this afternoon, but you’ll meet them soon enough. Now come inside and I shall show you your new home.”

“Evleen, I think I’m going to like it here,” Patrick called over his shoulder as he was led away.

Lord Thomas spoke up. “Miss O’Fallon will be right along, sir. I want to tell her goodbye.”

They were alone, still standing beside the coach. One of the horses pawed the ground and whinnied softly as Lord Thomas took both her hands in his and gazed down on her fondly. “So it’s goodbye.”

“But won’t I see you at dinner tonight?”

“You will, but by then we’ll be two different people.” He smiled ruefully. “We shared the intimacy of a journey, you and I. God knows, it wasn’t all fun, but still, we did what we pleased and had many a laugh, didn’t we? But it’s over now. Tonight we return to society’s rules. I shall be Lord Thomas, all bows and elegant manners. You will be Miss O’Fallon, dipping curtseys and fluttering your fan.”

“I don’t own a fan.”

“Ah, but you will.” He stepped closer and looked deep into her eyes. “I have never enjoyed a journey as much as this one.”

“I, too... well, except for crossing the Irish Sea. That I could have done without.”

“I thought you were magnificent. You never complained.”

He stepped even closer, and there it was again, that mystic force between them that caused her heart to race. “I try never to complain,” she said, shrugging and trying to look as if she didn’t notice how close he was standing when all the time she felt overwhelmed by his presence and hardly knew where to look. He was right about the intimacy of their journey. They had formed a close bond, laughing together, sharing a parents’ kind of joy over Patrick and his antics and bright remarks. They shared the grueling voyage over the Irish Sea when Thomas did all he could to ease her suffering, not too proud to hold her in his arms, comfort her, assure her she shouldn’t be embarrassed. Now, a feeling of emptiness swept over her. In all the excitement, she had not fully realized until this very moment that from now on their relationship could never be the same. Of course, it was obvious she would see him again, but how different would be the circumstances.

“I shall never forget your kindness to Patrick and me.”

A long silence followed. They seemed locked in each other’s gaze. He looked as if he was about to speak, as if he was on the brink of saying forbidden things he shouldn’t say. That would be wrong, though. Anything between them would be wrong. Never love an Englishman. That was mama’s good advice which she most assuredly must heed. Breaking the spellbinding moment, she stepped away. “I like Lord Trevlyn already,” she said, striving to sound casual. “Now that we’re here, I’m sure all will be well.”

A shadow of doubt crossed his face before he said, “I hope it will.” Fondly he touched his finger to her cheek. “But be careful.” One corner of his mouth quirked into a half smile. “Never forget you’re descended from the kings of Ireland.” Before she could answer, he pulled her close and kissed her, only a brief kiss, but it was full on her lips and she’d heard the intake of his breath as, afterward, he quickly thrust her away.

“Goodbye and good fortune,” he called and was in the coach, signaling to the coachman, and then gone.

* * *

When Pierce, the dignified, white-haired butler, showed Evleen to her bedchamber, she was astounded at its size and opulence. Beside her, Patrick exclaimed, “All of this room just for the two of us?”

Pierce concealed a smile. “No, Master Patrick, this is Miss Evleen’s. Your bedchamber is right next door.”

Evleen could not believe it. After Pierce left, Patrick eagerly trailing behind, she wandered about the spacious bedchamber, admiring the plush Administer rug, the fine, damask draperies. She flung herself with abandon on the high, four-poster bed, first delighting over its luxurious softness, then feeling a touch of guilt, wondering how she could possibly be enjoying herself when Mama and the girls slept on straw mattresses. Still, she may as well enjoy herself while she was here. Who knew what might happen? Soon she might very well find herself back in County Clare.

A quick knock sounded on the door, followed by a pretty young woman in a maid’s uniform. In a thick French accent, she said, “I am Celeste, ma’am. Lord Trevlyn sent me to assist you in dressing for dinner tonight.”

In confusion, Evleen sprang off the bed. Years ago in Dublin, her family had servants, but her memories of them were faint. Now the idea of having a lady’s maid to help her dress was so foreign she could hardly comprehend. “I... thank you, Celeste, but I can do for myself.”

“Oh, no, Miss.” Celeste grew round-eyed. “Dinner at Aldershire Manor is always a very formal occasion. Mrs. Trevlyn would insist. She would have my head if you were not properly attired.” Celeste picked up Evleen’s small portmanteau, set it on the bed, and opened it. “We shall see what you have brought to wear.”

With a sinking feeling, Evleen replied, “Not much I’m afraid.”

“Mon Dieux, is this the best you have?” Celeste pulled out Evleen’s Sunday gown, a not-so-new bishop’s blue calico, and held it high. Nose pinched with distaste, she regarded it as if it had just been used to clean the stalls.

Evleen tried to cover her embarrassment but felt herself blush. “That is my very best.”

“Déplorable.” Celeste paused, appearing to ponder. Her eyes lit. “You and Miss Charlotte are about the same size. She has a gown she never wears that I am sure would suit you. It is perfect for you.”

“But do you think I should?”

“Miss Charlotte won’t care.”

“Are you sure?”

After a noticeable pause before Celeste replied, “I’m sure she won’t, and even if she does, I have strict orders from Lord Trevlyn to make you look your very best tonight.”

Although Evleen was suspicious, she decided not to argue. If Charlotte resented her wearing the dress, then she would explain and apologize later, and surely she would understand. “All right, Celeste. Now what do you think my brother should wear?”

“We don’t have to worry about clothes for Patrick. He will take his dinner in his bedchamber tonight, and every night.”

“But we’re accustomed to eating together.”

“Never. The English say children should be seen and not heard, most especially at dinner.”

Parents eat separate from their children? What a strange, heartless notion. Evleen remembered all those family dinners in County Clare when the air was filled with laughter and bright conversation with her lively little sisters and Patrick’s incessant questions. She could not imagine eating separately. Ah, well. She must keep reminding herself she was in a different country now and should stay silent, going along with whatever were the customs. Still, what strange habits these English had!

“Magnifique,” exclaimed Celeste when Evleen had finished dressing.

Evleen turned this way and that in front of the mirror examining herself. She loved her new upswept coiffeur, as well the borrowed gown. “I like the dark orange color,” she said as she admired the sleeves, covered with a network of satin, and the hem trimmed with white satin rouleau.

“Not orange, Miss, capucine.”

“Whatever you call it, it’s not bad.”

Celeste brought clasped hands to her heart in admiration. “Zee color is perfection for your dark hair and fair skin.”

Evleen agreed, although in modesty, didn’t say. Actually, she was feeling better by the hour, for a myriad of reasons. Not only did she feel she looked her best, but her fears had mainly been allayed. Lord Trevlyn, whom she feared might be some sort of ogre, was most pleasant and kind. Patrick could not ask for a better grandfather. Also, Aldershire Manor was a beautiful mansion, not nearly as formidable as she had feared. She laughed to herself, remembering how her mother feared she might be given a small, cold room in the attic, shared with a scullery maid. Instead, here she was in this beautiful bedchamber, dressed in this beautiful dress after—miracle of miracles!—she had luxuriated in a long, pleasurable bath. Imagine! Maids scurrying up and down the back stairway, hauling buckets of hot water, just so she could bathe. How wonderful it had felt to scour herself all over and finally wash her hair, all with a lady’s maid to assist. It was a good thing Darragh couldn’t see her now, she would be green with envy. Leaning closer to the looking glass, Evleen tweaked the tiny curls that Celeste had arranged around her forehead. Never had she looked so elegant, at least not since she was fifteen and they had lived in Dublin. Now she felt more confident, and sure that despite those veiled little warnings from Thomas and that funny hesitation of the maid, she had nothing to fear.

The grand, sweeping stairway was a perfect way to make an entrance. Evleen glided down the steps, head held high. Over her protests, Celeste had insisted she carry a white plumed fan, which she held regally high in one white-gloved hand, the gloved fingers of her other lightly touching the polished mahogany railing. Except there’s nobody to see me, she thought when she got to the bottom. Where was she supposed to go?

Pierce appeared and sensed her dilemma. “They are in the drawing room. Follow me.” He led her to a set of double doors, partially open, said, “Through there, Miss O’Fallon,” and withdrew.

She started to enter, eager to meet the whole family, heard voices, and stopped upon hearing her name.

“But it’s my dress,” wailed someone young and female, “not that... whatever is the girl’s name?”

“Evleen,” said another voice, equally young and female. “I hear from the servants she’s quite beautiful.” There was a giggle. “You’ll have to watch she doesn’t get her claws into Montague. Thomas, too, especially since he’s just traveled clear from Ireland with her.”

“Over my dead body. I shall snatch my dress right off her back.”

“But Charlotte, you didn’t even like the dress,” said another female voice, a sweeter one this time. “You always said the color didn’t suit you.”

“I don’t care about that. Celeste had no right to give it to her.”

Saints preserve us. Evleen’s spirits plunged like the bow of The Countess of Liverpool dipping into a trough. Suddenly the gown she adored was now but a mere garment, and worse, a garment its owner did not even want her to have. She considered turning on her heel and retreated to her bedchamber, but only for a moment. Since when did a true daughter of Ireland let the English get the better of her? She was here, and here she would remain, for Patrick’s sake, not her own, so she must at least attempt to make them like her. If they didn’t, perhaps they could at least get along.

Evleen squared her shoulders, took a breath, and swept into the drawing room. The first person she saw was a man with thinish hair standing by the fireplace. Although he was elegantly dressed, his small frame, slumped shoulders, and pinched face did not impress. He smiled when he saw her and said, “Ah, this must be Evleen. I am Lord Trevlyn’s brother, Walter. Come in, meet my family.”

“I would be delighted.” Evleen forced a smile, keenly conscious of four pairs of female eyes sharply assessing her.

“My wife, Lydia,” said Walter, nodding toward a thinnish, woman seated grandly upon an empire mahogany fauteuil-de-bureau. “These three young ladies are my daughters,” he went on. “Charlotte—” he nodded toward a pretty blonde girl of twenty or so. “Bettina—” he indicated a round-faced young woman working on her embroidery “—and my youngest, Amanda.”

Only Amanda, a plumpish girl with nondescript brown hair and the look of a frightened deer about her, returned Evleen’s effort at a smile. “You are most welcome, Evleen. I—” She appeared about to continue, but suddenly wilted, as if she had caught a signal that she should shut her mouth.

“So,” Lydia said loudly and sharply. “Won’t you sit down, Miss O’Fallon?” Evleen did as requested, seating herself upon a stripped green silk settee. “I hear you are from Ireland. Do tell us about yourself.” It was not a request, it was a command.

Sitting squarely in the center of the settee, her back as straight and stiff as she could make it, Evleen could feel the resentment aimed in her direction, not from timid Amanda, but from Lydia and the two older daughters. There was more than a bit of rancor here. In fact, she felt enveloped by a deep, thick cloud of hostility and hard feelings. She gulped a deep breath and determined to make the best of it. “Well, I’m from Ireland,” she began.

“We know that,” said Bettina, seeming to suppress a titter.

“From County Clare.”

Lydia interjected, “We know that, too. County Clare,” she repeated, seeming to muse, “that’s one of Ireland’s poorest counties, is it not?”

“All rocks and mud, from what we hear,” Charlotte volunteered.

In a voice chill as the wind over the Irish Sea, Lydia continued, “Is it true you and Patrick are descended from the kings of Ireland?”

What was this, some sort of Spanish Inquisition? Evleen felt her temper rise but determined to control it. “Patrick is my half-brother. As I’m sure you know, his father was Randall, Viscount Montfret.” She enjoyed the gritting of teeth that seemed to occur after her remark and could not resist tilting her chin and parrying, “So if he’s descended from kings, we most likely should include the kings of England.”

“I see. Hmm.” Mrs. Trevyln’s fighting spirit seemed quashed for a moment, but she quickly recovered and inquired, “So do tell us of your heritage.”

“We are so impressed,” said Bettina.

Evleen was not sure if they were jesting or not. Perhaps not. Perhaps she was being overly sensitive because of the remark about the dress, but that was minor and they truly wanted to make her welcome. “You’re sure you want to hear?” They all nodded. “Well, then...”

She told them of her father, who was Ian O’Fallon, son of Daniel O’Fallon, eighth Earl of Dunkerry, and how he was descended from the Duke of Connaught, who was a direct descendent of Euchaid, one of the ancient kings of Ireland who reined over one of the earliest Gaelic kingdoms many centuries ago. “So that’s why I’m descended from the kings of Ireland,” she concluded. “Would you like to hear about my mother’s side?”

All were silent a moment. Then Bettina giggled, trying to conceal it by bringing her hand to her mouth.

“Bettina!” admonished her mother.

“I cannot help it, Mama, she really is an Irish princess.”

Evleen hastily began, “Oh, please, I don’t think of myself as a princess. I—”

Her abrupt halt was caused by the sudden realization that they were making fun of her. Not Walter Trevlyn, who still stood by the fireplace, now with a pained expression on his face. Not by Amanda, who looked downright stricken. But it was clear Mrs. Trevelyn, Charlotte, and Bettina were most definitely not her friends.

“What were you going to say, Miss O’Fallon?” asked Mrs. Trevlyn, faking a solicitous concern. “You were going to tell us about your mother’s lineage?”

Never in a million years. Evleen answered softly, “I make no pretense at being a princess. I am plain Evleen O’Fallon from County Clare, Ireland, no better, no worse than anyone else on God’s green earth.”

“Well, we cannot fault her for that, can we, girls?” Lydia asked with a forced laugh. Her eyes drilled into Evleen’s. “And what will you be doing while you’re here?”

“Looking after Patrick, of course. Until he grows accustomed to his new life.”

“Then you intend to return to Ireland?”

“I am not sure of my plans. Much depends on how well Patrick fares here in England.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Trevyln made no attempt to hide her relief, nor did Charlotte and Bettina. “So you’ll be acting as sort of a governess, then.”

“I suppose... yes, you could say that.” Evleen was bewildered. What was Mrs. Trevlyn getting at?

“Not a governess,” came Lord Trevlyn’s voice from the doorway. He entered, and despite the slight trembling of his limbs and his heavy dependence on his cane, Evleen sensed from the way all in the room quickly came to attention, his very presence commanded respect. “I thought I had made it clear Evleen is no governess.”

Looking embarrassed, Walter replied, “Of course, Charles.” He cast a warning glance at his wife and daughters. “We understand that.”

Lord Trevlyn sank with a weary groan into an armchair. Regarding Evleen fondly, he declared, “You look beautiful tonight, child. Have they been treating you well?”

She smiled brightly, “Of course. I’ve been made to feel wonderfully welcome.”

Lord Trevlyn smiled. “You will all meet Patrick tomorrow. Wait ‘til you see him. A fine little lad.”

“We can hardly wait,” said Mrs. Trevlyn, her daughters all eagerly nodding their heads.

Beaming with delight, Lord Trevlyn launched into an ecstatic description of his newly-found grandson. “... and he’s an extremely bright boy. Runs in the family, you know. Already the lad knows Greek and Latin, thanks to his mother who has done an outstanding job in educating the child.” He cast an admiring glance at Evleen. “That also applies to Miss O’Fallon, who is a bright, as well as most beautiful, young lady. Is that not so, everyone?”

Evleen could have sworn she heard the sounds of gritting teeth again as the Trevlyns all eagerly nodded their heads affirmatively. She noted that although Lydia retained a fixed smile on her face, she had slightly flinched more than once as Lord Trevlyn praised Patrick to the skies.

Lord Trevlyn continued. “Now what is this nonsense about Evleen being a governess? She will be no such thing. She is to be treated like one of the family, and when it’s time for the London Season, we shall all go, and that includes Evleen and Patrick. I want Patrick to enjoy the sights of London. As for our Evleen”—he cast a warning glance at his sister-in-law—”she shall have a Season, just like your daughters, madam. I shall see to it she has the proper clothes, jewels, furbelows, and whatever else that warms the hearts of young ladies.”

Evleen sat stunned. A London Season? She had not realized. Even in supposedly unenlightened Ireland, she had heard of the London Seasons, where young girls came “out” and had to exhibit the kind of decorum and elegant deportment which would crown a successful Season with marriage.

“But Lord Trevlyn, I cannot,” she protested.

“Whyever not?”

“In the first place, I’m twenty-four, which is much too old. Besides, I have not come ‘out’ and at this late date, I’d look ridiculous.”

“Nonsense. Everyone will know you’re from Ireland. No need for you to officially come “out” as they say.”

“But then, I don’t know if I can...” Evleen struggled to find the right words “…I mean, I’ve led a simple life in Ireland. I don’t know if I’m ready for the dances, the fancy manners, the elegant clothes—”

“The girl has a point,” interjected Mrs. Trevlyn. “In my opinion it would be cruel to foist her upon a society she knows nothing about. She simply doesn’t have the training.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Lord Trevlyn firmly replied. “I trust, Lydia, you and your daughters will take Evleen to your collective bosoms, teach her everything she needs to know.”

Lydia started to protest but Lord Trevlyn raised his hand. “Enough. Evleen shall have a Season, and that’s final.”

Evleen could see further arguing would be futile. And now that she was thinking about it, really, what would it hurt? Visions of exciting London danced in her head. They had passed through that awesome city yesterday, just long enough for her to get a taste of how exciting life must be there. How she would love to go back, stay a while, and see all the sights, and no harm done. Perhaps she might even stumble across that rich and titled Englishman Mama wanted her to find.

Further conversation was cut short when Pierce announced the arrival of Montague, Earl of Eddington, his sister, Penelope, and his brother, Lord Thomas.