Rescuing Mr. Gracey (26 page)

Something dark rose up and shrugged off the worry.
Mary…
Why…why can’t I have her?
Why had he traveled the world, forsaking any notion that a perfect woman existed, only to return home and discover she lived in a tiny hut, within a small village, just beyond the bigotry of his world.

Defiantly, Alec lifted his fist and shouted at the black heavens, “Why can’t there be another way?” He coughed, the painful scrape of a swollen throat and congested lungs adding to the misery.

Crack
. The alarming sound above gave him pause. The storm’s vicious wind made the tree’s heavy limbs wave up and down as if motioning for him to hurry away, but squinting through the lightning’s flash of light, Alec did not see anything too worrisome. Another swig of whiskey assured him of his logic.

The next splintering sound, however, made him stare through the slashing rain and waving branches. He knew the large broken limb that tumbled from atop the tree would hit him, but his numb frame could not move away.

The thud on his head closed his vision, and he slumped. His body slept while his memory relived the painful moment of two nights ago when, upon his return from the pub and fresh from his meeting with Captain Wynne, he’d been summoned to his father’s library. Instead of coming out of the meeting victorious, however, he’d sacrificed all to protect Mary Smyth. He thought back to his earlier encounter with his father.

*

His father’s dangerous glare and tightly clenched hands caused Alec to waver for only a moment. But then he braced himself with the surety that God had aligned everything for this one moment.

“You wished to see me, sir?” Alec said.

A fist slammed into his jaw. The unexpected strike rocked his balance. Never in his life had his father hit him. The ache in his heart hurt more than the swollen chin.

“What the hell are you doin’ hiring a Papist? We don’t pay them to do the good work.”

Alec ducked from another flying fist. He owed his father this moment of rage, but he would not be his punching bag.

“And yar paying a laundress thrice what we owe.”

Once more, Gracey tried to smack his son’s face. This time, Alec defensively shoved his father’s chest.

The older man stumbled but hardly seemed to notice. “Are ya’ turnin’ on me, son?” Anguish filled Gracey’s eyes. “Don’t ya know what the earl will do to me?”

All color fled from his father’s shocked face, his breath suspended. Alec longed to hug the older man and assure him of his affection, for his pained words wounded Alec.

“They’re both hard workers,” he said softly. “The laundress’s duties increased, and she deserved more income. The factory worker has done his share plus more. The foreman even requested to increase the native’s work responsibility. Both have been good business decisions.”

His father’s notoriously short fuse still needed to burn. Pointing a shaky finger at his son, his cheeks flushed, he said, “Who do ye think will buy our goods once the county learns of your stupidity? It sure isn’t the potatoheads. Word has already gotten round that Gracey Mill hired a Catholic. There’ll be a riot for jobs that ain’t available.” His hands pounded on his oak desk. “What are ye doin’ to me, son? Or, should I ask, why are ya doin’ it?”

Alec’s heart kicked up a notch. His father knew something more. Raising his voice slightly, he tried to sound reasonable. “I did not do anything to you, Father. I merely gave a helping hand to a man and a young woman.”

“Do ye know what happens to those who side with Papists?” he snarled. “Have ya any notion what ye’ve done to the family?” Gracey paced back and forth, back and forth. As if to prevent hitting his son again, he clenched his hands behind his back. “The cook’s Presbyterian child married a Catholic. Now neighbors won’t even talk to her. She had to leave her rented home. Is that what ye want for us?”

“Father, the jobs are saving these people from starvation.”

“Who cares if they starve? Maybe then they’ll leave Ireland.”

“I care,” Alec stated with increased force.
This was not how he hoped the conversation would evolve. “What purpose does it serve to starve and humiliate them?”

“Shut up. Ye know nothin’ about it. That university’s been puttin’ foul ideas into that empty brain of yours.”

Alec pushed air from a tightening chest, his gaze locked on his elder. “Father. You must know that we’ve stolen their land, forced them into worthless jobs for no pay, stripped them of any voice, and then humiliated them with the marching season. A true Christian would assist them. We must stop persecuting Catholics in the name of God and country.”

Gracey lifted a crystal decanter from the table and smashed it against the paneled wall. “Ye’ve become a bloody Papist sympathizer.”

Isabella flew into the room and closed the doors. “What is going on here? Please lower your voices.”

Gracey Sr. scowled. “Isabella, ye don’t need to interfere. ’Tis between a man and his son.”

With one visual sweep of the room, Isabella noted the splintered glass, the whiskey splashed all over the floor, and Alec’s swollen jaw. “Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Gracey, but I see it a wee bit differently.” As she stood with her hands high on her hips, eyes glazed with anger, both Graceys knew she was a force to behold. “Since you’ve already told the rest of the household, please explain yourself, sir.”

Marching in a tight circle, Gracey tumbled his concerns. “The boy has hired a Papist for the mill…and, I suspect, is courting a Catholic.”

Alec’s eyes darted to his mother. Obviously, someone had leaked information. Wiping panic from his expression, he lowered his voice. “What gave you that impression?” He wished he had not drunk so much. His fuzzy brain needed to be clearer.

“Oh, now ya lie to me, lad?” Gracey lifted an oily piece of paper and waved it in the air. “A letter received this very day says ye’ve been dallying with a Paddy. Do ye deny it?”

Stiffening, he had to wonder, did the earl know too? Weaving his hand through his hair, he knew the time to admit all had come. “I intended to tell you that I’ve met a native, a lovely woman. I no longer wish to hide my affection for her. I love her.”

“Oh, Alec,” his mother said.

Gracey’s tight fist slammed onto the desk. “Oh, Alec?” he screamed incredulously. His father sneered with disbelief. “Is that all ye have to say, woman? Your son has betrayed us with his actions and his money. He’s hired that laundress’s brother at the mill. A Paddy! And, if that don’ take it all, the lad is assisting with Smyths’ flax field—our sworn enemy.”

Alec managed to appear calm, but with each bit of information, he found it harder to remain outwardly calm. Who had given his father so much information? His mother had said the earl had spies on the Smyth home. His teeth clenched, fear now threatening to dismantle his plan.

“And he’s walkin’ the streets of Castlewellan delivering laundry. A Gracey does not deliver laundry.”

Clarity finally returned.
Bender!
The only man who knew about Mary. No wonder the snake had left tonight. Alec fully intended to strip the man from his life upon his return.

Heaving a frustrated growl, Gracey dropped his head into one hand. “What the neighbors must think—a Gracey with a slutty Papist washerwoman.”

“Mr. Gracey,” Isabella whispered sharply. “Howling like a wild animal will not solve anything.”

Alec’s stomach clenched against the remark. He leaned aggressively toward his father. “You, sir, will never again refer to her with your foul names. She is a lady of education and gentle breeding. And I could care less about the neighbors.”

“Gentle breeding!” The senior Gracey’s jaw opened so wide, a whale could have floated out of it. “Are ya’ hearing the lad? He’s daft. That’s what he is.” He swiped a hand over his face. “Tell me, son. What in the hell do ya hope to accomplish by your actions?”

“I hope you will meet her and talk with her before you judge her. I hope you will shift your position and be of assistance.” He paused, then added, “I hope to ask her to be my wife.”

Fists raised to the ceiling, Gracey bellowed, “Lord, wake me from this nightmare. I canno’ think of one thing that scares me more than me own son courting a Catholic and her comin’ under me own roof.”

Isabella twisted her hands and then spoke quietly. “You will soon have every servant reporting to the Orange. Please have compassion, Alexander. Your son has never had a strong attraction to a girl before. Remember how my parents opposed your courtship because they thought you were unworthy, uneducated, and the wrong religion.”

As if she’d betrayed a confidence, Gracey flashed blue eyes at Isabella. “That’s not the same, woman.”

“Aye, ’tis exactly the same,” she said softly.

“No. No. Ireland no longer opposes the Presbyterian.”

“My dear husband. Someday, Ireland will not be against the Catholic either.”

“Ha. I pray no’ in me lifetime.”

Isabella sighed heavily. “Probably not, especially considering how the Orange breeds hatred against them.” She turned and quietly added, “Surely, Alec, you can understand your father’s concern. After all, he is president of the lodge. They would not understand us entertaining your…acquaintance.”

Remaining silent, righteous fire burning in his belly, Alec stiffened against a compromise. He would battle anyone who denied him Mary, even his mother.

“Don’t ye understand what is comin’?” Gracey said, rapid steps conveying his stress. “Ya talk of foolish love, but there’s so much danger wrapped in the next year.” He flung a frustrated glance at his son before continuing his pacing. “Protestant Irish are also starving, son. They too can no longer farm their potatoes. They blame the Paddy for stealin’ the nation’s charity from the workhouses.” His thumb jabbed into his chest. “If push comes to shove, it won’t be the Papists that take the land. We have to defend our own.”

“The Catholics have been starving longer than the Protestants,” Alec retorted. “And now I’ve had a report from a British soldier that there may be specific designs to eliminate the native populations in parts of the country. No Protestant faces that danger.”

“Ya think all your fancy degrees mean ya know more than a man raised on the streets? ’Tis politics, not religion, that make the entire country dry tinder. One small match will set it all afire, and you will be right in the midst of it.” Lifting his head, Gracey stared at some point on the ceiling, his voice lowered. “The mood of the people is black. They want a scapegoat, and the Papists are ripe for the picking. Mr. Smyth should not have planted flax. That crop belongs to the Anglican. On top of that, Smyth arrogantly trains the rebel Ribbonmen right beneath our noses.”

Alec pounded his own chest. “I planted the flax. Blame me, not them.”

His father groaned. “Ah hell. Look what ye’ve done.” Collapsing into his chair, Gracey held his head with both hands. A long sigh indicated his temper was finally spent. “Ye’ve added insult to injury by givin’ a Paddy a job belonging to a Protestant. If I got this letter, ye know the Orange will hear of it soon. Dolly’s Brae—home of Joseph Smyth—is the perfect place for revenge.”

Alec’s heart slammed into his chest. “No,” he roared, terror racing through his blood. “All of this was my fault. I got Patrick the job at the mill. I planted the flax. I gave Mary additional money.”

Bright blue eyes locked on to Alec’s. “The Orange intend to start that fire in the very village of the girl you defend in order to cleanse the nation and use it as an example.”

Alec leaned upon the desk for support. “Father,” he barely managed. Swallowing, he tried again. “You have to stop them. You have to.” His pride collapsed. He would beg if need be. “Please. They’ve already endured too much. Please. Please stop it.”

“Mr. Gracey,” Isabella said breathlessly. “Stop tormenting the boy.”

“He’s no boy, Isabella,” Gracey said, flicking a quick glance at his wife. He pointed a finger toward his son. “And he’s got to face the fact. He’s put the whole county at risk. If I dismiss the Smyth lad, the Papists will revolt. If I keep him, the Protestants revolt.” Plopping back down into his chair, he scowled. “And I must march, or they’ll kick me off as president, and then the whole of the mill will lose contracts because they’ll think I ally with the Papists…”

Alec tasted the foul acid of his actions. “Please. Help me…” His limbs quaked with horror. “You know you can stop this. Name your price.”

Gracey’s mouth twisted. Leaning forward, he whispered conspiratorially, “If ye promise to break it off with the lass right away, I’ll clean up the mess me own way and get the march diverted from Dolly’s Brae.”

Alec buried his face in his hands.
Not that. Please not that.
His heart thumped with revulsion.
Think. Think. There must be another way.
Fear shredded his heart; his stomach rolled like a bubbly caldron.

“I’ll keep the Orange a’far from her family,” his father added. “And I’ll pass the word that ye’ve broken with the girl and that she was but a bit of entertainment…”

“Don’t you dare,” Alec shouted. “Don’t you dare hurt her.”

“Of course not, dear. He will do no such thing.” Turning to her husband, Isabella said, “Just tell the people that your son moved to Banbridge to run the mill there. That’s all that need be said.”

Gracey’s fingers rolled on the desk as the clock over the fireplace ticked. “Aye. ’Twill be done.”