Rescuing Mr. Gracey (8 page)

Alec’s heart banged with such strength, he wondered that the man did not hear it. Fortunately, his year-long stint in politics had trained him to keep reaction far from his expression. Instead, he nodded compassionately.

Smyth continued. “In our case, we are planting flax.”

“Flax, sir?” That crop almost exclusively belonged to the larger Protestant farms. Clearing his throat, he covered his surprised question. “Is it not late to plant?”

“Aye. Yet, being Irish natives, we continue to convince ourselves to persevere, though logic defies.” Smyth pointed at his daughter with a gentle smile. “Mary and I began a month ago with the intent to be planted by now, but flax is like an uppity high-society lady who neither approves of my neighborhood nor the soil within which she must reside.”

Just then, the music started again, and, despite the knowledge that Mary was a laundress and her father stood directly in front of him, he became possessed with a sort of panic. Unreasonable, illogical, dangerous. Alec shoved caution aside. He would not be denied one more dance, one more embrace, especially by a redheaded, filthy farmer!

“If I may beg your leave, sir, madam. The last possibility to dance with your daughter is fleeting.”

Smyth’s eyes widened. His gaze swept the dance area, and then, seeing the approach of the farmer, he chuckled. “A pleasure to have met you, sir,” he said, bowing.

“I am happy to have had your acquaintance as well,” Alec added, his hand already clasping Mary’s elbow. Determined to collect the reward from all the danger and anxiety encountered this evening, he hurried them both, never relinquishing the hold he had on her hand. Should the farmer arrive before he had her securely dancing, he had no doubt who her choice for a dance partner would be, especially considering her earlier irritation.

Carefully, Alec turned his frame and enclosed his huge hand around her small waist. So fragile—her head only reached the top of his shoulder, her hand completely hidden inside his—yet she was a woman of courage and fire.

He guided their dance toward the outskirts, making gentle, slow turns. The breezes carried scents of forest and roses and sad, haunting sounds of fiddle and flute. The full moon bathed her in mysterious shadow and angelic light that allowed him to see her long lashes resting on her cheeks.

She looked up at him, likely because his dancing had nearly slowed to a stop. He should be talking, charming her, especially after the mistakes made just moments before. Perhaps if he told her an amusing story, or revealed something innocent about his own life…

Instead, a confession bubbled out. “My heart is hammering so oddly, Miss Smyth. I am quite undone by nerves.”

She darted her gaze away, smiling, and dimples popped out on her cheeks. “I am sorry to hear it, sir. Are you ill?”

Giddy tremors raced through his heart. Was she flirting? Voice lowering, he drew slightly closer. “Aye, I fear I have a strange new affliction brought on by a visit to a lake. It may just threaten my health.”

Her mouth curled up adorably. “Perhaps you should see someone about that and discover the cure.”

By its own authority, his hand tightened on her back and edged her closer, but words, accessible and fluid on any normal day, hid behind a thick, awkward wall.

For one stunning moment, they stopped dancing and simply looked at each other. Was he breathing anymore? His mouth watered, hungry for the sweet taste of her lips. Contemplating the risk, he imagined lifting her chin the tiniest fraction and brushing against the soft flesh…carefully, gently…

His hand rose, slowly, deliberately, and touched the edge of her chin. Her eyes widened, but she did not retreat. He smiled, and she returned it.

His breath caught.
So beautiful.
How could he have thought otherwise?

Unbalanced thoughts and reactions jumbled together. “You have captivated me, Miss Smyth.”

She looked puzzled, then curiously filled with wonder. He heard her sigh, and her eyes closed. His heart tripped so loudly, he did not hear the enthusiastic applause as the dance ended…but she did.

She stepped back, her hands fluttering nervously over her dress. Looking about, astonished, he could not believe how far they had drifted into a dark field. Her brow arched as if she too were stupefied.

“Thank you for the dance, Mr. Jordan,” she said, curtseying.

The wrong name offended his ears. His shoulders stiffened. He considered telling her the truth, challenging the importance of religious disagreement while disregarding political differences.

He opened his mouth, ready to reveal the one name most hated by this village—Gracey.

Ironically, the old priest halted his temporary insanity. “Gather about. Gather about. ’Tis near our curfew, and we must close the dance. Let us pray together.”

Her trembling hand smoothed her hair before she twisted to leave, but stumbled on his foot. Mary lurched forward, and Alec reached for her. Her flying elbow jerked backward, smacking his chest with a sharp punch, and then she whirled, her eyes saucers of apology. “Oh. Sir. Sorry.” Her small hand fluttered over his chest as if to steal the injury, then, realizing the familiarity of the touch, she stepped back. “I must be off…” she said breathlessly.

Barriers once more erected, he swallowed his frustration. “Miss Smyth, may I escort you to the circle?”

He saw the struggle upon her expression—a waver on her lips, her eyes hesitantly inspecting his extended arm. Reluctantly, back stiffened, she accepted his offer.

They entered the circled crowd, then he noticed the obnoxious farmer squeeze next to her.

An elderly priest in the center of the crowd waved his hand with a blessing. “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit…”

Alec made the same awkward hand motion as the crowd, feeling traitorous.

“Heavenly Father,” the priest began. “We thank thee for gathering us together and for providing good weather. We’re grateful too for the upcoming harvest and beg you to let us keep our leased land and protect us from the persecutions of the Protestants and the English lords who allow the Orange to make offensive marches right through our property.” The priest scowled bitterly, then sighed. “Let the Orange taunting end soon and help them open their eyes to our need. Help us, Lord, to forgive them their trespasses.”

Alec glowered with frustration. Association with Mary Smyth was outrageous, dangerous, and ludicrous. He had no business mucking about with his heritage, her destiny. Besides, she was a native laundress.

At that moment, a cold wind swept into the valley, howling as if to give him warning. He shivered with premonition and swiveled his gaze.

She watched him, her expression full of worry and suspicion.

She knows, Gracey. She has to know.
He gave her his most seductive smile, hoping to confuse her suspicion. The lantern’s glow revealed a vivid blush flooding her cheeks. Her gaze lowered.

You need to leave her alone, Gracey.

“Let the sorrows end without bloodshed,” the old minister said. “Provide for us and end the blight against the poor
paite
. We ask the intercession of our Blessed Mother as we pray. Hail, Mary, full of grace…”

Alec could only pretend to mumble the pagan prayer, all the while mentally affirming why he would not see this girl again. Too many and very obvious obstacles trumped desire.

“Amen. Go in peace. In the name of the Father…” Crossing himself, he hoped God was not offended.

When Alec turned, he saw the redheaded farmer had already wrapped a possessive arm around Mary’s back and was escorting her onto the dark path ahead.

She likely would marry that man, and that was how it should be. He turned his back on desire.
Good-bye Miss Smyth. It has been an unforgettable pleasure meeting you.

~ 6 ~

“To march all round the old remains,

 
the music so sweetly did play…”

Alec should have been impressed by the handful of figures scattered in the expansive library at Tollymore Park, yet, forcing back a yawn, he found himself bored and impatient to be done. Closing his eyes, he wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. The twists and turns of the current conversation and the never-ending debate about “the problem” made his head pound.

“Lord Russell, we conservatives depend upon you to make good policy,” the powerful Earl of Roden, Robert Jocelyn, challenged the Prime Minister of England. The very tall and handsome earl’s voice cut through the low din of conversation like sharpened steel. “Anyone of intelligence can see that the taxes to the landowners are siphoning what little resource we have remaining. Force the Catholic Church to pay for the mismanagement of its followers, not those who are kind enough to house them.”

The prime minister straightened his short frame. “Roden, you know the church is not a resource of assistance, but a constant whining voice claiming us cruel. And, as a member of Parliament, you know ’twas not my wish that the taxes be applied by landowners.” Gray, bushy brows came together in a disapproving frown.

The listeners seemed to slump toward Roden. “The result will be the eviction, sir, of the whole lot. I, as well as most titled landowners, look for ways to lower the tax burden; thus, Irish natives will be wandering in your jails or workhouses in your other counties if you persist in obligating us.”

Russell’s cheeks splotched hot red. “During this disastrous decade, I have always opposed interference of the government,” he retorted. “We have granted, lent, subscribed, worked, visited, clothed the Irish. Millions of pounds’ worth of money, years of debate.” As if to reclaim calm, he paused and sucked in air. “The only return the nation receives for the continuous charity is calumny and rebellion.”

Sir Charles Trevelyan, the treasury secretary, sat directly beside the prime minister, his wiry body folded tightly inside the chair. “As you know, Roden, I am the one making those decisions, but I understand you must do what you must do to be rid of those who burden your income. The judgment of God sent the blight to teach the Irish a lesson. The calamity must not be too much mitigated.” As if a preacher sermonizing from the pulpit, he raised his hand and pointed one bony finger toward heaven. “The real evil with which we must contend is not the physical evil of the famine, but the moral evil of the selfish, perverse, and turbulent character of the native Irish people.”

Alec choked on his tea. Covering his shock with a napkin, he covered his mouth to force down a rebuttal. How could a man assigned to the finances for Ireland have given such an ignorant reply? The blight began in the Protestant nation of America and traveled all over Europe. A nauseating knot coiled within his stomach. He had expected this meeting to be about opposition to home rule, or the voting rights of the Catholics. He never imagined such powerful men to be so ill educated that they blamed the blight on a religion.

Darting a glance about the room, he wondered if he should correct the statement. As a botanist, Alec knew the name, origin, and lifecycle of the particular fungus that caused the blight. Bad policy from England carried most of the responsibility for the blight’s devastation.

The prime minister hung his head and sighed. “Without borrowing and lending, we could have no great plan for Ireland, and it is impracticable. I am opposed to any further tax or interference.”

Cautionary eyes swerved back to the very tall Earl of Roden, who wore a small, satisfied smile. “Very pleased to hear you will not stifle my intentions concerning the native disaster.”

“What a lot of rubbish, sir.”

Alec turned and recognized Count Strezelecki, a Polish man who had been introduced as the British relief minister. “The natives can have no blame, but only our response to the diseased potato and the ill-formed decision on how monies are distributed. Sir Trevelyan’s policies have caused needless deaths and starvation.”

“Sir, do not speak of that which you do not know,” Trevelyan retorted.

The count straightened his shoulders, his brown brows drawn into a fierce line across his high forehead. “Am I not the one who must witness the distribution of funds? As the relief minister, I charge you with negligence of the most appalling degree.” Waves of shock and groans bounced off the heated walls as the minister continued. “Your bias against Catholic natives is so sharp as to be appalling. You even halted the import of sweet corn from America, their one hope of surviving. There are many who wonder at your intentions, sir.”

Sir Charles started forward, his hands fisted, but Lord Russell pulled him back to his side. Clearing his throat, Russell spoke calmly. “We need not insult each other. We must seek ways to halt the blame in favor of weighing what must be done.”

Count Strezelecki huffed. “You may be seeking solutions, sir, but Sir Trevelyan’s arrogance has compounded the starvation under your watch. As relief minister, many blame me. And now we must also deal with a deadly cholera outbreak.”

Trevelyan shoved forward. “Sir. The blight was given us by the Lord to punish those who drink too much and laze about…”

Strezelecki’s long, oval face deteriorated into disgust. Pointing to the man next to him, he said, “Tell them, Edward. Tell them what you told me.”

Alec’s brain hurt from the expansion of inconsistent information. Trying to sort out the characters, he studied the man next to the count and then remembered him to be Edward Twistleton, the Irish Poor Law commissioner. This man’s puffy face and eyes seemed to accuse him of too many work hours and not enough sleep. “Sir,” he addressed the prime minister softly. “You know I have resigned my commission in protest over policy regarding aid from Britain.”