The Irish Bride (2 page)

“Tell him I shall look forward to meeting the father of so lovely a—a pair of daughters.” He handed Blanche into the coach and waited, hand held out, for Rietta.

Approaching, she put his coat into his hand. “Thank you,” he said, “but may I assist you?”

He laid the coat over the open window of the coach and took her hand in his. His arm came about her to steady her. Their faces were as close as two people’s could be without kissing. He had just done the same for Blanche with a smile that promised much. There was no smile for her, just a straight glance that seemed to penetrate the depths of her soul. Then she was in the coach, still feeling his hand on her waist. Even more lingering was the strange disturbance he’d caused in the tone of her mind.

* * * *

Nick felt Stamps’s gait begin to quicken as they came to the last hill, as though his master’s eagerness drove him without any overt command. Night had begun to gather around them, filling the valleys like a wave rushing in from the sea. Nick heard the flutter and fuss as the birds settled in the hedgerows for the night and saw cottagers closing their doors against the dark.

At the top of the hill, he drew rein for a moment and Stamps blew hard through his nostrils. “Now, then, have patience. Let me look my fill.”

Down there, nestled against the bosom of this land, was Greenwood. The coppice that gave the place its name had been planted by his great-grandfather to shelter unseen generations. Now the trees stood straight and tall, like soldiers guarding the future for the next generation of Kirwans, a generation Nick could only hope for as yet.

And the house, to his relief, looked just the same. Greenwood was not some palatial residence of soaring columns and wide wings sweeping out like a woman in a court gown dipping a deep curtsey. It was a four-square house of a fifty-year-bygone fashion, the yellowish stucco a bit weathered, the brick chimneys stained with smoke. Yet welcoming lights shone behind the tall windows and the faint drift of peat smoke came wafting toward him on the dying evening breeze.

Ireland was home. His countrymen’s expansive speech and purring accent were enough to make him feel that he’d reached some kind of haven. But Greenwood was
home
— the place he had been born. The place where his children would grow up. The place—God will it so!—where he’d die.

Not in Belgium, where so many friends had been killed on that hot day men now called Waterloo. Not in Spain nor in France, where fat Louis could be deposed again for all Sir Nicholas would stir in the business. Nor in Austria, either, where the victors would soon be dancing themselves to death. So long as it came for him here, right here at home, he’d meet death gladly, aye, and shake his bony hand to boot.

Nick clapped his heels to Stamps’s sides. With a shake of his noble head and a whinny that must have pricked every equine ear in the county, the horse raced down the hill, the man on his back whooping with a delirious sense of accomplishment. He’d survived the war’s horrors and come home at last.

The front door opened before a single hoof had struck a spark from the cobbled courtyard. His mother came out, arms outspread, crying and laughing together, reaching up for him before he’d even dismounted.

Then he was in her arms, feeling like a boy again, though his mother had been shorter than himself since he was thirteen. She hugged him tightly about the waist, her frail arms seeming to gather strength from her happiness. She was even tinier than he remembered, the top of her linen cap hardly reaching his heart.

“You’ve come back,” she said, over and over. “You’ve come back!”

Why had it never occurred to him that she had worried about him? Her letters had always been lighthearted with an emphasis on how proud she was of his service. Though there’d been tears sparkling on her cheeks the day he’d left ten years ago, he’d callowly accepted her explanation of suffering a slight cold, for she’d smiled and laughed with him up until the moment he’d rode away.

For the first time, Nick realized his mother had probably been afraid that she’d never see him again. He’d been home on leave twice since then. Had she faced her fear anew each time he’d gone away?

“I’m all right, Mother,” he whispered, knowing the words were inadequate, bending low to kiss her cheeks, soft as suede and scented with flowers. “A little tired from the trip.”

“Oh, sir! Oh, Master!”

Old Barry was there, groom for thirty years, his face as wet with tears as was his mistress’, sharing her elation, even as he reached for the headstall of his young master’s horse.

Clinging to Nick’s arm, Lady Kirwan said, “He’s come back to us, Barry. Bring up a barrel from the cellar and the whole household will drink with us.”

“Yes, yer ladyship. Thanks, ma’am.” Even as she spoke, he was running an expert eye over the horse. “Fine fellow he is, Sir Nick! Takes his jumps flying, or I’m no Barry of Connaught. From foreign parts, is he?”

“You’re right. I had him from a rascally Austrian count who should learn to count his aces.”

His gaze lifted to the two young women who stood hesitating on the doorstep, surrounded by the golden yellow lamplight. He smiled at them and shy answering smiles warmed their faces. It had been so long since he’d last come home that he couldn’t help being a little surprised to find them grown into women. Somehow he’d gotten it into his head that nothing would change here while he was off on his grand adventure of war. But time had not stood still for any of them, least of all himself.

As he walked into the house, his mother clinging to his arm as if afraid he’d vanish should she let go, he saw that even more had changed. The two paintings of horses that had hung on either side of the hall were gone. Instead of an ornate silver-gilt candelabra on the console table, there stood one of pottery. It was pretty, all white and blue, but it obviously belonged to a bedroom. The red carpet was worn almost to the drab drugget liner beneath.

His mother escorted him into the drawing room, where a cheery peat fire burned, sending the incense of Ireland through the room. A few candles—too few-burned close to the chairs, leaving the rest of the room lost in obscurity like the background of a time-blackened oil painting.

The tea tray, just brought in, to judge by the crumb-free plates, was scantily supplied, only enough for the girls. The glass case against the wall, once so full of small treasures and amusing objets d’art, now held only a few things, and they were the least valuable of the lot.

Most damning of all, his sisters had obviously been darning, for the sewing basket stood by the threadbare settee, and a sock, perhaps hastily thrust inside at the sound of his approach, dangled a shredded toe over the edge.

“Mother...,” Nick began, then halted. Now was not the time to bring up any subject except his delight at being home.

“You must be ravenous as a lion,” Lady Kirwan said. “Emma, ring the bell. Tell, Jean to bring the ham ... oh, and a bottle! If we had but known you were coming today, Nick, we would have set out a feast.”

“ ‘Tis a feast for my eyes to see you, Mother.” He kissed her hands in their thread-net mittens. “Still the prettiest girl in the county....”

“Did the Belgian ladies fall easy victims to your Irish tongue, my son? You’ve been practicing somewhere.”

“Everywhere,” he said, grinning at her. She laughed, bringing color into her cheeks, and told him that he’d not changed.

Turning, he held out his hands to his sisters. They stood together in the doorway, one with tears sliding in glistening trails down her cheeks, the other smiling at him with a grin so like his own that he was taken aback. Then they came and put their hands in his.

“Greenwood grows the fairest flowers,” he said.

“Oh, Mother, you were right,” the younger said. “He has the gift, sure enough. We’ll have to keep our friends away from him.”

She tossed a bouncing head of curls and laughed at him. Amelia still possessed a youthful plumpness of cheek and chin but her audacity had increased by leaps and bounds in his absence. Nick liked it. She’d always seemed a little in awe of him on his earlier visits.

“Minx,” he said, and Amelia just laughed.

“Now tell me how much I’ve changed.”

“That would take all day and half the night, Amelia. You’ve grown to be a fine-looking woman.” She dipped a thank-you curtsey, then stuck out her tongue. “Or perhaps you’ve not changed so very much. Do you remember telling me that you’d not be a lady, no matter what your governess said. What was her name? Miss Talent... ?”

“Miss Tanager,” Amelia said. “I haven’t thought about her in an age. I will tell you, Nick. I’m as good as my word. I’m afraid I never have been a lady.”

“Amelia’s been as good as the son of the house while you’ve been away, Nick. ‘Tis she who scolds Barry, sees to the marketing, and tallies the accounts.”

“And it’s glad I’ll be to be shut of that,” she said fervently. She added, “My head for mathematics has never been strong.”

“When I did it,” Emma said, “it took me days to find a shilling I’d misplaced while adding up.”

Nick felt that his sisters were attempting to convey something of importance, but it had been a long day and he was too tired to work it out.

He turned to his other sister, the quieter, graver elder. After kissing her cheek, he held her hands and swung them lightly while he studied her. For a moment, he was afraid she would cast herself on his chest and howl. But instead she sniffed, wiped beneath her eyes, and gave him a tremulous, half-drowned smile. Tears had little effect on her smooth, nearly colorless skin.

“It’s good to see you looking so well, Nick. When we heard of your fever ...”

“ ‘Twas nothing compared to the time I took the typhus,” he said. For his mother’s benefit, he added, “I only had a mild case, thank God.”

"Thank God,” Emma echoed.

He looked around. “It’s good to be home at last,” he said. Then he noticed anew the shabbiness of the room and how many things were missing.

“Mother,” he began, “what has happened to ... ?”

Amelia kicked him lightly on the ankle. Lady Kirwan didn’t see it happen but Emma looked shocked, and giggled.

“You’ll have to wait to find out about your old sweethearts, Nick,” Amelia said brightly. “Come and have a wash before you eat. You may not know it but your hands are all-over mud.”

He glanced down. “I helped a lady in distress—two ladies, come to think of it.”

“Someone I know?” his mother asked.

“I doubt it. Their father’s a mill owner. Their name was Ferris, Blanche and Rietta Ferris.” His three ladies looked blank. Nick added, “Blanche Ferris is possibly the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

“We shall have to call on them,” his mother said with a decisive nod. “Ferris? Yes, I believe Mrs. Halloran mentioned that family. Highly respectable.”

They could not do enough for him. Amelia drew off his boots, falling over backward with a laugh, while Emma brought down a pair of slippers she’d been embroidering against his return. His mother sat with him while he ate and gazed at him as though she could not look at him enough. Nick enjoyed being spoiled almost as much as his family seemed to enjoy spoiling him. Yet after his mother had kissed him and gone to bed, he rapped gently at Amelia’s bedroom door.

“Come in, Nick,” she called.

He opened the door and saw both his sisters, Emma seated before the glass and Amelia standing by the window. She said, “You’ve come to find out the truth, haven’t you?”

“I’d like to know why Mother has been selling things.

Half the silver seems to be gone, as well as pictures, furniture, and other oddments.”

The girls exchanged glances. Emma rose to her feet and came to take Nick’s hand. With tears welling up in her eyes, she said, “I’m afraid it’s bad news. Father...” Her voice trailed off.

“Let me,” Amelia said. “Father began gambling again just before he died.”

“Gambling? He swore to me the last time I was home that he’d given it up.”

“He swore that often enough,” Amelia said, bitterness clear in her tone. “And that’s not all. There was a woman.”

“We don’t know that,” Emma said in protest. “It’s all conjecture.”

“True, but what else could it have been? Money just vanished like water poured into the desert sand. It was bad enough before he died, but afterwards even what little income we had dried up.”

“Does Mother know about his ‘woman’?”

Amelia shook her head. “Mother doesn’t say anything to us. She wouldn’t tell us a word, as if it weren’t so obvious that she has no money. She’s tried hard to keep up appearances but I’m afraid people are beginning to talk.”

Emma gave a sudden, convulsive sob and turned her face away from her siblings. Amelia put her arm about her sister’s waist. “It’s harder for Emma than for me. She wants to marry and there’s no money to give her her rights under Father’s will. The money’s just not there.”

“Who do you want to marry?” Nick asked.

Emma sobbed again. “It doesn’t matter now. He’s leaving Ireland. I’ll never...” She broke from Amelia’s comforting arm and bolted from the room.

“Why wasn’t I told?” Nick demanded. “I could have come home sooner.”

“Mother wouldn’t hear of it. When you couldn’t get leave for Father’s funeral, she said that the army had first right to your time.”

“I could have gotten leave,” Nick said, thudding his fist into his hand. “But things were heating up in the Peninsula and I wanted to be with my battalion. I should have come home after Napoleon went to Elba. There was no need for all this sacrifice on your parts.”

“It’s all right, Nick,” Amelia said. “You’re home now.”

“Yes, I am. First thing in the morning, I’ll want to see the account books. I’ll talk everything over with Mother. I’m sure the situation isn’t as black as you’ve painted it. Go tell Emma she’ll get her inheritance if I have to cut down every tree at Greenwood. You’ll get yours as well. I don’t suppose you’ve a young man waiting?”

“As a matter of fact... ,” Amelia grinned. “But my case is even more hopeless than hers. She wants to marry a gentleman—I’m going to marry a farmer.”

“Have I anything to say in the matter? I am head of the family.”