The Irish Bride (5 page)

“Robbie has your future all planned then?”

“Yes. He’s wonderful at making plans. He can always come up with a way out of a difficulty.”

“So it seems. So he’s going to Boston to earn enough money to bring you to America, where he will marry you and go to Kentucky.”

“Yes. If only I could go with him now. But without the money, there’s no reason for me to go.”

“Do you believe, in your heart,” Nick asked, his voice low, “that Robbie Staines will wait for you?”

His sister’s face crumpled like a sheet of paper crushed in a careless hand. “No. He’ll find some other girl the moment he lands. He’ll hate himself for breaking my heart, but he won’t be able to help it.”

“And this is the man you want me to help you marry?”

“Oh, yes!”

“I’d be mad to give my consent. He’ll bring you nothing but sorrow, my dear.”

“He’s what I want,” Emma said fiercely. “He needs me so.”

Nick looked into her reddened eyes and could not deny her. “Very well. You shall have your money if I must wring the estate dry. When does Robbie sail?”

“Not for some weeks,” Emma said, her eyes brightening as though he’d handed her the keys to a magnificent castle made of precious stones and roses. “His sister is to be married and he has been permitted to stay for that.”

“Matrimony does seem to be in the air,” Nick muttered.

Then he smiled at her warmly and tapped her cheek. “Enough tears for now,” he said. “Show Mother a smiling face.”

He left her in raptures, eager to share the kindness of her brother with her mother and sister. Nick went in search of David Mochrie. “Where did you say those girls lived?”

Chapter Three

Rietta faced Blanche
across the breakfast table, certain that if she heard one word more about Sir Nicholas Kirwan she would empty the sugar bowl over her sister’s blond curls. For the past two days, she’d heard little but raptures over the gentleman’s appearance, manners, and probable fortune. Blanche seemed to have discovered in him infinite food for discussion, despite the brevity of their association.

Blanche had already thought of a dozen witty remarks and answers she might have given him. It was only Rietta’s inconvenient presence that made it impossible for her to say that she had delivered all that clever repartee.

Beside Rietta’s place at table were letters and papers which she studied attentively. A ship’s log lay beneath them and, from time to time, she checked a reference. When Mr. Ferris came in, she looked up from her work.

“Father, there’s been a rise in the price of cochineal. When you see Captain O’Dea, ask him to sell back to us his share of the last voyage at the previous price. We’ll have Ronald take it to market in the south, then pay Captain O’Dea seventy-five percent of the difference.”

“Does the captain know about the rise?”

“If he reads the newspapers attentively ...”

“But he has been at sea. He might have missed the announcement. Why not offer him the same price and then pocket the difference? We can always use a few extra pounds.”

“Oh, yes,” Blanche said. “I saw a bonnet in Mrs. Merrill’s shop window—black silk with blue satin lining and strings in the new Waterloo shade. It’s only twenty guineas.”

“You shall have it,” Mr. Ferris said, smirking indulgently. “Got to see my girl looking her best.”

“I’m sure Sir Nicholas will be flattered if I wear Waterloo ribbons. Even if it should prove he wasn’t in the engagement, he was in the army.”

“Father,” Rietta said patiently, returning to the subject, “Captain O’Dea is one of the best seamen in Ireland. He is very well respected by the other captains. If you cheat him... if you do not offer him a profit, he may feel cheated.”

“That’s his affair,” Blanche put in, cutting off her father’s reply. “You are too scrupulous, Rietta. It doesn’t pay.”

“Or,” Rietta added, “he might sell his cochineal to another buyer and we shall lose even the twenty-five percent gain that I have planned.”

“Why shouldn’t he take his own dye to market?” Mr. Ferris wondered.

“His wife is ill and he cannot leave her at present. I know that his agent in London has not been satisfactory and that he has not found another as yet. If Ronald can sell the dye powder for him, we shall earn some money and much goodwill.”

“Goodwill won’t buy my little girl her bonnet!” Mr. Ferris frowned. He had a hairline that stopped inside his large ears and when he frowned he looked like a fretful baby. “I wish you wouldn’t be so assertive, Rietta. I’m too tired to argue with you at breakfast.”

“But you will see Captain O’Dea today, Father?”

“Yes, yes. Just as you wish. Now, what have we for breakfast?” He uttered little glad cries of surprise as he foraged among the dishes on the sideboard, though there was nothing there that hadn’t appeared for breakfast every morning.

If her father was tired, Rietta was exhausted. She’d been up half the night reconciling the mill’s accounts, making certain that no funds had mysteriously vanished, as had been known to happen in the past. Then there were bills to pay, letters to write for her father’s signature, and orders given for the employee’s half-holiday next week. After she fell into bed, she dreamed she was a navvy, spending all day pushing increasingly heavy crates into ships that shrank from moment to moment.

The maid, Arabella, entered, carrying a bouquet of white lilies over her arm. Their scent well-nigh overpowered the smell of bacon and kidneys.

“Ooh!” Blanche squealed, holding out her arms.

“No, Miss Blanche,” Arabella said. “They’re for Miss Ferris.”

“You’ve misread the card,” Blanche insisted. “Let me see it.”

Arabella gave a tiny sniff and handed the white pasteboard to Rietta, who lifted her head to blink dazedly at the small square.

“For me?” she said stupidly.

The handwriting was cramped as though hemmed in by the narrow margins:
May I call?
—
N. Kirwan.

“Who brought them?” Rietta asked.

“A servant, ma’am. He’s waitin’ for an answer.”

“Oh, who are they from?” Blanche demanded. “They must be for me. They’re white—Blanche means white.”

Rietta had nothing but misgivings about allowing Sir Nicholas to become further intrigued with Blanche, and vice versa. After nothing had been heard from him in two days, she’d hoped (hat Blanche had somehow failed to ensnare him, that he was impervious to the arrow of her beauty. Most men wasted not a hour after meeting Blanche to pursue her. Sir Nicholas must have tremendous self-control to hold off for a clear forty-eight hours.

In truth, Rietta would have denied him for his own sake, if not for Blanche’s, but her father took a hand. He read the card over Rietta’s shoulder. “N. Kirwan? Would that be Sir Nicholas Kirwan? I’ve heard of him.”

“So have I,” Rietta said. “Rather a lot lately.”

“His family is well known, of course. His father was something of a wastrel by all reports, but they have a pretty property—a very pretty property indeed, and I believe something will come to him through his mother. He has two sisters—they will naturally receive a daughter’s rights but still—a most pretty property.”

All too acutely aware that her father never noticed whether a servant could hear every word he said, Rietta drew his attention to Arabella, standing patiently while he discussed Sir Nicholas’s prospects. “Ahem. Father ...”

“Tell the fellow that Mr. Ferris will be more than pleased to see his master at any hour. Well, go on, girl.”

Rietta inclined her head the merest degree. Arabella dipped a curtsey and left.

Mr. Ferris rubbed his dry hands together. “Well, puss, a fine fish in your net this time! A hereditary title in the family will look very handsome indeed. I shouldn’t wonder if Mrs. Vernon will be most impressed. Like all ladies, Mrs. Vernon does love a lord!”

“He’s not a lord, Father,” Rietta said, her heart sinking at his evident wish to impress his mistress. “If his title’s hereditary, he can be nothing more than a baronet.”

“Fie,” Blanche said vulgarly. “You would count yourself fortunate to catch an ‘esquire,’ if one could be found to take you.”

Rietta could easily have retorted that until she caught even an esquire, Blanche would not marry. But she had not her sister’s taste for a witty reply at the expense of dignity.

Instead, she gathered up her books and papers. “I hope you will remember to send for me the next time one of your admirers call. Mr. Greeves must have been very much shocked to have spent so many minutes alone with you.”

“What’s this?” Mr. Ferris sputtered. “Blanche, you sly puss! Have you made up your mind to take old James Greeves? He’s a good man; a trifle long in the tooth, perhaps, but what does that matter?”

“He’s only five years older than you are, Papa,” Blanche said. “But ever so much wealthier.”

“Ah, but there was money in his family. He did not start from nothing as I have done.”

“No, Papa,” Blanche said charmingly. “Tell me how you first began.”

Nothing put Mr. Ferris in a better mood than recounting some interminable story about his early dealings, most of which seemed to skirt the very edge of double-dealing. As Rietta, who could not bear to hear the tale again, slipped from the room, she reflected bitterly that Blanche must be very determined to own that black-and-blue bonnet.

When the hour for callers came, Rietta jumped as the clock’s chime and the door knocker sounded together. She’d been so engrossed in her work that she’d entirely lost her sense of time passing. She hurried to the washbasin to scrub ink off her finger and chin with a pumice stone and to pin straight the little lace circle she wore on the back of her head.

Though the men did not come to see her, she would not have it said that she was in any way untidy or eccentric in her dress. Yet as she looked in the glass, she saw not her own face but a pair of dark-blue eyes, a slightly wry smile and a thick pelt of dark hair. She faced the fact that it was not for Blanche’s declared suitors that she endeavored to be more than neat. If Sir Nicholas should call...

A moment’s calm reflection slowed her galloping heart and called down the hectic flush from her cheeks. “If he even recalls your face, he sees you only as a horrid, scolding wretch, jealous of her fairer, younger sister. What more could you expect? Or, indeed, desire?”

She emerged from her bedroom just as Arabella came up the stairs to call Blanche. “It’s themselves again,” the maid muttered as she passed. “The old ‘un, the young ‘un, and the wild ‘un.”

James Greeves rose as the two ladies entered. He was about sixty years of age, high in flesh, though not grossly fat. His corset creaked as he bowed. Two months ago, his hair had been quite white and his figure much less compressed. Then he met Blanche at the house of a wool merchant. Suddenly his hair bloomed again a deep red, some of which stained his scalp where the hair no longer grew, and his figure returned overnight to a youthful slenderness.

Rietta smiled with special kindness on the eldest of her sister’s suitors. She felt so sorry for Mr. Greeves. For some weeks, Blanche had believed she would like nothing better than to be spoiled by a husband so much older than she. But the fancy was fading. Rietta knew it wouldn’t be long before Blanche’s kindness turned to impatience, and then came the inevitable rebuff.

Not just yet, though, Rietta was glad to notice as Blanche gave Mr. Greeves her hand. “Dear sir,” she purred. “So very kind of you to call.”

“Not at all, Miss Blanche,” he said, patting the hand he held.

She smiled absently and slipped her fingers free to turn to the next man. Niall Joyce had youth, family connection, and some wealth to recommend him. Unfortunately they were allied to a face more noticeable for good humor than good looks. Niall was also rather overgrown, though never clumsy until he came into Blanche’s presence. Then he tripped over his feet, spilled drinks, and developed a slight stammer. Rietta was afraid for him, should Blanche choose him. She herself could never be happy with a man she could not respect and she feared that Blanche couldn’t, either.

“Mr.
Joyce,” Blanche said, “I hope I see you well?”

He murmured something incoherent as he bowed from the waist like a jointed doll. Blanche leaned back as he rose; she’d knocked heads with him before.

Blanche’s smile turned so warm for the “wild ‘un,” that Rietta wondered at the other two for not seeing the difference. David Mochrie’s father owned some thousand acres in the hills north of the city. The family was large and the land did not bear well. David was popularly thought not to have a penny to bless himself with. But the ways of fortune are balanced to a nicety. Niall Joyce had money but no charm; David, Mochrie’s lack of funds was supplemented by a smile that could give a woman too much conceit of her beauty. His eyes twinkled, making a woman believe in her own wit, while his voice made promises his words dared not express. Poor Niall could only sit by and glower when David Mochrie sat beside Blanche and made her laugh.

Yet rumor said that Blanche Ferris was not the first pretty girl of fortune that he’d approached. Nor would she be the last, if Rietta could in any way prevent it. Of the three men present, her choice for her sister would be James Greeves. Older, steadier, yet indulgent, he would perhaps not encourage Blanche to mature, yet he could offer her the security to grow wise later in life.

She turned to him now and offered him refreshment. “Arabella is just bringing in the tea tray, sir. May I pour you a cup?”

“Thank you, Miss Ferris. Two ... ah, ma’am—how you spoil an old man!”

Considering he’d been taking his tea the same way every day for two months, Rietta hardly thought it remarkable she should remember to drop in two spoonfuls of sugar.

“Your father is not at home today?” he asked.

“Alas, sir. He is sorry to have missed you, but he had some business to transact this morning.” She saw that David Mochrie had turned Blanche’s palm upwards and was tracing her lifeline. “Tea, Blanche?”

“Oh! Yes, please. Did Cook make any Bath buns? I adore Bath buns....”

With a sinking heart, Rietta saw both Mr. Greeves and Mr. Joyce writing on their shirt cuffs. She supposed they would now be inundated with buns from the best bakeries. The same generous impulse had led them to give Blanche pounds of soft-centered chocolates, a hothouse worth of white roses, and enough French perfumes to make a new ocean for Napoleon’s stranded navy. Rietta thought Blanche made these seemingly artless pronouncements to provoke just such a generous response.