“I expect she already knows, as I am sure you have told her at least three times in my hearing that you intended that space for him,” Owen remarked, then chuckled as Harriet held up a hand as if to shoo him away. “Yes, yes, I am going. But do save your tales of your journey until I rejoin you.”
“I will not speak a word regarding anything even remotely interesting until you rejoin us,” Jacob promised, putting an arm around his mother, though she was the one guiding him.
The house seemed dark after the bright sun outside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he looked about him in surprise, for he saw that many things had, in fact, changed considerably. Gone were the dour portraits that had graced this particular hallway, and in their place were beautiful landscapes, in bold greens that had to be Ireland itself.
“Your brother has discovered several talented artists among the locals,” his mother said, following his gaze. “Quite lovely, are they not? You will find many such things within the manor.”
“Though I expect you will still serve a good English tea,” Jacob said, as he led her through the door that she indicated.
“Of course! We have not forgotten our solid British roots.” Her face took on a troubled look. “Not entirely, at any rate.”
Stepping through the doorway was stepping back in time. This room had not changed at all, with the exception of the drapes which he suspected were new, for he could not remember such a rich brocade from his last visit. The settees and chairs were the same, though, as were the small ornaments scattered around the room. Here, too, were the portraits of his grandparents and their parents before them.
“I could not bear to have them relegated to the attic. This room has always been my own,” his mother said, taking her place in a chair next to a table that held a massive bouquet of peonies. “This and my workroom.”
Jacob took the chair next to hers, “Things have changed elsewhere, then, outside of the landscapes in the foyer? I was unaware that Father had taken such a liking to all things Irish.” He smiled as he said the last, hoping to tease a smile from her, but Harriet only frowned.
“Your father made his desires quite clear on that count,” she said, and the eyes she raised to him were somber. “He was very insistent that every stick of furniture in this house would be only things he had himself brought with him when he was appointed Duke here. There was not a thing of Ireland between these walls so long as he drew breath.”
It was no less than Jacob had expected. The former Duke had cared very little for the remoteness of the location despite the prestigious title that came with the lands. He had been very insistent on maintaining a very British manner in everything from landscaping to education, which had led to Jacob being sent away to school nearly the moment they had arrived.
“I am sorry I was not here when he passed, Mother,” Jacob said quietly, though he had not felt close to his father. But then, how could he?
“No son of mine will grow up Irish!” the Duke had proclaimed when he’d found that Jacob had gone fishing with a local boy and come home with a string of trout and the beginnings of a brogue. This decision had held through every school holiday when young Jacob had been denied time and again the chance to come home. He’d gone from Eton to Cambridge and from there into the Navy, never once coming home again.
Oddly enough, the same strictures had not pertained to Owen. Born sickly and even frail, he had stayed at home while Jacob had been away. Though to look at him now, one would not have guessed it. Owen’s shoulders had grown broad, and the hand that had grasped his had held a certain strength that had been lacking when Owen had been young.
“He was always very proud of you,” Harriet dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “He said it many times in his final illness. Not that he regretted sending you away. You have seemed to thrive in the years since we saw you last.”
What was there to say to this? In some sense, he had. He had done well at school, and won many promotions and recognitions already in his short time as a Captain of the Royal Navy. But those honors had been hard won, and he had had enough of wars.
“So, then the change in décor is recent,” Jacob said, to change the topic of conversation though he knew well it was awkwardly done. He gave a significant glance around the room, as though wondering what else had changed.
But this failed to entice his mother into more casual gossip. Harriet’s eyes were troubled “Owen holds a great love for Ireland,” his mother said finally.
Jacob gave her a sharp look. “You do not feel the same?”
“It is not Britain,” she said simply, then brightened as she looked beyond him, an expression of relief crossing her face. Perhaps she too was finding it difficult to know what to say. They were strangers after so long. “Oh, the tea is here. I imagine you might well be in the need of a good cup after that ride. Was it dreadful?”
She rose to pour tea for them both from the cart, pausing to offer him a variety of small tarts from a porcelain plate herself, despite the fact that a maid stood by who could have served them both.
The gesture was not lost on him. Jacob selected a tart and smiled, truly regretful that he’d allowed so many years to fall between them without more than the occasional letter.
I should have written more often. I am glad I have come to stay. I have been separated from my family for too long.
Jacob took a breath and smiled gently, wanting badly to connect with this lady he barely knew despite the fact that she was his mother. “On the contrary. I found the countryside to be beautiful, much like your landscapes, though a touch more lively. The village, especially…”
“Are you speaking of Ballycrainn?” Owen asked from the doorway. “I am surprised you did not take the coastal road instead.”
He had considered it. But the desire to approach from land and not sea had been a nostalgic decision, hearkening back to his only trip to Ireland as a boy. He had wished to see if it was as green as he’d remembered. All this he could not find words to express, so he only smiled and said, “I am. I came overland. I wanted to see what the country was like, as it had been so long.”
His mother had settled back in her seat with her tea, looking more put out the longer this conversation continued. “It is a dreadful place,” she said, setting her cup so hard in her saucer that the tea sloshed over the edge. She set it down on the table next to her with a look of distaste. “They treat us as though we have no right here.”
“Some would say we do not,” Owen said, helping himself to several tarts and sitting on the settee opposite. “This is their country, after all.”
Jacob stared. “Some would call that statement treasonous,” he said with a frown. “Ireland is a part of Great Britain and has been for some time. For better or for worse, the inhabitants should have come to accept that by now.”
The look in Owen’s eyes when he looked at his brother was less friendly than it had been outside. “There is much you do not understand about Ballycrainn, or even Ravencliff, my brother.”
There was some warning there, though what, Jacob could not tell. “I look forward to learning.”
“Do you?”
Owen’s laconic reply seemed to startle Harriet who set down her cup for a second time, though with no less force. “No. You will not spoil this homecoming with a squabble so soon. Owen, apologize to your brother. Jacob, pay him no mind. I expect he is jealous, as he has been tending to the estate since your father died. He is glad to have you here, I know this for a fact!”
“Of course I am,” Owen said, rising so that he might kiss his mother on the cheek. “I will be good. In fact, I will take Jacob out on the morrow and show him the entire estate from top to bottom. We will examine minutely every person here from chimney sweep to chamber maid.”
Harriet flushed crimson. “Owen! Such talk!”
Owen laughed and turned toward the door. “Fear not, Mother, I will scandalize you no further. I must meet a man about some sheep. They were beginning sheeri
ng today down in the lower pens and I wish to see how things have gone. Brother, I look forward to hearing your adventures at dinner tonight. I am truly sorry I cannot stay.”
In a moment, he was gone. Jacob might have been mistaken, but he sensed his mother was relieved this was so. She relaxed now, taking up her tea again, looking for all the world as if they had been talking about nothing more important than the weather.
“So,” she said finally, offering him the plate with the tarts again, and smiling as he took one. “Have you had the opportunity to meet many young ladies in London? Now that you are a Duke, I should think you would want to marry. Someone English, of course.”
Chapter 4
Being home felt…strange. Jacob had fast come to realize that for too many years he really hadn’t had a place to call his own. First there had been school, then in more recent years had been his place aboard ship. To stay in one place forever seemed…strange. As though he had been too long a nomad and had forgotten how to put down roots.
It was the next morning, and Jacob stood on the cliff’s edge and watched the waves crash on the rocks far below. This was no gentle beach. Even at low tide the water beat against the boulders, with sparse sand between. The violence suited his mood. He was as restive as the horse behind him, wanting to be off and away, but he’d promised Owen he would wait to begin his tour of his lands.
His lands. The phrase still felt odd to him. How was it he had come to own so many acres, without ever having trod a one of them in over ten years? The place would have been better left to Owen who not only knew this land but loved it. The right of the eldest to inherit seemed a poor way to establish what was best for the estate. He didn’t know the first thing about sheep or farming.
You can learn. The same way you learned to speak a half dozen languages. It is no different.
He took a deep breath of the salt-laden air, more firmly resolved. Besides, if Owen could spend half the night waxing rhapsodic over Ireland, then surely there was something worthwhile about the country despite his mother’s pursed lips and disapproving stare whenever the topic came up.
“Jacob!”
The shout broke his reverie. His brother approached, riding easily on a chestnut horse with four white socks. He rode easily, as though accustomed to long hours in the saddle. The horse arched its neck and pranced sideways as they came to halt behind him. A mare, he realized, coquettish in the presence of his stallion.
“Pretty lady,” Jacob said, patting the velvet muzzle before mounting his own horse. “Wherever did you get her?”
“A local breeder raises hunters for the annual chase. She was the best of the lot,” Owen said fondly, leaning forward to pat the glossy neck of his mount.
“You hunt, then?” Jacob asked, one eyebrow raising in surprise, trying to picture his brother riding to hounds over fences.
Owen laughed. “You might be surprised how civilized we are up here. But come, the morning is half gone and I would have you understand how vast your holdings are, Your Grace.”
His tone was slightly mocking. Jacob laughed and followed as his brother took the mare down the road between the fields at a fast clip.
The morning that followed was an educational one. Owen had a clearer understanding of the estate than Jacob had expected, given his father had only died a few months since. He rattled off numbers of sheep and goats, and talked fairly intelligently about the making of cheese in the dairy to the point where Jacob finally came out and asked whether Owen had perchance been caring for the estate than longer than he realized.
They were standing, overlooking a field of potatoes, the main staple of the Irish diet, he was told.
Owen thought a moment before answering. “Father had been declining for a long time, since the last time you saw him, I suspect. That was his last trip to London, and it took a great deal out of him. Oh, it started easy enough. He started asking me to check this or that with the men who worked under him, and sent me down to oversee the men shearing the sheep, or working the fields at harvest.”
“You saw no need to tell me?” Jacob asked, his tone a little sharper than he intended.
“What? That Father was sleeping in an extra hour in the morning? That sometimes he went to bed immediately after dinner? As I said, it was a slow thing.” Owen turned back to his horse and mounted, sitting stiffly as he waited for Jacob to do the same. “I tell you truly, the change was so gradual we never really noticed until near the end, when one day he chose not to get up at all.”
Jacob turned his horse back toward the road. “How long ago was this?”
“A month, maybe less, before he died. At first, we thought he had taken ill and only wanted for some rest to set things right again. Only he didn’t improve. By the time we thought to write, he was already gone.” Owen’s tone was defensive, angry.
Jacob held up one hand in what he hoped was a peaceful gesture. “I mean no harm, Brother, I am only trying to understand. Then you have been in charge of the estate for some time. I suppose that is a bit of luck, having you here that you might teach me.”
“Teach you?” Owen’s horse fell into step beside Jacob’s. The stallion whickered and nudged the mare’s neck. Her ears flattened, and she sidestepped.
Jacob urged the stallion on, until he drew ahead slightly, that the stud could quit bothering the mare. “Well, surely I have no idea how to manage the estate half so well as you do. My knowledge is all theoretical, but here you are, having done exactly as I need to. I should say ‘tis very lucky you know so much. I should have hated to figure it out on my own.”
It took him a minute to realize that Owen wasn’t following. In fact, Owen had reined in and was staring at him, his mouth slightly agape. “You are intending to stay?”
Jacob chuckled. “There is no reason to look so absolutely stupefied. What did you think, that I would arrive to sign the documents required and then toddle back to London, leaving you to it? If that were the case, I would have had the contracts sent by messenger and the whole matter would be settled already.”
Owen had grown considerably paler. “But you have never…I mean, this is not…you have not lived here. I thought once you saw how complex an estate this size is, you would have…”
“Run away to sea and leave you to manage it?” Jacob shook his head. “It would hardly be doing right by Father, would it? He left it to me, and as the title is connected to the estate, it hardly seems right to leave the managing of it to someone else.”
“There are many enough who do. A great number of estates in Ireland are left to foremen or managers, while their titled owners spend the season in London or Bath.” A muscle twitched in Owen’s jaw. Gone was the playful prankster Jacob had known as a child. This man, full grown and larger then he, was someone he didn’t know at all. The realization was a shock.
“I had thought you would be relieved!” Jacob exclaimed, riding back until he was alongside Owen. “You have been cooped up here since you were a boy, while I was away at school. I should think you would be eager to be away. It is not impossible for arrangements to be made to attend Cambridge yourself, if you so choose.”
“Cambridge!” Owen’s nose wrinkled as though he had been handed something vile. “All the education I need has been upon these hills. You seem not to realize that this is my home. I consider myself as much Irish as English.”
Jacob reeled back in surprise. “I daresay you would not want Mother to hear you say that. What an outlandish notion! Even had you been born here, your parentage ensures you are considered truly British, something you would do well not to forget. Why, in the village—”
Jacob stopped, not sure he wanted to share his encounter in the village just yet. The whole matter rankled still. The red-haired woman had bewitched him, for the encounter with her and her father had troubled him as he’d tried to sleep.
I am simply worried, he told himself. I do not care for her father.
But it was not the father that troubled him. It was those amber eyes.
“It seems we have a guest.”
Owen’s voice brought him back to himself. He’d been riding without thinking and saw now, a solitary figure trudging up the long road to the estate, a heavy bundle in her arms. Jacob stared, for it was as if his thoughts had summoned the very object of his ruminations, for the girl was none other than she.
Jacob frowned a little “Do you know who she is?” he asked, with a nod at the slight figure in the distance who struggled so to carry her burden. She’d stopped a moment, and lifted one hand to mop at her bare forehead, her bonnet dangling from her fingers, wilted and crushed.
“Who is who?” Owen raised himself up in the saddle to look. “Do you mean Miss Price? I suppose the colleen is coming to work. ‘Tis about time. We have been shorthanded for weeks now, though I suppose next I shall have to give you an accounting of those matters as well.”
The Remarkable Myth of a Nameless Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 3