Wild Irish Rose

by Ava Miles

  Weight seemed a good word for it, and she felt her compassion rise for them all. “You feel guilty too. For your cousin’s death.”

  “Yes, even though I know there was nothing I could have done. It was an earthquake on the ocean floor. A rarity. But losing him… Hell, I loved him too. He used to give me a chunk of his Dubble Bubble chewing gum when I was younger, and it made me feel grown up. Stupid.”

  He was leaning over her, so she reached up and stroked his back, needing to comfort him. “Not stupid. Losing someone you love hurts like hell. It…changes everything.” Who knew better than she?

  He pulled her out of her chair and into his arms, resting his head on her shoulder. “I’ve been trying to push it away, I guess. Man up. But Patrick’s raring to go on this project, like it’ll help him forget, and my mom’s out there in Chicago with Corey’s wife, trying to help out with her and the kids, and sometimes Connor’s voice sounds…like it’s killing him.”

  And he wanted to help, like any good brother would. Trevor hadn’t just come here in the hopes of acquiring another piece of land. He was trying to help his brother heal and protect another family member from a terrible eventuality.

  “Can you not find another country to drill on?” she asked, knowing it was a bit selfish of her. “You have to know how controversial such a thing is in Ireland.”

  “I do,” Trevor said. “Connor made this decision alone.”

  But he had his duty. His job wasn’t merely a job. He worked with and for his family. She understood that in her own way. It had always been the same for her with The Wild Irish Rose. “So what now?”

  “I’m working on that, and I’ll be happy when it’s all behind me. I don’t like being in this position. Not with you, and not with my brother.”

  But somehow she had won out in this war she hadn’t known he was waging. Her heart grew warm as the realization flooded her. “If I have oil, more people will come, won’t they?”

  The look in his eyes gave her the answer before he spoke. “Yes,” he finally said. “So far, the Irish government hasn’t changed the law to allow onshore drilling. But Connor hopes to change that.”

  Panic raced through her. If he managed to open that hornet’s nest, other companies would be able to drill by law. Would they use every means they could to force her off the land if she wouldn’t go? Stars filled her vision again, and she fell back weakly in the chair. “They can’t take my land from me. My home. They…can’t.”

  The pounding in her heart grew until it was as though a great spotted woodpecker was drilling against her skull.

  “Take it easy,” he said, kneeling by her side and stroking her arm. “I’ll be here. They won’t take your home. I promise.”

  “How do we keep it safe? All the people who work here depend on me. My animals. My new enterprise. Cian and Aileen aren’t the youngest…”

  “Breathe, Becca,” he said, his calm voice at odds with the flush of red on his cheeks. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

  They were words she’d dreamed of hearing but had lost hope would ever come. God, she wanted to believe him. She wanted to think he’d stay, even after he knew.

  Relieved, she continued to let herself settle while he held her hand. Boru and Hatshep came closer, signaling a tentative peace with Trevor. Their loyalty never failed to fill her heart.

  “Shall we go for our walk?” he asked, making her sit up straight. “Some fresh air might do us some good.”

  Anxiety raced through her like an unholy elixir. No, she needed to cocoon herself in her home, especially after learning the peril it was in from a shiny black substance in the ground.

  “I’m a little light on my feet still,” she said instead. “How about a nice pot of tea? I can call Aileen.”

  He kissed her cheek. “I’ll make you up a pot myself. You sit there. You’re still not back to your normal self.”

  As he left her, she wondered if she ever would be.

  Last night, she’d thought his love might heal her, and a new hope had blossomed in her heart. Today, she felt certain her fear of going outside would never, ever go away, and the confines of her prison seemed even smaller and less tolerable now.

  She was scared inside her own sanctuary.

  Chapter 19

  Sitting at the breakfast table with his family, Trevor watched Becca wander through the tables in the dining room, smiling at guests, taking the time to hear about their plans for the day. She had been careful not to show any preference for him from the start, but it seemed there was more to it today. His lovely Irish lass, always so warm and welcoming, had a cold chill coming from her.

  While their heated exchange had led to declarations of love, they’d made love on shaky ground last night. She seemed to have erected a wall between them, and while it wasn’t unassailable, he didn’t want anything like it to stand between them. Even her animals had given him the cold shoulder. Boru had wandered away when he’d rubbed the dog under the ears, and Hatshep had raised her tail in the air and sauntered away when he’d tried to pick her up.

  “You’re a mess this morning,” his uncle said, kicking him under the table. “Give her time.”

  “She’s processing things,” Aunt Clara said, picking up her teacup. “It’s good you aired things out. Now it needs to settle.”

  He was too impatient for that. If only they had more time together, he was certain they could restore the easiness between them. Aileen appeared in the dining room, holding a basket of fresh scones, and he immediately called her over.

  “Are you needing more scones?” she asked, checking out the table.

  He hadn’t been able to eat more than one, a testament to how anxious he felt. “No, we’re good. I wanted to see if you’d be able to cover for Becca for a few hours today. I wanted to take her for a drive.”

  The basket of scones tumbled onto the table, and Aileen gave a cry. “Oh, I’m so clumsy.” She scooped up the scones before anyone at the table could help and then immediately stepped away. “I’m afraid we have some baking to see to today.”

  She wasn’t looking him in the eye either. “That’s fine. It was a last-minute idea. What about tomorrow?”

  “Meeting with the maids, I’m afraid,” she said, looking off in the direction of the kitchen. “I think Chef Padraig is calling me. Oui, Chef, I’m coming. Trevor, if something opens up, I’ll let you know.”

  She dashed off, and he turned back to the table. His aunt and uncle and Hargreaves were all watching him. “I messed up pretty big.”

  “Then you fix it,” Uncle Arthur said matter-of-factly.

  “Maybe do something for Becca that doesn’t involve her taking time away from the inn,” Aunt Clara said, patting his hand from across the table. “She’s a hard worker.”

  “It’s something to respect,” his uncle said. “She loves this place like I loved my newspaper. When you love what you do, it’s not work.”

  Trevor hadn’t thought of it that way. Maybe it was selfish of him to try to get her away. When he was working on something, he often gave it his full attention. The family needed him, and he was good at what he did. He liked being able to do what no one else could, but he’d never loved his job that way.

  “If I may make a suggestion,” Hargreaves said, clearing his throat.

  The man didn’t often converse at the table. There was a companionable silence about him, one he and Aunt Clara had mastered over the decades.

  “Please, Hargreaves.”

  “You might help her with her new enterprise,” Hargreaves said. “Running the bed and breakfast is a full-time job, and I’ve heard Aileen mention that Becca wishes she had more time to explore dye colors.”

  “That’s brilliant, Hargreaves.” He could look at branding or packaging or— Wait, he could help her find the perfect green dye for her yarn. Hadn’t she mentioned they’d struggled with that? He’d call his sister, Caitlyn, and see if she had any ideas. She worked in another Merriam company, one focused on skincare and cosmetics
, so at least her job was dye adjacent. He was fairly sure she had never hand-dyed wool before, and he certainly hadn’t, but they were both smart people. They could figure out something.

  “I’m going to take off,” Trevor said, standing up, feeling he was on firmer ground now that he had a purpose. “Have fun on your trip to Waterford. Are you going, Hargreaves?”

  The man nodded. “I have a keen interest in seeing how they make the crystal.”

  “Hargreaves has always thought it top-notch,” his aunt said. “I’m looking forward to the tour.”

  “I’m not looking forward to the two-hour drive,” his uncle griped.

  “Hargreaves is driving,” his aunt replied, giving her butler a smile. “It’s been some time since he drove on the left side, but it’s not the kind of thing a person forgets. Right, Hargreaves?”

  “Indeed, madam,” he said. “And I’ve asked the kitchen to pack us a lunch in case you grow hungry.”

  His aunt fairly beamed, so Trevor refrained from mentioning the abundance of restaurants in Waterford town proper. Then he had an idea. “I’d like to give you a special gift to make up for everything. Waterford Castle is a beautiful place. How about I arrange for you to stay there tonight? That way, you’ll only have to drive up today.” Four hours in one day might overtax them, and it was the least he could do.

  “Oh, a castle!” Aunt Clara clapped her hands. “I’d love that.”

  “Seems crazy to pay for two hotel rooms,” his uncle growled. “A man only has one body.”

  “Oh, Arthur, you are practical, and I love that about you.” She laid her hand on his cheek. “Don’t be practical just now.”

  His eyes softened. “Okay,” he said, covering her hand. “If it makes you happy…”

  “It does,” she said, her voice laced with delight. “Thank you, Trevor.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “I’ll make the reservation when I go upstairs. If you decide you want to spend another night, just have them add it to your reservation. It’s a nice part of Ireland. You might want to do more sightseeing.” He winked at his aunt, and she winked right back at him.

  As he left the table, he was glad he’d set one thing to rights this morning.

  * * *

  “He’s working overtime,” Arthur said as he watched his nephew stride out of the dining room. The boy looked as jumpy as a jackrabbit.

  “After what he pulled, he should be quick-stepping,” Clara said. “Besides, even I know men like to fix things. And after seeing poor Aileen drop scones all over our table, it’s pretty clear he has more quick-stepping to do.”

  “I believe it’s high-stepping, madam,” Hargreaves said in his dry butler-knows-everything tone.

  “Thank you, Hargreaves.”

  “If I corrected you like that, you’d box my ears,” Arthur remarked, because he’d noticed more than once Hargreaves had some kind of eternal pass on correcting his mistress, as he called her. The butler’s habit of calling her that in public was a sure way to confuse people, especially when they traveled, and Arthur had said as much to her. Clara had laughed so hard she’d cried, loving the idea of people thinking she’d brought both her husband and lover on vacation with her, and she almost eighty years old. He’d harrumphed plenty, but a smile had slipped through his grousing. He did so love to hear her laugh.

  “You made a fine suggestion on how to win back Becca’s full affection, Hargreaves,” Clara said. “She wasn’t herself this morning. It was plain as day.”

  Arthur had noticed it himself. Usually the woman snuck glances at their table when she hoped no one was looking, but not today. She’d been focused, too focused, almost like she was closing Trevor out.

  “Broken trust is hard to repair, but it’s doable. He’ll find a way to ease her mind.” Of course, Arthur still wasn’t sure how Trevor’s brother, Connor, was going to react to this whole situation. Connor was a hardheaded businessman, focused mostly on the bottom line. His second-in-command, Quinn, was equally serious but had a bigger touch of the Merriam charm. They made a fearsome pair, but they’d continued to steer his old friend Emmits’ legacy in the right direction. As descendants, they weren’t half bad. He almost laughed. He had to be old if he was calling young people descendants.

  “You’re off in your own little world,” Clara said, pressing her fingernails into his hand. She was mostly gentle—until she wanted his attention. “You think we can leave Trevor alone for a day or two?”

  Arthur chuckled. “What could possibly go wrong?”

  Chapter 20

  Becca was going over the new batch of reservations in her office when she heard a knock on the door.

  “Come in.”

  She looked up from the computer, surprise rippling over her. The man Trevor and his family called Hargreaves stood in the threshold of her office. Of course, she knew his full name: Clifton Hargreaves. He’d put it on the reservation. “Good morning…ah, I’m embarrassed to ask this, but what should I call you?” He wasn’t her butler, after all, but even Trevor called him by his surname.

  “Hargreaves is fine, miss,” he said, closing the door and then coming to stand in front of her desk in his regular dress of a black jacket, tie, and trousers with a crisp white shirt.

  She wondered if he ever wore anything else. “Please, sit down.”

  “I prefer to stand,” he said, his demeanor impeccably proper yet warm and welcoming too.

  “What can I do for you? Aileen tells me you’re off to Waterford today. Everyone says the tour of the House of Waterford is spectacular.” Funny how being the owner of a bed and breakfast opened up her world. Hearing the guests tell their stories wasn’t just the highlight of her day. It was her lifeline to the outside world.

  “We are, indeed,” he said, reaching inside his suit and drawing out an envelope. His face was inscrutable as he laid it on her desk. “I thought this might be of use to you, if I may be so bold.”

  Curiosity made her rip open the envelope at once. She drew out the paper. There were only three lines printed out in perfect cursive.

  Dr. Andreas Poread

  Doctor of Psychology

  (212) 555-0177

  As if the envelope had doused her with a sheet of cold water, Becca crossed her arms over herself. “I don’t understand.” He couldn’t know. She looked up at him, her chest aching now at the horror of being exposed.

  “Dr. Poread is one of the leading psychiatrists treating agoraphobia, miss,” Hargreaves said, his words riveting her to her chair. “He understands that people suffering from the disorder are usually unable to leave their homes for help, so his practice is mostly over the phone. I thought he might be a resource for you. If I’m mistaken, please accept my sincerest apologies.”

  She pressed her hand to her mouth and turned her head away. Tears filled her eyes, and she barely had the presence of mind to open the bottom drawer of her desk where she kept the tissues. Inside, she was dying. He knew her shame. Her secret.

  “You needn’t worry about anyone else knowing, miss,” he said, laying a finely ironed linen handkerchief in front of her.

  “Oh, Hargreaves,” she said through her tears. Pressing the handkerchief to her eyes, she inhaled jaggedly, the pain pouring out of her. It was terrible to have someone else know, but in another sense it was a relief someone had noticed—and had cared enough to offer a helping hand.

  “It’s quite all right, miss,” he said, calm and unflappable as ever. “Take your time.”

  And so she went completely to pieces in front of him as he stood there, a silent witness to years of pent-up pain and frustration. When she was finished carrying on, she’d soaked his handkerchief and grown completely light-headed from the tears.

  “How did you figure it out?” she finally asked him.

  “A butler is trained to see everything, miss, and I noticed you rarely leave the house. When you do, it’s with some trepidation. There were other clues, but they are unimportant. I knew someone who seemed to share your affli
ction. She didn’t leave her house for some time. I grew concerned about her and did my research and found someone to help her. In the end, I realized she didn’t leave the house not because she was afraid to do so, but because she felt she had no reason to.”

  Depression and not agoraphobia, then. While different, they ended up leading to the same situation: isolation.

  “I thought perhaps Dr. Poread might not be known to you seeing as how he’s American and living in New York.”

  She sniffed and shook her head. “In the beginning, Cian and my grandmother brought a few specialists to see me, but none of their treatments seemed to help. They could map my problem, as they say, but not fix it. They did suggest some breathing exercises that helped. As I grew older, I reached out to a few psychiatrists in Dublin and went through a series of treatments that didn’t work.”

  She’d reached out to an anxiety coach in Galway when she’d come across him in her ongoing research for new treatments, but he’d only suggested coping cards and muscle-relaxing exercises, neither of which had improved her condition.

  “Cian is the one who’s helped me the most,” she told Hargreaves. “He’s a medical doctor. Retired now.”

  “Cian is a good man,” Hargreaves said, looking very much like a kind and gentle old English professor.

  “He is, indeed.” She fingered the handkerchief. “I’ll have this laundered and returned to you.”

  He gave a slight bow and walked back to the door.

  “Hargreaves?”

  He turned to face her immediately, the move immaculately executed.

  “You’re a good man too.”

  His smile seemed to deepen, and he bowed again. “Thank you, miss. Good day.”

  As he left, she picked up the piece of paper and looked at the contact information. Should she try again with a professional? Hargreaves wouldn’t have interceded unless he had faith the man could truly help her. She thought of all the places she wanted to go outside these walls. She thought of Trevor and how much she wanted to be a normal woman, loving him and living by his side.