The Lady's Deception

by Susanna Craig

  Oh, he was everywhere and nowhere in this room, in this house, and she could not quite decide whether the greater mistake had been kissing him that night, or letting him go.

  The rattle of the knocker on the front door made her jump. She waited a moment, but when the visitor knocked again and Molly gave no sign of coming up, she went down to answer it herself.

  The gentleman who appeared on the other side of the open door was not Paris, though he shared the same dark hair and eyes. Taller, by a bit. And not half so handsome. “Ah,” he said, looking her up and down. She did not like the feel of his gaze on her. “You must be the new governess.”

  Who was this man? And how had he recognized her? Panic fluttered through her chest, then sank through her stomach to lodge in suddenly wobbly knees. She gripped the door handle for support. “May I help you?”

  He was still studying her. “You were on your way out, I see. Well, I’ll not keep you. Just tell Burke I’ve come, or I’ll show myself up—” He moved as if to go past her.

  “Mr. Burke is not here,” she said, narrowing the opening between the door and its frame to the width of her face. “If you’ll give me your name, I’ll make sure he knows you called.”

  “Not here? Never say he’s still at Kilready.”

  The cold metal of the door handle bit into her hand as she clutched more firmly to keep herself from fainting. Her fingertips went numb. But she hardly noticed the discomfort, too distracted by the buzz of a single word in her ears. Kilready. Paris had gone to Kilready?

  “I should’ve thought half a day there would tell him what he wanted to know,” the man was saying when she could focus her attention on him again. “Well, let us hope he gets the information we need. Oh.” He tipped his hat and smiled at her again. “Tell him Eamon Graves was here.”

  Somehow she managed to nod. “Yes, Mr. Graves. I’ll see that he gets the message.”

  Another appreciative look. “Enjoy your walk, ma’am.”

  She shut the door without answering him. Without even hearing him. Paris had gone to Kilready Castle. He must have discovered, somehow, where she’d come from. And by now Charles and Lord Dashfort must know exactly where she was.

  Oh, God.

  Her hands rose to her temples, encountered the brim of the new bonnet, and in that instant, her decision was made. As Mr. Graves had so astutely observed, she was already dressed to go out. And go out she must—far away from here.

  Stepping lightly, she hurried up the stairs and snatched her pelisse from the heavy old wardrobe. She still had a few of the coins Paris had given her. Was it wrong to take them? Wrong to keep his gifts, keep the new clothes the rest of his money had purchased?

  Wrong to leave?

  She’d promised the girls she wouldn’t go, and she hated breaking that promise. She also hated to add to poor, overworked Molly’s burden. But she couldn’t possibly stay here and wait for Charles’s arrival. And without any money, she would be right back where she had started. Quickly she gathered the remaining coins and tied them in a handkerchief. The handkerchief Paris had given her that first morning, still grimy from her attempt to clean the window with it. Between her thumb and forefinger she rubbed the rough embroidery of his initials stitched into one corner. By the loving hands of one of his sisters? Probably Bell, as the stitches were a trifle uneven.

  After tucking the tiny bundle into the pocket beneath her skirt, she sent one last look around the room. If only there were some way to tell Daphne and Bell how sorry she was. Some way to say goodbye. In the drawing room, of course, were pencils and paper. If she went back there, she might write a note. But she hadn’t a moment to spare if she wanted to get away without being seen.

  Well, when Paris returned—if Paris returned—he could explain it to them. The discovery of her duplicity would erase any sorrow the girls or Molly might feel over her abrupt departure.

  She reached up one hand to adjust her new bonnet and tried not to think of why Paris had picked it. But it was impossible not to wonder whether he’d chosen a bonnet and a pair of shoes because those were the items that would allow him to send her on her way with a clear conscience. Oh, if he’d been disappointed in her work, shocked by her forward behavior, dismayed by her deception, why couldn’t he have simply dismissed her? He’d had no call to go to Kilready, reveal her whereabouts to Charles, and ruin everything.

  Chapter 13

  Paris had deliberately rented the shoddiest gig he could find, so as not to arouse suspicions. But the broken-down jade in its traces had been unintentional insurance. By the time they arrived in the village of Kilready, the gelding was favoring his left hind leg.

  “Needs rest,” the blacksmith announced after taking one glance. “Three days, at least.”

  Three days? Paris did not think it wise to argue with the burly man, who was evidently also the farrier and, for all he knew, the closest thing Kilready had to a cattle doctor. “Then can you recommend—?”

  The blacksmith jerked his chin in the general direction of “up the road.”

  “Much obliged.” Heaving his valise from the gig, Paris marched up the narrow track that led into the heart of the village. A dozen or so ramshackle buildings skulked in the shadow of Kilready Castle, perched high on the cliff’s edge in the distance. In the ancient days, the chieftain’s men would have seen invaders coming from miles away. Was that excellent vantage point being put to more nefarious uses now?

  He directed his footsteps to the pub. Hanging crookedly above its lintel, a sign proclaimed “Good, Dry Lodgings.” He had his doubts about the accuracy of either adjective, but especially, given the moldering thatch, the latter. His spirits lifted, though, when he noted another hand-lettered sign, higher up and considerably more faded, which identified the establishment as belonging to one “P. Fagan.” Might the proprietor be some relation to the imprisoned boy? Could Paris put the unexpected delay in Kilready to good use?

  Once he had entered and spotted the man behind the bar, he understood why the sign was faded. It must have been erected when P. Fagan was young, some sixty or more years ago. The pub was otherwise empty, though evening was coming on.

  Despite his wizened stature and bent back, Mr. Fagan’s voice was strong when he called out, “Céad míle fáilte.”

  A hundred thousand welcomes, the traditional Irish greeting to a stranger. The words echoed off rough, dingy walls. But Paris needed to be thought of as something other than a stranger if he hoped to get useful—incriminating—information about Dashfort’s involvement in whatever was going on at Kilready.

  “Thank you kindly, Mr.—Fagan, is it?” He tried to keep himself from sounding too eager. The man might not be related to Tommy at all. “I was passing through when my horse took lame, and the blacksmith tells me I must trespass on your hospitality for a bit.”

  Fagan looked him over, with curiosity rather than hostility. Nevertheless, Paris was glad he had not changed out of the clothes he’d worn to Kilmainham. Anything needlessly fine would attract the sort of attention he’d rather avoid. Something like recognition flickered into the older man’s eyes. “Sure, an’ you must be one of the Englishmen passin’ through to measure up the roads. ’Tis welcome you are to the best room I’ve got.”

  What luck! A party of surveyors, of which Paris could pretend to be a member. It would give him a reason to be in the vicinity, and he could explain away his lack of equipment and maps by saying they’d been sent on ahead.

  Nevertheless, his first impulse was denial. English surveyors… How could this man mistake a Dublin patriot for an—?

  Doubt crept in before the thought could be completed. He was, after all, more than half English by blood. And he’d spent all his life with an English accent in his ear. Had it somehow become his voice too?

  Not quite, surely. Oh, he might have picked it up a trace of it from his mother, or any number of Londoners he’d encountere
d during his time at the Inns of Court. But his mind went first to the voice that had struck him so forcibly a few nights back on the King’s Inns Quay. The one he caught himself listening for at odd hours. And though he knew that Mr. Fagan expected some reply, he could not bring himself to speak.

  The barman seemed to sense that his remark had rattled his guest. “No matter, sir, no matter. Englishman or no, we bid ye kindly welcome to Kilready.”

  Paris swallowed and forced a single word past his lips. “We?” Despite the empty pub, was the man was extending the greeting on behalf of the people of the village?

  “My daughter lives here with me. Will I show you the room, then?”

  Conscious suddenly of the shape of every sound that passed his lips, Paris nodded and removed his hat. He was exhausted, though the time spent in that rattletrap gig had contributed only a small share to his fatigue. How long since he’d had a decent night’s sleep? Or at least, one unaided by the stupor of a bottle. Almost a year…

  Lately, however, it hadn’t been the old nightmares that kept him wakeful. New dreams had begun to creep into his heart.

  Apparently, he had not yet learned how dangerous it was to dream.

  The stairs were steep and narrow and led into a low-ceilinged attic. Nothing about the cottage ought to have been familiar. Still less should it have reminded him of the modern comforts of Merrion Square. And yet every creaking step called to mind a certain makeshift schoolroom. And its occupant. Rosamund. The governess who wasn’t a governess at all. Rather than bringing order and system to his home, she’d turned everything even more topsy-turvy.

  He ought to be angry at her deception. His first concern upon discovering that he’d be delayed in Kilready ought to have been for his sisters, left longer in her care. Instead, he had wondered whether he would get back to Dublin in time to see her open the packages he’d sent. Would the bonnet he’d chosen please her? Would the blue ribbon match her eyes?

  Would she kiss him again to express her thanks?

  Just as he shook his head to clear it of such wayward thoughts, Fagan flung open a door and turned to say, “Here we be.” Seeing Paris’s fleeting expression of annoyance, a shadow crossed the old man’s eyes. “Tain’t much, I know. Not for an Englishman…”

  “I’m not—” Paris began, then forced himself to break off his confession. It didn’t matter. Not really. He might call himself an Irishman, but he was not Irish in the way the people of Kilready thought of themselves. As far as they were concerned, he might as well be English—he was close enough as to make no difference to them.

  Well, with any luck, they would show more interest in an exotic curiosity from that island across the sea than they would in a mere countryman. In the time he was going to be forced to spend here, perhaps they would even offer to educate him, as the Irish characters tried to teach the English ones in his sister Cami’s book. “I’m quite satisfied, Mr. Fagan,” he said, no longer as worried about his voice betraying him. “It’s a fine room.”

  No doubt it was the finest room in the cottage, though it was not fine by any of the usual standards for measuring such things. Fagan crossed its entire length in a half-dozen steps and flung open the shutter covering the small, unglazed window in the gable end. The gray light of a dreary afternoon picked out the room’s scant furnishings: a sagging rope bed, a washstand with a chipped basin, a battered chair. Though musty with disuse—there was little in Kilready to attract regular visitors—the room looked clean. Clean enough.

  “Shall I fetch you some hot water?” Fagan offered, returning.

  At first, Paris did not hear him. After setting his bag on the chair and placing his hat on top of it, he had stepped to window, and his attention had been captured by the sight below. A woman, barefoot and bareheaded, paused in her labors to swipe the back of her hand across her brow, pushing damp, straggling hair away from her face. With the other hand, she pinned a loaded basket to her hip. She was spreading laundry over bushes and hanging it from branches to dry, though the air was cool and heavy with the promise of more rain. The sleeves of her ragged dress were rolled above the elbow, and even at this distance, he could see the pink scars of burns up and down her corded forearms. A strong woman.

  Ain’t met a washerwoman yet who weren’t, Mr. Burke.

  Tommy Fagan’s mother, hard at work? She would likely be able to reveal a great deal to the person who asked the right questions. It was part and parcel of a good barrister’s skills to know just the questions to ask. And when he did not allow himself to be distracted by foolish dreams, Paris was a very good barrister.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fagan.” He replied to the man’s almost forgotten question without turning his head. Steam or smoke or both wafted across the grass. He could picture the boiling kettles hung over peat fires at the rear of the cottage. “But there’s no need for you to trouble yourself. I’ll fetch it myself.”

  He waited until the old man had gone down before descending, jug in hand. Rather than entering the pub, he ducked through a doorway that promised to lead to the rear of the house. Instead, he found himself in a large room that served the family as kitchen, parlor, and bedchamber all at once. He’d been right. The room he’d been given was undoubtedly the finest room in the house.

  If the rebellion had succeeded, would people like the Fagans have been any better off? He and others had been caught up in ideals of liberty and self-governance; had they forgotten the harsh reality, the thousands of their countrymen with liberty only to starve?

  He could have crossed the room and left the house through the back door, but even the thought of trespassing in such a way felt disrespectful. Quickly, he reversed course and went into the pub, where two men had joined Fagan and were chuckling into their pints.

  “Sure, an’ it’s the Englishman,” one of them called out and lifted his mug. “Welcome to Kilready.”

  Automatically, Paris bowed a greeting, then wished he could recall the gesture when he saw how it made the three men shift awkwardly in their seats. “Good afternoon, sirs. I was just on my way to get some water.”

  That announcement produced more merriment from the two newcomers. “My girl’s out back,” Fagan said, quieting them. “She’ll help ’ee.” Paris nodded and stepped to the door.

  “I’d take care, Paddy.” One of them spoke low, though perhaps not as low as he imagined. “She’s gone soft for an Englishman afore.”

  Dashfort. But of course everyone in the village would know if a local girl had borne the earl’s illegitimate child.

  “Maybe he’s hopin’ she’ll do it again,” said the other man, and though the words were once more punctuated with a laugh, Paris heard no humor in the sound. “With one that’ll take ’er off ’is hands this time.”

  “Shut it,” Paddy Fagan retorted good-naturedly.

  Paris chose to imagine the words had been directed at him and shut the front door firmly behind him as he went out. He deliberately walked toward the end of the house where he’d seen the woman at work, hoping to approach without startling her.

  Instead, she surprised him. “Who are you?” she demanded, whirling around, her basket still on her hip. “What do you want?” She was his own age or perhaps a bit older, with reddish brown hair and a round face, despite her wiry build. He could see nothing of Tommy Fagan in her.

  “My name’s Trenton,” he answered after a moment, choosing the middle of his three names, his English mother’s maiden name. Burke, he suspected, would serve him poorly here. “My horse took lame, so I’m staying in Kilready for a few days. Staying here.” He darted his gaze toward the cottage and back, and then held up the jug. “I came out for some water.”

  She looked him up and down, jerked her chin toward the rear of the house, and went on with her task. Working one-handed, she struggled to pull a single item from the basket it and hang it straight.

  Carefully, he set the jug in the damp gra
ss and took a step closer to her. “May I help you with that?”

  He would have assumed she had not heard him if she hadn’t eventually asked, “Why?”

  “Because it seemed as if you might need some assistance. It was merely a friendly gesture.”

  With one hand, she snapped a man’s shirt—made of fabric too fine to belong to her father—like a whip. “You’re no friend o’ mine.”

  He bent to retrieve the jug. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.” Behind the cottage, he found several large tubs and kettles each employed in various stages of the laundry process. A washboard stuck up from one, while another hung over a fire, bubbling away with the distinctive stench of lye soap. The mangle sat atop a tree stump, a bedsheet half in, half out. Not family laundry; he doubted Paddy Fagan had more than two shirts to his name. Not villagers’ laundry either, for they were doubtless as poor or poorer than the Fagans. Kilready Castle laundry, if he had to guess. Who else in the vicinity would have so much?

  He did not fault the woman’s sharp tongue. Imagine being forced to make a life by cleaning the dirty linen of the man who’d fathered your child. The story had the makings of a tragedy, and he suspected he didn’t know the half of it.

  “ I s’pose you’re a friend o’ his?”

  He jumped at the sound of her voice behind him and splashed water down the front of his waistcoat. “A friend of whose?” As he turned to face her, he could guess the answer to his question.

  “His lordship’s.”

  Everything this woman was or had ever been was buried behind a brick wall of bitterness. He, usually so adept at reading people, could see nothing beyond it. In some strange way, her expression called to mind the one he’d seen in Rosamund’s eyes, the sensation that she was hiding not just something, but someone. Hiding herself.