The Incredibly Irritating Irishman: Book Three of the Conn-Mann Chronicles

by Rie Sheridan Rose

  She smiled. “I knew you would, child. It’s perfect for you.”

  Aunt Emily and Vanessa bustled into the room then, the latter carrying a heavy tray which—despite our demurrals—was heavily laden with tea cakes and sandwiches as well as the silver tea service.

  I tucked the little bottle into my reticule.

  As soon as everyone was settled, with a cup of tea in front of them, Alistair filled them in on the entire story. Including the Fergusons’ demands.

  “Of course, Phaeton did nothing wrong,” I put in, “but it seems to me that the best course of action might be to pay the Fergusons the money they’re asking for.”

  “And how much might that be?” Leonora asked pleasantly.

  I knew Alistair had skimmed over that fact on purpose, but I should have known she would pick up on the omission.

  “None of your concern, Mother,” Alistair replied, taking a sip of his tea.

  “Of course, it is, my boy. I am your mother.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of the situation, Mother. I’m a grown man now.”

  “But you’re still my baby boy, Alistair.”

  “Sincerely, Mother. It’s none of your affair.”

  She dismissed his protests with a wave of her hand. “Now, come along dear, what is it they’re asking for?”

  I saw no point in keeping it from her, despite Alistair’s misgivings. She would only keep pushing for an answer. “A thousand dollars.”

  “My stars!” Aunt Emily broke in. “That’s a princely sum.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Leonora. “Do you intend on paying it, Alistair?”

  “I don’t see what choice I have,” he murmured, biting into a bit of tea cake—so much for him being full.

  “It seems to me that a good place to start is to see what they wish to do with the money,” Leonora observed, buttering a piece of bread. “Perhaps some alternative could be suggested?”

  “Like what?” Alistair scoffed. “Should I offer to buy them a new house?”

  There was a chorus of sighs from those of us who weren’t male.

  “They want to give their boy a better life, Alistair,” explained Aunt Emily gently. “If you offer to do that in a manner other than financial, their demand may decrease. How many children are in the home?”

  “I believe Ryan might be their only offspring. Do you have any suggestions?” I asked the ladies.

  “How old is the child?” Vanessa wanted to know. She was sipping her own cup of tea, quite part of the party, despite her servant status.

  I was struck again by how differently Vanessa was treated than servants in most homes. Thankfully, I had managed to avoid that life, because I wouldn’t have been able to settle for less freedom than she had—and it was a rare thing.

  “He looked about ten to me.”

  “And he’s in the public school, is he? He’ll be put to work next year or two, and no more education or chance to better himself. So, they want the money so’s he can stay a child a bit longer.” Her voice was wistful on the last bit. She’d gone into service younger than the boy was now.

  “Perhaps you know a way he could receive a continuing education, Josephine?” Leonora remarked over the top of her buttered bread. “A better education. With more discipline.”

  I caught her drift and smiled. “Why, yes. I believe I know just the thing.”

  The day passed in a whirlwind of activity. Opal learned her duties as the hours passed. There weren’t any chores that were unknown to her—making beds, doing laundry, sweeping the main rooms—but there were fifteen girls in residence, and that was a lot of bedding.

  Still, she found herself humming as she went through the day—once Mrs. O’Malley had helped her with her headache. The work made her happier than she had been in weeks. It felt like she had found a home.

  Until six o’clock, when she was shooed upstairs with dinner and a lamp.

  “It’s for your own good, dearie,” Mrs. O’Malley said, patting her on the shoulder.

  “I’ll bring you a book and a nice cup of tea as soon as I can.”

  Opal didn’t mind. She wasn’t ready to see the night side of the fancy house…

  — Garrett Goldthwaite

  Old-Fashioned Opal and the House of Ill-Repute

  Chapter 7

  Early the next morning, I dressed in a sober blue outfit, and made my way uptown to the Convent of Our Lady the Star of the Sea. I had spent many of my own formative years within its grimy walls, and my dear friend Bridget Doyle was now Mother Mary Frances—the head of the establishment.

  With any luck, and I usually had plenty of that, I would be able to persuade her to enroll Ryan Ferguson in the convent school. I remembered there being day students during my own tenure at the convent—though, to be fair, not many. Still, if there were a chance that I could offer the Fergusons a better future for Ryan, they might be willing to settle for a lesser monetary reward. I hoped so, at least.

  Bridget looked up from her desk at my knock, and a smile lit her face. “Jo! What a pleasant surprise.”

  I was glad to see the lines of worry that had begun to carve channels in her brow of late were smoothed away. She looked happier than I had seen her since our re-acquaintance—except, of course, for the day of her sister Nettie’s wedding.

  “How are the newlyweds?” I asked. “Did they get off on their wedding trip all right?”

  “Indeed. Though a certain young miss was very disappointed not to be included upon the journey.”

  I sat down in the visitor’s chair before her desk. “Ella will just have to be patient. After all, when they return, she is to live with them full time, isn’t that so?”

  Bridget sighed. “Yes. And, to be honest, I will miss the little vixen. She’s a constant handful, but I’ve gotten used to her being around.”

  “I’m sure you’ll see a great deal of her still, Bridget—you’re family.”

  “True.” She set aside the papers she had been working on, and folded her hands before her on the desk, looking up at me through her lashes. “However, I don’t believe for a moment that you’ve come here to ask about my family situation, Josephine Mann. What is it you need from me?”

  Bridget has always been direct.

  “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  She cocked her head. “Well, I believe I owe you one or two. What is it?”

  “Would you have room for a new student among the day schoolers?”

  “Why on earth would you need to know that?”

  “I-I have an acquaintance who needs to place her son in a better situation.”

  Her eyes widened. “What sort of acquaintance?” she asked gingerly.

  “It’s a little boy we met at the Central Park Menagerie the other day. Perhaps Ella mentioned the unfortunate incident with Phaeton?”

  “I believe she said someone was knocked down?”

  “Yes, that was Ryan. He didn’t appear hurt, in my opinion, but his mother claims it was very traumatic for him. They’re asking for quite a substantial sum, and I thought…”

  “You thought that if there was a potential alternative to mere financial incentive, they might change their demands.”

  “We always did think alike, Bridget.”

  “I suppose there’s nothing wrong with admitting the boy on a trial basis—but if he causes trouble, I might need to reevaluate for the good of the others.”

  “That’s fair, I suppose. I’ll let Mrs. Ferguson know as soon as I’m able.”

  With that settled, I turned to other matters. “There is something else you can help me with, Bridget—I hope.”

  “Name it, Jo—with all you’ve done for me, I would be ungrateful not to return any reasonable favor.”

  “A gentleman has turned up at the boarding house—did I mention to you the strange young man that seemed to be following me?”

  She frowned. “I don’t believe you did.”

  “Well, he claims to be my cousin, and to have come over from
Ireland to fetch me because I was betrothed to him before I was even born.”

  “My stars!”

  “Can you believe such a thing? Anyway, I was just thinking that there might possibly be something here at the convent in the records to shed more light on my family situation.”

  “I don’t remember seeing anything like that, but things are still at sixes and sevens since Mother Agnes passed on, poor soul.” She crossed herself. “I’ve been intending to sort it all out, but there never seems to be enough time.”

  “I would be happy to search for it myself. I’m used to disarray.” I smiled to myself, remembering the chaos of Alistair’s laboratory on my initial introduction to it.

  “Would you like to come with me to the archives then? I’ve had all I can take of these accounts.” Bridget pushed away from her desk. “With the two of us searching the records, we might find what you are looking for that much quicker.”

  “That would be lovely, Bridget. Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I can do for you.”

  I followed her to the records room. The heavy oak file cabinets filling the room did present a daunting prospect. Somewhere in all these drawers were the keys to my past...or so I hoped.

  We searched for hours among the brittle papers and scribbled notes contained in the file cabinets. Mother Agnes might have been a strict disciplinarian when it came to the children, but she was far less concerned with systematic filing.

  “Sorry again for the disorganization,” Bridget murmured with a rueful grin.

  “It has been an interesting search,” I answered, meaning every word.

  I was fascinated by the lives recorded in the files. Children had come to the Sisters of Mercy for many reasons. Some had been taken from abusive homes for their own safety, some had run away and wound up with the Sisters after hearing them talk about the convent. Many, like myself, had been sheltered with the nuns after losing one or both parents.

  Finally, I found a slim folder bearing my name in the last cabinet in the room. Inside was a single sheet of paper. All it contained were the names of my parents—Thomas Mann and Elizabeth O’Leary Mann—and their point of origin in Ireland—County Cork. This at least confirmed that O’Leary was a family name. And bore out the stories Seamus had been telling at dinner. These things appeared to back up Seamus’s story.

  I was surprised there was a record of even that much about them, as I was fairly sure both were dead before I came to the orphanage. Though I really wasn’t completely sure any longer. I suppose an old landlady or some other person who had had contact with them before their passing might have given the convent this information.

  While I had hoped for more, the important thing was that it did confirm there were O’Learys in my family tree. Seamus was telling the truth about that much at least. So his story about a childhood betrothal could be true as well. Hard as it was to accept.

  What was I going to do about it?

  “Is there something else I can help with, Jo?” asked Bridget, her expression gentle and caring.

  “I don’t know what to do. I shouldn’t go against the wishes of my dead parents, should I? But I don’t even know this Seamus—not really. From what I’ve seen of him so far, I think he’s a rude, inconsiderate...rat…though he can be charming enough, I suppose—but you know I’m quite taken with Alistair Conn. He’s a good and decent man, who treats me better than I have a right to, and his work is so fascinating...

  “Everything was just starting to go the way I’d hoped, and then this new twist shows up. It’s enough to make me want to tear my hair out.”

  “Don’t do that. It was always your best feature.” She winked at me. “The good Lord has a plan, don’t you worry. He’ll reveal it in time. Listen to your heart and hear His whispers. Perhaps you can turn your investigative skills to this matter as you did the blackmail? You proved to be quite the detective in that affair.”

  “I guess I’d better get back home. They’ll be expecting me at dinner, and I’m sure you have tasks to attend to,” I said, rising to my feet. “Thank you for agreeing to speak to the Fergusons if they accept the offer.”

  “Of course, Jo. Do come back and visit when you have more time to spend in actual visiting. Perhaps we can take Ella for ice cream or something. I think she misses you.”

  “I miss her too. She’s a sweet little thing.”

  Bridget gave me a hug, and then walked me back to the foyer.

  As I started off on the long walk home, I mulled over what we had learned—and more importantly not learned. There was no proof of Seamus’s outrageous claim to be my betrothed...but there was no denial of it either. What was I to do about Seamus?

  He could certainly be charming when he wanted to be. He had entertained us all at the warehouse. He was handsome in a rather roguish way...though he could also be rude and pushy. And I already had an admirer—sort of, at least. I didn’t really want another—though men seemed to be taking interest in me right and left, and I hadn’t asked for any of them. Except Alistair, of course.

  On the other hand, Alistair had been less of a suitor than he might have been—especially after the meeting with the Fergusons. He’d been downright cool ever since.

  Was a bird in the hand really worth more than one in the bush? Perhaps a little competition would inspire my employer to behave a little more enthusiastically in his pursuit.

  It couldn’t hurt to try. Or could it?

  I certainly didn’t want to discourage Alistair entirely.

  It was all such a jumbled mess. Perhaps I should show Alistair a bit more of my affections instead of taking his for granted.

  Could a woman give a man chocolates?

  And so things went for several weeks—Opal’s days spent in the same chores she would have done for her mother, and her nights curled up in her cozy bed with one of the numerous books from Mrs. Carrouthers’s extensive library.

  However, all good things must pass, they say; and one afternoon, Mrs. O’Malley interrupted her while she was dusting. She held a large, flat box.

  “Here, Opal, leave that be and come upstairs. Mrs. Carrouthers thinks you’re ready.”

  “Ready for what?” asked Opal, mystified.

  Mrs. O’Malley winked. “You’ll see.”

  She led the girl up the stairs to her garret and set the box on the bed.

  “Open it,” she urged, waving a hand at the box.

  A bit worried, Opal approached the bed and cautiously opened the box. There, in folds of tissue paper, was a dress in a stunning shade of peacock blue. It had puffed sleeves and a daring neckline that made Opal blush to contemplate.

  “What’s this for?” she asked.

  “Tonight, you’ll man the door.”

  — Garrett Goldthwaite

  Old-Fashioned Opal and the House of Ill-Repute

  Chapter 8

  By the time I walked back to the boarding house, I had decided to go and pay Sinéad another visit before luncheon. I didn’t expect it to take long, but, for one thing, she appeared a bit lonely, and I knew what that was like.

  One could never have too many friends, I realized, now that I was accumulating a few. Perhaps, with the news of Bridget’s offer to accept Ryan into the convent school, I could persuade her to lower the sum they were seeking. One woman to another.

  Or, better yet, two women to another. After all, I would need a carriage, as I’d done quite enough walking for one day, thank you very much.

  I would stop at Aunt Emily’s and ask Leonora to accompany me. They ate earlier than we did, so I shouldn’t disturb her luncheon. The trip to Bridget had been her idea in the first place, after all. And she was very imposing. That might work to my advantage.

  When I knocked on the front door, Vanessa answered at once. “Miz Leonora thought you might be round this afternoon, Miss Jo. She’s waiting for you in the writing room.”

  It was not the first time Leonora had seemed a bit…psychic. It was somewhat disconcerting, but could be useful.<
br />
  “Thank you, Vanessa,” I replied, stepping through to the bright sunny room the women used as a study, rather than the oak darkness that had belonged to Aunt Emily’s late husband, Mr. Estes, before his passing. It was an exceedingly pleasant room, and I always enjoyed a chance to refresh myself within its walls.

  Lovely swirling French provincial pieces in white and gilt nestled within creamy walls embellished with silk insets. It was like being in a music box with the spotless French doors leading out into the backyard. It raised my spirits just walking into the room. I wondered if Ma would let me redecorate my own room in a similar style...and how I would afford to go about it if she said yes.

  Leonora was at the writing desk, her pen moving busily across her paper. I hated to disturb her, if she were engaged, but the moment I stepped across the threshold, she set down the writing implement and turned to me with a smile.

  “There you are, my dear! I’ve been expecting you. Shall we go and visit your Mrs. Ferguson?”

  “How did you know I was going to suggest that?” I asked her. Again, she seemed one step ahead of me.

  “Why, that’s what I would do,” she replied, blinking at me as if it were obvious—in that moment, the resemblance to Alistair was astonishing. He was forever blinking at me in disbelief.

  “I thought you might be able to help me explain the advantages of giving Ryan a decent education—Bridget was quite amenable to the idea—as opposed to overplaying their hand.” Of course, that was a tiny white lie, but Bridget did say yes in the end, so it wasn’t much of one.

  “I’d be happy to. Will this do, do you think, to go calling?”

  She was dressed in a simple green and white day-dress that highlighted her auburn hair and creamy complexion—artfully enhanced by the judicious application of powder, I knew, but no less lovely for it.

  “You look wonderful, as always,” I replied honestly.

  Her laughter was like bells in the sparkling room. “I’ll tell Roderick to come around at once then.” And she bustled out of the writing room.