The Spinster and the Earl

by Beverly Adam

  “Aye, to be sure. That’s what you thought would be best,” she murmured parroting him, a tinge of anger framing her words.

  What she really yearned to know was where had he been all this time? Why had he not paid a call? She would rather have her favorite ewe roasted than confess that she’d thought of him.

  He stood so close to her, much too close—she could feel the barely contained energy beneath the perfectly-attired gentleman.

  She strolled over to her tulips to distract herself from him. His closeness clouded her thoughts. She needed to give herself time to think. He may have won the card game, but he hadn’t won her. And to top it off he’d gone away and completely ignored her!

  Having some guile of her own at her disposal, she said, “But I wonder, Your Grace, what would happen to your fine plans, if for example, I were to tell Father of our little agreement? Don’t you think his honor would be a wee bit offended? Perhaps he’d even consider dismissing you as a suitor for my hand?”

  A spark of admiration lit his eyes. Smiling down at her, as though they were talking pleasantly of the unseasonably fine weather Ireland was enjoying that spring, he said, “Faith, I thought Lord O’Brien had told you. But then, perhaps not. What a pity, I thought by now he’d confided in you.”

  “Told me what?” she asked suspiciously. Her eyebrows raised questioningly, a niggling of doubt making her insist. She sensed he was about to tell her something that he would then hold over her head.

  “Why, my dear lady, did he not tell you about the little tête-à-tête he had with me?” he said once more, as if he could not believe she did not already know.

  “Let me see . . . oh, yes, I do believe, ma’am, he promised to forfeit to me ten of your best sheep if you decided to bow out of your obligation of fulfilling the role I chose for you,” he finished, with a low warning tone of a moral lesson.

  “Apparently, my lady, your father is a laudably honest gentleman and believes that one should pay off one’s gambling debts. I, of course, heartily agreed with him,” he said explaining. “It would set a bad precedent if one did not fulfill one’s debt. Don’t you think, my lady?”

  Beatrice shook her head in stark disbelief. Her own dear father had betrayed her. It was almost too much to bear.

  Ten sheep! Mavrone, she’d been planning to use all of the flock’s wool for the new looms she’d ordered. She couldn’t afford the loss of any of the quality fleece. She gulped down her rising panic and squelched her pride, turning pleading, green eyes the color of new spring grass on him.

  “Would you be willing to wait till autumn to collect on them?”

  She bit down on her lower lip, mentally counting the lambs to be born in the following weeks. The season had only just begun. Oh, so many would be lost! And all because of her arrogant foolishness.

  He shook his head, his eyes resting upon her tightly bound hair. “Nay, m’dear, one debt will not settle another. You do understand that, don’t you? That your sheep, though they’d be welcome additions to my own flocks, aren’t nearly as important as—”

  “M’self,” she murmured, a lump in her throat, making it impossible for her to utter more. She nodded miserably. Musha, musha, why had she let herself make the expensive gamble? The payment was far too dear. Her well thought-out plans couldn’t afford such a setback.

  He saw the look of dismay on her face and knew that once again he had won. The matter was settled. She had to capitulate to his demands or lose some of her precious angora sheep.

  Nonchalantly, he re-buttoned his riding gloves and prepared to finish the matter with one last parting word of instruction.

  “I’ll send a carriage for you on the morrow. I want you at the castle before my guests arrive. There’s a great many preparations to be made and I’ll be depending on your valuable help in this. I suggest, therefore, you bring a small retinue of some of your own servants to lend a hand.”

  She bowed to his authority, holding her sharp tongue in check. She knew that if she did protest, it would make matters worse. She’d lose the sheep. And as for her father, he had chosen the man’s side in the matter. She knew there would be no leniency coming from that quarter if she did not do as the earl bid.

  “Good day then, Lady O’Brien. ’Tis been a pleasure to see you again.” He tenderly lifted her hand to his. His mouth brushed a butterfly kiss over her wrist. It caused her to shiver and she stared at him wide-eyed, blinking, forgetting for a moment what they had previously been discussing.

  Silently, unable to stop the course of events, she watched him mount his gelding and disappear down the road. She could not resist, however, thinking of perhaps faking some highly contagious malady that would send the rogue running for cover. But immediately, she dismissed the idea as worthless. Knowing him, the fox would see through her guile and send for one of his so-called physicians to check on her false condition. The doctor would probably bleed her to death in the process.

  No, she couldn’t risk it. Valiantly, she consoled herself with the thought that perhaps being hostess would not be so entrapping. That is, if they both managed to keep their hands to themselves.

  * * *

  Days later, Beatrice looked down at her hands. Small calluses had begun to make their unwanted appearances on her tender white palms. “The devil take all Englishmen,” she grumbled, giving a silver coffee pot a hearty rub.

  Her shoulders and arms ached from the exertion and there was still a pile of silver yet to be done. She’d started working at first light dressed in her oldest frock, one that should’ve gone to the scullery maid ages ago. She wore a faded, gray turban wrapped protectively around her hair.

  He, that English slave-driver, had set her about making the huge stone pile of Drennan Castle hospitable and somewhat habitable. The roué’s definition for the word “hostess” evidently equated with that of “unpaid drudge.” Since the moment of her arrival at the castle’s front steps three days earlier, she and the half-dozen servants she’d brought with her had been put to the awesome task of trying to remove the thick layers of dirt and cob-webbed grime that covered the ancient keep.

  That repairs had been made before she’d arrived were evident, from the solid beams above her head, to the newly laid floors below. The sounds of continuing work echoed throughout as the noise of various hammering and sawing bounced off the stone walls and filtered down to the kitchen where she and three of her maids were hard put to work cleaning, polishing, and endlessly rubbing away the tarnish, layer by layer.

  Beatrice muttered between her teeth, “The pleasure of m’company. Ha!”

  She’d seen little of his lordly self since her arrival. With the exception of telling her what needed to be done next, the earl barely spoke a civil word to her, as if she were one of his foot-soldiered minions waiting to take obedient commands from their aloof superior officer.

  She almost felt like saluting him every time he did show his face. For sure, as the sun rose every new day, he’d find something else that urgently needed to be done. And would she hop to it and see that it was taken care of like a good lass?

  She huffed an errant tendril of hair out of her way.

  The leading rascal of them all was her own father, Lord Patrick. That sly, old fox had immediately disappeared for parts unknown, after depositing her and the servants he’d been willing to loan on the front portal of the castle. They were unceremoniously left like some parcels he was well eager to be rid of. And to think she’d been concerned for his well-being the day she’d returned the blasted coin to that—that—overbearing, English fiend!

  “Aye, I hope they both burn in Hades,” she muttered, remembering the fairies, wishing once more she’d never clapped eyes upon the lord and master of this large stone barn. Mucking it out made-up for a lifetime of unsaid penance for the way she’d mistreated the male sex.

  Perhaps, she had to admit, she had been a wee bit of a forked-tailed creature herself to those she successfully dissuaded from courting her. But faith, for all her vario
us machinations, she didn’t merit this lowly treatment! She sighed, and went back to her rubbing, picturing the earl and her father’s smug faces in the reflection of the silver bowl. She simply wiped their existence away.

  * * *

  At luncheon the earl made his appearance. He stood, a tall figure at the kitchen door, his dark-blue linen shirt hanging loosely open at the throat, a few manly hairs peeking through. He surveyed the domestic scene of her and the servants polishing his tarnished silver.

  She glanced up at him, her sooty lashes fluttering against her pale skin. It was evident he’d been hard at work from the glistening sheen on his face and the wet dampness on his shirt. His muscled arms, like strong broad beams, were revealed as the long sleeves were rolled up.

  “Lady O’Brien,” he greeted her. “Just the person I wished to see.”

  Her heart did a funny little leap. Despite her anger, he looked dangerously attractive. Noticing how dirty her hands had become reminded her to be careful. He was the enemy, the same despicable rogue who’d tricked her into coming here in the first place.

  She wiped her hands on a clean rag. Hands on her hips, she confronted him. “So, my lord, what humble task would you be setting me onto next? Digging a duck pond for your carriages to wash in, I suppose?”

  “You’ve done splendid wonders to my silver. A shallow pond to clean carriage wheels would be rather nice. ’Twas not work that I was thinking upon,” he said, eyeing the dirty turban covering her hair and the small brown smudge on the tip of her pert nose. “But rather, my lady, food of the nectar—”

  “Now you want me to feed you, as well.” She gasped, ready to throw her dirty rag at that haughty roughhewn face. The bleeding spalpeen!

  His grin broadened at her show of shrewish temper. “Nay, nay, you mistake, sweet lady,” he protested, laughing as he put his hands in front of him as if her angry accusations were sharp-edged daggers. “I merely wished for you to join me in the partaking of this hamper.”

  He brought forth from behind his back a large wicker basket.

  “A lady from the village showed up here about five minutes ago. A Mistress Ryan she said her name was. She’s a tenant of yours, is she not? She asked me if I’d like to share this with you.”

  Beatrice’s tightly clenched hands returned to her side. The wonderful smell emitting from the hamper was admittedly heavenly. Her mouth watered and any insane thoughts of refusing were immediately put aside by her stomach’s loud, rumbling acceptance of the invitation.

  “Mistress Ryan is my tenant, Your Grace. But I shall do as she suggested and invite you to partake with me this hamper,” she said in her grandest lady of the manor voice, her dirty turban slipping as another errant strand of thick black hair tumbled out, falling over her right eye.

  “The pleasure, dear lady, is all mine.”

  He bowed, a merry twinkle in his dancing blue eyes. “I’ll meet you by the south portico in, shall we say, half an hour’s time? Thus giving us both ample time to make ourselves um . . . more agreeable.”

  She nodded, thinking it would take her at least that long to remove the first layer of heavy soot that covered her face, let alone the rest of her. Hurrying to her chamber, she had a basin of hot water sent up with a bristled pig’s brush.

  ’Twas delicious to feel the sticky grime wash away with the rough scrub of her serviette. She felt as though quite a bit of the dust covering the castle had found its way onto her. She dreamed of what a luxury it would be to have hot water whenever one pleased. But as it was still day and the servants were all busy with the reparations being made, it would be wrong to request a hip bath.

  The chamber that she’d been given was a pleasant one. Whereas most of the castle seemed on the point of moldering away, this part of the keep had miraculously withstood the test of time. It was through Druscilla that she learned the reason why.

  Her companion had managed to wheedle her way back into her mistress’s good graces once more by being one of the first servants from Brightwood to volunteer to accompany her ladyship to the castle. She chattered merrily away as she helped her ladyship undo the back of her gown.

  “’Tis said to have been the only part of the castle not built on the fairy ford,” the maid gossiped. “And your chamber, my lady, was said to have been once occupied by— oh no, I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  “In the name of all the blessed saints, what are you blithering on about? What is it you shouldn’t be telling me?” she demanded.

  “Why, what I wanted to say, ma’am, was that . . . well, the rooms used to be one of the late earl’s fancy pieces,” the blatherskite blurted out without any further constraint. Her mistress might be a bit of a hoyden, but she was still the vanithee of Brightwood Manor, a high born lady of one of the few remaining Irish nobility in the Urlingford parish.

  “You didna say,” Beatrice whispered with wide, shocked eyes. Her reputation would be in shreds if word leaked out about where she slept. Original or no, she’d not have all and sundry wondering if she was the new earl’s light-skirt.

  “Aye, my lady. ’Tis said one of them wicked earls kept his French mistress here,” confided the companion grimly with a sharp nod. Her own innocent, brown eyes gazing warily about as if a sinful orgy were about to unfold on the middle of the bed.

  “Musha, if that be so. . . .” blanched Beatrice. “’tis impossible for me to remain here. But where, oh where, shall I move myself to?”

  She’d already inspected the other rooms in the castle and greatly despaired of finding a replacement. The only other habitable chamber was near the servants’ quarters and it was even less acceptable for her, being dreadfully dank and a prime spot for catching deadly inflammation of the lung. She shook her head with resignation. She’d have to make do with this room. And to be sure, that didn’t prove to be such a tiresome task.

  The chamber had a lovely view of the valley, decorated in graceful Louis XV furniture, one of the few rooms that had any furniture or decorations to speak of. The drapes were in faded shades of light pink with silver and white flowers. It proved to be quite pleasing to the eye, even in its tea-stained appearance. If one of the late earls had kept a mistress here, Beatrice had to admit, the soiled dove had had the good taste of a discerning Beau Brummell.

  She gestured to Druscilla to help her into a gown, a resounding gong in the hall warning her that time was slipping by. With the help of her maid, she changed into a green walking gown edged in fine lace.

  Short country sleeves and a square bodice made the top half of the simple empire gown, the straight skirt falling down from the waist. Her hair was brushed up and a cascade of black curls framed her face. She draped her favorite long black shawl bordered with military tassels around her shoulders, letting the long fringe dangle becomingly down her back.

  Pinching her cheeks for color, she picked up her dark green parasol and hurried out to the south portico terrace.

  The earl stood with his feet wide apart, hands on hips, waiting impatiently for her appearance. He had changed into a fresh, white linen shirt and tight leather breeches, clothes that most of the working men laboring on the castle wore. At first glance one could easily have mistaken him to be one of the common laborers from the village. But the arrogant tilt of his head told all that here was the proud lord and master of the castle, the Earl of Drennan.

  Unwittingly, she returned the charming smile he gave her in greeting.

  He gestured towards where the picnic had been spread on a patch of verdant lawn near the portico wall. Ever the soldier, ex-corporal in arms, Joshua Davis stood to one side vigilantly awaiting his captain’s orders.

  The earl handed her down onto a cushion, a large wool blanket spread out beneath her. With a nod to his man, he ordered the food to be served.

  The delicacies that the admirable Mistress Ryan created for the hamper melted in Beatrice’s mouth. Ever aware of the lord of the castle’s presence, she glanced at him between bites of succulent shepherd’s pie.

>   For an Englishman, she had to admit, he was not unpleasant to look upon. The leather breeches molding to his muscular thighs, which required no extra wax padding, bespoke of a man used to physical activity. They may make him into an earl of the realm, but that could not change the fact that here was a man with the soul of a soldier, a leader of men. She had to admit to herself that enticed her.

  They talked about the repairs that had been made that day, and to her surprise, she relaxed under his smile. It sent warm flutters through her, as the wall she had carefully built around her heart crumbled a little.

  “The south wing where we are now shall be completely redone. ’Tis the part which needs the least attention,” he said, pointing to the area where most of the reparations had already been made. “As for the west wing to our right—”

  “The ruins,” she said with a familiar shudder. It was over there that she had seen the old earl on the fateful night that she’d picked up the magic coin.

  He nodded, picking up a twig with which to draw a crude map of the castle’s keep. “I shall have to let that part of the castle go.”

  He drew an X through it.

  “Why?” she whispered, half afraid, wondering if he knew of the leprechaun’s curse upon the castle.

  “It’s unstable. We’ve tried rebuilding the walls there, but each time one’s completed, it collapses. The foundation shifts beneath like quicksand. My ancestors should never have built on that part of the hill.”

  “Oh.” She breathed, relief flooding her with warmth and confidence. Fleetingly, she looked up at him. Staring at his mouth, she remembered the kisses that they had shared. They had not been such disagreeable experiences. Mayhap, she admitted, they’d been passionately exciting.

  “There’s something middling strange about that wing,” he said, bringing forth his lucky piece from his pocket. He began tossing it up and down.