by Beverly Adam
“Strange,” she echoed, staring at the coin as it flipped up, a gleam in the sunlight.
“Aye. Most of the men I’ve hired from the village refuse to go near there. Some superstitious folderol. They say the castle is cursed.” He laughed, thinking of the quaint tale. “By none other than the fairies themselves!”
“But—but ’tis true,” she said, and the minute she heard her own words, she clapped a hand over her mouth.
The gold coin stopped its flight and landed neatly into the palm of his hand. He turned and looked at her as if she’d been senselessly struck by a stray moonbeam.
A tinge of color pinkened her cheeks. Merciful hour, how was she to set about explaining that? She lowered her lashes over her eyes, not able to meet his penetrating blue stare.
He placed a hand beneath her chin and forced her to look into his eyes.
She trembled, her heart thumping loudly in panicked fear. The moment to confess about the cursed night she’d picked up the magic coin was now upon her. What was she to say? How could she tell him of the curse?
A little figure dressed all in black appeared ominously at the top of the stairs leading down to the portico lawn. Startled, they both turned to see the tiny black apparition approach them.
A woman’s voice boomed out, “What the devil do y’think you’re about? Take your hands off m’niece, or by the Holy Mother of God, I’ll have ye up before a priest!”
Beatrice paled and softly groaned. She closed her eyes, trying to will the black apparition to disappear.
“What is it?” whispered the earl.
“Mavrone, ’tis she . . . Herself, my aunt and godmother, Lady Agnes Fitzpatrick,” she said with an unfamiliar hiccup of dismay. She watched the tiny vision charge down the stairs, long dark wisps of black silk and lace flying upwards like the wings of a small invading bat.
The little woman dressed in widow’s weeds was none other than her father’s eldest sister, the widow of one of Ireland’s most famed sea captains, Lady Agnes Fitzpatrick. She was the only person in all of Ireland who could force Beatrice to behave like a proper young lady and settle down.
“She’s—she’s your aunt?” the earl asked hollowly with relief. For half a moment, he’d thought she was one of the wee folk come to prove him wrong, and to rain vile curses down upon his head for doubting in their existence.
Unnerved, he stood to meet the much feared lady in black.
“Aunt Agnes,” she said, taking a deep breath, “May I present to you the Earl of Drennan . . .”
“I know who he is, Bea’,” said the formidable lady, cutting short the introductions. “You are the English lord my brother has given permission to court my niece.” She sternly eyed James as he bowed over her hand.
“My brother informs me that you served in the Infantry in Spain, instead of the Royal Navy, Your Grace?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Indeed . . . I shall overlook the mistake for my niece’s sake.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said James smiling, equitably regaining his composure.
“Aye, it is,” replied Agnes, touching a locket that contained a miniature portrait of her missing husband. “For no finer men exist than those who serve his majesty on the open seas. Now, Beatrice, I’m dreadfully tired from my journey and would like to rest. Please take me in.”
“Of course, Aunt Agnes,” demurred the niece, while mentally wishing her interfering relative anywhere but there.
Chapter 7
“’Tis a fine tick mattress this be,” said the tiny black figure sitting on the end of a four-poster bed. Aunt Agnes moved her widow’s weeds out of her face and smiled at her niece as she tested the tick beneath her with one firm push of a small plump hand.
“I’ll take this room, Bea’ darling. It suits me fine,” she said. “That is, of course, if it be agreeable with you, dear.”
“As you wish, Auntie. Though, ’tis really none of my concern. For sure now, I’m only a guest here m’self,” demurred Beatrice, not wishing to argue with the tiny whirlwind, knowing full well that if she had said she wanted the room for herself, her aunt would summon her at unseemly hours of the night. And when she did, the tiny lady would sound a wee bit like Goldilocks trying to find the right bed.
She could hear her say in that sweet voice of hers, “Beatrice darlin’, would ye mind getting a heavier coverlet for your aged aunt? M’bones are chilled.” Or, “Bea’, sorry to be making such a sorrowful nuisance of m’self. But would ye kindly fetch some planks? Me back’s achin’ again.” And so forth all night, until she finally handed over the desired bed to the headstrong, diminutive lady.
Nay, she best try and save herself late evening trips down the hall by giving her aunt her own bedchamber, a good night’s rest being more precious to her than a comfortable bed.
“Auntie dear, would you care to sleep in my room? I’m certain it’ll be more comfortable for you than this small chamber.”
“Nay,” spat the tiny lady. “Tested it already. That bed of yours be made for a pair of soft-bodied lovers. Not a tall fit for a wizened old dwarf such as m’self, darlin’.”
Beatrice had the good grace not to say a word.
Did her aunt know her chambers had once been occupied by one of the late earl’s paramours? Holy saints above, she sincerely hoped not, or she really would have her and the earl up before a priest!
Lady Agnes’s eyes twinkled merrily and with a well-aimed dart added, “Not that anyone would think that you’re seeking His Grace’s bed. ’Tis been bandied about that you’re planning to wither on the tree like an unplucked rowanberry, leaving all your wealth t’them miserable curs we call relations.”
“That be no concern of yours, Aunt. And pray tell, as you know that I’ve no intention of marrying, why you came charging down at his lordship as if His Grace were trying to—to—”
“As if he’d like t’buss you? That’d be fine to be sure. And let the entire village think he was having his way with you before you’re even properly married? Never! Ye may be a hoyden, and a bit of a shrew, but we all know you’ve kept your virtue intact.”
“Really, Aunt Agnes—” The shocked Beatrice gasped. “Your tongue has not dulled one wit.”
“Forget about m’forked tongue for the moment. Tell me, lass, has he asked for your hand yet? Paddy said that he gave him permission t’court. Well, has he asked you to marry him yet?” questioned the older woman keenly.
Beatrice barely blinked an eye at the question. It was just like her aunt Agnes to be posing questions that were no concern of hers.
“No, he hasn’t,” she answered primly. “And I very much doubt he shall.”
Stubbornly lifting her chin, she moved to open the blue curtains, which covered the windows, hoping to distract her aunt with the view. The drapes had been made up the day before. They fit perfectly with the Chinese screened walls of deep blue, which somehow had miraculously found their way into the castle’s stone interior.
“How very droll,” said her aunt, looking again at the room. “Did you know, my dear, the Asian style is à la mode with the ton now? I’ve heard that English dandy, Brummell, is having his townhouse in London redone in lacquered cabinets and sculpted bamboo. But to be sure, your being here, m’ dear, with the handsome devil of an earl ’tis nothing more than pure neighborliness. And I suppose the way you’ve set yourself out to muck this stone dungeon ’tis pure coincidence.”
“And how do you know that I’ve set myself to that task? Mayhap I’m simply here doing the pretty for my neighbor?” challenged Beatrice, lying through her teeth, the calluses on her hands hidden deep beneath her apron pocket.
Her aunt patted her niece’s slender shoulders with a small, pudgy hand.
“I know you only too well, darlin’,” she said with a loving smile. “Only you’d think t’ use bees’ wax and lemon on these rough-hewn planks instead of plain pond water. Although your sensible head hasn’t seen fit to put a vase of flowers by m’bed.
” She gave a small sniff of reproach. “Not that I’m complaining, mind.”
“I beg your pardon. I haven’t had a chance to pick you some posies. I’ve been too busy scrubbing the floors.”
She turned and gazed down at the waters of Kilkarney that wound their way through the emerald green valley of Urlingford. She wearily wished she were already five and twenty and safely on the shelf, so that she wouldn’t be having this indelicate conversation with her well-meaning, but nosy aunt.
“So, how long are you planning to stay?” she asked, sidestepping the subject of the earl much the way she would a boggy ditch.
“’Tis all business, we are,” Lady Agnes muttered, a slight frown of disapproval pursing her thin lips. “How kind of ye to be thinking o’me aging bones. To be sure now, it be almost a pity that m’brother didna have any sons. Mayhap then I’d not have had to leave my own comfortable home for this lacking reception. But he wrote that ye needed me. So whether or non you’re wishing me gone, I’m here to stay.”
“Da sent for you?” Beatrice repeated, stunned by the announcement. She turned around to stare at her domineering aunt.
It was well known that her father and his older sister barely tolerated each other, being completely on opposite sides of the river on one most important issue—whiskey. The grieving widow of a stern, tea-drinking sea captain, her aunt eyed the spirited brew as the works of the Devil’s hands. She could recite by rote the report made by doctors from the West County, which stated that “an increase of insanity was plaguing Ireland due to Methodism and the deadly sin of drinking.”
“Aye, I told him that I’d come and help you, darlin’. But mind,” she added smugly, “I made that heathen brother o’ mine agree to m’conditions first.”
“And they were?”
“I made him take an oath that he wouldn’t make another drop of that wicked, mind-sapping brew of his until the day he walked you down the church aisle.”
She looked at her niece’s stunned expression.
“Why, darlin’, you’re as pale as a sheet. Didna your father tell you of his promise to me?”
“No-o,” Beatrice replied weakly with a half-felt laugh. And if she had known, she’d never have stepped outside of Brightwood Manor’s doors.
“It would appear Da’s been making quite a cartload of bargains behind m’back lately, including this one.”
Only now she realized to what extent her father was willing to go to see her well settled. That troubled her. She didn’t like the idea that anyone sacrificed themselves on her behalf. Not Da—not . . . A pair of dark blue eyes appeared in her thoughts, giving her stomach a sharp twist. Not anyone.
Agnes nodded, satisfied with the affect her revelation was having on the stubborn chit. “I’ve been thinking, Bea’, that lovely gown you wore at the assembly ball last harvest. The one I told ye was not suitable for an unmarried lass.”
“Yes, Aunt?”
“T’would be most appropriate for tonight, don’t ye think? And as you and I will be dining alone with the earl for the last time. Well, to be sure, I was hoping that you might consider wearing it,” she said, recalling the pretty picture her niece made in the russet colored evening gown of liberty silk.
Although, to her thinking white would have been the more appropriate color for the unwed heiress. But undeniably, her niece was an original and wore what she pleased. Being so wealthy, no one dared say otherwise when she wore the gown. Aye, her niece’s wealth was most helpful at times.
“Very well, Auntie,” she agreed, deciding it was best to call a truce or she’d end up dodging her tiny aunt’s sharp tongue all night. “I’ll wear the gay rag if it’ll please you. Not that I see what’s so special about the gown.”
“Oh, and I want you to wear your rubies,” added the matchmaker, shrewdly interrupting. Having her niece look like the rich heiress she was wouldn’t do any harm, either. From the amount of repairs currently being done on the castle, it was evident that the new Earl of Drennan needed some gilt. A pretty rich bride would be a decided asset.
* * *
The glass window panes glowed behind Beatrice as she paused in her descent down to the main hall. The rout was to be in two days’ time. The work in the castle had reached its final frenzied peak of last minute preparations. Tonight would be the last bit of calm before the whirlwind of activities began and the house filled with the expected guests from Dublin and London.
From below she heard her aunt’s voice twitter up to her. “Sure now, Your Grace, it must’ve been grand t’ have been a part of such a splendid regiment. But here on the Emerald Isles, ye must be thinking of more peaceful pursuits. And seeing how much m’niece has been so helpful to Your Grace . . .”
She hedged shamelessly on, despite the scowl of disapproval directed at her by the helpful lady herself, who appeared at the bottom of the marble stairs. “Mayhap you should consider putting my niece’s hostess talents to the full test. Though mind, I taught her the most practical talents. Aye, I can almost guarantee ye that no English bred debutante will match her in this.”
“And what useful talent would that be?” asked the earl, politely interrupting the lady’s discourse.
He looked in the direction where the subject of their conversation now stood, shimmering under the light from the candlelit chandelier above them. His warm gaze fell upon the beautiful vision in russet silk coming towards them.
She appeared to almost glow before him in a sparkling red gown. She wore large, red robin-egged rubies, which sparkled around the column of her creamy neck. Carefully wrought gold-threaded droplets of ruby red gems dripped from her pierced lobes, brushing against her dark black curls. She looked, to put it mildly, spectacular.
Heavens, the earl thought, his eyes fixed upon the vision before him. The lovely, young queen walking towards him was both classically elegant and lushly beautiful. He wanted this Irish goddess before him. His blood throbbed, rising under his skin when she smiled at him in greeting. The devil take it, she was, as never before, the woman he most desired to bed and wed.
Aunt Agnes brought him back to the present, continuing the conversation they had begun before she appeared.
“Faith, sir, didna she tell ye? It was m’self who taught her how to cook.”
Aunt Agnes proudly beamed a nodding smile in her niece’s direction. She continued blithely on, unaware of the sudden chilling discomfort she brought into the room’s otherwise warmed occupants.
“She has the touch of the fairies, my Bea’ does . . . her pastries, oh, Your Grace, why they be as light as feathers when she puts her hand to it.” She lightly tapped the earl’s hand with her fan in a playful gesture of delight. “Aye, ’tis true, in all of Kilkarney there be none who can beat m’niece’s cooking.”
Beatrice cringed at the compliment, remembering only too clearly the dreadful meal she’d served on the fateful morning the day after her father had given the earl leave to court her. If memory served, she’d managed to create the most spectacular scorched mess one could possibly provide.
She turned large, pleading green eyes towards him. Her tiny aunt’s wrath was a terrible thing to behold when properly stirred. It was known to blow into a miniature hurricane, which could cause an entire household to tremble in fear. Facing a firing-squad was more welcoming than a full month of guilt-ridden recriminations and harping from the tiny domineering lady.
“Ah, yes,” smiled Captain James, his voice dripping with warm interest, “then perhaps, dear lady, you can persuade Lady Beatrice to lend a hand in teaching my cook some new ways in preparing some tasty treats for my guests?”
Her aunt gave her a beaming smile. Beatrice swallowed her relief, and readily nodded in agreement. She’d been momentarily spared an indoor tempest.
“I would be pleased to help Your Grace,” she capitulated and taking his offered arm, they strolled into the dining room. Both castle and master had gone through noticeable transformations. The fop she’d played cards with had miraculously disappe
ared and suddenly transformed himself into this nonpareil, a gentleman worthy of the renowned English ton, who frequented the court of the Prince Regent.
She glanced up at him, completely bewildered. He looked like a nobleman of the realm. He’d changed from the bragging fool she’d played cards with, into this debonair and attentively charming gentleman. Unlike his more effeminate male counterparts with their beauty spots, powdered wigs, and ridiculous manners of speech, he appeared to be the somber epitome of manliness. A fact her heart did not let her forget, as it quickened at his touch upon her arm when he slowly and decorously led her into the dining room.
Aunt Agnes trailed contentedly behind them, waving a gloved hand for them to continue on without her. She lingered over a small oil painting depicting the goddess of love, a half-naked Venus lying in a pale blue sky discretely covered by carefully placed white clouds. It hung in a small gilt-edged frame near a large flower arrangement. The tiny lady flicked open her pince-nez and gave the small painting a thorough inspection, tsking aloud as she did so.
Beatrice and the earl continued to walk on alone through the French doors into the newly restored dining room.
She leaned towards him once her aunt was out of earshot and whispered, “Thank you for defending me. My aunt Agnes’s displeasure can be quite uncomfortable at times.”
“No need to thank me. I merely spoke the truth. If I’m not mistaken, it was you who prepared one of the most satisfying meals I’ve enjoyed since returning to England. It was very, very much to my liking.”
He lightly stroked her hand. “By the by, do you think you could persuade Lord Patrick to give me a bottle or two of that most excellent elixir he brews? I find my health has greatly improved upon taking that wondrous potion.”
Ever conscious that her aunt was within hearing range, she nodded.
“I’m certain that my father would be more than willing to part with a few bottles, Your Grace. We wouldn’t wish you to fall into decline after having made such a remarkable recovery.”
She dared a glance at his injured leg and couldn’t help but notice how much he had been standing on it while overseeing the repairs of the keep. Certainly, the well-formed muscles belied the fact that it had up until a fortnight before been wrapped tightly in bandages. The only discernible trait that it had been dealt a wounding blow was his slight limp.