“Aye. He had no care for the bastard son.”
“Did he treat your mother and sister that way?” She sounded angry.
“Occasionally Mam would get hurt if she came between him and me. And when I misbehaved, he never failed to remind her that he took her in with a bastard son. A priest’s granddaughter, she was, reduced to shame.”
“Are you still close to her?”
“I was, but it was easier for her if I stayed away. Now that she is a widow, she would not be punished for me calling.”
“Will you visit her before you return to Wellington?”
“I do not know. I fear I will remind her too much of Wrexford. Your aunt was right. I look just like him, and she is happy now.”
“What mother would not want to see her son? She must think of you and worry every day! Forgive me. Your head aches and I am badgering you about something which is none of my business.”
“I will be thinking on it, begorrah.”
They had already arrived back at Dungarvan House and Tobin felt the same sense of dread Bridget did. He did not wish to mingle with a cantankerous old hag, but he also did not want to abandon Bridget.
Hiding his reluctance for her sake, he stepped down from the carriage. The sunlight instantly caused sharp pains behind his eyes. He shut them again as far as was possible while still being able to see, but the pain was almost unbearable.
“You must go to bed at once. I insist.” Bridget’s brow was furrowed with concern.
“Maybe just for a while,” he conceded.
The door opened for them, and as they climbed the stairs, he could see she was hoping that her aunt could somehow be avoided. There was no sign of the aunt, but another familiar and unwelcome face loomed above on the landing.
“Greetings, Cousin. Mama tells me you have come to your senses and have agreed to a wedding.” Tobin would have instantly hated the man if he did not do so already. He was tall and handsome, with a smug smile on his face—the same smile he had worn two decades ago when he had ganged up on him with Wrexford’s heir. Bridget instantly tensed and clutched Tobin’s arm.
“I have done no such thing, Cousin. Lord Dungarvan, may I present, Lieutenant O’Neill? He was the brave soul who brought Father’s and Patrick’s bodies to me.”
“O’Neill,” the smug blackguard said as he inclined his head. “My thanks on behalf of the Murphy family.”
“Now, if you will forgive us, Riordan, Lieutenant O’Neill is still suffering from a head wound. I intend see him safely to his bedchamber and then join you for dinner later.”
Bridget turned away, still grasping his arm.
“Hurry back. We have much to discuss, Cousin,” the man called after her.
She turned her head and coolly considered him. “The only thing on my mind is burying my father and brother tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perhaps you should make yourself clear to Mama. She sent letters to the entire family, informing them we would be married quietly, after the funeral, in order to respect your mourning.”
Even Tobin tensed at that. He would steal her away before he would allow Bridget to be forced into something against her will. Bully was too nice a word for the termagant… and Tobin could not think of an appropriate word to describe her son. If the offer had come from almost anyone but Riordan Murphy, Tobin might have tried to encourage Bridget to marry. Then he could leave knowing she would be well provided for in the bosom of her family. He knew, however, that to leave Bridget with her aunt and cousin would be to consign her to a dire fate. Equally, to watch her marry Murphy would be akin to ripping his heart from his chest. The only other person who Tobin deemed would be as heinous a husband was Wrexford’s heir, Kilmorgan. Tobin’s head hurt too badly for him to think deeply upon a solution, but he knew he must help her soon.
Bridget said nothing more but began walking down a long hall to some bedchambers. Entering one, she found his belongings had already been placed inside.
“This is your chamber. Mine is just across the hall if you need me. Now sit and I will help you get comfortable.” She gently pushed him until he fell on the bed.
“Lass, you cannot be in here. I can valet myself,” he protested, though his tone did not offer much protest. He had little energy to argue.
She sat down on the side of the bed and began to pull his boots off. “Let them find me in here!” she said through gritted teeth.
“I am sorry. I wish there was more I could do to help you.” He brushed a lock of hair off her forehead.
Bridget stared at him for a long time before answering. “You are here with me. That is enough.” She tucked him into the bed fully clothed and then went over to draw the curtains so the room was shuttered in darkness. Crossing to the wash-hand stand, she poured some water from the porcelain jug into the matching basin and returned with a damp cloth for his forehead. “I will return presently with a draught for the pain.”
“I will think of something, lass.” Tobin fell into a deep sleep almost at once and scarcely noticed when Bridget returned to give him the draught.
Bridget was so angry she had to pace up and down the hall for some time before she was calm enough to confront her aunt. This was exactly why she had run away all those years ago. She even had a strong suspicion that Aunt Betha had her father’s will and knew she held her niece in her control. On that thought, Bridget went to seek out her father’s belongings. The trunks had probably been loaded on the wagon with the coffins. Bridget enquired of the butler and was directed to the stables.
She grew more frustrated as she walked. How dared the woman? How dared her aunt take away Bridget’s ability to properly bury her family and even mourn them? There was no good reason for her aunt to insist on this marriage—except at one time she had decided it would be a good idea and no one ever thwarted Aunt Betha’s will. Even Cousin Riordan, who was now Dungarvan, bowed to her every command. The former lord, her father’s elder brother, had been a sweet old dear, but had been happy to keep the peace.
It was some distance from the house to the stables, and she passed the chapel and graveyard where two graves were being dug. Swallowing hard, she tried to divert her mind to the new stone building ahead with beautiful, arched wooden doors and large beams overhead. Everyone in Ireland bred horses, and the new, elaborate edifice was a testament to where the priorities of this family lay. A groom greeted her and directed her to one of the stalls inside the stable.
It was an odd place for such things to be stored, considering how large the house was, but Bridget immediately began rummaging through the trunks of clothes and personal paraphernalia—a task she was not prepared for. Every item of clothing or property brought back a memory of her father. On the top were his dress regimentals, which he had worn the night of the Duchess of Richmond’s ball when Bridget had refused to go… That had been the last night she had seen him. The last time she had danced with him had been at the Waverley ball, the night she had also met Tobin. The thought of Tobin brought a small smile to her face. Now he was the man she wanted to marry, only how could she convince him?
She shook her head and continued to search for her father’s papers. It was surprising how little her father truly had in the way of worldly goods, though very little was needed to be a soldier. Bridget thought he had the right of it, for only consider her aunt—she had every worldly possession but no happiness. She was a dried up, bitter old woman.
Bridget closed the trunk with sadness and looked for her brother’s. He had been her best friend—no, her sole friend in the world. She opened his trunk, not expecting to find anything, but needing to be close to him. His dress regimentals were also there and she brought them to her face to inhale his scent. She sobbed at the unfairness of a life lost too young. He was so handsome and charming… it was always said God took the good ones much too soon.
Knowing she had been gone too long, she rummaged through the rest of Patrick’s trunk while she tried to dry her tears. At the very bottom was a packet of
papers and Bridget opened them in haste, her fingers shaking with hope.
Inside was his certificate of birth, his commissioning paperwork, and finally, his will and testament but not her father’s. She scanned the document for the line she needed, which was thankfully short.
Upon my demise, all of my worldly possessions I leave to my sister, Miss Bridget Murphy.
Bridget held it to her chest. Would it be enough? She tucked the papers back into the satchel and stood, brushing the straw from her skirts. Bridget needed to have a candid discussion with her aunt, and considered what she should say on her way back to the house. Frankly, she had little expectation of a reasonable discussion, even though it had been ten years since the first time Aunt had tried to force her hand.
Bridget wanted to find her aunt alone, so she hurriedly changed for dinner and sought Lady Dungarvan out in her apartments. The Tartar’s maid told Bridget that her aunt had already descended to the drawing room. Unfortunately, she was not alone there.
As Bridget entered, she held back a gasp. It seemed her aunt had gathered, at little notice no doubt, every remaining family member in the vicinity. She should not have been surprised, since Riordan had evidently answered the summons from who knew where.
“I was wondering if you were going to snub us,” her aunt said caustically.
“No, I have been attending to business matters regarding Father’s and Patrick’s deaths. I am sorry if I have kept you waiting.”
“And the Lieutenant?”
“He retired to bed earlier with a severe megrim caused by his head wound. I would be very surprised if we see him before morning.” Bridget turned to look at her family members. “Good evening,”
“I am sorry we are meeting on such a sad occasion.” Stepping forward to kiss her cheek, Uncle Fergus looked so much like her father that Bridget had to choke back a sob. She glanced around at the faces of aunts, uncles and cousins, wondering again how her aunt could expect her to marry the next morning. Maybe Riordan had been jesting. She looked to him and he raised his brows with an amused twinkle in his eye as he saluted her with his glass before taking a sip of sherry.
There had to be a way to stop this nightmare.
Uncle Fergus took her arm. “I would like to hear about Waterloo, if you feel up to telling me. All I know is what the papers say.”
“Lieutenant O’Neill is the one you should ask, Uncle. He was there, running dispatches for Wellington, and was injured in the same blast that took Patrick.” She wiped a tear away which escaped down her cheek. “He brought him back to me in Brussels so I could be with him at the end.”
“Oh, dear girl. What you must have been through! And to bring the bodies back alone… You are to be commended.” He turned away to compose himself.
“I was not alone. I had a great deal of help from Lieutenant O’Neill, Captain Elliott and the Duke of Waverley. They escorted us as far as Portsmouth, but had another injured soldier to return to England.” She bit her lower lip. “Father died during the final charge, I am told, along with almost his entire regiment.”
“And now you are all alone.” He took her hand and squeezed it with affection.
“She is not all alone.” Her aunt scowled. “The whole family is here in support, are we not?”
“Yes, thank you, Aunt. It seems I might have to intrude upon your hospitality longer than I anticipated. There was a fire at the solicitor’s office and all the records were lost. Until I find my father’s will, I shall be unable to leave; unless you think it might be here?”
“What do you need with his will, niece? You will marry Riordan.”
The dragon was showing her claws already, was she? Well, Bridget had some too. She shook her head decisively.
“No, Aunt Betha. I will not be marrying my cousin. I declined the offer ten years ago, and nothing has changed.”
Her aunt’s face was red with anger. “You have no choice, you insolent girl!”
“If wanting to marry the man of my choice makes me insolent, then so be it, ma’am. It also begs the question, why do you wish for the match so strongly?” She turned to her cousin. “And you, Rory?” she asked, using his childhood nickname. “Why are you submitting to this tyranny?”
“I want only what is best for the family,” he answered smoothly.
“I too, wish the best for this family, but I must also do what is best for myself.”
“You will have not a penny if you do not marry Riordan!” her aunt threatened.
Bridget furrowed her brow as she considered this statement. “I fear you are ill-informed, Aunt. Father told me, just before he left for the battle, that he had left me well provided for and I still have my dowry. If we cannot find the will here, I have someone who will send it from London.” Bridget was bluffing, of course, but her aunt did not need to know that. “It might take a few extra days, that is all. However, I am in mourning and intend to honour my father and brother properly.”
“Well met, niece,” her uncle whispered in her ear. “Do not let her force you into anything.”
She smiled sadly at him. “It makes no sense to me,” she admitted.
“It makes perfect sense if you know the truth, though I know ladies do not know of such things.” He hesitated and then whispered, “Riordan prefers men and always has. That is why she thought to force you so young and why again, even now. Do not give in, my dear. I will help however I can.”
“Thank you, Uncle.” Bridget was too stunned to say else.
“I will not stand for this!” Her aunt thud her cane on the floor. “You will marry Riordan after the funeral and that will be that.”
“I am afraid that will not be possible…” Everyone turned towards the new voice. Lieutenant O’Neill stood on the threshold, looking marvellously handsome in his regimentals. “…for she already belongs to me.”
Chapter 11
The silence was near deafening as all heads turned towards Tobin.
“What? Why did you not say aught of this earlier?” the old witch demanded.
“There was hardly an appropriate time, Aunt Betha. All my thoughts have been centred on Papa and Patrick, and helping Lieutenant O’Neill recover, not on my wedding. I need not add Papa and Patrick both approved of him, of course.”
“Then we will wish you happy, Bridget,” said an older man who looked much like her father.
“Thank you, Uncle Fergus,” she replied with a warm smile.
Tobin had not intended to intrude on the family gathering—for it was that without a doubt. There were a dozen people in the room and he wanted nothing to do with them. He had awakened from his megrim-induced sleep and having found Bridget’s note to her servants in London, had wanted to post the letter to the Duke with all haste. It was when he was returning from that errand he had overheard the old lady trying to force Bridget’s hand. He knew he had to come to her rescue and now understood why she had pleaded with him to marry before they arrived.
“No! This cannot be. It must not! There has to be a way to undo it.” The old lady snarled like a wild boar.
“I am afraid not, Aunt Betha. We are both of age and have consented.”
“Why do we not eat our dinner and allow Bridget to mourn in a proper fashion? I find your remarks grossly distasteful,” Uncle Fergus said sharply. Tobin wanted to applaud. At least there was one person willing to stand up against the woman, who was clearly used to manipulating this family like marionettes.
Tobin was allowed to escort Bridget into dinner. She said nothing but cast him a grateful glance. They would determine the rest later. For now, he had to help her survive this ordeal.
Whether or not it was intended, Tobin sat at the corner with Fergus on one side and Bridget on the other. A shy cousin named Eileen sat across from him.
Mostly, Fergus monopolized the conversation, wishing to hear the details of Waterloo. Those at that end of the table sat and listened while Tobin described the horror without dwelling on the reality of that dreadful day. Bridget sat quietly ne
xt to him and said little except for after Tobin had finished.
“Two days later, I rode to the battlefield. It was still very apparent what had happened there despite the sunshine and quiet. I found the scabbard to Father’s sword where he fell,” she said quietly.
Tobin then reached under the table and took her hand. She squeezed it hard.
They decided to retire early with the funeral being arranged for the next morning. Tobin walked Bridget to her bedroom. Pushing open the door, he stepped inside and pulled her into his arms. Comfort and support was what she needed now. She began to speak, but he silenced her. “We will resolve everything later, lass. I could not let the old witch ruin your life.”
She pulled back and smiled at him. “I was only going to say thank you for rescuing me.” She stepped up on tiptoe and gave him a soft kiss.
“I am no hero, lass. I should go to my own room now,” he said, giving her a devilish grin that he had not felt like using in some time. “Good night, mo álainn.”
The next morning was sombre, as funerals had a habit of being. It was a small, quiet service at the family chapel, with a few people from the village also attending. The coffins had been kept in the ice-house, but there was no question of opening them.
The vicar shouted out the service, and Tobin stood up to read the letter from Wellington. It was short and simple.
The coffins were taken outside to the freshly dug graves and lowered into the earth. Tobin held Bridget’s hand, knowing that although she appeared strong, this was the hardest part.
The vicar bellowed the familiar words as he cast some dirt upon the coffins:
“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brothers here departed: we therefore commit their bodies to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.”
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