Taylor's face and being coldly asked to leave the premises. They had never been invited back.
Olivia stared at her reflection in the dim light, and all the girlish resentment she'd pushed deep down inside flared up with sudden, bright intensity. She thought of all that she had missed, the beaux, the barbecues and balls that she'd never attended because of Daddy's drinking and overbearing possessiveness. No young man in the four parishes, even the ones of good families and impeccable backgrounds, had been given permission to court her. Not that there had been many.
She understood her father's fear of loneliness had been the reason behind it. He had been terrified that she would marry and go away. Stuart and Charles had tried to reason with him on her behalf, but their attempts had come to naught. Away at university most of the year, there had been little else they could do.
Olivia draped the red silk over one arm and fingered the skirt of practical brown cotton she wore. Now, her father and brothers were dead, but it was too late. She was twenty-nine. She was an old maid. She looked like one, she dressed like one, she even thought like one. She'd long ago given up on the romantic dreams of her girlhood, but sometimes she wondered. . . .
Olivia held the red silk in front of her again, thought of Conor Branigan's smoky blue eyes, and wondered wistfully if it was too late for an old maid to find a little romance.
11
The reading lessons began the following evening after the girls had gone to bed. That was Olivia's suggestion, suspecting Conor might not want the girls to see him learning to read. They wouldn't have laughed at him, but she knew he would be uncomfortable if they watched him reciting the alphabet.
She began by writing all the letters on Becky's slate. Holding it up so that both of them could see it, she pointed to each letter, making the sound then asking him to repeat it. He had an excellent memory. Within half an hour, Conor was able to repeat all twenty-six letters perfectly.
"Very good," she said, smiling at him across the kitchen table. "These letters represent all the sounds we make to form words. Before you can learn to read, you have to memorize all of them. Now, I expect you to repeat these letters to yourself at least a hundred times before tomorrow's lesson."
He groaned. "It's like the rosary. I always hated the rosary. Hail Mary, full of grace, over and over, until the Blessed Virgin herself was probably sick of hearing it."
Olivia didn't know anything about the rosary, but she got the idea.
He grinned at her. "My brother and I used to make up different words for it, and I was terrified that one day I'd blurt out the wrong ones by mistake." His grin faded. "At least I don't have to say it anymore."
"Why not?"
He didn't answer for a long moment. "I was excommunicated from the Church five years ago," he finally said, "for being an insurrectionist, a rebel, and most important, for being an inconvenience."
"I don't understand."
He gave her a pitying glance. "The tangled web of Irish religion and politics too confusing for you? It really comes down to power in the end. Catholic cardinals who want to keep control of our souls, the British government that wants to keep control of our country. Conor Branigan and his troublesome friends in the way, defying the lot of them, stirring republican sentiments, and upsetting the power structure. What's the result? Excommunication and prison for me, and a fine example set for all those disgruntled Irishmen who might dare to whisper the hated word 'rebellion.'"
Although she knew nothing of the Catholic religion and less about Irish politics, Olivia understood disillusionment and the death of dreams. She heard both in Conor's voice. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry? For me?" Disbelief and anger warred in his expression.
"No. Not for you. I'm sorry for the loss of your faith."
"Don't be. I lost my faith before I was twelve years old."
"That can change. It's never too late."
Suddenly his grin returned, impudent and taunting. "Trying to redeem me, Olivia?"
She stiffened at his mockery. "No, Mr. Branigan. I'm not that optimistic."
He nodded approvingly. "Very wise of you, love. I've got many sins on my soul, most of them far more enjoyable than defying parish priests and British laws, and I intend to rack up plenty more of them before I die."
"Have you no convictions?" Olivia asked in disbelief. "Isn't there anything you believe in?"
"No." He fell silent, but after a moment, he spoke again, all mockery gone from his voice. "I betrayed everything I believed in," he said flatly. "Because of that, I'm already destined to burn. So what difference will a few more sins make?"
The following morning, Conor was up early enough to see the sunrise—not an unusual sight for him since sunrise was when he typically went to bed. But during the past two and a half weeks, it seemed as if he'd done nothing but sleep. He was unaccustomed to so little physical activity, but it was more than that. He could feel the restlessness growing within him, the need to move on.
He found fresh water and clean towels outside his door so he knew Olivia was awake. So were the girls. He could hear their chatter all the way down the hall.
But when he entered the kitchen a short while later, he found it empty. On the table were the full plates of an untouched breakfast. Conor frowned, wondering where Olivia and the girls had gone.
He wandered outside and found all of them in the barn. The girls were huddled in the opening of one of the stalls and when he stepped inside, Carrie ran to him. "Princess is in trouble," she said and grabbed his hand, looking up at him with beseeching eyes. "You can help her, can't you, Mr. Conor?"
She pulled him toward the stall. Olivia was kneeling in the straw beside the pregnant cow he'd noticed the day before. The cow was in labor, and he could tell by Olivia's anxious face that there was indeed a problem.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I think the calf's breech." She pushed the calf's feet back into the womb and reached inside to turn the calf around. But she couldn't manage it, and she sat back on her heels, panting. "Oren told me, if the hooves come out pointing down it's breech, and I have to turn it, but I can't."
In her agitation, she wiped her hands on her skirt instead of her apron. "I've tried three times. It's too big."
Conor heard the desperation in her voice and the hint of panic. He began rolling up his sleeves, glad that for once he could make himself useful. He entered the stall and knelt down beside her. "Move over," he ordered. "You're not strong enough, lass. Let me do it."
She eyed him dubiously. "Do you know anything about cattle?"
"Olivia, Irish butter is known to be the best in the world. Where do you think we get it from? Chickens? I grew up on a farm. Move over." He patted her hip, and she hastily scooted sideways, almost as if his touch burned her. Another time, he might have a go at finding out if it really did.
He glanced up at the girls, who stood watching silently outside the stall, their expressions fearful. "Becky, take the girls up to the house," he instructed. "Then bring me some soap, water, and clean towels."
"Is Princess's baby going to die?" Miranda asked.
"Not if I can help it, mo cailin. Go with Becky, now."
Becky took the other girls out of the barn. Conor glanced at the calf's feet which were once again protruding from the womb, due to the insistent pushing of its mother. "It's breech, all right. And it's a big one. I'll have to turn it around. Let's just hope it doesn't get stuck coming out."
"I've never birthed a cow before. Babies, yes. Hogs, puppies, but this is my first time with a cow. What do we do if it gets stuck?"
"I'll have to pull it out," he answered.
Becky returned with a crock of soap, a bucket of hot water, and an armful of clean towels. "How is she?" the girl asked as Olivia rose to take the items from her.
Conor looked up. "We're going to be out here awhile, I'm thinking."
"You'll save the calf, Mr. Conor," Becky said. "I know you will."
"I'll do my
best."
Becky left the barn again, casting one last glance over her shoulder before she departed. Olivia sank down into the straw beside Conor, who was inside the cow up to his elbows. "How can I help?" she asked.
He shook his head. "You can't, love."
The minutes went by. Olivia watched as Conor worked to turn the calf around. He wasn't doing his cracked ribs any good, and she knew he must be in pain, but he did not show it.
By sheer strength, infinite patience, and only one or two curses, Conor finally got the calf in the correct position. With some strong tugging on his part, the newborn was pulled from its mother's body and jumped to its feet.
Olivia looked at Conor with relief and gratitude. "Thank you."
She leaned back against the side of the stall and watched the calf take a step toward Conor to butt his head against the man's hand with a soft moo.
"A hero," she murmured. "Who would have thought?"
He shot her a wry glance. Pushing the calf toward its mother, he fell back against the side of the stall beside her. "Don't let it get around. I have my reputation as a wicked sinner and prize bastard to think of."
She heard the defensiveness in those words. She studied his hard profile for a moment. "I don't think you're half as wicked as you pretend to be," she said softly.
"Aye, well, that's the thing about pretending." Pushing himself to his knees, he reached for the bucket of water then plunged in his arms elbow-deep to rinse off the blood. "If you do it long enough, you make it the truth."
Olivia's words turned out to be prophetic. Conor became a hero.
The girls were absolutely delighted by the calf, but it was Conor who received their devoted attention for the rest of the day. After a late breakfast, they insisted on taking him all around the place. They showed him everything, from the privy, which he'd already discovered on his own, to the swimming hole, which he hadn't. They dragged him through the orchard, they showed him how to slide down the haystack behind the barn. It felt good to be on his feet, but by the time Olivia rang the dinner bell, he was exhausted.
Olivia must have sensed it. After dinner, she sent the girls out to clean the henhouse. "It'll keep them busy until sundown."
"I'm glad to hear it." He eased back in his chair. "They're lovely girls, all of them. But they're wearin' me out."
She laughed as she set a basket of mending on the kitchen table and sat down. "Already? It's only been half a day."
'"Tis an injured man I am," he reminded her. "I'm not up to this yet."
"Mmm." She threaded a needle and pulled a skirt out of the basket, a skirt of faded gray. "I have a feeling that won't make any difference."
"Probably not," he agreed. "They'll probably have me climbing trees before the day's out."
She lifted her head and frowned at him. "You do, and I'll have your hide. I didn't spend four days and nights putting you back together so you could fall out of a tree a few weeks later and crack your ribs all over again."
"Worried about me?"
She sniffed. "Not at all. I'm just tired of trays and bedpans is all."
That was probably the truth. Now that he was up and around, he could see how much work she had to do each and every day, and he knew he'd only added to her burden. "I never have said thank-you for what you did for me."
She began pulling the needle back and forth through the fabric. "No need. Most folks would have done the same."
Conor doubted it. Most people would have just ridden on. But he was beginning to realize that Olivia's cloak of propriety protected a very soft heart. He wasn't used to it, that softness, he didn't trust it. The world was so full of hard knocks and jagged edges.
He studied her with her head bent over her sewing.
Her hair was braided today, rolled at the back of her head, and secured with a bow of green ribbon. He was glad she had taken his words to heart and changed the way she wore her hair. The light from the kitchen window behind her shot glimmers of red through the delicate tendrils at her neck. Her hair fascinated him because it looked so soft, as soft and thick and luxurious as sable.
"Why aren't you married?" he asked, then wished he hadn't.
She paused in her sewing. "Didn't have much of a chance," she answered without looking up. "My mama died when I was fourteen, and it hit my daddy pretty hard. My brothers, too. There . . ." She hesitated, then went on, "There wasn't time for barbecues and parties and the like. "
Conor got ihe feeling that she'd originally started to say something else, but had changed her mind. He wondered what.
"The war came when I was nineteen, and of course, all the local boys joined up to fight," she went on. "Nowadays, there aren't many men left round here. We lost so many, and the ones that came home who didn't have wives already took a look around, and decided things had to be better out West."
He could understand that. It sounded a lot like Ireland after the famine. "Don't you ever think that, Olivia?"
She looked up. "What? That things might be better someplace else?" She shook her head. "No, never. This is my home." She tilted her head to one side and her eyes softened dreamily. "There's nothing prettier than the hills all green in the spring, and nothing smells sweeter than wild honeysuckle in the summertime. Besides, most folks who think things are better someplace else are just running away from something, and they usually find that whatever they're running from is still with 'em when they get there."
Her words hit him like a punch. "You're a wise woman, Olivia."
"No, Mr. Branigan. That's not wisdom. Just common sense."
He studied her face, seeing the contentment of her expression. 'Twas a rare gift indeed that she had. The ability to be happy. He envied her that. God, how he envied her. "Somehow, I don't think there's anything common about you," he murmured.
"You must feel that way, too. I know you miss Ireland, I can hear it in every word you speak. Don't you ever want to go home?"
Want it? Conor closed his eyes. He could see the mist rising over Derry fields, every shade of gray and green. He could hear the mournful melody of Irish whistles and Uilleann pipes. "'Tis not a question of wanting," he said dully, opening his eyes. "I can't go home." He shook his head and looked down, frowning at his hands. "I can't ever go home again."
That afternoon, Vernon received another telegram from New York, this one far less patient and far more demanding than its predecessor. He smothered a curse and glanced at his wife, who sat in the chair beside him.
The shafts of sunlight through the lattice wall of the gazebo formed a crisscross pattern on her apple-green dress, but a frothy lace parasol shielded her face from the rays, while the fan in one hand and the glass of cool lemonade by her side helped her deal with the stifling heat she hated so much. "Well?" Alicia asked. "What does it say?"
He forced himself to smile. "I think your father misses you. He's insisting that we not postpone our annual visit."
"How delightful. No doubt he wants to know how this railroad you two dreamed up is coming along," she answered, slanting him an innocent look.
"If that's the case," Vernon answered, careful to keep his irritation from showing, "I don't see why he's insisting on having me go all the way up there. He wants me to meet with the investors, he says. It's such a waste of time, nothing but shaking hands and making small talk. I can't afford to be away just now."
"Well, I shall be grateful for the change of scene. It's bad enough to be stuck here in this dull little backwater, but to be forced to endure this heat passes all bounds. I don't see why we can't live in New York anyway. At least then we could go to Newport in the summer."
"You know why. Alicia, this isn't going to be a backwater forever. I'm going to build a new Atlanta right here. You just have to be patient."
He could tell she was not pacified by that promise. His wife might look as luscious as a spoonful of whipped cream, but Vernon knew she possessed the same iron will as her father when it came to getting her own way. "It seems to me we've h
ad this talk before," she said. "Several times now."
The reminder that this railroad scheme was already four years in the making made Vernon want to grind his teeth. But he did not. Alicia was watching him, clearly expecting a reply. "I know how much our annual trip to New York means to you, and I know how much you miss your father," he said. "We'll go if you want it so badly."
She smiled. "Thank you, darling. And I'll try to be more patient."
He took her hand in his. "You've been wonderful. I don't how you manage to put up with me."
"Because you are my husband, and I love you," she answered, a touch of warmth creeping into her voice. "We'll leave in the morning."
She rose and left the gazebo. Vernon watched her cross the expansive green lawn toward the antebellum mansion her daddy's Yankee money had paid for, and he couldn't help wondering what his wife really felt about him. It only mattered because Hiram worshiped the ground his daughter walked on, and Vernon knew if he didn't keep her happy, he'd be in a heap of trouble.
He leaned back in his chair and stared down at the telegram. Alicia was getting more impatient with each month that passed. More important, so was her father. He knew this waiting game with Olivia had to end soon.
An image of Olivia as a child flashed through his mind. She'd always been a shy girl, and there had been times when he'd actually felt sorry for her. He remembered the time her cat had been caught in a fox trap, and how he'd helped her get it out, and how she had looked up at him with worshipful gratitude in her brown eyes.
He'd watched her grow up, and for a while, he'd thought that maybe he'd marry her. She came from one of Louisiana's oldest families; she could have given him the respectability he craved. Samuel Maitland's money had made it all even more appealing.
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