Each mile they traveled brought him closer to his home. From time to time he would point out scenic views, or share bits of local legend. Felicity listened intently, and occasionally shared stories of her past and journeys she had made. At other times they would travel in companionable silence, secure enough not to feel the need to fill the air with idle chatter. And somehow he found himself telling her more than he had intended, sharing his plans and dreams for the future.
Each night they stayed at an inn, or availed themselves of the hospitality of the local gentry. He was not surprised to find that word of his marriage had gone on ahead of him, and those of his acquaintance were quick to congratulate him on his good fortune.
By unspoken consent there were only two subjects that Felicity and Kilgarvan did not broach. The first was the subject of the marriage settlement. The second was the fact that despite being married for nearly a month, they were still husband and wife in name only—a fact that grew more and more irksome to him, and more awkward to explain, as their hostesses appeared surprised by his request for separate bedrooms.
Not that he did not desire his wife. On the contrary, each day he was with her it grew harder and harder for him to control his wayward thoughts. It had been easier to ignore her when she was Lady Felicity of London, all polished elegance and cool perfection. Then he’d admired her beauty dispassionately, as one might admire a porcelain statue.
The woman he traveled with was a different matter. This Felicity was warm, human, and with her wind-tousled hair and sun-kissed complexion she was infinitely more desirable than any London beauty. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed, and he found himself telling the most outrageous of stories for the simple joy of hearing her laughter.
At night, when he lay awake, unable to sleep, he reminded himself of the reasons why he had not consummated their marriage on that first night. But his logic, once compelling, now seemed the arguments of a fool or a craven. He had grown to know Felicity, and while he still did not understand all the reasons why she had proposed marriage, he did not doubt her essential honor and truthfulness. If Felicity had found herself with child, she would have taken responsibility, and not tried to trick a man into marriage.
And his other reason—wishing to wait until time had passed, lest Felicity become pregnant at once—seemed silly. It was unlikely that Felicity would become pregnant immediately, and if she did, what was the harm in that? Tongues might wag if a babe was born nine months after the wedding, but what did that matter to him? He would know that he was the father, and that was enough for him.
It was tempting to go to Felicity, and to avail himself of the rights that were his under law and custom. But still he hesitated, not wishing to shatter the fragile truce that they had built between them. He could not forget the sight of Felicity’s pale, shocked face on the night he had rejected her. He had no guarantee that she would welcome his advances now. Indeed it would serve him right if she refused him.
And so he resolved to be patient, and to court his wife in earnest. This was not some dalliance. Felicity was his wife, and he had the rest of their lives to win her to him. But such thoughts were poor comfort in his empty bed.
On the fifth morning of their journey they left the home of Lord Lucan, and began their climb over the Caran Mountains. His heart quickened, for he knew that on the other side of that ridge lay the county of Kerry. From here they could reach Kilgarvan lands, if they took advantage of the long twilight for which Kerry was famed in the summer.
But the road that led through Connor’s Gap was worse than he had expected. It was a mere donkey track at the best of times, but the recent storm had washed out sections and felled trees, forcing them to dismount and lead the horses around the obstacles. Each delay chafed at his nerves, but Felicity accepted them with equanimity. Then again, it was not her home that lay in the valley on the other side of the mountain range.
Of course he had no one to blame but himself. The difficulty of this route was the very reason that most travelers came by river and approached Kilgarvan from the west rather than make the mountain crossing. He had chosen this route hoping to discourage Felicity. Instead it was he who was discouraged.
The road wound up the mountainside in seemingly endless loops. At midmorning they paused, and only by looking back could he see how far they had come. Felicity stretched, her hands kneading her back as if she was sore and tired. He sympathized with her. His own calves ached in remembrance of the climb they had just made, while his thighs and backside protested the long hours on horseback.
He consulted his watch, and then looked carefully at what he could see of the trail ahead. If they pushed hard, and the road was no worse than it had been, they could make the summit by noon. From there it was still a dozen miles to Glenmore, but it would be downhill.
“This morning was slow going, but if we press hard and if luck is with us, we’ll be in Glenmore by nightfall,” he said aloud.
Leading the gray horse over to where Felicity stood, he handed her the reins, then cupped his hands together to help her mount. She weighed hardly more than a feather, and he tossed her into the saddle, where she settled with only a faint grimace to show the discomfort she felt.
“Then we must pray that our luck holds,” Felicity replied. She did not want to know what her husband meant by pressing hard. In these last days she had begun to suspect that Kilgarvan could have taught Wellington’s troops a thing or two about forced marches. These last days of travel had been far more grueling than she had expected.
But she wouldn’t have exchanged places with anyone in the world. Since leaving Cork, Kilgarvan had seemed to thaw, treating her with kindness and courtesy. Just as she had hoped, the journey had brought them closer together, enabling them to resume their old friendship. Not that she fooled herself into thinking that all was forgiven and forgotten. It was rather that Kilgarvan seemed determined to make the best of things, and she would do all she could to encourage him. And so she would journey on without word of complaint, because she could see how much he longed to return to his home.
And if her husband’s newfound tolerance was not enough to please her, there was also the Irish countryside, which had a wild beauty that delighted the eye and spoke to her heart. Each day brought new wonders. The road led them by peaceful farms, through wooded glens and along verdant hills dotted with placidly grazing sheep. Gradually they had left the lowlands behind, until they began the ascent of the mountains.
The mountains were a forbidding sight, where green grass and shrubs clung precariously to the rock-studded hillsides. A narrow switchback path wound up the side of the nearest of the mountains, then disappeared into a gap between two peaks.
They reached the gap shortly after noon. Kilgarvan, who had been riding ahead due to the narrowness of the trail, now stopped his horse. She rode up alongside him.
She was about to remark on the trail, but the words froze in her throat as she caught sight of his face. Kilgarvan stared fiercely at the land below, with a look of raw hunger and love. She felt a strange ache in her heart as she realized that no man had ever looked at her with such single-minded devotion.
Kilgarvan gazed below for what seemed an eternity. She followed his gaze, trying to fathom the source of his inspiration.
Below them, the hillside sloped in gentle folds down into a lush green valley. In the center of the valley was the silvery sheen of a lake. At the foot of the lake there appeared to be a small village or town, while along the far shore there were woods and what appeared to be a ruin of some sort. The land appeared lush and fertile, delighting the eye with all the myriad shades of green.
It was one of the most beautiful places she had ever seen. And yet that alone did not explain her husband’s fascination.
“Is that Kilgarvan?” she asked, when she could endure his silence no longer.
Kilgarvan gave a start as he seemed to recall her presence.
“Yes. Or rather, it used to be. Once all this was Kilgarvan land,” he sai
d, gesturing with his free hand to indicate the valley. “But my ancestors paid a heavy price for their part in the rebellion of 1641. They lost most of the east end of the valley, and the lands that they had held in Kerry. Still, we were able to keep the best of the lot. Once we descend the hill, we will be on Kilgarvan land, and the town you see at the foot of the lake, that is Glenmore. My home.”
She squinted, but could not make out any details.
“Come now. We may have to ride in the twilight, but we will spend this night under my own roof,” he promised.
His home. His roof. His, and not hers or theirs. Angry words leaped to her tongue, but she bit them back. No doubt it was just force of habit that had formed his words, rather than a deliberate attempt to exclude her.
Still, she could not help wondering what type of welcome awaited her at Glenmore. Would Kilgarvan’s people treat her with the warmth and courtesy she had experienced during this journey? Or would they follow her husband’s lead and treat her with the same cold disdain Kilgarvan had shown in the first days of their marriage?
She would have to wait to find out. As they left the gap, the path wound to the right. Past the first switchback she glimpsed a small cluster of cabins nestled in a fold of the hillside. As they drew nearer she could see that trestle tables had been set up outside of the largest cabin, and a crowd of villagers milled around outside.
Heads began to turn in their direction, and then she saw a small boy dash into one of the cabins. He came out a moment later, followed by a man moving at a more sedate speed.
Kilgarvan drew his horse to a stop. The man who approached was middle-aged, his dark hair streaked with gray, and his complexion reddened by endless seasons of work in the outdoors. He was better dressed than most peasants she had seen on the journey, his coat and trousers of dark blue, with a bright waistcoat.
The farmer hailed Kilgarvan in Gaelic. Her husband replied in the same tongue. Then the farmer looked over at her, and since she knew no Gaelic, she smiled instead.
“This is my wife, Lady Kilgarvan,” her husband said. “Felicity, this is Thomas Connolly, who farms the lands hereabout.”
The farmer swept his hat from his head and made a quick bow. “God bless your ladyship,” he said. “And it is begging your pardon, I am, for not having known you had no word of the Gaelic. Sure and it is the excitement of the day that has driven every thought from this old head of mine.”
“I thank you for your blessing,” Felicity replied.
The farmer surveyed her, then smiled, seeming pleased at what he saw. Then he turned back to Kilgarvan. “I must beg Shamus O ’Sullivan’s pardon when next I see him. Sure and didn’t he tell me that you were bringing your countess by the old Cork road? And I says to him that you would have better sense, but here you are, showing me wrong, and now I owe that rascal Shamus a drink.”
His voice was soft, and there was a twinkle in his eye as the farmer teased her husband.
“The old Cork road?” she asked pointedly.
Her husband had the grace to look discomfited. “It is the most direct route,” he said.
“But not the easiest, I’ll wager.” She had long suspected as much, but it was pleasant to have her suspicions confirmed.
Thomas Connolly broke in. “I was just after telling your husband that my Nora is getting married today. And it would be the greatest honor to me and mine if you were to stay for the wedding.”
“I thank you, but—” she started to say. She gladly would have stayed, but knew how anxious Kilgarvan was to see his home.
“It would be our honor to be your guests,” her husband interrupted.
Thomas Connolly beamed and rubbed his hands together. “Grand, grand,” he declared. “My Nora will be that proud when I tell her. Just follow me, and I’ll have one of my lazy sons see to your horses.”
He went on ahead, and Felicity and Kilgarvan followed behind.
As soon as the farmer was out of earshot, she turned to Kilgarvan. She said nothing, but raised one eyebrow.
“It would shame them if we refused,” he explained. “It would be seen as an insult to their hospitality. And besides, it is only a day. Arlyn Court will still be there tomorrow.”
She could only imagine how much that admission had cost him. He had spoken of nothing these last days save his need to be home, and now he was turning aside to satisfy the pride of a mere farmer. She wished suddenly that they were not on horseback, for she longed to take his hand in hers, and to let him know how much she approved of his decision. It reminded her of the act of charity that had first brought him to her attention.
They turned into the yard of the cottage, and there was no time to talk privately as two young boys ran up and held their horses as they dismounted. Kilgarvan was hailed by several of the men present, and they were soon separated as Mrs. Connolly came to urge Felicity to come inside to freshen up.
The cabin was dark after the bright sunshine outdoors, and Felicity stood for a moment in the doorway, blinking her eyes as she struggled to see in the dim light.
The room they had entered was obviously the main living room of the house. On the left was a fireplace, where a kettle simmered above a low fire. Next to the hearth were shelves holding small baskets and jars of provisions. The floor was dirt, but swept clean, and small indentations showed where a table and chairs no doubt normally rested.
In the corner a ladder led up, presumably to a loft. The right wall held a curtained-off opening, and what appeared to be a bedroom.
“Nora, come quick,” Mrs. Connolly called. “’Tis her ladyship herself, come to wish you merry on your wedding day.”
A hand drew the curtain aside and Nora appeared. She was a young woman, with dark eyes and curly brown hair that streamed down her back. Her cheeks were dusted with freckles, and dimpled as she smiled.
“You are welcome to this house,” she said. “And it is good luck indeed to have a stranger at the wedding.”
“Thank you,” Felicity said. “And I wish you joy on your wedding day.”
Just then there was a hiss, and a pot began to boil over. “Saints have mercy, if it is not one thing it is another,” Mrs. Connolly exclaimed, hurrying over to remove the kettle from the fire. “Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but I must be taking this outside to cool. Nora, take her into the bedroom and let her tidy herself up.”
So saying, Mrs. Connolly carried the kettle outside.
“I do not want to be any trouble,” Felicity said.
“Oh, no, it is no trouble at all. You are our guest, and everyone will understand. And besides,” she said, her brown eyes dancing, “Brian has waited two years for me already. Another hour will not hurt him a bit.”
Felicity digested this bit of information as she followed Nora into the bedroom. She wondered what it was like to be so sure of your love that you were willing to wait two years for him.
A boy brought in her saddlebags, and with Nora’s help Felicity washed her hands and face, and combed her hair into a respectable chignon. She thought for a moment about changing from her riding habit into the one good dress she had, but then decided against it. She did not want to outshine Nora on her wedding day.
Not that Nora need be concerned. The cheerful happiness that bubbled up from her more than compensated for the simplicity of her costume. And the embroidered blue wool skirt and linen blouse were surely new for this special day.
Felicity would cheerfully have given Nora a present of one of her gowns, but Nora was several inches shorter and decidedly plumper around the waist. And even if they were of a size, she would not want to risk giving offense, either to Nora or to whomever had so lovingly embroidered the clothes for this day.
After pinning her hair up, Felicity checked her appearance in the tiny mirror that hung from the wall. She would have to do, she thought, then gathered up her comb and brush and placed them in her case. As she placed them back in her saddlebag, her hand encountered the familiar shape of her keepsake box. She had carried it wi
th her all this time, refusing to leave it behind. Gowns, shawls, shoes and even jewelry had been left behind to be conveyed by wagon. But she would not be parted from her keepsakes.
Suddenly she was glad that she had insisted on bringing this box with her, despite Kilgarvan’s grumblings on how awkward it was to pack. Opening the box, she carefully moved aside the shells till the glitter of gems revealed what she sought. She removed the two combs and then closed the box, replacing it firmly in her luggage.
She held the combs in her hand for a moment, remembering how delighted she had been when Senhora Almadillo had presented them to her. Smaller than the elaborate combs worn by the women of the Portuguese court, they were perfect for the young lady she had been. Her first grown-up jewelry, the senhora had declared, and young Felicity had worshiped the elegant woman who had given her such a wonderful gift.
And now it was time to pass these on to another. Nora was peering out the window, no doubt hoping to catch a glimpse of her Brian.
“Nora,” Felicity said, coming to stand behind her. “You will see your Brian soon enough.”
Nora laughed. “And when he is my own, no doubt I will soon be wishful to see the backside of him,” she said.
“Here, let me help you with your hair,” Felicity said. She turned Nora so her back was to the mirror, and then quickly tucked a comb in on each side, just above the ear.
“There,” she said.
Nora turned to see her reflection in the mirror. “Oh, my,” she murmured. “Oh, my.”
Indeed the combs looked very elegant, and Felicity felt quite pleased with herself for having thought of them.
“They are so beautiful. I promise to take good care of them, and to give them back to you right after.”
“They are yours. A gift for your wedding day,” Felicity said. “And for your kindness in inviting Lord Kilgarvan and me to share in it.”
“But I couldn’t. I can’t,” Nora babbled in confusion, reaching up to touch one of the magnificent objects, then turning to look at Felicity. “I mean, I shouldn’t, should I?”
The Irish Earl Page 10