Felicity’s own days were filled to overflowing. Each morning she spent an hour with Mr. Hamilton, who was teaching her the Gaelic tongue. The rest of her day was spent training the new servants and supervising the renovations. Under her management, Arlyn Court began to lose its air of musty abandonment. Rooms were freshly painted, and she browsed through pattern books to select wallpapers. Drapes were replaced, carpets cleaned, every stick of furniture polished within an inch of its life.
Copper pots and pans of every size were ordered for the kitchen, and the meals were served on delicate china dishes, accompanied by newly ordered silver plate. Perhaps inspired by her newly stocked kitchen, Nora Murphy now sent up meals that were greatly improved in their variety. Or perhaps it was not so much the new utensils as it was the threat of dismissal that had prompted the change in her attitude.
But for all the notice he took of the improvements, Kilgarvan might as well have been living in a shack and dining on bacon and potatoes. It irked her that he took for granted all the work she was doing to restore their home.
She wondered how it came to be that a man who was so courteous and kind to all others could be so neglectful and indifferent toward his wife.
Seventeen
They existed in an uneasy truce, each knowing that the situation could not last, and yet also not wanting to be the first to break the truce. The state of affairs was far too fragile to last. The end, when it came, was as sudden as it was expected.
Felicity was feeling quite pleased with herself. Just this morning she had taken the opportunity to practice her Gaelic on Nora Murphy. The cook, who had greeted Felicity’s intrusion into the kitchen with her customary scowl, beamed with delight upon being addressed in her native tongue. She had launched into a torrent of words, almost too fast for Felicity to follow. But Felicity understood enough to know that the cook was praising the kindness and learning of her new mistress.
In the end it had been all that Felicity could do to make her escape.
She left the kitchen and climbed the stairs that led to the public rooms. As she approached the room that Kilgarvan used as his estate office, the door swung open, and her husband’s figure appeared.
“May I have a word with you?” he asked.
“Of course.”
At his gesture she stepped into his office, and he followed. The estate office was a small room, whose double windows overlooked the stableyard. On the opposite wall, rows of shelves held account books, ledgers, seed catalogs, auction notices and such. On the desk was a small pile of letters, next to which was a pen and inkwell and a sheaf of blank paper. Apparently Kilgarvan had been doing his correspondence when he heard her steps.
There was a battered but serviceable chair with padded armrests behind the desk, and on the other side two armless straight-backed chairs no doubt intended for servants or tradesmen.
“Please sit down,” he said, moving behind the desk.
“If it will be but a moment, then I will stand,” Felicity said with a trace of unease. She had no intention of sitting opposite Kilgarvan, as if she were a mere petitioner and not his wife.
Kilgarvan shrugged his shoulders. He did not sit down, but rather picked up a letter from the desk.
“I wished to inform you that we will be having a guest,” he said.
“Is it someone I know? Your mother perhaps?”
“No, Lady Kilgarvan remains in Dublin, although she sends her kind regards to us both,” he replied. “No, the visitor is a Mr. Hobson, with whom I wish to consult on a matter of business.”
“I see.” She paused for a moment, wondering how on earth he expected her to house and entertain a guest. Her renovations were in that in-between stage where everything was well begun, but yet nothing was near completion. She could hardly assign a guest to a room that was half-painted, or worse yet, where the old paper had been stripped off, and new paper not yet arrived.
She tapped one finger against her cheek as she thought. “I suppose the north guest room could be made ready. The water-damaged floorboards were repaired, and the plasterers finished last week. And I think, although I am not certain, that it was on the list to be painted this week. So as long as your Mr. Hobson does not mind the smell of fresh paint, I think we could be ready for him.”
“I am certain he will have no objection,” Kilgarvan said. “According to his letter he should be here within four or five days.”
Four or five days? That meant that Mr. Hobson was already on his way, no doubt in response to an invitation issued by her husband. Strange that it had not occurred to Kilgarvan to warn her sooner that she needed to prepare for guests. Was it because he had faith in her ability to organize the house? Or had it simply been a gentlemanly oversight, his not realizing that his wife might not find it convenient to entertain strangers while in the midst of renovations?
“We will be ready for his arrival. But, pray tell, what business does Mr. Hobson wish to discuss?”
Kilgarvan shifted on his feet. “Mr. Hobson owns several factories in the north of Ireland. He has written me about the possibility of starting a factory to manufacture linen here in Glenmore.”
“A factory?” Glenmore seemed an odd location for such a venture. It seemed to her that a factory was better suited to a more populous location, one with ready access to markets and suppliers.
“Yes, a factory. In Glenmore,” Kilgarvan said, biting off each word. “Mr. Hobson will provide the knowledge and experience to start the venture, and I—that is, we—will provide the capital.”
A factory seemed an odd concept in such a rural setting. And yet, if such a thing could be made to work, it would be a very good thing for all concerned. Kilgarvan would have the advantage of a good investment, and it would add jobs for his people that were not subject to the vagaries of agriculture.
“But what of this Mr. Hobson? He is experienced, but what kind of experience does he have? Are his factories profitable? Are his workers treated fairly? One hears such dreadful stories of the conditions in some of these factories, where the workers are treated little better than slaves.”
Her words were intended as an innocent question, but her husband exploded as if she had insulted him. “I do not need you to tell me how to manage my affairs,” Kilgarvan said. “What do you know of Ireland, or Kilgarvan, or of what my people need? And yet you hold your money over my head as a weapon, insisting that I explain every decision to you.”
His words sparked off her own anger. “How dare you speak to me in such a fashion, when I am simply trying to help you?”
“I do not want your help. I never wanted you here at all.”
“You never wanted me,” she said. “You only wanted my money.”
She stared him full in the face, daring him to contradict her. He stared back at her, stubborn, immovable. His eyes were dark, fathomless pools. She searched in vain for some trace of the man who was her husband, but Kilgarvan the friend had disappeared behind the mask that was the Earl of Kilgarvan.
The silence stretched between them as she waited for him to deny her accusations. When she could stand it no longer, she broke the silence. “So, the truth at last,” she said, her throat so tight that she could barely swallow.
“Felicity—” he began, but she cut him off with an upraised hand.
“Do not lie to me now,” she said, suddenly weary. “It is ill-becoming of you. We both know that the Kilgarvan land is your true love, and marrying me was simply a means of securing what you prized most. And I am too weary to argue with you anymore. Your obstinate pride will be the undoing of you, but I will not stay to see it happen. You can have the money; I give it to you freely. And I will leave you here with the money and your land. I am sure you will be very happy together.”
With that, she spun on her heel and left the room. As she walked away, a part of her listened, hoping to hear him calling her back. Hoping to hear him say that she was wrong, and that he wanted her to be part of his life. But there was only silence.
&nbs
p; The next morning she stood in the front hall, watching as a servant loaded the last of her baggage into a pony cart, and then began covering it with an oilcloth. The skies, which had been a dull, leaden gray all morning, took this as a signal, and a soft rain began to fall.
Felicity pulled on her gloves and adjusted her cloak. She wondered what was keeping Dennis O’Connor. He should have been here by now.
“It is a miserable day for travel,” Kilgarvan said from somewhere behind her.
She did not turn around. “We have seen worse,” she said, addressing the air in front of her, remembering their journey from Cork. How long had it been since that torrential rainstorm, when they had been forced to seek shelter in Drisheen? Had it really been only two months ago? It seemed far longer. So much had happened since then. She had found her husband, and had lost him. Kilgarvan had chosen the land instead of her.
She could not stay here. Not when each day, each hour made her more miserable than the last. For it was all too clear that Kilgarvan did not want her here. He had determined from the start to shut her out of his life. And nothing she tried, whether gentle reason or stubborn argument, had served to put a dent in his convictions.
Perhaps things would have been different if they had made a better start to their marriage. If she had not insisted on trying to control Kilgarvan with her dowry. If Kilgarvan had not angered her by leaving her alone when she needed his support to face the London gossip.
There was blame enough to go around. For that matter, if only one of them had been sensible enough to insist on a more conventional period of engagement, they might have avoided this whole mess altogether.
Or they might not have. Their marriage might have been doomed from the start, simply because of her wealth and his poverty. Kilgarvan had enough pride for a dozen men, and he resented her for his misfortune.
And she had wounded his pride with her insistence on trying to help him, to be part of his life. The more she had tried to prove her worth to him, the more he had closed her out, until she could see no way to break the patterns of their behavior.
Just then Dennis O’Connor appeared on horseback. Behind him came a servant, leading Felicity’s gray gelding and the pony that Bridget O’Connor was to use.
It was time. She took a deep breath, and then began to speak. “You will find a letter in my sitting room addressed to Mr. Clutterbuck. A shipment of furniture should be arriving from Cork City any day now. Mrs. O’Connor will know what is to be done with it. The renovators have their list of tasks, but you should assign someone to keep an eye on their progress.”
Felicity turned, unable to deny herself one last glimpse of Kilgarvan. It was some relief to see that he looked as miserable as she felt. His eyes were bloodshot, and the lines on his face told of a sleepless night.
“But where will you be?”
“I have not decided. Paris, perhaps. Or Venice is lovely this time of year. But do not worry. There will be no scandal. And should you need to contact me for any reason, you may apply to Lord Rutland for my direction.”
Kilgarvan stretched out one hand as if to touch her, and then the arm fell back to his side. “Felicity, you do not have to leave,” he said.
She shook her head. “Yes, I do,” she insisted. “You truly do not wish me to stay—you merely feel guilty at having banished me.”
She had to leave. For her own sanity. Staying would only torment her with images of what she could not have. The only cure for her ache was time and distance.
Dennis O’Connor and his sister Bridget were her companions for the two-day journey to Nedeen. There she bade them farewell, and boarded a ship bound for Cork. The Cork harbor was filled with ships, and she could have had her choice of a dozen different vessels to carry her to England or to the Continent. But she had no wish to return to England, to face the inevitable questions about her marriage. Nor did she wish to resume the life of an aimless wanderer.
Instead she took passage for Dublin. Upon her arrival she met with their agent, Mr. Perry, and instructed him to find her a suitable residence.
Then she sent a card to Lady Kilgarvan, informing the dowager that she was in town.
Lady Kilgarvan called at her hotel the very next day.
They exchanged pleasantries, and Felicity assured Lady Kilgarvan that her son was well and that he sent his kind regards to her.
“And how did you find Kilgarvan? Was it as you expected?”
“Yes and no,” Felicity said cautiously. “The countryside is very beautiful—”
“And the people are very poor,” Lady Kilgarvan added.
“Indeed. But your son is hoping to change that, in time.” Restoring his estates was all he lived for. It consumed his thoughts, and his heart, to the exclusion of all else.
“And you? Is this trip to Dublin a mere visit? From your letters I was under the impression that you planned to make Kilgarvan your home.”
And so had she. “Circumstances changed,” Felicity said.
“Did you leave by choice? Or because my son illtreated you?”
She shook her head. “No, it was not that. But rather the improvements on the estate consumed his every waking hour. There seemed no reason for me to be there, so I left.”
“I had hoped for better, but it seems he is just like his father,” the countess said, shaking her head sadly. “Ours was a love match, and for the first few years life was wonderful. We came to Dublin for the Season and spent the rest of the year on the estate. But gradually the estate consumed more and more of my husband’s time and attention. He had little energy to spare for anything else. Not for me, not for his son. It became an obsession with him. I began to spend more and more time in Dublin, and then one year I simply did not return. I don’t think he noticed my absence at all.”
“I doubt Kilgarvan will notice my absence either,” Felicity said.
“But you love him.” It was not quite a question.
“Yes.” Felicity sighed, wondering at the impulse that made her share her feelings with the countess, when she had not even told Kilgarvan. “I left because I love him, and because I could not bear to stay there, knowing that I was his second choice.”
She had lost her husband not to another woman, but to a dream of his birthright, and his love for his land. How could she possibly compete with a love that was part of his very soul? She had nothing to offer him except herself and the simple human warmth of her love. And that had not been enough for him.
“There, there,” the countess said, moving to sit on the sofa, and patting Felicity’s hand as if to comfort her. “All may not be lost. My son is still young. He may yet come to his senses.”
Felicity forced herself to smile. “You may be right,” she said, but for her own part she held no such hope.
Eighteen
It did not take Kilgarvan long to realize that his people blamed him for Felicity’s departure. He could see it in their eyes as he visited the work sites in the valley, in the subdued greetings he received whenever he ventured into the village of Glenmore. Everywhere he went, the people inquired about the missing countess, and when Felicity was likely to return. He replied to their inquiries brusquely, not willing to admit that he did not know the answer to their questions. How could he tell them that he did not even know where his wife had gone?
Dennis O’Connor had escorted Felicity to Nedeen, from whence she had taken a ship to Cork City. From Cork she could have traveled to anywhere: Dublin, London, the Continent; for all he knew she was on a ship now, bound for some exotic land. He wondered if she were well, and if her thoughts turned to him as often as his turned in her direction.
At Arlyn Court it was worse. The servants gave him sidelong glances, their faces stiff with disapproval. Their loyalty to their mistress was only to be expected, since they owed their employment to Felicity. It was she who had chosen them, and her dowry that was paying their wages.
But even those who had known him the longest had turned against him. When he asked Mrs. O’Conn
or to ensure that the guest room was made ready for Mr. Hobson, she responded by lamenting Felicity’s absence. According to his housekeeper, Felicity was a paragon of generosity, goodness and organization, and without its mistress Arlyn Court was liable to collapse.
Felicity had even managed to charm the irascible Nora Murphy, for Kilgarvan found himself receiving cold dinners of burned meat and undercooked potatoes, as the cook made plain her displeasure with her master.
It was not fair. Felicity had been here only two months. He had lived here all his life. Arlyn Court belonged to him; the Kilgarvan land was his birthright. His people should have chosen his side in any quarrel, and yet somehow his English wife had won their hearts.
It was impossible that her absence could make such a difference. And yet, as the days passed and there was no word from Felicity, he found himself spending less and less time at Arlyn Court. For the house where he had spent his life now seemed strangely empty.
And there were reminders of Felicity everywhere. Each room bore the imprint of her presence. Arlyn Court shone with grandeur as it had not for a dozen years. But it was a grandeur that excluded him. He was not part of this. He could never be.
He had expected that Felicity’s departure would bring relief, an end to the impossible strain. No more would he have to justify every decision to her, and to beg his wife for money. No more would he be forced to endure the condemnation in her eyes as she saw the plight of his people. Without her constant questioning, he would be free of the doubts that plagued him, as he wondered if he was truly capable of restoring the estates.
But Felicity’s absence brought no relief, no comfort. Nor even did the knowledge that she had repudiated the marriage contracts, instructing the solicitor to release whatever funds her husband required without her approval. It was what he had wanted all along, and yet the victory was hollow. The feeling of triumph was overshadowed by the memory of sorrow that he had brought to Felicity, and the sadness in her face as she had left him.
The Irish Earl Page 16