The Irish Earl

by Patricia Bray

  He had won the victory he sought, but he was haunted by the growing sense that he might have thrown away a far greater prize.

  Late Friday evening, Mr. Hobson finally arrived. Kilgarvan had been looking forward to this visit as a welcome distraction, to keep him from brooding over Felicity’s absence.

  Seeing Mr. Hobson’s fatigue, however, Kilgarvan had merely bidden him welcome, and seen that his guest was shown to a chamber and that a meal was sent up on a tray. He had invited Mr. Hobson to join him for breakfast the next morning, and it was at that meal that he first heard Mr. Hobson’s ideas.

  “I don’t mind telling you, my lord, that the journey here would have taxed the strength of a young man. I see now why they call this the uncivilized part of Ireland. Why, the roads here are scarce fit for donkeys.”

  Mr. Hobson was a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair combed carefully over a shiny bald pate. He had a round face, and was full of smiles and hearty laughter, which gave the impression of affability and good humor. It was only when one looked closely that one saw that his smile never quite reached his eyes, which were dark and knowing, and seemed to miss no detail of his surroundings.

  “I appreciate your making the journey,” Kilgarvan said. “And as for the roads, I have laborers working even now to repair them.”

  Mr. Hobson nodded. “Yes, I saw them, though if they made any progress I could not see it. If I were you, I would hire an English supervisor to make sure the workers do not slack off. The Irish are not used to hard labor, but with enough supervision even the laziest of peasants can be made to turn in an honest day’s work.”

  Kilgarvan eyed his guest, but there was no sign that Mr. Hobson was jesting.

  “My workers have never given me cause for complaint,” Kilgarvan said mildly.

  “Of course, of course,” Mr. Hobson agreed, seeming to realize that he had said too much. “But there is no harm in being firm. It is hardly the work they are used to.”

  Mr. Hobson carefully cut a piece of bacon, then speared it with a fork and lifted it to his mouth. He chewed the meat with careful deliberation, then swallowed.

  Fortunately Nora Murphy’s grudge against her employer did not extend to his guest. This morning’s breakfast was a meal worthy of Felicity’s tenure. But Mr. Hobson showed neither enjoyment of or displeasure with his food. He ate with mechanical precision, as if eating was simply an act that needed to be done, rather than a source of enjoyment.

  Kilgarvan found it difficult to reconcile the image of the man sitting before him with the shrewd businessman he was reported to be. Mr. Hobson had started life as a clerk in a factory in Belfast, rising rapidly to the position of manager, and then managed to raise enough capital to buy out the original owner. Within five years his factory had doubled in size; within ten he had added a glassworks, a spinning mill and an ironworks to his growing empire. He now owned shares in a dozen other factories and enterprises in the north.

  Looking to expand his commercial empire to the south of Ireland, Mr. Hobson had journeyed to Cork, surveying possible sites for a new ironworks. Learning of his presence, Kilgarvan had written to Mr. Hobson, inviting him to visit to discuss a business proposition. Mr. Hobson’s business sense had come highly recommended, but that did not make the man any easier to like.

  It was not necessary that he like Mr. Hobson, Kilgarvan reminded himself. It was simply necessary that he be able to work with the man. After all, he knew his limitations. Any factory he started would need an experienced manager, and who better to consult than a man who had already started a dozen successful enterprises?

  “So what is it you wished to speak with me about?” Mr. Hobson said, laying down his napkin beside his plate and pushing back his chair. “You hardly asked me here to discuss the state of your roads.”

  Kilgarvan took a sip of his tea and then set the cup down. “Mr. Hobson, I have heard that there is no one in Ireland who knows more about starting factories than you.”

  “That is very kind, my lord. I will say I have had my successes.”

  “I have a mind to start a linen factory here in Kilgarvan. As it is, my tenants and I are entirely too dependent on agriculture. I am looking for a partner to join me in this new venture.”

  “And your share would be the land? Or would you be furnishing the capital as well?” Mr. Hobson asked, coming straight to the point.

  “Both,” Kilgarvan said firmly. “But I have no experience in factories, and this is why I am seeking a partner.”

  Mr. Hobson stroked his chin. “Hmm. I would want to see the proposed site, and discuss your plans with you and your agent. I had not considered investing in Kerry, but there are possibilities here—yes, indeed, there are.”

  It was better than he had hoped for. He knew Mr. Hobson was too shrewd a businessman to commit himself wholly to such a scheme at once. Instead he would carefully consider all the angles. But even if Mr. Hobson did not agree to be his partner, at the very least Kilgarvan would have the benefit of his advice on the project.

  After breakfast they went down to the village, and Kilgarvan showed Mr. Hobson the site he had chosen for the factory. The cascades from the lake-fed stream would provide more than sufficient energy for turning a mill wheel, and the stream itself would provide a constant supply of fresh water for the factory.

  They returned to Arlyn Court and met with Dennis O’Connor in the estate office to review Kilgarvan’s own plans. Mr. Hobson questioned everything, from the number of residents of the valley who could be hired as workers, to the amount of money that Kilgarvan was prepared to invest, and how long the earl was prepared to wait until the factory began turning a profit.

  At last Mr. Hobson declared himself satisfied. “I was doubtful this morning, my lord,” he said. “Others have tried to establish linen in the south, with no success. But your situation here is a very good one. You have the site and the capital, and the climate here will work in your favor. And although Kilgarvan is far from a city, once the road is rebuilt this will be no great inconvenience. In fact, it may be in your favor, for there is no need to pay your workers the wages they would expect in the city. From what I saw they will be grateful for any employment, and you can pay them half of what I must pay my own workers in Belfast.”

  “I intend to pay my workers fair wages,” Kilgarvan said.

  “Of course, but there is fair and then there is fair,” Mr. Hobson replied. “It is not as if they are accustomed to the work, as Englishmen would be. We will need to hire experienced men to act as overseers, men who can read and write and follow directions.”

  There was truth in what Mr. Hobson said. Country folk did not expect city wages, nor could Kilgarvan expect his own farmers to easily turn their hands to factory work. Yet there was something in the way that Mr. Hobson expressed his ideas that set his back up.

  Dennis O’Connor seemed to share his distaste. “I suppose you see it as good fortune that the Irish have so many children,” he said softly. “For children can be employed in the factories, and paid even less than a grown man.”

  Mr. Hobson beamed approvingly at the agent, not realizing that Dennis was being ironic. “Another point in our favor, I must agree,” he said. “And unlike their parents, the children can be taught English, and brought up to understand the modern way of doing things.”

  Kilgarvan’s flesh crawled.

  Dennis O’Connor’s face darkened, and his right hand clenched into a fist.

  “This has been a most…informative…discussion,” Kilgarvan said, catching Dennis’s eye and giving him a stern glare. “But I have taken up a great deal of your time, and I would be remiss if I did not offer you a chance to rest, while I attend to other business.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Hobson said, his brow wrinkling in apparent puzzlement as he looked from Kilgarvan to Dennis, and then back to the earl. “I trust you will give my proposal all due consideration?”

  “I will give your proposal the full consideration it deserves,” Kilgarvan said fir
mly. “I will see you at dinner? We keep country hours here, and will dine at six.”

  “I look forward to it,” Mr. Hobson said, rising from his chair. Then, with a short bow, he left the room.

  Dennis held his silence until Mr. Hobson’s footsteps could be heard ascending the main staircase. Then he firmly closed the door to the office and turned to face his friend.

  “Gerald,” he said, “tell me that you have not lost your wits. Tell me that you are not seriously considering a partnership with that arrogant bastard.”

  Kilgarvan shook his head. “I would not trust that man to run a stall at the fair, let alone with the welfare of our people.”

  The tension left Dennis’s frame. “Good,” he said. “I did not think so, but you have been acting so strangely since you returned…”

  Dennis’s words stung, but it hurt more to realize that his oldest friend had not been sure of his reaction. Dennis had actually thought him capable of a partnership with the odious Mr. Hobson.

  “Have I really been so much of an ass?”

  Dennis leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Aye,” he said. “Sure and we know you have a good heart under it all. But ever since you have come back from England, you seem to be trying to make Kilgarvan over into an English village. It is no sin to be poor, no sin to be Irish.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then why wouldn’t you teach Felicity Gaelic?”

  “Because it was better that the servants learned English.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that they might not want to learn English? That they are proud of who they are?”

  Of course his people were proud of their Irish heritage. It was a pride he shared. But such pride was no excuse for ignorance and superstition that kept them mired in poverty.

  “Are you saying I was wrong to build the fishing weir? To plan the new village? To try to bring the factory in, to give our people a chance at a new life?”

  “No, no, I am not saying that. The weir, the houses, those are all good things. And the new factory could be a good thing as well. You just need to think a bit, first. Maybe our people do not want a grand factory, if it means losing who they are. Maybe it would be better not to try to do so much at once. All I’m asking is that you think before you do anything that you will regret.”

  Felicity had tried to tell him as much, but he had not been willing to listen. He had been too blind, too certain that he, and he alone, knew best. How often had he raged to Felicity over the backwardness of his people? How often had he decried their ignorance, and declared that only by adopting English methods of industry and commerce could they hope to survive?

  The encounter with Mr. Hobson had been like looking into a dark mirror, one that magnified all his own faults and misconceptions. It was a terrible glimpse into the future, and what he could become if he allowed his own compulsions to drive him.

  It was a hard truth that Dennis had told him, but it was a truth that he was finally willing to hear.

  “You are a good friend,” Kilgarvan said. “I know I do not say so often enough.”

  “Ah, well, every man needs a friend who can knock sense into his stubborn head,” Dennis said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Well, next time don’t wait so long,” Kilgarvan said.

  “What are you going to do about Mr. Hobson? If it were up to me, I’d show him the door, and help him out with a boot to his backside.”

  It was a tempting thought, but hardly appropriate behavior. “I think not,” Kilgarvan said. “He is my guest, after all, here at my invitation. I will simply send him on his way tomorrow. After I tell him that I have reconsidered my decision to partner with him.”

  “That’s better than he deserves,” Dennis said.

  That would solve the problem of Mr. Hobson. But what was he to do about Felicity?

  Nineteen

  Felicity gazed out the drawing room window at the busy Dublin street scene revealed below. But her mind was not on the bustle of the street, but rather on the countryside that she had left behind. The endless golden summer had finally drawn to a close, and autumn had arrived. And with it would come harvesttime. Every hand at Kilgarvan would be turned to the task of bringing in the crops before the first frost.

  And Lord Kilgarvan was certain to be in the thick of it. Such an important event would require his every moment of supervision. She could almost picture him, his cravat undone, his dark hair tousled by the wind as he strode the fields, encouraging his tenants as they labored. And if the weather held, and the harvest was a good one, afterward there would be the traditional harvest ball for the tenants.

  She felt a pang of sadness. She missed Arlyn Court and Kilgarvan’s valley. She missed the country folk, who had set aside their pride to welcome their new countess, despite her English birth. Kilgarvan had crept into her mind and heart in a way that no other place ever had.

  Or perhaps it was not Kilgarvan the land, but Kilgarvan the gentleman that her heart was pining for. Not Kilgarvan as he had been, cold and driven by his responsibilities. But the man she had seen glimpses of, the man who could be a lover and a friend.

  The man she had fallen in love with. It was ironic, for her love was the reason she had left him. If she had felt mere affection, then she could have stayed at Arlyn Court—stayed to make the county her home. After all, all she had ever wanted was a place to set down roots, and a husband who respected her and treated her affectionately.

  But Kilgarvan had shown her that she could have so much more: a husband who was both friend and lover. And yet any chance for happiness had been doomed from the start, ever since she had insisted upon that ridiculous marriage settlement. His pride and her stubbornness had combined to send them down a path from which there was no turning back.

  “He would come if you told him, my dear,” Lady Kilgarvan observed.

  Felicity turned her unseeing gaze from the street scene, toward her mother-in-law. The dowager countess sat in a chair next to the fireplace, her attention seemingly fixed upon her embroidery frame.

  “I beg your pardon?” Felicity said. “Who would come, and what would I tell him?”

  “My son may be a fool,” Lady Kilgarvan said, continuing to set perfectly even stitches. “But if you were to tell him that you are with child, he would come for you.”

  “How did you know?” Felicity asked, too shocked to dissemble. She had told no one. It had been only a fortnight since the physician had confirmed Felicity’s growing suspicions.

  Lady Kilgarvan smiled. “Don’t worry. It does not show yet, unless someone knows you very well indeed.” She paused, tying a knot in the thread and then cutting it off with a small pair of scissors. Reaching over into the work basket on the table next to her, she rooted around until she found the skein of yarn that she was looking for.

  “May I ask when the child will be born?”

  “The physician was not sure. Late April or perhaps May,” she replied. Although the physician was unwilling to commit himself, in her heart Felicity was certain that this child had been conceived on the night of Nora Connolly’s wedding.

  “And how long are you planning on waiting before you tell your husband?”

  “That is my decision to make,” Felicity said.

  “Of course. But he will have to learn sometime. You will not be able to hide your condition for much longer in society. Better that he hear it from you than from an acquaintance.”

  The dowager countess had a good point, but Felicity did not want to hear it. She knew that Kilgarvan would come as soon as he heard the news. But she did not want him to come merely because he felt it was his obligation. She did not want to see him, knowing that his care was for the child she bore, and not for herself.

  And yet what else could she do? She could not hide away forever. Eventually she would be forced to confront him.

  “I will consider what you say,” Felicity said. “But pray tell me, what do you think of Lady Kinsale’s invitation to visit her estate? Would
you like to leave Dublin for a bit?”

  She was relieved when the dowager accepted the change of topic with good grace. Felicity counted herself lucky that the dowager had consented to leave her sister and brother-in-law, and to join Felicity in the Dublin town house she had rented. The dowager had proven a good companion, although sometimes she saw more than Felicity was willing to reveal.

  Felicity’s arrival had coincided with the start of the Little Season, and Lady Kilgarvan’s presence had helped establish her in Dublin society. A few greeted her coolly, but the tight-knit community seemed to find nothing unusual in Felicity’s presence. Indeed it seemed expected that a woman of Felicity’s rank and breeding would prefer the company of genteel society to an estate in the Irish hinterland.

  Although she had relinquished control of the bulk of her fortune to Kilgarvan, she continued to draw upon the generous allowance that she had been allotted. It was more than sufficient for her and Lady Kilgarvan’s needs. In what seemed no time at all she had leased a fashionable town house, complete with servants and a cook trained in France. Soon she had settled into the life of a Dublin aristocrat.

  It was not what she had wanted or hoped for. But it was what she had, and she was determined to make the most of it.

  Kilgarvan patted his breast pocket, making certain that the letter from Felicity was still inside. A foolish gesture, he knew, but he clung to the letter as a tangible sign that all was not yet hopeless.

  For Felicity had not gone to France, nor Italy, nor even to England. Instead she had written him from Dublin. She could have put herself beyond his reach, but instead she had chosen to reside in Dublin. In the company of his mother, no less. It gave him hope that there was still time to put things right.