He knew he should have gone to sit above on the box with the driver, since by rights he was little more than a servant. But Muireann had made it quite clear by offering her hand that he was to sit inside with her.
At any rate, it was bitterly cold outside. It would do no one any good if he got pneumonia. She certainly seemed to need his warmth as she nestled closely against him under the traveling rugs and observed, "It's freezing."
"Aye, that's why Father Brennan wanted to take care of the matter straight away," he said as he tucked her into the corner of the carriage. He draped the folds of his cloak securely over her lap before once more settling the carriage rugs over them both.
He pointed out several impressive-looking buildings as they traveled through the snowy streets, such as Trinity College and Christ Church Cathedral.
Muireann had to admit to herself that despite her difficult circumstances, she enjoyed the impromptu tour of the city. She looked with interest at all the things Lochlainn pointed out to her, and was certainly pleased with what she saw.
Ireland had often been ridiculed in her hearing as a troublesome, backward sort of place, but certainly Dublin seemed a fairly modern European capital.
"And Australia, what was it like?" she asked conversationally as the coach lurched to and fro on the icy streets, occasionally throwing them intimately together.
"Very hot some days, freezing the next, all of that and rainy in Melbourne. I worked all over, mainly with cattle, but also doing some carpentry and blacksmith's work, which I picked up over the years at Barnakilla.
"Some of the country is like a desert, no green for miles. After Ireland, well, I just couldn't get used to the bleakness. That's why I had to return. When my sister wrote to me and said that Augustine was begging me to come back and look after things as I had done when his father was alive, I jumped at the chance," he told her. "I'd made some money, enough to keep myself and my sister comfortably, but not enough to set up my own place, as I had once dreamed."
"What about your sister? Tell me about her, unless of course it's too personal," Muireann said shyly, recalling how brooding he had looked earlier that morning when she had mentioned Barnakilla.
But Lochlainn smiled now. "Ciara is a very talented young woman, bright, intelligent, excellent at sewing, cooking, cleaning. She kept house for Augustine for a time, though of late she's been taking in sewing and laundry."
"Oh, why is that?"
Lochlainn neatly avoided the subject by saying, "Almost there."
He absentmindedly tucked a stray lock of hair back into Muireann's bonnet, his long, warm fingers stroking her petal-soft cheek lightly.
He smiled. "There, pretty as a picture."
Then he nearly kicked himself as he realized he had blurted out something so suggestive to the lady just before her husband's funeral. But she seemed to take no notice of his compliment, and merely thanked him as she tugged on her gloves.
He got out of the carriage first, and lifted Muireann down, holding onto her under the arms, close to his long lean body, until he was certain she had her feet firmly planted under her. Then he took her arm, and escorted her to the graveside. There he wrapped her in the voluminous folds of his cloak, pressing her close enough against his front for her to be acutely aware of his masculine strength throughout the ceremony.
Really, Lochlainn was the most extraordinary man, kind, tender and smiling one moment, brooding and arrogant the next. She was glad, however, that he couldn't see her face, for it was almost as though the bitter weather had frozen up her tears. She remained dry-eyed throughout the funeral, so that Father Brennan kept casting anxious looks at her as she stood numbly, no trace of emotion apparent in her face.
As she knelt to put the first handful of soil on the coffin, Father Brennan caught Lochlainn's eye, and indicated he should come into the vestry for a moment afterwards.
"Muireann, would you like to come inside, while they fill the grave?" Lochlainn asked softly, bending his head towards hers.
"No, really, I'll be fine in the carriage," she said, the tears beginning to well up as she wondered what she was going to do now.
He conducted her to the carriage and helped her into it.
"Settle yourself in there. I'll be back in a moment. I just have to give Father Brennan a bit of money for the poor box for his troubles."
"What's wrong?" Lochlainn asked without preamble as he entered the vestry.
"I'm just a bit worried about that poor young girl, that's all. She seems to be holding all of her grief in, trying to be brave. It's not good for her."
"Well, grief takes all forms," Lochlainn said with an uncomfortable shrug. "I can tell you she certainly cried herself to sleep last night."
"I know, but all the same, don't let her overdo things."
He scowled blackly. "I'm hardly in a position to tell her what to do, now am I? After all, I'm only the hired help."
"You know what I mean, so don't be disingenuous. Make sure if she does decide to go back to Barnakilla with you that you don't allow her to overtax her strength."
Lochlainn sighed. "I'll look after Muireann, Father, I promise. She doesn't deserve any of this. I'll do everything I can to help her if she does decide to come home with me."
"Very well. Go now, before she freezes out there. Good luck to you both then, and may God be with you."
"Amen to that, Father," Lochlainn assented wholeheartedly, crossing himself. Then he headed back to the waiting carriage.
That unpleasant duty done, the estate manager had a far more distasteful one to perform. He knew he would have to do it as soon as they got back to the Gresham if they were to be out of their room by six.
Watery January sunlight filtered though the coach windows as they rode back together in silence.
"It looks like more snow," she observed forlornly as she huddled against Lochlainn for warmth.
He put his arm around her. "I was thinking, you know, that we really ought to consider heading back to Barnakilla. After all, the weather could get worse, and you might be more comfortable there than at a hotel."
This was a complete fabrication, of course, but it was one way of broaching the subject of their leaving soon without disclosing the whole truth before he was sure Muireann was ready to hear it.
She still felt uneasy about the magnitude of her decision to go to Barnakilla. After all, it would be like cutting her last tie with the past if she ventured into the complete unknown with this enigmatic stranger. At the same time, she knew beyond a doubt what waited for her back at Fintry.
She sighed and rested her head against the squabs of the seat. For a time she stared up at the ceiling.
At length she replied, "I suppose you're right. There's no sense in putting off unpleasant things, is there? I have to be an adult about all this, accept my responsibilities to Barnakilla as Augustine's wife."
"You're doing fine so far."
Muireann looked up at him and gave an uncertain smile. "I know this might sound odd to you, Lochlainn, but I've always felt I was destined for important things. I mean, I've never spent all my time dreaming about who I would marry, the house I would have, balls, parties. I always dreamed of adventure, of doing something on my own, without my parents or anyone else dictating to me. I must sound rather dull to you. Or arrogant."
"No, not at all. Go on," he urged.
"Well, Augustine never told me very much about Barnakilla, just that he needed a good wife to run his household. I mean, I'm not saying I was being mercenary, that I married him for the estate. You mustn't think that."
"I don't." If you had, child, you certainly would be in for a big disappointment, he thought sardonically.
"It was the challenge. I mean, here was a man who swept me off my feet, who said he needed me, loved me. It all seemed too good to be true for a girl like me, plain and silly as I am. I should have known my happiness wouldn't last. But having seen this rosy vista laid out for me in my mind's eye, how can I go back to Fintry, to my old
life? I married Augustine for a whole welter of reasons, not simply because I thought I might be falling in love. Those reasons still hold true. So I need your honest opinion now," she stated as she looked up at him searchingly.
"About what, my dear?"
"Am I making a mistake in thinking that a foolish girl like myself could make a difference to Barnakilla? Is it just stupid pride that makes me believe I might actually be able to run an estate, if you were willing to teach me, and pick me up when I stumble and fall flat as I shall no doubt do?"
The coach pulled up in front of the hotel just then. Lochlainn looked at her earnestly. Taking one of her delicate hands in his own, he vowed, "You're not ugly, foolish or silly. I know you can make a difference, Muireann. I'm certain of it. And I promise, I'll never leave you, not for as long as you ever need me. I give you my word."
Her amethyst eyes gazed up into his steel-gray ones which stared down at her so piercingly, and all her doubts melted like snow in the sunshine.
"Then let's go upstairs and pack. Tell Paddy the driver to get a few items ready for our journey."
Lochlainn swung her down from the coach then, and trailed after her up to their room. Once inside, she immediately moved to pack her case, but he took her gently by the arm, and asked her to sit down with him for a moment.
Muireann blinked in surprise. "If you're worried about my having made my mind up too abruptly in the coach . . ."
"I am, but not for the reason you think," he said as he seated her by the rapidly dying fire. "I have to be honest with you. I want our relationship to be completely candid if I'm to help you through this."
"Fine," she agreed, suddenly feeling a prickle of unease at the base of her spine.
"All right. I hate to have to tell you this so soon after Augustine's death, but the truth of the matter is that Barnakilla is nearly bankrupt."
Muireann's eyes widened and she began to laugh bitterly.
He was too astonished for words at her strange reaction. He had expected horror, dismay, but never amusement.
"It isn't funny, you know! The estate is in desperate shape. If you don't try to help us, Muireann, we'll all be turned off the land!" Lochlainn rose to pace the floor in his agitation.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh." Muireann shook her head. "It's just that, well, I couldn't imagine how things could get any worse than they were just a minute ago. Now I know. You see, I'm penniless as well. My father gave Augustine thousands for my dowry, and he went on a gambling spree and frittered it all away as soon as we were married. I have virtually nothing in my purse. I hate to even think where I'm going to get the money to pay for the funeral."
"I've taken care of that," Lochlainn said quietly, trying to ignore his churning stomach and the bile which had risen to his throat. If Augustine hadn't already been dead, he would most assuredly have strangled him with his bare hands.
"And the hotel bill?"
"That as well, but we have to be out of here by six."
"I knew it was too good to be true, like a fairytale." She sniffed. "And to think, all my life my father tried to protect me from fortune hunters, only to let one walk right through his door and carry me off to God only knows where!" She began to laugh again, shaking her head ruefully.
"Muireann, I'm sure that Augustine--"
"No, Lochlainn, don't even start to try to make me feel better about all this," she practically shouted, hugging her arms to herself as she gazed bleakly into the fire.
"Well, what did I expect," she sighed after a few minutes. "I made my bed, I'll have to lie in it. I wasn't blind to Augustine's faults. I married him, and I'll just have to suffer the consequences."
"No you don't. You can go back to Scotland, admit you made a mistake."
"That's the last thing I would ever consider doing!" she said in exasperation as she rose and moved to look out the window at the snowy streets below.
Suddenly the room began to close in around her. And Lochlainn had said they would have to leave that night.
As he came to join her by the window, she asked him bluntly, "What did you use to pay all the bills?"
"All of Augustine's clothes and jewelry," he admitted.
"I see."
"I would have told you, but you seemed so devastated," he apologized lamely, spreading his hands wide.
She shrugged one shoulder. "I can't blame you. You did what you felt needed to be done. You were only trying to protect me. Did you at least get a good price for them?"
He nodded. "There's a fair pawn broker in Sackville Street who gave me a good price."
"Is there any money left?"
"Enough to put us up in a modest inn on our way back to Enniskillen, but no more."
She digested this information for a few minutes, drumming her fingers on the window pane, like a tiny bird futilely trying to peck its way to freedom.
After a few more minutes' contemplation, she said, "Tell me, is there a good livery stable here in town?"
He looked down at her inquiringly. "Aye, there are two or three that I know of personally."
"And is there a public coach to Barnakilla?"
"It goes as far as Enniskillen. The estate is another nine miles from there."
"How does the coach travel to Enniskillen?"
"It goes through Virginia Town, where the passengers spend the night."
She gave a last look out the window, and moved to where her trunks stood. "What time would it go?"
"There are two each day. The last one is at two. But why?"
"Never mind that now, come help me with these bags," Muireann said.
"Why, what are you going to do?"
"Sell it all."
"But Muireann, your clothes," he protested, shocked.
"They're all new, my trousseau. I didn't even want them, but my mother and sister insisted. I don't need so many dresses. All of my most important items are in these two small bags here. I have this dress I'm wearing, so if I take two or three more warm practical ones out of the bags, and my more personal items, we can sell the rest."
"I can't let you come to Barnakilla with nothing!"
"I won't have nothing," she said as she tugged a heavy black watch tartan woolen gown and a dark navy one out of the bag, and several white lacy items. She moved over to the screen to take the burgundy and black checked gown as well, and her nightdress.
"All of these things are new," she said with a sweep of her hand, putting the neat pile of dresses back in the larger valise. "And those, and those," she added, clicking each bag open for a quick scrutiny of their contents. At last she fished into her black bag, and removed her jewel case.
"I won't have nothing," she repeated, as she perused the contents of her jewel case, and closed the lid with an abrupt snap before she had the chance to change her mind.
"I'll have four dresses, a warm cloak, some books and small trinkets of sentimental value, and above all, I'll have you, Lochlainn. That is unless you've changed your mind about helping me now that you've discovered I'm almost penniless as well."
He shook his head. "I'm not going to change my mind. But I think perhaps I should try to change yours, if you're going to have to sell everything you possess to go to Barnakilla, when you could just as easily go home."
"And I've told you, I'm going to my new home. Now I'll just finish packing these bags. Then we'll head for Sackville Street first, and see what we can get for these. Here, help me."
He loaded himself down with her cases, and she followed along, checking the room one last time before she left. She took her two small bags, now crammed full to overflowing, and Lochlainn's small overnight bag. She helped load all the cases into the back of the carriage, and climbed up without hesitation.
"Drive on, Paddy, to Sackville Street," she said in a commanding voice, and sat back stiffly in the carriage, trying desperately not to break down and howl her misery and disappointment in front of Lochlainn, who did nothing but look at her pityingly.
CHAPTER FIVE
Besides, she was right. What else could she do?
All the same, he was terribly conscious of the fact that he had been economical with the truth. Not only was the estate bankrupt, but the mansion was virtually uninhabitable. God knows how they were to make a living to support everyone. She might get a good price for her trousseau and jewels, but the funds would only last so long, encumbered as the estate was with debt.
Call Home the Heart Page 5