The Irish Bride

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “Well, come down from the heights and be practical. Tell me where I may meet Mr. Ferris.”

  “Here.”

  Nick coughed as the beer caught in his throat. “Here?” he asked, his voice a notch higher than usual.

  “This is his favorite place to stop in for a pint when Rietta lets him have pocket money.” He looked around the barroom, the dim lamps reflecting poorly off the dark paneling. The small round windowpanes let in little light and let out nearly none of the smoke from the white clay pipes sprouting from the lips of half a dozen or so working men taking refreshment. “But I don’t see him now.”

  “That,” said a voice from the darkness, “would be because I’m sitting behind you, David Mochrie.”

  Nick’s first glimpse of the man he had all but decided to make his father-in-law did not augur well for the future. Mr. Ferris’s nose twitched when they met, as if sniffing for money.

  His hand was damp, though in fairness that might have been the condensation from his glass.

  The three men sat down together. “Am I to understand, Sir Nicholas, that it is your wish to marry my dear little Rietta?”

  “I cannot deny that I have something of that in mind. I have only just met the young lady.”

  “She’s a rare one. Not many girls are so serious-minded. She’s not one to throw her cap over the windmill.”

  “I admire her for that quality.”

  Mr. Ferris’s eyes disappeared when he smiled. “You’ll find her a careful housekeeper. I’ve never encouraged her to waste money.”

  “You have obviously been a dutiful father.”

  “It hasn’t been so easy, a man raising two daughters alone. M’wife—God rest her—was a Browne. You have some connection with that family, I believe.”

  So Mr. Ferris had checked on his family connections, had he? Nick glanced at David, who mimed innocent confusion. “Distant cousins only.”

  “Ah, the Tribes intermarried so! Important to keep good bloodlines, but all the more important to bring in fresh stock from time to time. There’s little difference between improving a herd of sheep and people, Sir Nicholas.” Mr. Ferris chuckled, shaking the crumbs of snuff loose from his waistcoat.

  “Or horses,” David said, grimacing.

  “Ah, you gentlemen would know more of that than I would. Landlord!”

  “No more for me,” Nick said. The taste of the beer, the smell of the smoke, and Mr. Ferris’s peering eyes and confidential tones combined in a whirl. He seemed to hear the faint whisper of a martial chorus and to see in the smoke the faces of his old mess mates. Someone laughed loudly, sounding just like Freddie Frobisher. Freddie had been shot through the ribs and had laughed and told jokes before he’d died.

  “I am interested in your daughter, Mr. Ferris. However, a choice of wife is not entered into lightly or unadvisedly. I shall wish to see more of her.”

  “Come to dinner today. Just ‘catch as catch can,’ but Rietta sets a good plain table. You, too, Mr. Mochrie.”

  Nick stood up somewhat abruptly. “You’re very kind; I should be honored. Good day, sir. David.”

  On the street, the fresh breeze from the bay revived him. He no longer felt as though he’d be sick, but was still shaken. Ghosts were all right in their proper places-graveyards by witch light, long halls in deserted castles— but they had no business leering over sticky beer glasses in respectable pubs.

  David had followed him outside but, thankfully, seemed to notice nothing amiss. “You mustn’t mind Mr. Ferris,” he said. “He’s not a bad old stick once you come to know him. If he was a bit overfamiliar just now, it must be the excitement.”

  “Excitement?” Nick echoed.

  “Well, it’s not every day a man lands a title for a daughter he’s long thought unmarriageable.”

  “I don’t understand you, David. Miss Ferris is an intelligent young woman, passably pretty, and more than a little charming. Yet you speak of her as though she were possessed of ten thousand furies.”

  “Just wait till you see her scold some poor serving wench for a fault. Don’t make up your mind till then. For my own sake, I’d have you marry the girl tomorrow. But you’re my friend and I’ll not see you enter into such a predicament without your eyes being wide open.”

  * * * *

  Nick supposed he should have told David that Blanche would be alone at the milliner’s. He had guessed that David, for all his confidence in the eventual happy outcome of his courtship, was not the favored one.

  Blanche’s pleased reception of him after having met him only once told Nick that his star was ascending in her eyes. No doubt she’d already created some fantastic deeds of heroism for him, turning him into a dream warrior from a fairy tale.

  She’d been on the watch for him, obviously. He’d no sooner emerged from the twisting alleys of medieval Gal-way than he heard his name shrieked as though by an operatic seagull. Blanche trotted up the street toward him, one hand holding on an untied hat. Her smile was brilliant.

  “Hullo, I’m so glad to see you! The fiend of a milliner has brought out half a dozen hats, any one of which I’d absolutely die for, and I can’t decide which one I should buy.”

  “I thought you’d had one in mind,” Nick said, allowing her to take possession of his arm. She leaned on him as though she was unable to walk unassisted, despite just proving the opposite.

  “Oh, yes, but I looked such a hag....”

  “You never could,” he said gallantly, knowing what was expected of any male in Blanche’s vicinity.

  “Flatterer. But there’s another one lined in crushed velvet that really is a marvel. Come see.”

  Nick spent fifteen minutes in the shop with Blanche, approving each hat in turn. He confessed himself unable to choose among them. “Yes, it is difficult,” Blanche sighed. “Let me see that satin straw again.”

  “If you’ll excuse me a few moments, Miss Blanche,” Nick said. “I’ll go down the street to the confectioners. I’ve been dreaming of Mr. Morton’s caramels these past four years.”

  “Oh, aren’t they wonderful?”

  “Would you accept a box from me?”

  She laughed. “My sister tells me it’s wrong to accept gifts from men, but a box of caramels isn’t exactly a diamond necklace or something valuable, now is it?”

  “Has a man offered you diamonds?”

  “Not yet,” she said, half lowering her eyelids and looking as transparently sly as a kitten stalking a bowl of milk. Nick laughed and she pouted. Then, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she leaned forward to admire her looks while Nick excused himself.

  Clarendon’s bookshop was a three-story building painted in chocolate picked out with cream. When he pushed open the door, a gust of dusty, slightly stale air surrounded him. He inhaled with pleasure. The only smell that spoke more enticingly of adventure was the sea on the morning of an embarkation.

  From the dim depths, a small, bent Figure appeared, pushing up a pair of sliding steel-rimmed spectacles. “Good afternoon, Mr. Clarendon.”

  “Who is it? Sir Nicholas, home from the wars?”

  “That’s right, sir. It’s good to see you.”

  “And you, sir. Come, that copy of Pliny you wanted is waiting for you.”

  “Good Lord,” Nick said. “I asked for that years ago.”

  “It was a trifle difficult to come by, but there was a sale of the late Lord Hardy’s library in 1812 and he had a copy. Quite clean, barring a trifle of foxing on the title page, but you’ll not mind that.”

  “Not at all. Tell me, is Miss Ferris somewhere about?”

  Mr. Clarendon’s jaw was slack, but his eyes behind their panes of glass were sharp. “Miss Ferris? She is a friend of yourself, Sir Nicholas?”

  “I hope that she may be.” He bore up under the bibliophile’s study.

  “Novels. Second floor to the rear.”

  “Novels?” Nick didn’t like the sound of that. His sisters were fond of “horrid” books that left girls’
emotions unsettled.

  “She is engaged in reading the newest book by the author of Sense and Sensibility. I’m afraid Mr. Ferris doesn’t approve of novels, either, so I permit Miss Ferris to read here.” He pulled his watch from his vest and clucked his tongue. “Kindly tell her that it is nearly one o’clock, if you please. She shouldn’t be late.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you. I shall wrap up Pliny for you, Sir Nicholas.”

  She sat, half hidden by the wings, on a worn velvet armchair, her cheek leaning on her hand. A slight smile touched her lips as though what she read pleased her. The sunlight streaming in from the window behind her lit the golden dust motes that swirled about her like Titania’s fairies.

  Nick drew back into the shelves. He thought about what he was doing and why. He’d already exceeded his own bounds of taste and propriety by kissing her hand. A gentleman treated an unmarried lady always with courtesy and respect. He’d clung to that code in the midst of fleeing civilian populations and in noisy taverns, only to abandon it in a Galway drawing room. Did money mean so much to him? Was he such a mercenary beast that he’d drag an innocent woman into marriage with him just to achieve financial security?

  Taking a second glance at Rietta, he knew he had no right to use her in such a way. David would have to wait for another suitor to remove the obstacle she represented.

  He could have sworn he made no noise, yet she looked up. Seeing him, her full mouth tightened as if she forcefully restrained her impatience. The faint sound of her resigned sigh reached him and some resolve within him hardened. She had no gift for concealing her feelings as other women did. Was this the secret of her poor reputation?

  “We meet again,” he said, emerging.

  “Indeed? It is strange to me, Sir Nicholas, that before two days ago I did not even know of your existence. Now you seem to be everywhere.”

  “I must say the same. Miss Ferris. Are you haunting me?”

  “I? I was here first.”

  As he came closer, she rose to her feet, her posture defiant. In the daylight, her skin was unmarked, save for faint shadows beneath her clear eyes. She held her book, her finger marking her place, slightly behind her skirts, as if to conceal it from him. “However, now that you are here,” she added, “I will take my leave.”

  “What are you reading?” He reached for the hook; she swung it further behind her. His arm went around her waist. She caught her breath. There was no softening of her expression, no invitation in her eyes. Nick wanted both and couldn’t have begun to say why. She was more than attractive, but prickly as a thornbush. He felt her hand go against his shoulder in a repulsing push.

  He retreated. “I only wanted to see which author so engrossed you. He must be fascinating indeed.”

  ‘There is no name on the book, sir, yet I believe the author to be a woman.” Closing it, she thrust it toward him and took her hand away almost before he’d taken it. He turned the book over in his hands,

  “Mansfield Park? I’ve never heard of it. What’s the story?”

  “It’s a tale of a poor relation.”

  Was there an emphasis in her words? Nick decided he was imagining things. “What is your reason for presuming the author is a woman?”

  “Only a woman could see so much of another woman’s life.”

  “Male authors write of such things. Maidens fighting for life and honor abound in novels written by men.”

  ‘There are other battles to be fought, Sir Nicholas. This author chooses to tell of smaller wars, fought at home and in the heart. She seems to speak of our inner lives. I don’t know quite how to tell you....”

  “I shall have to read it.” He liked the color and life that came into her face when she forgot herself in the pursuit of an interesting subject. “You are very interested in literature?”

  “Yes.” She drew back, both physically and mentally. He could feel her remembering that they were alone and that his previous behavior had been encroaching.

  “I feel I should tell you that your father invited me to dine with him tonight.”

  “He did? When did you meet him?”

  “At a public house. David Mochrie introduced us.”

  “Mr. Mochrie?” Her brows came together in a puzzled frown.

  “Yes, we stopped in after meeting at your house. Your father was most pressing. May I come this evening?”

  “My father’s house is open to whomever he wishes to invite, naturally. I very much regret that I will not be present.”

  “Why won’t you?”

  “Really, Sir Nicholas ...”

  “Why not?”

  “I have another invitation, of long standing. Every Thursday evening.”

  “With whom?”

  She sighed again, her impatience growing plainer. “You are too inquisitive, sir. Why? Where? With whom? I am not accountable to you, nor to anyone save my father. I know why you take such an impertinent interest in me and I have no wish to further your scheme by answering your questions.”

  “Scheme? What scheme?”

  She threw him a scornful glance and walked away. Though he was certain she knew nothing of the plot he and David had hatched, he followed her, telling himself he only wanted to be certain.

  By the stairs, he caught her elbow. “Just a moment.”

  “Release me at once!” she demanded.

  He threw his hand back, holding them both in the air as if surrendering. “I won’t touch you again.”

  “Indeed you will not. Who do you believe you are? I don’t know you from Adam. You are trying to make a game of me and I will not have it!”

  Cold, her face was regular, attractive enough, and pale. In a rage, she was magnificent. Her green eyes burned with a flame while her prideful stance turned her into Aphrodite. Her voice rang clear and bright.

  He wondered if other men, knowing they could not win such a woman, had weighted her with cruel names to conceal their own cowardice. He was somewhat in awe of her himself. Yet he felt strongly that he could win her, given time to regain his equilibrium.

  “I have distressed you,” he said. “I’m sorry. But won’t you tell me what you meant by ‘scheme’?”

  A lock of her bright hair had fallen into her eyes in her anger. She pushed it back. “I know perfectly well that you mean to charm me into allowing you to come and go as you please at our house.”

  “That would be delightful.”

  Her sneer was not quite so effective as her anger. “I’m sure you would find it so, having gulled the older sister into believing you come to call on her while indulging in flirtation with the younger. It has been tried before this by a man of greater address than you possess.”

  “Who would do such a despicable thing?” Nick asked, thinking that somewhere a man needed his backside kicked.

  “That’s rather the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?”

  “He must have hurt you,” Nick said, ignoring his conscience.

  For an instant, something bleak and lonely looked out of her eyes. “Not at all,” she said, looking past him. “I knew he could not mean what he said to me.”

  Nick wanted to take back his vow. If ever a woman needed to be held, it was this queenly, passionate creature. Then she looked at him again and the full power of her dislike hit him.

  “I am going to collect my sister from the milliner’s and then visit the church, Sir Nicholas. I trust I will see you nowhere else today.”

  She dipped him a rather ironic curtsey and turned away. “Cat,” he said without heat.

  She turned back, her eyes narrowing. “I beg your pardon?”

  A mew from the staircase answered her. “I didn’t want you to step on the cat,” Nick said.

  Chapter Five

  The parcel from Clarendon’s arrived an hour after she returned home.

  “What’s that?” Mr. Ferris demanded. “Another gift for Blanche, eh? The minx.”

  “No, Father. It is addressed to me.”

  Mr
. Ferris looked surprised, then smug. “First lilies, now parcels. Is there something you want to tell me, daughter? An admirer, eh?”

  “No, sir, I have no one to tell you of.” Rietta pulled on the string and broke the sealing wax. Three volumes, bound in brown cloth, were stacked inside the smooth paper. They were familiar to her before she picked one up.

  “Mansfield Park?” Mr. Ferris asked, but it was not his voice she heard. “Never heard of it.”

  “No, sir. I begin to believe that it is not at all a well-known novel.”

  “A novel? Haven’t I told you time and again not to muddle your head with a pack of lies? Novels only lead to unrestrained behavior in young girls—twaddle about love and romance! Marriage is a serious business.”

  “Yes, Father. I did not order these books. I cannot imagine what Mr. Clarendon can be about.” She opened the small envelope but her father held out his hand for it before she could read it. She was taken aback by her own sense of reluctance to let go of the little piece of pasteboard within.

  Rietta watched her father guardedly. To her surprise, she saw him smile and then chuckle as he read. “Well, my dear, you’ve got a string to your bow after all.”

  “Father?”

  He dropped the card into her lap and pinched her chin. “Keep your secret, my dear, but not too long, eh?”

  “I don’t think I should keep them. I don’t want to be indebted to anyone.”

  “Certainly you shall keep them! You don’t want to insult the ... mysterious benefactor.” He gave his inane laugh. “That’s good, isn’t it? Maybe I should take up novel writing.”

  Aware that he studied her, she read the card.

  So you may read undisturbed

  —N. K.

  That was too much to be hoped for. However, Rietta found herself smiling. The gift was thoughtful. Did he guess that her father would permit her to keep the books if they came from Sir Nicholas Kirwan? He could not have been in Mr. Ferris’s company long before realizing her father worshipped rank. To him, a baronet would be as good as a prince.

  “A gift to your taste, Rietta.”

  “Yes, Father. It’s very kind of him. Yet surely a young woman shouldn’t accept gifts from men.”