The Irish Bride

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Despite her emotional state, Amelia smiled warmly. “You’re not a stranger; you’re just a sister we haven’t had very long.”

  Later, as they drove to the cottage, Amelia said, “I’m sorry about last night’s scene. It never occurred to me that last night, of all nights, Nick would be prowling about the house.”

  “Does he prowl a great deal?”

  Amelia nodded as she navigated a tricky blind turn in the road. ‘‘Almost every night we hear him pass our doors—sometimes earlier, sometimes later. I think he takes his horse out late at night when he can’t sleep. I thought surely his wedding night would be the one night that I’d be able to slip out with nobody the wiser, and what happens? I come back to find you and Nick sitting in the kitchen!”

  “We were hungry,” Rietta said, and blushed.

  “I should have foreseen that, I suppose.”

  “Why did you want to slip out, anyway? Couldn’t you have visited him just as well in the day?”

  “No. In the daytime, Arthur is very circumspect. Even when we hold hands, he worries about who will see. But, oh, at night! He even kissed me when we parted.”

  The Daltrey cottage had much to recommend it. Though on the same pattern as the dark and simple houses of the Claddagh with which she was familiar, the cottage had a large window in the front with glass panes and bright paint on the window frames and the door. There were flowers blooming under the windows, evidence of a loving hand that watered even when the sky didn’t.

  “Arthur says that being cooped up like a chicken at night after being outside all day makes him want to sneeze, so he added windows to every room.”

  “A trifle cold in the winter, perhaps?”

  “He says not.”

  “Arthur says” had been the burden of the commentary Amelia had kept up during the drive. She handled the ribbons of the pony cart very well, despite her anxiety. Rietta didn’t quite know what it was Amelia feared Nick would do, but that she feared something was obvious.

  “There’s Stamps,” Rietta said as they drove into the yard. “But I don’t see Nick.”

  “Oh, are we too late?” Amelia thrust the reins into Rietta’s hands and jumped down almost before the cart had slopped. Her bonnet falling to hang by its ribbons down her back, she hurried toward the house. By the time the old woman had opened the door, Amelia couldn’t speak.

  Rietta tied the horse to a post in the yard and followed Amelia. “Good evening,” she said. “I’m Rietta Ferris. Is Sir Nicholas Kirwan here?”

  “Come in, miss. Stop your wailing, Miss Amelia, or I’ll wallop you one.”

  “Oh, Granny Daltrey, is he very much hurt?”

  “No harm’s come to either of them. ‘Sides, Arthur’s not back yet.”

  “Not back yet?” Amelia echoed. She wiped her tears away, looking at her fingers as if unsure why they were wet.

  When Rietta saw Nick, sitting comfortably by the spotless white Fireplace, she realized for the first time that she had also been more than a little concerned. Though a cold fury still froze her heart, she couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped her lips.

  “Did you think I’d come to fight a duel?” he was asking Amelia, who’d cast herself upon him, heedless of his full hands.

  Rietta relieved him of the mug and the plate before they spilled over Amelia’s pelisse, and put them aside. His sister didn’t answer him, being too busy sniffling into his lapel.

  “Amelia felt some natural concern and I came with her.” Rietta thought that covered everything very neatly, without exposing anything that should not be spoken of outside the family circle.

  Nick’s gaze told her that he guessed how much that statement concealed. ‘That was very good of you, Rietta. I appreciate your sparing my mother the journey.”

  He pushed Amelia firmly but kindly to a greater distance. The girl groped her way to a chair and sat down, clutching her handkerchief. “I don’t know what I thought. I kept picturing one of you laid out, dead. I didn’t know what would be worse—finding you like that or Arthur.”

  “Pair of fools they’d look either way,” Mrs. Daltrey said. ‘There are right and proper things for men to fight over, but sully girls isn’t one of ‘em.”

  “But you know I mean to marry Arthur. My brother is adamantly opposed to any such future.”

  “I’m glad to hear he’s no fool,” the elderly lady said. “Wouldn’t you care for some tea. Miss Ferris?”

  Nick frowned. “You’ll have to forgive my wife, Mrs. Daltrey. We were only married yesterday and she’s not used to her new name.”

  “Yer wife, is it? Didn’t you pick a pretty one, though. You know, dearie, my hair was just such a color—lit up like the sunrise, it did. Many was the man I ensnared in my long red hair. Who was it said it looked like Viking gold? To be sure, ‘twas the lad what come to teach that summer. Poetical feller; died in a consumption. Tea?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Daltrey,” Rietta said, smiling despite everything. “I should adore some tea.”

  Nick stood near to her, much too near for her peace of mind. Every shameless, impassioned moment from the night before stood there with him, colored now with humiliation. Her father had gone out and purchased her the best husband money could buy. Nick had fulfilled that promise last night, but now she felt empty, as though what she’d found in the night had proven to be a mirage in the morning.

  He raised his hand and touched a fallen strand of hair. “That poetical schoolteacher had it right. I saw a tiny golden bowl once in the home of a collector, made in Munster a thousand years or so ago. The gold was just the color of your hair, too gold to be called red, too red to be anything else.”

  His touch lingered, curving down her cheek. Rietta closed her eyes, nuzzling her face into his hand. She scorned and despised herself for turning to melting femininity when she should have been standing like a marble statue, impervious alike to heat and cold. But when he touched her, so gently, owning her so completely, she felt her willfulness draining away. She’d do anything he liked, so long as he’d keep acting as if he loved her.

  He tried to tilt her chin up so that he could kiss her. For a yearning moment longer, she yielded, tipping her head back to give him all he desired. Nick caressed her neck, gazing down into her eyes with such ardor that she almost believed she could warm herself at the fire she saw. But just before he turned his head to kiss her full on the mouth, Rietta turned away.

  Of course, no one could be satisfied with a mere pretense. Rietta wanted to slap herself in the hope that that would break the spell he wove so effortlessly. The remembrance of two thousand pounds helped to break it. She stepped out of his arms as though he were a coat she had tried on and discarded.

  Amelia sat with her head in her hands, the position of a gambler who had dipped too deeply and lost the family farm. “Amelia, do you still want to see Mr. Daltrey?”

  “More than anything!”

  “Nick, go find him, Don’t fight with him just yet, if you please.”

  “No need,” Mrs. Daltrey said, showing a nearly toothless smile “That’s his step. He’ll be coming in after he’s washed his hands.”

  He’d had the horses in the yard to give him warning. Mr. Daltrey walked in quietly, greeted his grandmother with all proper respect, and looked about him for an explanation. He found one when Amelia came running up to him. “Don’t fight him, Arthur! Promise me that.”

  “Sit down, Amelia,” Nick said. “Stop making a fool of yourself.”

  Arthur Daltrey made the same suggestion in a whisper and it was instantly followed to the letter. Rietta had come prepared to dislike Mr. Daltrey, but he certainly seemed to know how to manage Amelia. Firm kindness, keeping her on a long rein, and earning her adoration had been the necessary ingredients.

  She studied her husband and felt a strange little thrill in the center of her body as a memory from last night bubbled up like a reminder of danger from a volcano believed dormant. Those lips had nipped gently at her thighs, tasted
her body, sent her gasping in frenzy. Nick met her eyes and she was grateful that she stood in a shadowy corner.

  “Let’s set the ladies' minds at ease.” Nick shook hands with his former tenant. “Well, Daltrey, what have you to say for yourself?”

  “Myself, Sir Nicholas? Why, nothing whatever.”

  “My sister tells me she was out to an unconscionable hour with you. Have you compromised her?”

  “Nick, no.” Amelia pleated her skirt in embarrassment.

  “Hush, now.” Daltrey gave her a smile that combined tenderness and authority before facing Nick again. “ ‘Twas nothing at all like you’re maybe thinking. Yes, we were together until long after midnight—so long I can’t guess the hour when I brought her home. The moon had set. But we were only talking of this and that.”

  “Talking?” Nick’s tone gave him the lie. “Does any man spend time ‘talking’ until all hours with an unmarried girl? If you were of rank, you’d have to marry her outright.”

  “So I will.”

  “I won’t take you, not like that,” Amelia declared, looking up. “If you love me, marry me. But not because my brother demands that you do it. I’ll not be wed under such circumstances.”

  “Be grateful you at least have a sympathetic brother. It’s more than I have,” Rietta said. “Nevertheless, I agree with Amelia.”

  “Stay out of this, Rietta.”

  “Why should I? She’s my sister, too. The only valid reason for marriage is true love—on both sides. It may only be the foundation; one still must build well. But without that foundation, no marriage has a hope in Hades of surviving the inevitable hardships and misunderstandings.”

  “Well put, m’lady,” Mrs. Daltrey said. “Now, who wants tea?”

  The two men—one classically handsome yet wearing a smock with the sleeves rolled up to disclose powerful, sunburnt forearms; the other, his face too controlled to be idolized, faultlessly attired in a dark-green riding coat with moderately large buttons—faced each other. They ignored the advice and commentary of the women in what Rietta thought was a display of perfectly maddening masculine superiority.

  “You see my difficulty,” Nick said.

  “I do, indeed. I’m what they call worthy,” Arthur replied bitterly. “Worthy enough so long as I keep to my place and don’t dare raise my eyes to the daughters of my betters.”

  He looked at Amelia. Even though Rietta caught only a glimpse of his expression, she knew she wanted someone to gaze at her with just that glow in his eyes. Then she corrected herself. “Not someone” she said softly. “Nick.”

  Arthur went on. “I’m as good a man as any in the country, but because my father was your tenant, I mustn’t look at the loveliest, darlingest creature under heaven. I mustn’t want her or need her, though I do.”

  Amelia held out her hands to him. “As I do, Arthur.”

  Holding her hand, he glared at Nick. “So you’ll give her to some rich bastard who doesn’t care tuppence for her. And all because there’s good Irish soil under my fingernails. All because I wasn’t laid in a grand cradle when I was born. Sir Nicholas, you must see how wrong and unfair that is.”

  “Well, damn it, man, I just fought a bloody war to keep the evils of republicanism out of this country.”

  “No, sir. You fought Napoleon to keep his breed o’ tyranny out of this country and I don’t blame you a particle for doin’ it, no matter what the lads may say. But if Waterloo happened just to keep me from marrying your sister, then t’hell with it.”

  Rietta saw Nick’s fists clench and the effort of will it took for him to force his hands back to his sides. “Don’t say that, even in jest, Daltrey. I was there, you see.”

  The handsome fanner ducked his head, his fair cheeks reddening. “I see, Sir Nicholas.”

  “Very well.”

  Rietta let out the breath she’d been holding and Nick flashed a glance in her direction. “Speak up, my ... friend,” he said. “I’m sure you have the wisdom to pull us out of this morass.”

  Under this challenge, Rietta considered before she spoke. “You don’t object to Mr. Daltrey in any personal way, do you? There’s no family quarrel or anything personally amiss between you? No woman, horse, or hound that wandered from one hand to the other?”

  Both men glanced at each other and said, almost in unison, “No.”

  “I see.” She smiled reassuringly into Amelia’s frightened eyes. “Since you object only to Mr. Daltrey’s position, perhaps you can alter it.”

  “Alter it? How can I? I’m not that influential.”

  “Ask yourself what position he can fill that would be acceptable to you.”

  “Bearing in mind,” Daltrey said, raising Amelia up to put his arm about her shoulders, “that while I minded my schooling, I’m not likely to make much of a success as a lawyer or a man of the cloth.”

  Nick took a turn up and down the room while every other person in it stared at him anxiously. Rietta alone waited for him to do the thing she had faith he would do— the right thing.

  “Your brother lives out in Gortmore, so your granny tells me.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would he come back here to live?”

  ‘That he would,” Mrs. Daltrey said. “Nothing would please that wife of his more than t’be away from her mother, the ol’ beldame.”

  Nick considered some more, rubbing his knuckles over his cheeks in thought as another man might pull his beard. “I’m not suggesting this is the only solution. What if Amelia were to go away for a few months, enjoy a season in town, meet more eligible men. Then, if her mind was still made up ...”

  Their protests drowned the rest of his suggestion. He held up his hands for silence. “Very well. Nothing will do but that you be married. Think hard, Amelia. You cannot change your mind once the deed is done.”

  Rietta knew that warning was meant for her.

  “Nothing means anything to me if Arthur isn’t my husband,” Amelia said, standing proudly.

  “As you wish.” He came up close to the couple. “Mr. Daltrey, I have at present no agent. For all I know, my tenants are robbing me blind. I need someone to tend to their needs as well as collect what I’m owed. Someone to enforce the law when necessary and bend it when wise and the wit to know the difference. It’s a difficult position and not one I’d offer to any man without a great deal of thought.”

  “Oh, Nick!” Amelia said, bobbing up and down in excitement. “The gatehouse?”

  “You’ve always liked it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Arthur said. “Are you offering me... ?”

  “At any rate, my last agent, Mr. Cane, died suddenly some few months ago and I’ve not found anyone to take his place. Though having my agent as a brother-in-law may be slightly unorthodox, I’d rather have you handling my affairs than many another fellow. You’re honest, you know the land and the tenants, and your affection for my sister means that I will never have to acquire another agent. I leave that task to my son, if any.” He glanced again at Rietta and she crossed her arms under her bosom. What if she were already carrying Nick’s child?

  “There. I’ve stated my case, Arthur. What say you? Will you accept the position?” He looked around at the flabbergasted faces and Rietta wondered whether he’d staged the whole scene. He was capable of it.

  Arthur tore his gaze away from Amelia. “Do you believe I can do the task you offer, and do it well? I’ll not take charity of any man, not even a brother.”

  “I truly believe you will make an excellent agent.”

  “Then I’ll take the position, the house, and the lady.”

  Rietta thought the least Arthur Daltrey could have done was shake Nick’s hand, instead of instantly turning to Amelia and kissing the rest of the sense out of the poor girl. Poor Mrs. Daltrey staggered to a chair and sat down. “Windam’s comin’ home?” she asked dazedly.

  “When did you think of this?” Rietta asked Nick, her eyes narrowed, while he stood back and surveyed the res
ults of his triumph.

  “Last night. I did have a little time to think at one point.” His voice fell away to nothing but she was sure he’d added, “Right before you woke up.”

  “I’ll shake your hand, so help me,” Rietta vowed. “I will. That was a good piece of work.”

  Nick held her hand too long. Every nerve began to recall the ramblings of his surprisingly talented mouth. This time, knowing how easily such a touch could lead to something far sweeter and more dangerous, Rietta pulled free and crossed the room to congratulate the others.

  He stopped her with one hand on her shoulder, just long enough to whisper, “Wait till tonight.”

  She looked him full in the eyes. “Nothing will happen tonight, nor any other night. The door between us is locked and it will stay locked.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Over the next few weeks, Nick learned, to his frustration, that not only was the door between their chambers locked, but Rietta had taken to locking her mind as well.

  In the daytime, she fulfilled his every dream of a dutiful, charming wife. She smiled at him across the breakfast table, at luncheon, at dinner, the candlelight warming the firm cleavage revealed by her dinner gowns. When, beguiled by her smiles, he’d begun to talk to her, she’d listened attentively to all his plans for the future. Sometimes she’d even add a word or two, making him see things he’d not thought of for himself.

  She proved a delightfully gracious hostess to all those who came to see his bride, whether titled neighbors or the grubby children of his most shiftless tenants. Judging by the comments he heard, he’d chosen a pearl among women, an ideal wife.

  His mother and sisters, their heads full of plans for Amelia’s wedding, came to rely on Rietta absolutely. If he heard them say, “Ask Rietta; she’ll know” once, he’d heard it a thousand times. The hell of it was—she did know. She could answer any question, from which dressmaker should be entrusted with the length of satin for Amelia’s gown to which wine should be served at the wedding breakfast to what he did with the book he was reading. Yet even as his respect and admiration grew, so did his frustration.