Scandalous Ever After

by Theresa Romain

  Kate could hardly fault the young woman, for Evan was a treat to look at—thick dark unruly hair, and the careless, useful cut of his clothing. Stubble that had grown out during the day’s travel, splashes of mud on his boots from the road. And those hands…

  Those hands, those hands. He had touched her and tickled her on every bit of her body. For that time, she felt beautiful.

  Now she felt lumpy again.

  Enough of that. She must try harder, that was all. The next person who entered, Kate would speak to without the smallest hesitation.

  She soon regretted this vow, for the next person to enter was Finnian Driscoll. Resident magistrate and holder of the bulk of Con’s debts, he was a well-fed, well-pleased man of late middle age. His great belly, biscuit-colored coat, and red waistcoat made him look, from the side, as though he were carrying a drum before him.

  He had served as resident magistrate since the role was established four years before. As a native of Ireland who had served as an officer in the British Army, he’d done well reconciling the English rulers with the Irish villagers. Privately, Kate thought it was because he went to every church service—making himself both Catholic and Church of Ireland, yet neither. All he needed now to establish himself at the pinnacle of Thurles society was land.

  Whelan land. And without a miracle, he would get it at year’s end.

  “How do you do, Mr. Driscoll?” There was hardly room for the magistrate and his capacious belly to slide up to the apothecary’s counter.

  “Why, Lady Whelan! What a treat.” Driscoll made his bow, curtailed by the close quarters. “We didn’t expect you back so soon, with the second week of races in Newmarket only just complete.” He looked over her shoulder. “And I heard Mr. Rhys, didn’t I? There’s a treat too. Didn’t expect him to be traveling with you.”

  “I am full of surprises,” Kate said. “A woman of various and startling gifts.”

  Driscoll ignored this reply, holding out hands against the press of the crowd. “Now, now, everyone, don’t be bothering the countess. Leave her be. She must be tired after all her travel.”

  “Mr. Rhys traveled as long as I did,” she pointed out.

  He lifted graying brows. “But you’re fragile.”

  “I most certainly am not.”

  “Ah, you’re that brave to say so.” He shook his head. “If you’re not careful, you’ll wear yourself to a sliver.”

  “I could not become a sliver if I tried my damnedest,” she muttered, but Driscoll was already turning to greet Evan.

  Thus it always went. Had gone, ever since Con’s death. For her own good, Driscoll looked out for her. Ignored her protests. He talked of her as though she were enfeebled—and who might hear and believe him?

  Was this why the townspeople treated her as a widow of glass?

  She wasn’t in the mood for conversation after all.

  “I need some air,” she said to Susan. “Come or stay as you wish. I’m neither fragile nor a sliver, and I’m all right on my own.”

  It was not difficult to slip between jostling townsfolk. They took little notice of a small, roundish woman as they gloried in cheerful conversation. The bell at the shop door jingled to free Kate, and she stepped out into the drizzle to take great gulps of fresh, damp air.

  Returning to Thurles was not the homecoming she’d expected. She was back to being a countess, her idyll in England over.

  Yet had it been an idyll? How could it have been, when she had never understood whom to be?

  Except for one night, came the treacherous memory.

  Not that it mattered now. Evan had so many friends here he didn’t need another. A petulant thought, and one she tried at once to quash. She returned to the carriage, settling into the enclosed space that now seemed less small than the spaces around it.

  When Evan and Susan joined her, beaming at having encountered so many familiar faces, Kate knocked at the roof for the driver to take them to their destination.

  “Amazing, Mr. Rhys, the number of people who remember you after two years,” burbled the maid.

  “It goes to show,” Evan said, “that I should not have stayed away so long.”

  “If you had not,” Kate replied, “everything would have been different.” She did not know whether this would have been good or bad.

  West of the town center lay the looping racecourse. “You have utterly confounded that poor serving girl,” said Evan to Kate. “She’s now convinced that I led the race meetings at Newmarket, which were in truth coordinated excavations of ancient dwellings.”

  “Yet you didn’t stay for the second week of races? For shame, Mr. Rhys,” said Kate. “How will they get along without you?”

  “You would be amazed,” he said drily, “how well people get along without me.”

  He was looking out the window when he said this. By now, she recalled his mannerisms well enough to suspect he was hiding some starkness on his mobile features.

  “Just because they can,” she answered, “doesn’t mean it’s what they prefer.”

  * * *

  Anne Jones—or Janet Ahearn, as they knew her here—saw the letter directed to Sir William Chandler. Petty had laid it on the counter, a careful carelessness of the sort they had worked out years before.

  Sir William Chandler. The name was a threat and a promise, a memory and a hope. What had Rhys learned, and what would Rhys tell him? Not who Janet Ahearn truly was, she was sure. After years of slipping beneath notice, she could tell when someone’s view of her had changed.

  Once she had been a soldier’s wife, and then, after being widowed in Spain, a courtesan. Sir William had known her as such thirteen years before. He had not known, until a few months ago, that she had borne his child.

  He had left Spain in 1805 as little more than a corpse, stricken by a virulent palsy that stripped the strength from his hale limbs. She understood, then, that he would have concern for no other body but his own.

  Once in England again, with all his wealth at his disposal, he recovered. He did not regain the use of his legs, but his health and vigor—by all accounts—were restored.

  Anne remained behind in Spain, impoverished and forgotten. Anne did not have the luxury of caring only for herself, as Sir William’s babe grew within her. That was when she decided she would do anything, be anything, never to be left powerless again.

  Her time in Thurles had a double advantage. It was near Sir William’s legitimate daughter. And it was near Loughmoe Castle, from where the wild geese had flown. The geese—rich Catholics who fled Ireland when the Jacobite movement failed—were hated by all those who remained. Their riches were stripped, even the stones of their castles unseated.

  It had been Anne’s idea to turn those stones to advantage. Anne’s, to set the Whelan tenants to carving instead of farming. Smuggling was steadier income than tending the land. With her network of willing recipients on the shores of Wales and France, she saw to that. Thurles was far enough inland to evade notice, but it had a fine river that trailed to the sea, and a watchtower from which she could post notice at all times. Why, she had even pulled the apothecary into the matter. Packets of pastilles were nothing of the sort. That old fool Petty enjoyed the adventure of it.

  For years she had traveled Great Britain, taking frequent absences from Thurles under the guise of visiting family. She had watched and waited. She’d had her failures—Rosalind Agate had slipped from her power and wed Sir William’s younger son—but no matter. Sir William’s heart had many ties. None were to Anne.

  One was to this eldest daughter of his, this Kate. Already she had become a widow, but there was so much more she could lose.

  Fifteen

  To Kate, being on the Whelan lands again was the drawing near of a purpose. But as soon as the carriage entered those lands, it felt like the beginning of good-bye.

  Good-bye to
the land that had so long cradled the earldom.

  Good-bye, in a few months, to Evan, who would cross not one sea but two, and would be forever beyond reach.

  Kate pressed her face to the window and tried not to think of that.

  Stubble dotted the fields, which would soon be burned and drilled for winter barley and wheat planting. All through the coldest months, seeds would slumber, then awaken in spring and stretch toward the sun.

  Then came the pastures, where even in autumn, Ireland clasped its green to heart. The grass was nourished and bright from crisp mornings and impish midland rains, and here short, stocky black cows roamed and lowed.

  As the carriage rolled along the road, they reached the drive and gardens of Whelan House—which was not maintained by the cows, as Kate had told Evan’s family. The over-spreading trees were turning to copper and gilt, carpeting the paths and roads with their fallen leaves.

  Then the trees opened to sky, and the stately home came into view. It was an ancient H with gabled wings, gray stone walls, a roof of deeper slate, and fat stone chimneys exhaling the ash-brown of peat smoke. The face of the house was covered with clinging vines, their summer-green leaves tinted scarlet or drying to brown.

  Whelan House. An unimaginative name, wasn’t it? Like Chandler Hall. Before traveling to Ireland, Kate had believed it a land of music and fable, where the names tripped off the tongue like brook water over pebbles. Tipperary. Ballyclare. Tullamore.

  Ah, well. After an education at Harrow and Oxford, Con was more English than Irish. So had it gone for generations with the Whelans. Already, Good Old Gwyn was wondering when Declan would be sent away to school.

  Evan had gone silent some time before, but he spoke as the laden carriage reached the front steps. “I’ve never been to this house without the sure knowledge of Con’s return.” His tone was wondering, tight with loss.

  “I have done so,” Kate said. “Many times. Many days on end.”

  She couldn’t add one gets used to it, because a missing life was not something one ever got used to. “It gets…more familiar.”

  The structure of Whelan House was ancient, built as though people of the past cared for neither air nor light. There was nothing so snug as the walls, especially in winter, but Kate always felt she were shut up in a box.

  This was the shape of the role of the Countess of Whelan. And this was the closest place she had to a home.

  * * *

  In the drawing room that evening, Evan whispered into Kate’s ear. “Does Good Old Gwyn come over every evening, or is this a welcome home treat for us?”

  He had entertained a fantasy of one of those warm, unspooling evenings before a slow fire of turves, with or without a tumbler of whisky. But the arrival of the dowager had just been announced, and Kate had ordered tea to be served in the drawing room.

  She sighed. “I did not overlook the emphasis you laid on the word treat,” Kate said. “But I must admit her visit is no compliment to you. Since Con’s death, she has been here for dinner, tea, or supper nearly every day. I’ve no idea what she ate while I was in England.”

  Evan closed his eyes in pity. “The dower house is at far too easy a distance.”

  “I have had the same thought before. Though to be fair, she has to bring back the children today.”

  Before Gwyn could creak her way into the drawing room, two small figures whipped through the doorway.

  “Nora! Declan!” Kate hopped to her feet, holding out her arms. “I’m so glad to see you! And I’ve brought you both surprises.”

  “Not toys, I hope,” said a boyish voice. “I’m too old for—Uncle Evan!”

  Evan, too, was standing in greeting. “Too old for Uncle Evan? I hope not. You’ll have me weeping, and I only have one handkerchief left.”

  He looked at Kate quickly. Excellent. She had colored, as if recalling how they had used one of his handkerchiefs. He’d had to discard it. Fortunate handkerchief. Would that they could all be used so happily.

  He returned his attention to the children. “Good Lord, you’ve both sprouted.”

  Nine-year-old Declan had shot up tall, his height inherited from Conall. He had Con’s coloring, too: hair of medium brown, dark eyes, and skin ready to tan. In his chin, though, was a dimple like Kate’s.

  At twelve, Nora was more like her mother, with fine features and a pale complexion. Her hair was dark like Declan’s, and she wore it in a long plait.

  “Come give us hugs,” he said. “But your mother first, or she’ll catch fire from her eagerness to see you.”

  “The flames are starting to prickle all over me,” Kate quavered. “Come beat them out with your arms!”

  Giggling, Nora slammed into her mother’s arms. “The fire is out!”

  “It’s out, yes.” With a smacking kiss on the cheek, Kate hugged the girl.

  “You were gone too long! I almost forgot what you looked like!”

  “Dear me.” Kate met Evan’s eyes over Nora’s dark head, smiling. “I should have drawn you a picture.”

  “I remembered,” said Declan, taking his turn for a hug. “You look like Nora. I had to look at her the whole time you were gone.”

  “Lucky you,” replied the girl, waltzing past her brother with her tongue out.

  Evan laughed. He was shocked by how good it was to see them—and a little sad to see the changes time had wrought. They had grown, and he had not seen it happen. They had found new books to love, new things to laugh at, and much to cry over, and he had not been there to share in their feelings.

  If he’d been here, it could only have been because he was a different person with no care for how he and Con had parted. It could only have been if Con were different too.

  But…damn. He wished things had been different.

  He gave a quick scrub to Declan’s shock of dark hair, then tweaked the end of Nora’s plait. “Look at you. You are a young lady now.”

  She scuffed a shoe against the carpet. “I am not. I run too much and freckle too much and shout too much.”

  “Too much for whom?”

  “Too much to be a lady. Nan says so.”

  “A lady,” Evan whispered into Nora’s ear, “is someone worthy of respect. That’s all. Ask your mother, and see if she doesn’t agree.”

  “I can’t ask her that!” Nora’s eyes went wide with shock. “That’s too embarrassing.”

  Declan raced to the doorway, then peered into the corridor. “Nan’s coming. She must have used the necessary before she walked over here.”

  “Declan, you shouldn’t talk about that,” said Nora with the importance of an older sibling.

  “Why not? Everyone uses it,” said the boy. “That’s why it’s called the necessary.”

  Kate sidled to Evan’s side. “They’re on their best behavior for you. Aren’t you pleased?”

  “Extremely. If no one talked about excretion, I would think I was in the wrong house. And what ought I to expect from Good Old Gwyn?”

  “Good Old Gwyn,” Kate whispered, “is just as she always was, only more so. I plan to try something I learned from your sister-in-law.”

  “From Elena? What is that?”

  “Complete and total agreement.” Her eyes narrowed with sly humor.

  Evan entered into the spirit of the exchange. “That might be entertaining. What should I do? Shall I agree with her too?”

  “I don’t think you need to. In fact, it might be more fun if you didn’t.”

  The elder countess, frail and drooping in appearance, walked in supported by the arms of two footmen. “Kate! You’ve no idea what I’ve been through.”

  “I don’t, that’s true,” Kate said cheerfully. “Children, would you like to stay, or would you rather visit the kitchen?”

  “Kitchen! Kitchen!” Declan whooped. “I’m so starving, I could eat a cow.”
>
  “I’ll go with him,” Nora said. “To make sure he doesn’t eat a cow.” They made their bows to the room, then raced to the doorway. In the corridor, their hard-heeled shoes clacked on the floor, the sound fading with distance.

  “My nerves,” moaned Gwyn. “My poor nerves.” She had by now settled onto a long sofa covered in heavy dark damask, a furniture piece Evan recalled from his last visit to Whelan House.

  The slipper chairs into which he and Kate settled were the same, as were the red draperies and the deep-piled carpet, now worn before the hearth. Little had changed in the room or in the house since Con had died. If spendthrift Con had lived, he would have had the rooms redone twice over.

  Gwyn put her feet up on the sofa, leaning against a pyramid of cushions bolstered against one arm. “It is good to see you at last, Evan.” Her voice quavered.

  Her face was heavily lined and powdered. To some, these might seem signs of great age. But Gwyn, dowager Countess Whelan, had looked and behaved this way for as long as Evan could remember. In her own way, Gwyn was as skilled at firing tiny darts as were his parents.

  “I am always hearing that sort of thing,” he replied. “The people of Thurles were most welcoming too.”

  “Common people.” She lifted a fluttery hand to her brow.

  “They are common,” Kate agreed. “In the sense that there are many of them. Or do you think people of good sense should not be glad to see Evan?”

  The older woman blinked at Kate with utter incomprehension.

  “They probably shouldn’t,” Evan agreed cheerfully. “I’m the devil of a guest.”

  The dowager rallied. “And what has brought you back here? Loyalty, no doubt. Missing those who were once as your family.”

  If Kate would be shockingly agreeable, he’d be the opposite. “Not a bit of it. I need to confirm some stone samples. Maybe explore the ruined castles hereabouts.”

  “Work! Always work! I know men haven’t the hearts that women do. But you were the closest thing I had to a son since Con died.”

  “Only since then?”