Destiny's Path

by Anna Jacobs

  On a grey, chilly day in early November the ship eased its way into Southampton and the steerage passengers crowded against the rails, talking excitedly. The cabin passengers were much more sedate in their behaviour, though even they expressed pleasure at having the long voyage over.

  Xanthe stood by the rail, staring at the harbour and beyond it the town, trying to take in the fact that she was back in England, something which at one stage in her life she’d never expected to happen. She didn’t know whether to feel pleased or sad about arriving, because after today she’d not be seeing Ronan again. It’d take the strain away not to have him nearby, but the thought of not seeing him again was more painful than anything she’d ever experienced in her life before.

  She expected him to join her, to say farewell at least, but he didn’t. She felt hurt by that, more deeply hurt than she should have allowed herself to be. After all, she was the one who had kept him at a distance, he was only doing what she’d told him to do, leaving her alone . . . Wasn’t he?

  Or had he just seen her as pleasant company on the voyage? No, she knew that wasn’t so. She knew he did love her – but in his own way, which wasn’t enough to bridge the yawning chasm between them.

  But why hadn’t he at least come to say goodbye to her?

  As Xanthe boarded the train for London, the carriage door opened and a man got in: Ronan.

  ‘I thought this was a ladies only carriage,’ she said coolly.

  ‘You can make a fuss and have me thrown out, but the train isn’t full and it’s leaving shortly, so unless you complain, no one else will.’ He waited, one eyebrow cocked.

  She wasn’t going to complain. She was delighted to see him, though she didn’t intend to tell him that.

  As the train set off, he leaned back with a sigh. ‘I’m glad I don’t have to travel in another compartment this time.’

  ‘I thought you’d be going to Ireland, not Manchester.’

  ‘I wanted to see you safely home first.’

  She tried to think of something clever to say to that and could come up with nothing, so kept her mouth closed.

  ‘This is the first time I’ve really had a chance to talk to you alone since Alexandria. And now that the train has left, we’re trapped in this compartment until the next stop and you can’t get rid of me.’

  It was out before she could stop herself. ‘I don’t want to get rid of you.’

  ‘Ah, Xanthe!’ He reached out as if to gather her into his arms, but she fended him off.

  ‘Don’t do that! You’ll only make it harder.’

  He leaned back again. ‘Then at least let me explain why I’m hesitating – about us.’

  ‘What is there to explain? You’re landed gentry and I’m a mill lass. I’m not stupid. It’s quite obvious you can’t marry me.’

  ‘I’d marry you tomorrow if I thought I could do so without ruining your life.’ His voice was savage. ‘Surely you have some idea by now of how snobbish the gentry are after seeing how they treat Conn? And they’re just as bad when someone makes what they consider an unsuitable match. I can’t bear the thought of you being made miserable, of you having no real friends for the rest of your life. And not just you, but any children we might have. They’d suffer too. That is why I’m holding back.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Our paths crossed and from then on I was lost. I didn’t fall in love with you because you’re beautiful but because you’re Xanthe, lively, intelligent and so very dear to me.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Is that all you can say? You’re not usually lost for words.’

  She felt her face soften into a smile. ‘I don’t know what to say. I don’t think you do, either. Are you really coming all the way to Outham?’

  ‘To Manchester. I can get a train to Liverpool and cross to Ireland from there.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘I must talk to people, take over my inheritance, feel my way. Xanthe, will you promise me not to go to Europe yet? Will you promise to wait till you hear from me before you go travelling?’

  She felt angry suddenly. ‘In case you decide you can squeeze me into your life? I just . . . sit and wait like a child, to be told what to do? No, I shan’t promise anything of the sort.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t mean it in that sense.’

  They were still arguing as they drew into the next station and suddenly she could bear it no longer. She opened the window and called out, ‘Porter, can you please ask this gentleman to move to another carriage? He boarded the train in a hurry and didn’t realise this was a ladies only carriage.’

  ‘You have a damnable temper, Xanthe Blake,’ he said in an undertone.

  ‘And you’re a – a patronising humbug, Ronan Maguire. When you do decide what you want, not to mention what I’m allowed to have, let me know, and then I’ll tell you whether I agree. Or not.’

  She sat staring stonily ahead as the porter got into the carriage to fetch Ronan’s luggage and after both men had left her alone there, she cried on and off all the way to Manchester, angry at herself for caring and at him for taking so long to decide what to do, for not . . . She pushed that thought away each time.

  Ronan was there on the station in Manchester, his eyes searching the crowd for her.

  She walked past him, nose in the air, and found one of the frequent local trains waiting to depart. As she got into it, she glanced quickly back and saw him watching her. He raised one hand.

  And heaven help her, she waved back, couldn’t stop herself.

  Soon she’d be home again. She’d see Pandora and Zachary, have other things to occupy her mind than a stubborn Irishman. It’d take time, but she’d get over him – or at least learn to live without him.

  When she got out of the train in Outham, she stopped in shock because it no longer felt like home. Everything seemed grey and dirty, and it was raining hard, even the puddles taking on a grey sheen.

  She walked to Blake’s Emporium from the station, followed by a lad with her trunks and luggage on a cart. If she looked bedraggled and wet when she arrived, it might hide the fact that she’d been crying.

  Ronan watched Xanthe’s train leave, wondering if she would wait for him before setting off on her travels and whether he’d been right to ask her to wait, then he set off on the long, weary journey home.

  He arrived late the following day, feeling exhausted and underneath everything else, utterly miserable. He’d taken a train as far as he could, then hired a carriage to take him and his luggage from Enniskillen to his home.

  As he was driven through the village which had the same name as his family home, he stared out of the carriage window in shock. Had the houses always been so tumbledown? Had the people always looked so gaunt and wretched? Why had Hubert not done something about that? The Maguires owned most of the houses here, after all. Surely there had been enough money to repair leaking roofs and broken window panes.

  Well, Ronan owned the village now, and was responsible for the houses and their inhabitants’ welfare. Shame on him if he did nothing about this misery!

  Passing the Dower House brought memories tumbling back: his mother strolling round the garden, laughing at him, picking flowers to brighten up her rooms, being driven out in the old carriage that Hubert kept for her use to visit a friend.

  Would she still be alive if he hadn’t gone to Australia, or had the doctor been right and the problem would have flared up anyway? He’d never know, but he’d always feel guilty.

  The big house looked sad and unloved, with rain weeping down the walls and windows, forming puddles in the drive – not softly falling rain today, but driving rain that rattled against the carriage like shotgun pellets.

  He got out and hurried into the house, holding tightly to his hat. The door was opened for him before he reached it and the housekeeper stood there, as she had for so many years. For the first time he felt a sense of homecoming.

 
‘Welcome back, sir. We’re glad to have you back.’

  He took off his hat and shook the rain from it. ‘Thank you for your welcome. How are you, Mary? You’re looking well.’

  ‘I am well, sir. You know I never ail.’

  ‘Is my brother here?’

  ‘No, sir. Mr Patrick comes every few weeks to make sure everything is all right, but he doesn’t stay. He leaves it to Mr Devlin to run the place.’

  ‘Well, he’s been the land agent here for a long time.’

  ‘Mr Devlin’s not well, sir. He’s doing his best, but he’s getting old. We all are.’ She patted his arm with the easy familiarity of one who’d known him as a child. ‘I’m glad you’re back now, so I am.’

  Her Irish accent was stronger today, which usually meant she was emotional.

  He slipped off his overcoat and let her take it from him. ‘I’ll just – walk round the house, get used to being back. Perhaps you could make me a cup of tea and a bite of something to eat? Give me a call when it’s ready.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll have your luggage brought in and put in the master’s bedroom.’

  He hesitated to take the room his father and then Hubert had occupied, then shrugged. It was just a room. If he didn’t like it, he could move to another easily enough. There were plenty of them, that was for sure.

  He walked through the drawing room, which felt damp and neglected, the rugs worn and the curtains faded. That led into the dining room, where the big oval table was as shiny as ever, but the carpet had worn patches in it.

  He crossed the hall, hesitated then went into the small room that had been his mother’s private parlour before his father died, used only by family. Some of the wallpaper was hanging loose above the window and the rug was frayed at one corner. The books on the shelves were Hubert’s books. His brother had been a great reader. The small easy chair he remembered so clearly had gone and been replaced by a much bigger one, upholstered in scuffed brown leather. It looked out of place. This had always been a woman’s room.

  ‘Shall I bring the tea tray in here, sir?’

  He turned to see Eilis standing there. ‘I didn’t know you worked here now.’

  ‘When we heard about your mother dying, God bless her, Mr Hubert closed up the Dower House and said I should come here as a maid, though to tell the truth, there wasn’t much work for me. He didn’t have many visitors.’

  Ronan had played with Eilis as a child, known her when she worked for his mother. He had so many links to the people here. ‘Did you ever suspect that my brother was ill?’

  She hesitated. ‘He grew very quiet, sir, the last few months, didn’t want to do anything much but read.’

  ‘He always did read a lot.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But this was different. He hardly moved from this room after your mother left, even had his meals brought in here. And he left everything he could for Mr Devlin to decide about. He died in that chair, sir. We found him there one morning.’

  Ronan stared round again. ‘Well, I think we’ll clear out my brother’s things now, so that I can use this room. It’s a pleasant place to sit of an evening. Can you see to that for me?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘If there’s anything you’re doubtful about moving, put it to one side and ask me before you finish.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Would you like to have your tea now before it gets cold?’

  ‘I’ll take it into the library.’ He wasn’t using the room till that chair was removed. He drank two cups of tea sitting in solitary state behind the desk that had been his father’s, wishing he could have it out of an Australian tin mug that held as much as the fancy teapot.

  Even this room didn’t please him. He’d been brought in here for punishment as a lad. His father had used a strap for serious offences, kept it in the bottom drawer. It felt strange to be sitting on the other side of this desk. When he opened the drawer, he found the strap still there and threw it on the fire in a sudden fit of anger that anyone would hit little boys with it.

  After that, he felt hungry suddenly and ate the cakes, drinking all the tea in the small teapot.

  He wondered what to do next and couldn’t seem to make up his mind. Loneliness sat heavily on his shoulders.

  What was Xanthe doing now? Was she any happier than him?

  When Dot opened the door, she gaped at the visitor. ‘It’s Miss Xanthe, isn’t it? Come in, come in! Eeh, you’re all wet.’

  Behind Xanthe the lad who’d brought the luggage cleared his throat. ‘I’ll need help with that big trunk, miss.’

  ‘I’ll fetch a shop lad to help and tell Mr Zachary you’re here.’ Dot darted off down the short corridor that led from the hall of the living quarters into the shop and returned with her master. A sturdy lad followed him, nodded to Xanthe and went outside to help with the luggage.

  Zachary beamed at his sister-in-law. ‘Why didn’t you send us a telegram to let us know you were coming, Xanthe?’

  ‘I’d forgotten about such luxuries after staying in Australia. They don’t have telegrams there, or trains either.’

  ‘No. I remember. Very primitive. But beautiful too. Well, it’s wonderful to see you. You know you’re always welcome.’

  She looked up the stairs. ‘Is Pandora all right? Or is she out? I’d expected her to come rushing down.’

  ‘She’ll be feeding little Hebe, I expect.’

  ‘She’s had the baby? It’s a girl? And you called her by a Greek name?’

  ‘Yes. We thought your father would like that.’

  ‘Oh, he would, he would!’

  The two lads came down the stairs again and she fumbled in her pocket for her purse, taking out some coins. When they’d gone, she said, ‘I can’t wait to see my new niece and my sister.’

  Pandora was indeed feeding little Hebe. Zachary stood in the doorway of the bedroom, smiling fondly as his wife shrieked in surprise, startling the rosy-cheeked infant into letting go for a moment and wailing in protest.

  As Hebe settled back to the important business of life and her sister held out one hand, Xanthe went across to kiss her.

  ‘What a beautiful baby!’

  ‘She is, isn’t she. Looks like our side of the family, I think.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ Zachary said. ‘My side isn’t noted for its good looks.’

  ‘Sit on the bed, Xanthe, and don’t you dare leave till I’ve finished this!’ Pandora ordered. ‘Go away, Zachary. I shall cheer up now I’ve got my sister to talk to.’

  When he’d gone, Xanthe looked at her in surprise. ‘Why do you need cheering up?’

  Pandora pulled a face. ‘Because feeding a baby is very boring and not the most comfortable thing in the world. I know it has to be done and I love her dearly, but honestly, Xanthe, it’s driving me mad. I must be a bad mother. Other women seem to get all the happiness they need from being wives and mothers, but I need to feed my mind as well.’

  ‘Are you sorry you got married?’

  ‘Never. Zachary is a wonderful man. It’s just – Father brought us up to use our brains and no one wants a woman to do that, especially a married woman. A married woman’s life can be very tedious! I’m warning you: don’t get married unless you love a man quite desperately.’

  Xanthe bit her lip, blinking as tears came into her eyes.

  Pandora’s eyes narrowed. ‘Something’s wrong. And you’ve been crying. I don’t think Zachary noticed because you’re so bedraggled, but I know you better.’

  So it all came tumbling out, what had happened, how she had fallen in love with Ronan, how it could lead nowhere. Once little Hebe had been laid in her cot and left to the young nursemaid whose main responsibility she was, they moved to the parlour and continued to exchange news.

  ‘I can see how you’d find Ronan attractive,’ Pandora said. ‘And he seemed a nice man, as well. I never thought, though, that you’d fall in love so foolishly. You’ve always been so practical.’

  ‘No one can be practical about love.’


  Pandora smiled. ‘No. You’re right. And you say Maia is in love with Conn? That’s terrible. Do you think she’ll really let him love her – out of wedlock?’

  Xanthe nodded. ‘One day it’s bound to happen. Every time they’re together you can see how much they love one another. And his wife is a dreadful woman, really strange and slow-witted, but vicious with it.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do about it. Maia can be stubborn for all her gentleness. Are you quite sure Ronan loves you?’

  ‘Yes. But he can’t marry someone like me.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. He won’t marry someone else if he loves you, surely? It wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘That’s the way things are for the gentry. They don’t marry for love, but for breeding and property. He said he was thinking of me, how hard it would be for me not to be accepted, to be criticised . . . What do I know about such things? He may be right. Anyway, I can hardly force him to marry me, can I? Oh, let’s not talk about it any more. We’ll just see how things go.’

  Zachary joined them for tea, then went back into the shop, which didn’t close until nine o’clock at night.

  In spite of her sadness, Xanthe was enjoying Pandora’s company. Her sister looked a different person from the unhappy woman who’d left Australia because she was ill from homesickness. Even though she complained about the tedium of caring for a child and overseeing the house, she looked to be in excellent health, her cheeks rosy and her eyes sparkling with life. And for all her complaints about motherhood, she clearly adored little Hebe.

  As Xanthe lay in bed, her last thoughts as she drifted towards sleep were of Ronan. Had he arrived home yet? Was he thinking of her?

  Would she ever see him again?

  18

  The following morning Ronan found his land agent in the small room off the stable block which they called by the grand title of the estate office. John Devlin came hobbling towards him with a stick, breathing laboriously.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I can’t seem to shake this chestiness, sir. Sorry about that. Please take a seat. How can I help you?’