by Beverly Adam
“Turn around, my dear, so Lord Langtry may see the back of you,” her uncle said, interpreting the gesture.
“Oh my . . . yes . . . yes, indeed . . .” The old man sighed, with the click clacking of his false front teeth, as if indeed she was a dumb animal and had no feelings.
Slowly, trembling with fear and loathing, she turned.
Lord Langtry never took his eyes off her. Smiling, he tapped her with his cane’s lion head.
“She’s quite untouched you say . . . Never been kissed, girl?” he asked, his few remaining teeth contrasting with the porcelain ones.
Silently, she shook her head no.
Not caring about his niece’s obvious distress, her uncle agreed. He rubbed his hands together with glee. He happily noticed the wealthy lord’s interest.
“See the fleece I wear about my neck, child? It’s quite soft to the touch . . . come here and I will let you feel it,” Lord Langtry said.
Fearful, hating the way he ogled her, she took another step back. But her uncle pushed her towards him.
“Touch it,” commanded the old man, fingering the skin.
She leaned over. With the tips of her fingers, she did as she was told. The lambskin was soft and wiry. She didn’t know why, but the thought of the dead animal brought tears to her eyes.
Lord Langtry roughly pulled her onto his lap.
She squirmed, trying to remove his hand. But surprisingly, he held her firmly in place. His arms were strong. He brought his hand around her, using his gold cane as a barrier, blocking her attempt to escape.
His left hand, the color of faded parchment, picked up a handful of her gold hair. He let the strands fall gently through his trembling fingers. He reached out and touched the smooth pink of her unblemished cheek.
“Release me, sir.” She breathed, continuing her struggle. He would not budge. He smiled blissfully at her distress.
Exasperated, angry at being held against her will, she gave him a sharp kick in the shins. The manservant standing in the corner snickered.
“My dear Kathleen, you really should not have done that,” her uncle protested weakly, afraid the bags of coins he had seen earlier would now disappear.
Lord Langtry, with a grimacing wince of pain, opened his arms.
She quickly jumped off his lap and walked to the ornate French doors. But her way was blocked. The old woman dressed in the black-striped gown stood in front of them. She later learned the old bat was Mrs. O’Grady, the housekeeper.
She glared angrily at Kathleen.
“You kicked Lord Langtry,” the woman muttered, “and embarrassed him in front of the servants. That’s unforgivable. You ought to be punished.”
She could have sworn the snarling woman blocking her way would have taken great pleasure at that moment, if she could, at pulling out every hair on her head. She had balled her hands into defensive fists.
She decided if the older woman dared to touch her, she would give her a facer. One the interfering hag would not soon forget.
Lord Langtry interceded, slowly inclining his head. The housekeeper obediently stepped aside. Kathleen walked with determined dignity through the doors into the hall’s foyer. There she broke into a run, making her short-lived escape.
The last words she heard were, “So how much do you want for the chit?” And she knew her fate was sealed. One week later, special license in hand, a bribed priest in tow, she was hastily married off to the old lord she had been forced to call “husband” these past three years.
* * *
Looking down at the body of the man she had once been forcibly wed to, she didn’t feel anything. She was numb. If he had been kind to her, and caring, she could have been content, no matter his age, after having spent her young life at the mercy of her selfish uncle . . . but her husband had never been kind, or caring . . . and now he was gone. She was no longer his plaything, an object he owned, and wanted other men to envy and admire. She was no longer to be ordered about.
He was dead.
Bangford will never be able to touch me again, she thought, hugging herself.
Perhaps it was instinct or simply the need to be nearer to the one who held power over life and death that propelled her to walk up to the front of the chapel, but when she reached the altar, she noticed an object lying upon it.
She picked it up.
It appeared to be an antique brooch from the medieval period. Made of gold and copper, it was studded with glass and covered in Celtic motifs. In particular, she noted the intricate design.
Stamped in gold, twining itself around the clasp, the unbroken Celtic interlacing, known as the lovers’ knot, ornamented the pin. She knew it was symbolic of the connection each person shared with others in both life and death. The knot was representative of the eternal nature of love. It went on and on . . . never ending.
Some of the servants, upon seeing what she held, quickly crossed themselves. They looked at each other apprehensively. The piece of jewelry might contain black magic.
A few whispered, “The banshee left it there for her to find . . . it’s a gift from the dead.”
No one asked to examine it.
The servants believed the object to be from the underworld. They feared it might be enchanted or cursed. Another evil omen foretelling a future demise, they believed, was woven within its elaborate golden design. It was best, they told each other, to stay away from such dark magic. It could kill you.
Kathleen, fascinated by the unusual ornament, pinned it onto her shawl.
For a reason she could not explain, she too felt it was a sign. Her life had been forever changed. She was at last free of the odious man who had possessed her, but had never loved or respected her.
Perhaps, she told herself, I will at last be free and find the happiness that has eluded me since I was a child living with my parents, and finally live the way I want.
She envisioned herself for a moment as an old woman surrounded by her children and grandchildren. She would have her portrait painted wearing the brooch as she held her youngest grandchild on her lap—his tiny, chubby hand would reach up to touch the enchanting ornament.
She sensed, as she imagined this family scene, that one day she would at last find what she had been missing to make her life a happy one . . . love. From that moment onwards, she never took off the brooch. It became her talisman of hope.
Chapter 2
The funeral was a quiet affair. The mourners comprised of the servants of the hall, a few of the villagers, her uncle, and some of the local aristocrats, including her late husband’s sister, the Countess Henrietta Deuville and her corpulent son, Henry. The latter had the family trait of watery gray eyes. Of course, Mrs. O’Grady, the housekeeper, was there as well, frowning as usual.
But there was one gentleman who had made an unexpected appearance. The sight of this handsome dandy standing at her late husband’s gravesite caused her to take a quick breath of surprise.
“Beau Powers,” she whispered to herself, upon sighting the profile of the noted Corinthian.
She’d heard he was now a renowned solicitor. He’d gained a reputation after handling several high profile cases for the Golden Clover elite, the titled and wealthy of Irish society, many of whom the solicitor counted as friends. Over the years, she’d also heard the maids and local townspeople gossip about his mistresses, including a famous ballerina from Russia and an actress from London. Yes, he was known, almost as much for his romantic affairs as he was for his legal ones.
It had been a little over a year since she had last seen him. She’d been seventeen at the time, an unworldly young woman confined to living a restricted life in the village of Urlingford. The sight of such a handsome, self-assured gentleman up close, she remembered, had been like seeing a shooting star for the first time, completely unexpected and thrilling.
She quickly noted that he’d remained the same manly nonpareil she’d first observed him to be. The arrogant tilt of his head was unmistakable. His thick, guinea-colo
red hair, however, was not coiffed in the fashionable style inspired by the legendary Lord Wellington, the hero of the decisive battle of Waterloo. Instead, he wore it in a simpler manner, one that would not require hours of styling.
He was still the muscular, well-kept gentleman she first met when she disguised herself as a page boy to deliver news of the whereabouts of the then kidnapped Lady Beatrice O’Brien. She remembered the first time she had laid eyes on him. He was standing beside his friend, the handsome Earl of Drennan, who’d launched the search for his beloved Lady Beatrice, after she’d been kidnapped by the evil Viscount Linley, her former fiancé. That loathsome toad had kidnapped the wealthy heiress, known as the Spinster of Brightwood Manor, to force her hand in marriage. The earl, who’d fallen in love with Lady Beatrice, had gone after them, his good friend Beau Powers by his side. The Earl of Drennan was indeed handsome with his rugged good looks, but Beau Powers was simply beautiful, like a statue of a Greek god.
She’d never before seen such a man. Compared to her odious, shriveled husband, he was the epitome of youthful manhood. When his striking blue eyes had smiled at her, she’d felt a lightning bolt of awareness course through her body, making her toes curl. She’d been completely awestruck.
The Earl of Drennan had noticed her reaction and said, “Looks as if you’ve snared yourself another admirer, Beau.”
Her face had flushed at the comment. But she had been truly mortified when Beau had stared at her, for she was wearing rags, hiding her true gender and station in life.
She’d cleverly disguised herself as a stable boy in order to escape the watchful eyes of Mrs. O’Grady, the housekeeper, who was the intimidating woman her husband had appointed to guard her. She’d been essentially kept a prisoner in her own home, unable to do what she’d wanted for her entire marriage.
But upon learning of the kidnapped Lady Beatrice’s secret whereabouts during a dinner party hosted by her husband, she’d vowed to help her escape. She’d not wanted the dear lady to share her fate and be trapped in a similar marriage to a coldhearted, domineering man.
She’d heard that Beau Powers had been the first to volunteer to help the Earl of Drennan. They said he’d stood by his friend throughout the daring rescue, risking his own life against a room full of cutthroat mercenaries, who’d been hired by Linley. During the ensuing brawl, it was he who enabled the earl to defeat the viscount by throwing him a sword just in time as the viscount charged the earl with a blade of his own.
* * *
Aye, Beau had not changed a wit, she decided glancing at him. Outwardly, he’d remained the epitome of gentlemanly perfection. She could tell by the way his double-breasted coat stretched across his broad shoulders and the authentic manner in which his breeches fit around his trim waist that he carried none of the usual corpulent fat associated with other gentlemen of the ton. That was not surprising, considering he was both a noted horseman, as well as an excellent marksman.
But did he always behave in such an honorable manner? She frowned, doubting. She was reminded of the expression that stated clothes did not make the man. He hadn’t become a top solicitor in court by being nice. Such men were known to be heartless rogues of the first order. She’d merely to remember how the law had overlooked her being underage when she was forced to marry at fifteen to Lord Langtry, to know rules were easily broken by such men.
And she knew he could be at times ruthless—even in her small country village, rumors of his exploits were repeated by the gossipmongers. They discussed with avid interest, the duels he fought when challenged by those who lost their cases to him in court. In anger, the losers chose to settle the matter again with drawn swords, fruitlessly hoping to achieve a more favorable end. But that never happened. Master Powers had always been the victor. And any man with a bit of common sense would not dare to challenge such a skilled fighter, unless he had a secret death wish.
She shuddered, thinking of his piercing eyes when she’d spoken to him and the earl about the kidnappers. His had been filled with deadly intent. Faith, she would not want to be the man facing him at the sharp end of a sword.
But what was he doing here? She wondered, peeking up at him through her heavy widow’s veil. His solicitor’s business was located in Tipperary—why was he attending her husband’s funeral? To her knowledge her late husband and the handsome Corinthian were not known to one another.
Could it be he was here because of her? Her heart pounded a little at the audacious thought. But she quickly dismissed it as an improbability.
For who was she to him? No one.
She hadn’t seen him since the kidnapping of Lady Beatrice. It was the only time they’d ever met. And she knew he’d not known who she was back then.
She glanced back to take a better look at him. What purpose had brought him to Dovehill Hall? Did it involve her husband’s death? Or was he here for some other reason?
Unbeknownst to Kathleen, he was there for all three—she was soon to discover the reason why. And it very much involved her.
* * *
When the short service ended, Kathleen’s uncle led her back to the hall. He was acting very solicitous of her, which she expected given the size of her husband’s estate, and her uncle’s greedy nature. A hearty repast had been laid out for the wake, but she didn’t partake. She had no appetite. Her stomach was in knots, so she merely fidgeted with the plate of food a servant handed her. It was time for the reading of her husband’s will. She was finally to learn her fate.
Either she was to continue the controlled life she had been leading until now, dominated by the housekeeper and her in-laws—or perhaps, and this next thought caused her a surge of hope—her late husband’s relatives would inherit Dovehill Hall and she would at last be set free to live an unencumbered life.
That was indeed wishful thinking. She sighed.
She’d noticed the leering manner in which her nephew, Henry, inspected her. His watery eyes deliberately stared at her well-covered bosom. It was as if he were mentally undressing her—waiting for the moment until he could lay his pudgy hands upon her.
Feeling a wave of sickness overcome her, she handed the untouched plate to a passing servant. The idea of Henry touching her was repulsive—a continuation of the nightmare she’d been living. From past experience, she recalled how Henry had treated her . . . like a woman of easy virtue. Despite being his uncle’s wife, Henry would reach out and touch her in an unwelcome manner whenever she passed him in the dimly lit corridors of Dovehill Hall. In the dark she would gasp in shocked surprise at his audacity. He would laugh, enjoying her obvious discomfort.
She had mentioned these humiliating moments to her husband. But he’d paid no heed. He’d dismissed the episodes as nothing more than boyish pranks. He told her she had an overactive imagination and had mistaken Henry’s intentions.
“He’s just having a bit of high-spirited fun. Do try to be less of a country innocent,” he’d say and that would be the end of it.
Grimly, she decided she would run away and become a nun before she would permit Henry or any other man to ever again rule her life. But she set aside those glum thoughts, deciding to patiently await the reading of the will. It was her only hope.
* * *
As the mantle clock bonged the hour, the family met in the red salon. To her surprise, Beau Powers stood by the marble fireplace waiting for them to enter.
“Lady Langtry,” he said approaching her, his brilliant, sapphire eyes never leaving hers. “May I tell you how truly sorry I am for your loss. Such a regrettable accident . . . how terrible it must have been for you.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, barely able to speak as he took her hand.
He bowed over it.
“It is most gracious of you to be concerned, Master Powers. But why are you—”
“Why am I here?” he said, finishing the sentence for her. “Indeed, you must be astonished to see me. Especially considering the unique circumstances under which we last had the pleasur
e to meet.”
He smiled down at her. A faint dimple appeared at the corner of his lips.
She couldn’t help but return it, despite the somber event taking place. She remembered the moment when one year ago her broad, brim hat had flown off.
Her golden hair had tumbled down to reveal that she was not a serving boy, but a young woman in disguise. She’d laughed at his stunned expression and merrily rode off on her pony, having accomplished her mission of informing the rescuers as to the kidnapped Lady Beatrice’s whereabouts, which she’d overheard being discussed when her husband invited Viscount Linley and a priest to dine with them.
Aye, she smiled. He remembered that moment, too. It had been one of the few happy ones she’d had during the last few years. The restraints of where she was allowed to go, and with whom she was allowed to associate, had been very limiting.
She’d never been permitted to go anywhere, unless she was accompanied by her husband or the housekeeper. With the exception of the bilious toadies her husband invited to dinner, she saw no one and had not a single friend she could count upon.
“I am to act in the place of your husband’s solicitor,” he explained. “The one he had originally hired preceded him in death. It occurred two days in advance of this dreadful accident. I suppose your husband had not yet been notified before he died?”
She shook her head. And if Bangford had been informed of the death, she knew he would not have confided in her. He’d kept her ignorant concerning all his legal affairs. All of this was a revelation.
He continued, “And so it is that I am here. My reputation, it would appear, has spread further than Tipperary County. Until a senior solicitor can be found to replace me, I have been asked to take over the practice and help the partnership in Dublin.”
“Indeed . . . how interesting,” she replied, surprised by the unusual circumstances that had brought them together once more.
“Yes,” he smiled down at her, “it appears to be our destiny to meet again . . . but now I must perform the duty that has been placed in my hands.”