Respectfully yours,
Trevlyn
“How dare he!” Sinead, fire in her eye, dropped the letter on the table as if it were a hot coal. “Never in a million years shall I send my boy to England.”
“Of course,” Evleen answered absently. Her mind was on the dark, handsome man with the graceful stride who had so charmed her when he was here. He had told when he said he would not. How could he, when she’d practically begged him not to? She felt an odd twinge of disappointment, even while telling herself she really shouldn’t care. After all, what could she expect of an Englishman? Besides, she most assuredly would never see him again, so why give even one tiny thought to him?
Sinead, in a state of agitation Evleen had never seen before, arose from the table, nearly overturning her chair, and strode to the small front window where she stood, hands jammed on hips, looking out at the sea. “How could Lord Trevlyn even think of taking my son away? By what right has he to–”
Suddenly she clutched her heart, turned, and staggered. Her face turned gray, and she cried, “Evleen, my heart. Help me.”
With a cry, Evleen leaped up to help. Minutes later, she had helped her mother to her bed and was hovering over her. “I’ll send for the doctor...”
“No, I’m all right.” Sinead grasped her wrist. “I do get pains in my chest every now and then, but I’m better now. I’m sure it was just the agitation caused by that terrible letter, but I’m fine, really I am. Just let me rest a while.”
“But—”
“No doctor. We can’t afford it and I don’t need one.”
Evleen knew better than to disobey her strong-willed mother. She concealed her fear as she replied, “All right, I shall just sit here while you rest a while, then you’ll be as good as new.”
Sinead managed a rueful smile. “I had better be. Else, how would we live?”
“I don’t care about that.” Mama had always been so well. Evleen had never had to face the unbearable thought that someday she would lose her beloved mother. And yet, death was inevitable. And what if it happened soon? She, herself, would be all right, since she might be marrying Timothy soon... she guessed, although she still hadn’t completely might made up her mind. But what of her sisters? Darragh was old enough to marry, but with her prickly personality, no one had asked her. But Patrick? For the first time, the thought crossed her mind that her brother might indeed be better off in England where he would live in the wealth and luxury that were rightfully his. She would not dream of mentioning such a thought to Mama, though. That would be a betrayal of all her mother held dear.
Sinead clasped her hand. “I’ll get up soon. Really, I’m fine. Run find some paper. As soon as I get up, I shall give Lord Trevlyn his reply.”
* * *
In the late summer sunshine, Thomas and Penelope were standing in front of the ivy-covered stone stables of Northfield Hall. “What do you think of him?” Thomas ran a brush over the shining brown coat of his new Irish Thoroughbred. “A fine bit of blood, wouldn’t you say?”
“He’ll make a good addition for your breeding farm,” answered Penelope, nodding approvingly. “I shall hate to see you leave. It’s been wonderful having you home.”
“I won’t be too far away.”
“I know, but...” A wily expression came over Penelope’s face. “Such a large house you’re moving to. I hate to think of you there, all alone. A pity you can’t share it with someone.”
“There you go again,” Thomas answered with a grin. “Do you really expect me to marry Miss Bettina Trevlyn? She would no doubt cause me to expire out of sheer boredom. Murder by petit-point, you could say.”
She laughed appreciatively but quickly grew serious. “But you must marry somebody, sometime.”
“I’m thinking about it.” That was all he would say. Although he confided in his sister more than anyone, during the entire time he’d been back from Ireland, he rarely mentioned Evleen, and only in conjunction with his overall description of his trip to Ireland. Despite it’s being utterly insane, he kept wishing he could see her again. But no matter how many times he told himself he would never again make that miserable trip to County Clare, let alone Ireland, her bright blue eyes and enchanting smile stayed as vivid in his mind as the day they’d met. There was nothing he could do about it, though. Evleen O’Fallon would remain an unfulfilled dream, the kind he supposed all men had at one time or another in their lives. What was there to do except resign himself that he would never see the beautiful Irish girl again?
“Who is that?” asked Penelope, looking over Thomas’s shoulder.
Thomas turned to see a rider approaching, an older man, he gathered, riding slowly and somewhat stiffly in his saddle. As the man drew nearer, he recognized who it was. “Why it’s Lord Trevlyn. It must be important. One hardly sees him on a horse anymore.”
Lord Trevlyn dismounted so slowly and painfully Thomas was sorely tempted to offer his help, but refrained in deference to the old man’s pride. He almost changed his mind when Trevlyn’s knees buckled as he hit the ground, but the old man recovered himself by gripping the saddle and quickly pulling himself erect.
After a greeting accompanied by a courtly bow to Penelope, Trevlyn reached in his pocket and pulled out a letter. “From that Irish woman. You will never believe what it says.”
“I believe I can guess, sir,” Thomas replied, careful not to sound too cocksure.
“Read it.”
Thomas took the letter and read aloud.
My Dear Lord Trevlyn,
I am in receipt of your letter requesting that I send you my son, Patrick O’Fallon. Please be advised that although I appreciate your concern for your grandson, never, not while there is breath in my body, will he ever set one foot upon the soil of England.
Yours in good health,
Sinead O’Fallon
Sounds just like her, Thomas thought, but in deference to Trevlyn’s obvious perturbation he hid the wry smile that flew to his lips. He’d been right. The letter was exactly the sort he would expect Sinead O’Fallon would write—uncompromising, intractable, and to the point.
“It sounds as though she has most definitely made up her mind, sir. I’m afraid that’s an end to it, then. Perhaps when the boy is older–”
“I want my grandson,” Trevlyn declared, voice shaking with intensity. Confusion filled his eyes. “I don’t understand. How could that woman defy me after I offered her son the kind of privileged life few can have? Why would she want Patrick to stay on, leading a deprived existence on that... that...”
“Barren, rocky piece of land?” Thomas softly supplied.
“Precisely. Well, it simply won’t do. That woman can defy me all she wants, but she’ll not get her way.”
“What do you intend?”
The old man’s eyes gleamed with determination. “I want you to return to Ireland. I want you to threaten, beg, plead, cajole, bargain—whatever it takes to get me my grandson.”
“No,” cried Thomas, his ever-present, stern composure for once forgotten.
“Yes, Thomas, you must.”
“Have you any idea have difficult it is to get to Ireland? How much time the journey takes? As it is, I am so far behind now on the my plans for–”
“I don’t care about all that.” Lord Trevlyn flicked a gaze towards the house where the Marquess was still indisposed, still suffering from the gout. “Your father would want you to go, Thomas.”
Penelope, who’d been listening, wide-eyed, addressed her brother. “He’s right. Don’t forget Lord Trevlyn is Papa’s oldest friend. Of course he’d want you to go.”
Unfair, Thomas wanted to shout, feeling utterly dismayed. That little jaunt to Ireland had greatly delayed his plans for breeding horses. Since his return from Ireland, he’d made great strides, not only in making several trips to Tanglewood Hall, where he had already renovated the house and hired servants, but also he had started to purchase his horses. He reached to pat the withers of his new Thoroughbred
. This latest addition was only one of several of the finest horses in the land. “What about your brother?” he asked Trevlyn. “Can’t you send him?” Lord knew, up to now Walter and his family had done nothing to earn their keep.
“Are you daft?” Trevlyn replied with a sniff. “Walter stands to lose everything if Patrick comes to England. I can imagine his enthusiasm should I send him to County Clare.”
“Of course, I hadn’t thought.” That was utterly stupid, Thomas chastised himself. Born of desperation. Was there nothing he could do? “What about Montague?”
This time Penelope sniffed. “Montague take time from his precious life in London? Thomas, you belong in Bedlam if you think he’d agree to go. And besides,” she slanted a knowing gaze at him, “only you have the tact to deal with this... this Sinead, or whatever her name is, and the girl you said was feisty, that Evleen.”
Evleen. At the sound of her name, Thomas felt a jolt in the pit of his stomach. To see her again... Oh, God, how he yearned to see her again. But he had set his course. His sole purpose in life right now was breeding horses. His carefully planned future most certainly did not include a girl from Ireland who would fit into his well-run existence like water into oil. Everything about such a relationship would be wrong, dead wrong. “I’m sorry,” he told Trevlyn, “To go to Ireland now... I simply cannot. Perhaps in a year or so...”
“Quite all right, I do understand,” Trevlyn broke in briskly. “On second thought, I’ll go myself.” He gave a hollow laugh. “A bit of brisk sea air might be just the tonic for my rheumatism.” He grabbed the reins of his horse, placed his foot in the stirrup, and attempted to swing onto the saddle, but he fell back down, too weak to give himself the proper boost. “Wretched animal won’t stand still,” he muttered. He tried again, grunting from his all-out exertion, but failed a second time. “Damme.” Biting his lip, obviously chagrined, he said, “Well, Thomas, my groom had to help me when I left. I had hoped I could gather enough strength not to make a spectacle of myself but obviously not. Come, give me a boost.”
As Thomas helped his old neighbor into his saddle, he remarked, “Sir, don’t even think about going to Ireland. Believe me, it’s much too strenuous a trip for a man who...”
“Say it, Thomas. For a spindle-shanked old man with the strength of a gnat.” From his mount, Lord Trevlyn regarded Thomas with a look of grim determination. His jaw jutted out as he announced, “I shall go to Ireland. Nothing can stop me.”
“Not a good idea, sir. The journey is a nightmare, and gets worse now that winter’s coming. Perhaps in the spring–”
“I shall leave immediately.” With a great show of wheeling his steed around, Trevlyn started away, but Thomas grabbed the reins and brought him to a stop.
“Please reconsider, sir. Conditions aboard those packets are abominable. The air is confined and suffocating. There’s nausea... the food is disgusting. If you cross from Holyhead to Ringsend, you’re obliged to pay a shilling to the boatman to row you ashore. If you can find a boatman. Otherwise, you’ll wait on a rolling boat for hours, cold and hungry, no doubt heaving your dinner, that is if you were able to keep any of that rotten food down. And then–”
“I’m going. I want my grandson. I have little time to waste”
Thomas felt himself weakening, despite all his plans. Despairing, he realized a journey to Ireland at this time of year could well mean the end of this old man, who, after all, was not only his father’s best friend but had treated his whole family with the utmost care and consideration over the years. One more try. “She won’t give him up, sir, take my word on it.”
“Then... I shall bring the mother to England, along with her son. Make it well worth her while.”
“She would die before she came to England.”
“One of the daughters, then... that Evleen, the oldest one.”
Evleen in England? What an astonishing thought. He was about to give in anyway, but the thought of the Irish girl put him well over the edge. “I’ll go.”
Lord Trevlyn loosed his reins. “You will?”
“I will.”
“How soon?”
“The sooner the better before winter sets in. Tomorrow if you like.”
Lord Trevlyn appeared to be having second thoughts. “Not that I wanted to pressure you...”
Ha. Thomas nearly choked but got the words out. “It’s my pleasure, sir, now that I know how important this is to you. Besides, what’s a few weeks? I’ll still have a lifetime to pursue my own plans.”
Was that strange noise Penelope trying to stifle a laugh? “How suddenly noble you are, Thomas,” she said, lips twitching.
Not so noble, Thomas thought privately. He remembered Tanglewood Hall and a flash of keen disappointment ripped through him. But enough. From this moment on he would set all regrets aside. Most assuredly he would not dwell on yet another delay of his plans. “You took me by surprise, but I’m happy I can be of help, sir.”
“Wonderful.” The old man’s face was wreathed in a smile. “You can do it, my boy, with that charm of yours. Use every power of persuasion you can think of. Money... I’ll set some aside, whatever you need. And be sure to tell the mother she can come along... Bloody hell, tell her bring the whole family if she likes. If not the mother, then the sister, that Evleen. Does the boy get along with her?”
“Famously.”
“Well, then tell this Sinead O’Fallon that if she sends the daughter along with the boy, I’ll see that the daughter—how old did you say she was?”
“She’s twenty-four.”
“Hmm... a bit old, but still... Tell the mother I shall give the girl a Season. Find her a good match, don’t you see? I’ll see she’s presented at court if she likes—brought out. She’ll have new gowns, as many as she pleases, and hats, shoes, gloves—all those baubles so dear to a pretty girl’s heart. Er, that is... she is pretty, isn’t she? I trust she’s not one of those sturdy peasant girls with rough hands.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Well, then. That’s sure to win her over, don’t you think?”
“I’ll do what I can, sir.” A few baubles? Thomas recalled that first moment he’d laid eyes on Evleen O’Fallon, standing by the door of her humble cottage, the wind playing such devilish tricks with her gown he’d felt a surge of excitement just watching from a distance. Later, when she’d been fixing dinner and he’d watched fascinated by her every move, he’d been struck not only by her beauty but by her competence, maturity, and the proud, sure, no-nonsense way she’d carried herself.
A few baubles?
He tried to picture Evleen in the midst of her London Season, bosom half-exposed in her low-cut gown, giggling behind her fan, fluttering her eyelashes at some cravat-choked, simpering, superficial dandy.
Never. Ludicrous. Utterly impossible.
Chapter 7
With a heavy heart, Evleen left the pot of soup she’d been stirring and went to stare moodily at the sea from the small cottage window. There would be rain soon. The sky was dull and leaden, a perfect color to match her mood. Actually, all the family’s mood now that Mama wasn’t well.
Darragh, who had been sitting by their mother’s bedside, came into the kitchen, huddled in her shawl. “Mama’s sleeping now. I think she’s a mite better.”
“Do you?”
“I suppose it’s wishful thinking.” Darragh’s brows drew together in a frown. “It’s that Englishman’s fault. She was fine until his letter arrived.”
With a shake of her head, Evleen answered, “Let’s be fair. Mama has not been feeling well for ages, long before the letter. Don’t you remember all those times she was breathless, all the times she felt faint?”
“I suppose,” Darragh answered tartly, “but you must admit her condition has worsened since that day. If you ask me, she’s sick with guilt. She knows very well she’s done Patrick out of his rightful inheritance.” Her face clouded. “And us, too. Just think what forty pounds a year could do.” She glanced down a
t her well-worn light calico gown, her lips thinning with irritation. “Look at this old thing. No wonder I haven’t a husband. We could have new clothes, live in a half-way decent house, if only Mama would relent and send Patrick to England.”
Evleen felt a sudden urge to inform her sister it was not the lack of pretty clothes that was turning her into an old maid, it was her waspish tongue and selfish attitude. Such a chastisement would be most unkind, though. Unjust, too. Despite her faults, Darragh worked as hard as anyone and worried as much as anyone about Mama. Evleen replied gently, “Don’t be hard on our mother. Can’t you see why she loathes all things English? Surely you understand why she could never send Patrick to live with his grandfather.”
It came as no surprise when Darragh gave her a look that said she’d never understand.
Later, after everyone else had gone to bed, Evleen sat by her mother’s bed and smiled down at her. “All the chores are done, Mama. You see? We get along very well without you.” She noted with sorrow that her mother, once the picture of health, now lay on her bed, pale, hollow-eyed, and exhausted, a mere shadow of her former self.
“I hate this,” Sinead said with a deep sigh. “Where has my strength gone? Why can’t I walk a step without panting as if I’d just run a mile uphill?”
“You know it’s your heart, but the doctor says if you keep taking your tonic you’ll get better. In a while I’ll fix you some chamomile tea.”
Mama turned her face to the wall. “Chamomile tea won’t fix what ails me. Nothing will.”
At her mother’s embittered words, Evleen felt a chill around her own heart. She had made a valiant effort to remain optimistic but had known from the start that her mother’s ailment was not likely to get better and could only get worse. It was almost too much to bear, to see her once-proud, once-strong mother reduced to being an near-helpless invalid.
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