by Laurel McKee
“Yet these outings seem to achieve nothing,” Katherine murmured. She nodded at a passing carriage, her serene smile masking the concern in her eyes.
“Of course they achieve something,” Anna said. They brought her sweet, sweet forgetfulness, even if only for a few hours. When she was dancing, flirting, playing cards, she thought only of that present moment. Yet Society balls were nothing like the Olympian Club. Now, there was real forgetfulness.
Not that she could ever get in there again. She had not heard from Jane all day, and she feared her friend was angry at her for running away like that. Or worse, thought her an easily shocked ninny.
“Oh, yes?” said Katherine. “And what is that, my dear?”
“They introduce me to eligible partis, of course. Isn’t that why we stay in Dublin?”
Katherine laughed ruefully. “It does not seem to matter how many fine young men you meet, Anna, as none suit you.”
“I just want to be happy in my marriage, Mama. As Eliza is with Will, as you were with Papa.”
Her mother’s lips tightened. “And I want that for you, of course. But soon you will have refused every eligible man in Dublin.”
“Then we can go to London, or Milan. Or I could go stay with Eliza in Switzerland.” That would not be so bad, Anna thought. Eliza’s life had always seemed so exciting, so full of importance and purpose. Perhaps she could show Anna how to find that purpose, too. Show her how to be useful.
“I hardly think it has come to that yet,” said Katherine. She waved at a carriage full of friends across the way. “Lord and Lady Connemara have invited us to a country house party for Christmas. The fresh air will surely do you some good—you have been looking a bit tired lately, my dear. And they have a fine library, which should keep Caroline occupied. Some days I am not sure what to do with her. She is too clever for me. She doesn’t enjoy the things other young girls do.”
Anna laughed. “So I am too social, and Caro is not social enough?”
“I did not say that.”
She did not have to. Anna was quite sure all three of her daughters were a disappointment to Katherine, who was so good, kind, and beautiful that she was called the Angel of Kildare. One daughter was exiled for her political beliefs, her support of the United Irishmen in the Uprising two years ago. One was wild and wayward. And one cared only to study and marry old men for their fine libraries.
And that made Anna remember her promise to Caroline. She would speak to their mother about all those hated ladylike lessons, and Caroline would keep her mouth shut about Anna sneaking out.
“Speaking of Caro, Mama…”
Katherine sighed, as if she knew she would not like what Anna said. “Yes, my dear? What about your sister?”
“She says you are interviewing drawing teachers.”
“As soon as we return home today, as a matter of fact. I have found several that come highly recommended, including one from France.”
“I think Caro feels drawing lessons would—well, would take up so much time,” Anna said carefully. “What with music, dancing, and deportment, which she is already studying every day already.”
“And doing very poorly at, I’m sorry to say,” said Katherine. That tightness was back around her lips, but she still smiled and nodded at all her many friends. “I thought she might at least find drawing useful for copying illustrations from those old books she’s always poring over.”
“Perhaps if you put it to her that way, instead of presenting it as one more feminine accomplishment. I think she fears you mean for her to sit and do watercolors of flowers.”
“There is much to be said for feminine accomplishments! Every lady must be graceful and elegant if she is to be noticed, to take her place in our world. I know Caroline hates me for taking her away from her books, but she must see reality. She must come out of her dreams and see life as it truly is, not as she wishes it to be. If lessons are needed to accomplish that, then so be it.”
Her mother sounded uncharacteristically grim, fierce even. Anna looked at her in surprise, but Katherine went on smiling. “I think—well, I think Caro has her own plans, Mama.”
“A plan, is it? Oh, yes, my girls always have their own plans. But matters do not often turn out as we think they should.” She suddenly waved her gloved hand. “Look, there is Lady Connemara. I must go and tell her we accept her kind invitation for Christmas.”
“I…” Anna glanced desperately around the park, searching for some excuse to escape. She was suddenly very confused and strangely sad, although she did not know why. She glimpsed Jane in the distance, a glimmer of her bright green gown against her distinctive yellow phaeton.
“I should go say hello to Lady Cannondale, Mama,” Anna said. She waved to her friend, who was surrounded by a flock of admirers, and Jane waved back.
“Lady Cannondale,” Katherine said coolly. “You seem to spend a great deal of time with her lately, Anna.”
“She is fun,” Anna said. “And I think I can learn a great deal from her.”
“Learn what exactly, my dear? I am not sure…”
“She is respectable, surely! There can be nothing untoward in my friendship with her. She is a countess, like you. Her husband was a member of Parliament.”
“Like me?” Katherine murmured. “Fine, go speak to her. But be quick. You need to greet Lady Connemara, as well.”
“I will, I promise. I always do my duty.”
As Katherine gestured to the coachman to turn the carriage toward Lady Connemara’s, Anna tugged at Psyche’s reins and led the mare along another path. The crowd still pressed in close on all sides, a tangle of laughter and empty chatter that sounded like tinkling glass in the frosty wind. Her head ached from the champagne of the night before, a dull throb behind her eyes that only added to her restlessness. She still had that wild urge to run away, but as usual, there was no place to run.
At last, she reached Jane’s phaeton, and the throng of admirers parted to make way for her as they called out jovial greetings. The handsome, dark-eyed Gianni sat by Jane on the carriage seat, his arm protectively near her shoulders.
“Lady Anna! You are looking very well today,” Jane said, giving her a questioning smile.
“I feel well, thank you. Quite looking forward to the Fitzwalters’ ball tomorrow.”
“Are you indeed?” said Lord James Melton, one of Jane’s eager suitors. “Dull as tombs, I would say. Since Lord Fitzwalter has gone on his penny-pinching ways they serve nothing but vile watered wine and dry cake!”
“A sin indeed,” said Anna, and in a city where lavish hospitality ruled, it was. “But they don’t stint on their orchestra, and the ballroom at Fitzwalter House is as enormous as ever. The dancing should be quite fine.”
“It will be if you will partner with me for the supper dance, Lady Anna,” Lord James said quickly.
“Not fair, Jimmy!” one of his friends protested. “You already engaged Lady Cannondale for the opening quadrille. You will monopolize all the loveliest ladies.”
Jane laughed. “I am sure there will be plenty of dances to go around! Don’t you agree, Anna?”
“I hope you have each saved one for me,” said a deep, smooth voice, full of wry amusement and the silk of a posh accent.
Anna twisted around in her saddle to see that Grant Dunmore had stopped near their little group. He tipped his hat to her, and she was reminded of what Caro said. He is so very handsome.
He was certainly that. Anna thought of a book in her father’s library at Killinan Castle, a volume of Greek myths that called Apollo the “Ever-Bright.” The golden god of the sun had nothing at all on Sir Grant Dunmore. He sat easily on his horse: tall, elegantly lazy, his dark green riding jacket perfectly tailored over his broad shoulders, his cravat tied in a stylishly elaborate loop and fastened with a pearl pin. His hair, a bit long for the fashion and brushing his collar, was a glossy bronze-brown, his eyes an otherworldly amber color that seemed to glow in the hazy sunlight.
Th
ose eyes focused on her and a faint smile was on his perfectly shaped lips. It made her cheeks feel too warm in the cold breeze, made her want to laugh and turn away. Looking at him was like looking at the sun—too fine and heady for every day.
A vision flashed through her mind, erasing for a split second the handsome man before her and the laughing crowd all around them. She saw a dark man, a Hades rather than an Apollo, his moss-green eyes intense as he reached for her. She felt his warm breath on her face, felt the slide of his hands on her bare skin and the spark of excitement deep inside of her.
Cailleach, he called her. Witch. But he was the one with magical powers, drawing her out of her bright, hectic world into the darkness of his. The terrible thing was, she liked it. Far too much. Something in him called out to her, and she wanted to run back for more.
Anna shook her head hard. She could not go back to Adair, to his club and whatever turmoil he fermented there. She had enough of darkness two years ago, and enough of other people’s ideals that proved to be ashes and death in the end. Enough of the violence that lay hidden down inside of her. She wanted only sunlight now, frivolity and forgetfulness. At least that was what she told herself, over and over until it was true.
She peeked at Grant Dunmore from under her veil. He was laughing with Jane and Gianni now, the merriment making the elegantly drawn angles of his face seem lit from within. Maybe he was what she needed. She had to marry someone, and he was a good choice.
“And what of you, Lady Anna?” he said. Even his voice seemed full of light, like rich summer honey, smooth and sparkling. Not rough, like Adair’s. Not touched with the wildness of Ireland. “Your friend says she is brave enough to dance with me. Are you? Or did I trod on your feet last time?”
Anna laughed, remembering the way she glided down the dance floor with him at the Overtons’ ball. “Oh, Sir Grant, you are one of the finest dancers in Dublin, and I am sure you know it. I was quite the envy of the ballroom.”
“Oh, no, Lady Anna,” he said softly, his gaze almost like a gentle caress as it moved over her face. “I was the envy of every man there. I know there were many who were aching to call me out for dancing with you twice and taking you away from them.”
Anna laughed. “Well, I don’t want to be the cause of any violence, Sir Grant. We should only dance once at the Fitzwalters’ then.”
“I shall count the hours until then,” he said, and something in his charming smile made even the trite compliment blush-worthy.
Jane watched them with her own amused smile, twirling the ribbons of her bonnet in her hand. “Perhaps you can fill those hours by telling us the news from Queen’s County, Sir Grant, since you have just returned from your estate there. I heard there was some new unrest in the area. Should we all flee for England again, as we did two years ago?”
Anna glanced sharply at Grant. New unrest? But things had seemed so quiet in the last year or so, aside from those silly brawls between pro- and anti-Unionists. At Killinan Castle, the fields were tended again and the house full of parties. The wounds left in the lush, green landscapes by battles and fires were healing. The past was hidden under laughter and pretty clothes. And if there was a strange tension that never quite went away—a wary, shrill anxiety—that could be ignored. Sometimes.
But if true violence burst forth again, real warfare and bloodshed, that could not be ignored. And she feared it could not be healed again.
Grant’s jaw tightened, but he just gave his usual charming smile. A smile could hide so much. “I doubt flight will be necessary, Lady Cannondale. It’s true there were some small disturbances at my estate I had to look into, but it turned out to be just the usual Irish nonsense. Boys dressed up as ghosts trying to set fire to barns and haystacks. Someone splashing the words ‘No Union’ across my portico in red paint. A nuisance, to be sure—that marble came all the way from Siena. But it won’t happen again.”
“Damned Whiteboys,” one of the other men muttered. “You’d have thought the Irish would have learned their lesson two years ago.”
“They’ll never learn,” another man said. “They’re like monkeys—just keep doing the same things over and over, battering against the bars that are there for their own good.”
“Should’ve hanged the lot of them two years ago,” the first man added. “Pitt was a fool, letting Robert Emmet and Colonel O’Callaghan escape to France to keep spreading their poison. No wonder the peasants here keep acting up. I hope you put a stop to that, Dunmore, before it can grow.”
A muscle ticked along Grant’s jaw, and his smile turned frosty. “It won’t happen again, I can assure you.”
Jane suddenly snapped her fingers, cutting off their words. “How bloodthirsty you have all become! It’s quite ruining my fine afternoon. I command you to speak of something else, something amusing.”
The men laughed ruefully, apologizing and shuffling around as the conversation turned to horse races. But Anna couldn’t get rid of the sour, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The cruelty wasn’t over; it was never over. It was only hidden by a thin layer of glitter and laughter. Violence was always on the edge of erupting, and she couldn’t bear to be caught in it again. She had been both its victim and its perpetrator, and she wanted only to be done with it.
Perhaps she should go to see Eliza in Lausanne. She heard it was quiet and pretty there among the snowy mountains and meadows. But if United Irish ideas were still spreading, Eliza was surely a part of it, and there could be no real peace there.
“I should find my mother,” Anna said softly.
“Will I see you at the Napiers’ card party tonight, Anna?” Jane said.
“Of course. If you all will excuse me…”
“Let me go with you to find her, Lady Anna,” Grant said. “You look very pale. Are you unwell?”
“I am quite well, thank you, Sir Grant,” she answered, trying to smile at him through that cold feeling. “But I would be glad of the company.”
He turned his horse with hers, and they moved back to the wider lane, leaving Jane with Gianni and her other admirers. The crowd had thinned a bit as the light grew pinker and the promenade hour drew to a close, but there were still several carriages rolling slowly along. Anna did not immediately see her mother’s equipage among them.
“I am sorry if I upset you, Lady Anna,” Grant said. “I should not have spoken of what happened on my estate. It was nothing at all, I assure you. Just a bit of mischief, easily dealt with.”
“A bit of mischief,” Anna murmured. “Yet is that not how the Uprising began? A bit of mischief that got out of hand?”
“Those were terrible days indeed,” he said gently. “And I am more sorry than I can say if you were affected by them, Lady Anna. It can’t happen again, though. England has learned not to underestimate the Irish propensity for violence, and the military force here is twice what it was. Control has been tightened, and soon we will be a true part of Great Britain.”
Anna smiled at him and nodded, but she had her doubts. Some people thought the Union would erase their troubles in one stroke. Yet how could that be, when the troubles ran so deep? They were not the same nation, no matter how it was worded in the Act of Union.
“I feel quite safe in Dublin, Sir Grant, I assure you,” she answered.
“And Dublin could not do without you, Lady Anna,” he said. “The ballrooms would be quite desolate if you were not there to brighten them.”
Anna laughed. “Oh, Sir Grant, I am sure you say that to all the ladies.”
“No, I assure you I do not.” He leaned from his saddle to reach for her hand, gently unwinding her fingers from the reins. He raised them to his lips for a lingering kiss. “I think there is no other lady in Dublin quite like you.”
She laughed again, but deep inside she felt an odd tinge of disquiet. Though flirtatious, there was nothing improper in his words, nothing Anna had not heard a hundred times before. Men always made such compliments; they were empty little baubles. Yet as Sir Grant ga
zed at her over their joined hands, she glimpsed a look in his golden brown eyes she could not quite define. A sort of calculation, perhaps, a speculation. Something deeper than most men.
Then it was gone. It vanished in an instant to be replaced by that polite, charming smile.
Anna took her hand back and wrapped the leather reins over her palm. “I am sure my mother would say there is no other lady in Dublin who causes as much trouble as me!”
Sir Grant sat up straight in his saddle. He gave her a rueful half-smile. “Ah, but what is life without trouble, Lady Anna? Very dull.”
Anna glanced down one of the pathways in search of her mother’s carriage. She wanted nothing more than to go home, to be quiet and alone and not have anyone look at her. Everyone was always watching, watching.
Yet her wish was not to be met just yet. Her gaze collided with that of another horseman halfway down the path—a dark green stare that she remembered very well.
Adair. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she couldn’t hold back a shocked gasp. What was he doing here, at the promenade hour when all respectable society was at St. Stephen’s Green? She had never seen him here before, though his name was bandied about often enough in political circles.
Was he—could he be here because of her? Had he truly seen through her disguise at the Olympian Club?
But even as that thought flashed through her mind, she knew it was foolish. If he wanted to confront her, blackmail her, he would not choose to do so here. And why would a duke blackmail her? Why would he even care what a silly debutante did?
She took a deep, steadying breath, forcing her hands to relax on the reins as her horse shifted restlessly. The fact remained that he was here, and he was the least foolish man she had ever met. If he did not yet know that she was the lady in red, which wasn’t very likely, he soon would. Especially if he kept staring at her so intently.
She peeked at him again from beneath her veil and found that he did still watch her. His face was shadowed now by the brim of his hat, the play of dark and light making the rugged angles of his high cheekbones and jaw even more chiseled. A trace of black beard shadowed his cheeks, and his hair was midnight black along the nape of his neck. He even wore black, fine wool and leather, and Anna thought again of Hades, thundering up from the Underworld to snatch poor, unsuspecting Persephone from the sunlight.