Gracelin O'Malley

by Ann Moore

  “You know my husband?”

  “Slightly.” He finished off his wine in one gulp. “My father and Lord Donnelly are members of the same gentlemen’s club. I must say,’ I’m a bit taken aback. I’d just assumed he’d married old Brenda.”

  Grace looked again to where Bram sat, now talking quietly and closely with his dinner partner.

  She folded her napkin in her lap. “I know little of my husband’s life before we married.”

  Lord Evans signaled for more wine, directing that Grace’s glass be filled first.

  “Just as well.” He winked in an effort to restore the mood. “He wasn’t worth knowing then. Bit of a rogue, you know. It’s marriage makes the man, they say—and clearly he’s made himself a fine one.”

  Grace remained serious. “Did he break a promise to Miss O’Flaherty?”

  Lord Evans’s laugh was short. “Probably.” He lowered his voice and spoke close to Grace’s ear. “Don’t worry about the O’Flaherty girls, Missus Donnelly. What they get, they give back threefold. They like a little intrigue in their rather dreary lives, and are not averse to drama.” He paused to moisten his lips. “Trust me.”

  Grace pulled back, eyes wide. She glanced at Eleanor, who was watching them suspiciously.

  “I’m sure I’d rather not be knowing anything else about that, Lord Evans,” she said quickly, then winced at the sound of her own country accent.

  “Yes.” He nodded and she realized his thoughts were swimming in wine. “Quite right. And men can change, rare though it is. I myself bear witness to that.”

  She swallowed, and glanced around the table for help. All the other guests were engaged in conversation, except Eleanor, who now openly glared at her.

  “How old are you, my dear?” Lord Evans appraised her with a knowing eye, taking in the luxurious hair, the smooth skin of her neck and shoulders, and her powdered bosom, where he lingered far longer than was polite.

  “Surely that’s not a question for another man’s wife?” She drew herself up.

  Lord Evans nodded. “Right you are. Quite right,” he acknowledged, then continued anyway, frowning slightly. “He likes them young, always has. That last one was twenty, but Abigail wasn’t much older than you are now. Eighteen, when she left England. And you’re not a day over sixteen.”

  “Seventeen,” Grace insisted, then added quietly, “On my next birthday.”

  Lord Evans nodded. “Lovely age,” he said dreamily. “So much ahead, so many possibilites. You look a bit like her, you know.”

  “Who?” Grace’s curiosity got the best of her.

  “Abigail. His first wife, a beauty like you … my cousin thrice removed or something like that.” He waved his long fingers, then let the hand fall to his knee. “We’re all related in England, you know, one way or another. Her father was against it—they eloped and came out here. She died in … childbirth. He married again rather quickly. But, of course, you know all that.”

  Grace shook her head.

  Lord Evans frowned and peered at her more closely. “You really are an innocent, aren’t you? Who are your people?”

  Grace again looked round the table, and seeing that everyone was otherwise engaged, said softly, “My father is a tenant farmer on Squire Donnelly’s estate.”

  Lord Evans’s eyes grew wide in amazement. “Dear God, you’re fresh off the farm! An honest-to-God country girl!”

  Conversation suddenly faltered around them and Grace was acutely aware of eavesdropping on either side.

  Lord Evans lowered his voice. “Terribly sorry,” he said firmly. “Please don’t be embarrassed. My fault entirely. I quite understand.”

  “Understand what?” Grace kept her eyes on her plate.

  “Why I’d never seen you before. Why you seemed so genuine, so unspoiled. Why you look at your husband with such open love.”

  “Is that so surprising? Does he not deserve my love?”

  “No.”

  The hardness in Lord Evans’s voice startled her, and she looked up.

  He shook his head, then smiled wanly. “I mean to say, dear lady, that I’m sure no man is deserving of a love as pure as yours. You mustn’t mind the ramblings of an old drunkard, you know.” He slipped his hand into her lap and covered her fingers with a squeeze. “It’s only jealousy.”

  “You’re no drunkard.” Grace gently removed her fingers from his grasp and took up her wineglass, although she made no move to drink from it. “And you’re certainly not old. And I feel no embarrassment coming from a family as fine as my own. So,” she said firmly, “let us talk of other things.”

  He bowed his head to her in a gesture she found at once elegant and dear.

  “You are most gracious,” he said, then put on his best conversational face. “Quite a wind picking up outside tonight, Missus Donnelly, wouldn’t you say?”

  She laughed quietly, then paused to listen to the whistle as the wind sped past the corners of the house. Her smile faded as she thought of her family at home in their snug cabin. “Winter’s on it’s way, sure enough, Lord Evans.”

  “Then I shall be leaving soon for a warmer climate,” he commented.

  “Leaving?” Mister O’Flaherty boomed from the head of the table, silencing the guests at that end. “You’re not leaving yet, Lord Evans, are you? Not without treating us all to a song.”

  Grace’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re a singer, are you?”

  Eleanor laughed sharply from across the table. “He’s considered quite a bit more than just a singer. Lord Evans is an accomplished musician and vocalist whose work is known throughout Europe.”

  Grace lowered her eyes, abashed.

  “I am a violinist and composer,” he said quietly to Grace. “But my love is the Spanish guitar, which I have spent some years studying. And, in the course of things, I have learned to sing a bit, as well.”

  “That’s very fine. My own mother had the gift of music,” she added wistfully. “The most beautiful voice in all the valley.”

  “I’m sure it was.”

  Their eyes met and Grace was startled by the emotion she saw there. She did not look away.

  “You must play for us tonight, Lord Evans,” Eleanor interrupted loudly.

  Lord Evans had not looked away, either. “Shall I, do you think?” he asked Grace, as if it were just the two of them in the room.

  Grace nodded slowly. “It would be an honor to hear you, sir.”

  Mister O’Flaherty thumped the table. “Very good! Very good!” he boomed. “If your bellies are full, then push away. Ladies.” He looked at his daughter. “Miss Eleanor will show you where to freshen up—not that any of you need it!” He laughed hard at the joke, the others joining in politely. “And, gentlemen, we’ll adjourn to the library for cigars and cognac, then on to the drawing room for a bit of music from our own Lord Evans, what do you say, sir?”

  “You honor me, Mister O’Flaherty.” He paused, then looked across the table. “And it would be my pleasure, providing Miss Eleanor will accompany me on the piano.”

  Eleanor blushed and fluttered, picking at her skirts and murmuring, “Oh yes, an honor, oh my, I’d be delighted, thrilled actually.”

  Mister O’Flaherty beamed at them and Grace saw the glow of his matchmaking, although it was behind her own chair that Lord Evans now stood, ready to escort her out of the room.

  “Thank you,” she said, rising smoothly. “I enjoyed our talk.”

  Lord Evans smiled. “You didn’t, but you’re too kind to say so.” He paused, as the others began to gather by the door. “I’ll be looking for your face in the crowd, Missus Donnelly.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Until later.”

  Grace watched as he left the room with the other men, including Bram, who shot her a quizzical look as he left.

  “Let me show you where to go.”

  The sweet Irish voice belonged to Missus Branagh, the doctor’s wife. She slipped her arm through Grace’s and led her out of the dining room. As they pas
sed through the entry, she said quietly into Grace’s ear, “Lord Evans is quite a charmer, isn’t he?”

  “That he is,” Grace agreed, then her smile faded and she stopped dead in her tracks. “Did I do something wrong, Missus Branagh? Is that why you’re speaking to me now?”

  “Don’t look so alarmed, child.” The older woman patted her arm. “You’re doing fine.” She glanced toward the stairs, where the last of the women were climbing to the second-floor powder room. “The O’Flahertys are looking to match Lord Evans with Miss Eleanor, but I’m afraid you thwarted their intentions by sitting next to him at dinner.”

  Grace’s hand flew to her throat. “’Twas Gerald showed me to my seat!”

  Missus Branagh frowned. “There’s little brotherly love the boy has for his sisters, and I said to the doctor, he’s not changed one bit for all his years away at university.”

  “What am I to do now?” She thought of Eleanor’s sharp eyes.

  “Nothing, my dear.” Missus Branagh smiled. “What’s done is done. But you must try to avoid further conversation with Lord Evans this evening, or it won’t look well.”

  Grace nodded. “I would not want to damage his reputation,” she said gravely. “Thank you for telling me.”

  Missus Branagh took up her arm again and led her to the stairs. “It’s not his reputation I’m looking after here, Missus Donnelly.” She paused, then whispered in confidence, “I married up, as well, you know. I was but a country girl, like yourself, when Doctor Branagh set his cap for me. It took me many years—and many tears, I might add—to learn how to handle this bunch. I don’t want you to have it so rough as I did, so you can count on me for friendship.”

  Grace squeezed her arm gratefully.

  At the top of the sweeping staircase was a large room, now crowded with ladies adjusting their hair, smoothing their dresses, powdering their faces, and applying lip rouge.

  “Bad enough he marries low and brings her along to flaunt in front of poor Brenda.” It was Eleanor’s voice. “But then she spends the entire evening flirting shamelessly with my Lord Evans!”

  “Actually, she made very interesting conversation,” Miss Martin put in coolly. “Which, in your case, would be an oxymoron.”

  Grace stood frozen in the doorway until Missus Branagh said in a loud voice, “Here we are, Missus Donnelly. Freshen up a bit. Then we’ll all go back downstairs and hear some of that delightful music.” She led Grace into the room and positioned her in front of one of the full-length mirrors.

  Grace could see the redness in her cheeks, but she willed the color out, and out it went. She pretended to adjust her hair and fix the wilted shoulders of her gown, conscious of the diminished conversation around her. Miss Martin caught her eye in the mirror and sent the slightest wink of comradeship before taking herself out of the room and back down the stairs.

  When Missus Branagh had done with herself, she collected Grace and the two of them began the long descent, but not before Brenda’s voice chased out into the hall after them.

  “The lane girls have found each other,” she pronounced snidely, and a few of the remaining ladies tittered.

  Missus Branagh pulled up the slumping Grace as they went down the staircase. “Stand tall, girl!” she insisted. “It’s just sour grapes. He chose you over her.”

  “And for the life of me, I’ll never understand why.” Grace shook her head.

  The doctor’s wife smiled then, and smoothed back the hair on Grace’s forehead. “He needs you,” she said gently. “He knows you can change his life for the better.”

  Those words comforted Grace as she entered the music room and joined the other guests. She could not see how she had wrought any change in Bram compared to the enormous change he’d brought to her life. Still, she could see that the women who truly seemed to hold her marriage against her were few and that she could find friendship with interesting women if she sought it. She returned an acknowledging nod to Miss Martin, the woman who went to college and studied law, who was rumored to write articles for the newspaper, not about flower clubs and ladies’ leagues, but about O’Connell and Irish politics. Sean would like to know a woman like this, Grace knew, and was gratified when Miss Martin chose the seat next to her before the music began.

  “I am not in the countryside long, Missus Donnelly,” she said in a lovely throaty voice. “But might I be so bold as to invite myself to tea one afternoon next week? I think you and I might share common ideas about our countrymen.” Her eyes were quick and dark brown, full of mischief.

  “You’d be more than welcome, Miss Martin,” Grace said warmly. “Which day did you have in mind?”

  Miss Martin bit her lip, thinking, and Grace smiled—it didn’t look at all childish.

  “Would Tuesday next suit you?” She looked at Grace directly.

  “Tuesday.” Grace nodded, then turned to Bram sitting on her other side. “Bram, I’ve invited Miss Martin to come to tea on Tuesday. Is that fine?”

  Bram gave her a look of intense irritation. “Of course,” he said, but his eyes threw daggers, which Grace chose to overlook.

  “Fine then.” Miss Martin nodded briskly, patted her arm, then turned her attention to the front of the room, where Eleanor had seated herself at the grand piano with Lord Evans leaning over her shoulder, plotting their course of music. Grace could see that Eleanor was barely paying attention to his instructions, leaning as she was, ever so slightly against him.

  Bram stifled a yawn next to her, and when she reached for his hand, he moved it purposefully away. He was angry now, she knew, tired of the evening and of her making an invitation without his prior approval. Well, she’d convince him of the success of the evening and make it up to him when they got home.

  The music was beautiful; Lord Evans had a rich, melodic voice that flowed into the room and eddied around them like swirling pools. It was opera, strange to Grace and in a strange tongue, but there seemed no place he could not go and no place he could not take them. Half an hour passed and he was not the least bit hoarse; indeed he was warmed up and in fine voice. Eleanor’s playing was very good and only once did her fingers stumble, making a quick recovery for which he sang even more strongly.

  “Now,” he said, taking up a beautiful guitar from its case. “If you’ll permit me, I would like to sing for you one of Ireland’s most beautiful ballads. I dedicate it to Missus Donnelly, whose mother, I’m told, had the finest voice in the valley.”

  His eyes found Grace and he sang the entire ballad to her. It was “A Rose That Blooms” and Grace’s eyes filled with tears to hear the very song her mother had sung so often when she lay abed, a little girl. She clapped more fervently than the others when he was finished, and he seemed gratified by the emotion on her face. Bram, however, was not, and when the musicale had ended, his grip on her arm was like steel.

  “We’ll say our good-nights now, dearest.” His voice was pleasant enough, but she knew that he’d had enough.

  Hastily thanking their host and hostess for a lovely evening, and saying a quick farewell to some of the other guests, Bram steered her out into the entry where their coats were waiting.

  “Donnelly!” Lord Evans hurried out into the cold night after them.

  “Evans.” Bram stopped and faced him. “Still in good voice, I see. How’s your father?”

  Lord Evans shrugged. “I rarely get back to London. And yours?”

  It was Bram’s turn to shrug.

  “You’ve made Ireland your home, then.” Evans blew some warmth into his hands. “And I’ve met your lovely new … wife.”

  “So I see.”

  “Aren’t you going to invite me to dinner some night?” He smiled at Grace, but his tone was a challenge to Bram.

  “Certainly,” Bram countered. “How long will you be in Ireland? Grace can arrange an evening with Miss Eleanor … and her mother, of course.”

  Evans grimaced. “I was thinking of something a bit more … relaxed, shall we say. Just the three of us and
some of that good Irish ale you keep in the barn. You do still keep a keg handy, don’t you?”

  Bram glanced at Grace, who was nothing less than baffled by the entire conversation. “If it’s drink you’re after, then ride over any evening and I’ll fill your cup until dawn. But if it’s anything more, then you’d best tie your horse up under Eleanor’s window.”

  “My good man!” Lord Evans lifted his hands in defense. “You’re raising ghosts long since put to rest.”

  “Are they?” Bram eyed him a moment longer, then turned to help Grace into the carriage.

  Lord Evans sought Grace’s face in the darkness. Moonlight showed up the pools of her eyes and made pale the cool skin of her cheeks.

  “Take care, Missus Donnelly,” he cautioned.

  She dared not return his farewell, but nodded her head slightly.

  “Be off!” Bram shouted.

  Jack snapped the reins and urged the horses toward home. They had only ridden a few miles and Grace thought Bram had fallen asleep, so silent was he against the opposite side of the carriage. She scooted closer, thinking to put her hand warmer under his head for a pillow, when he snatched her up and thrust her away from him, her back hitting hard the wall of the carriage.

  “Bram!” Her voice rose over the sound of the horses’ hooves. “What are you doing?”

  “You disgust me,” he snarled. “Country whore.”

  She heard the metal slip of the cap from his flask and the swish of whiskey poured down his throat. She held her breath in shock, unable to reconcile the depth of his anger with her actions of the evening, but then, she’d not realized he’d brought his own drink in addition to what he’d had at O’Flaherty’s. He had a temper when he drank whiskey; she’d learned that much, but always before she’d managed to stay out of his way and he’d spent his anger somewhere else, falling into a dead sleep for half a day when he got home. He did not appear anywhere near sleep now, and there was no way out of the closed carriage, which was moving at a brisk clip through the lonely wood.