Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  Margaret almost laughed at the irony of it. In transforming an Irish orphan into a proper society miss, Ida Throckmorton had also created exactly the sort of wife Doyle Kerrigan wanted—a non-Irish, impoverished but genteel woman on the fringe of the upper class who was willing to marry an immigrant Irishman in exchange for a life of wealth and privilege. Fate was full of tricks, it seemed.

  “I can see you won’t listen to reason and are determined to marry the man.” Leaning onto her cane with one hand, Mrs. Throckmorton reached into her skirt pocket with the other. “So you might as well have these.” She thrust out her hand. Resting in her palm were two diamond pendant eardrops. “Call it my wedding gift, if you must.”

  Margaret blinked in astonishment. “My goodness, Mrs. Throckmorton. I-I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then you may hug me instead.”

  Margaret did, noting how frail the small, thin frame felt against her own. “You’re too kind to me, ma’am.”

  “I agree.” Pulling back, Mrs. Throckmorton waved her away. “Now stop fussing about and help me to the chair so I can get off this foot. It took me forever to climb those stairs.”

  As the elderly woman settled into the cushions of the armchair by the coal stove, her gouty foot propped on a damask footstool, Margaret went back to the mirror to put on the diamond drops. She turned to show them off. “They’re beautiful. Thank you so much.”

  “At least when you come to your senses and decamp, you’ll have something of value to see you through. Turn. Shoulders back.”

  Margaret twirled a slow circle, then awaited the verdict.

  “Humph. That neckline is too low. It was highly improper of him to pick out your gown, but at least he was right about the color. You look lovely. Too lovely for the likes of that parvenu.” With a sniff, she turned her head away. A dab at the long aristocratic nose with the hanky, then a deep, labored sigh. “I suppose because he’s Irish, you feel some sort of absurd connection.”

  Margaret was taken aback. They never spoke of her Irish roots. After fifteen years of silence, all that remained—other than the horrors of Mrs. Beale’s and the night terrors—was the memory of endless hunger, living in a dark, windowless room with three other families, and an abiding hatred for the Irish runner who had hastened her father’s death. If that was her connection to Doyle, it wasn’t a good one.

  “He’s uncommonly ambitious,” Mrs. Throckmorton mused, coming at her from a different direction.

  “If so, it has served him well.”

  “I hear he has a temper.”

  “Does he? I’ve never seen it.”

  “Ask the workers building his railroads. And what kind of man would exploit his own people the way he does?”

  “He’s not exploiting. He’s providing jobs to the Irish when no one else will.”

  “Stubborn girl.” Mrs. Throckmorton’s expression soured even more. “I thought you were too intelligent to be so blinded by love.”

  Love? Hardly that. Although Margaret might want to love her fiancé, she had little expectation of it. Which was certainly not his fault. Blond, hazel eyed, generous—at least with her, less so in business—and so full of life he seemed to draw all the air from a room, Doyle Kerrigan was a man who easily inspired female admiration. But Margaret wasn’t sure she was capable of love, or that it would even be wise to open herself to that possibility. If she had learned anything during those first devastating years in this great land of opportunity, it was that love was an illusion and God didn’t care and the only thing lower than the immigrant Irish were the despicable runners and procurers who preyed on them.

  Another deep sigh caught Margaret’s attention and she looked over to see Mrs. Throckmorton dabbing at her eyes. She refrained from snorting. Bribery, condemnation, and now guilt? What ploy would the crafty old woman try next? Full-blown hysteria? Margaret couldn’t even imagine such a thing.

  “I know why you’re doing this.” Watery blue eyes looked up at Margaret out of a face that suddenly looked old and defeated. “It’s because of what that vile woman did to you, isn’t it? You don’t think you deserve true happiness, so you’re punishing yourself by marrying this man.”

  Shame rose in a hot flush even as a dark coldness closed around Margaret’s heart. How much did Mrs. Throckmorton know about what went on at Mrs. Beale’s? And why speak of it now? After avoiding the subject for fifteen years, why did she bring it up on what was supposed to be one of the happiest days of Margaret’s life? So angry she couldn’t find words to express it, she glared at her guardian, hands fisted at her sides.

  “If only I had known—”

  “How could you?”

  “Your papist priest should have told me.”

  “It doesn’t matter, ma’am.” Realizing she had grabbed handfuls of her silk skirts, Margaret forced her fingers to straighten. “It’s all in the past.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Shocked to see real tears roll down those wrinkled cheeks, Margaret let her anger go. Crossing to the chair, she put her arm around the thin shoulders and leaned down to kiss the cool, papery cheek. “Nothing happened, ma’am,” she lied. “No one touched me. Father O’Rourke found me before the auction.”

  “I never thought I’d be grateful to a Catholic priest.”

  Irish and Catholic were synonymous in the elderly woman’s mind, and she had scant liking for either. It still vexed her that Margaret had chosen Father O’Rourke to officiate at the wedding rather than her own Lutheran minister.

  A few more tears, then with a pat on Margaret’s arm, she gently pushed her away. “Do stop hovering. You know I can’t abide it.”

  Grateful to escape, Margaret went back to the window. To rid herself of the emotions still churning inside, she took several deep breaths, watching the cold glass fog with every exhalation. Closing her eyes, she reached deep into her mind for happier memories—rolling emerald hills, misty dales, waves crashing in frothy disarray against treeless bluffs. Instead of the strident voices of the newsboys hawking the late edition three stories below, she heard the call of terns on a chill north wind, the warble of her father’s tin whistle, her mother’s soft laughter.

  It frightened her how hard she had to work to recall those memories now, and how much they had dimmed over the years. Even Cathleen appeared to her less and less frequently. When those memories faded altogether, would she be more or less whole than she was now?

  Pringle suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Kerrigan’s carriage has arrived, madam,” he said solemnly, his bushy white brows raised in his usual expression of disdain whenever he mentioned her Irish fiancé’s name.

  “Very well, Pringle,” Mrs. Throckmorton said. “If you are finished eavesdropping in the hallway, you may send a cup of warm milk and a piece of toast to my room.”

  “Very well, madam.”

  As the sound of Pringle’s slow footsteps receded down the hallway, Mrs. Throckmorton heaved a great sigh. “I should turn him out, the old fool. But he’s been in love with me for years, you know, and I haven’t the heart to cast him onto the streets like he deserves.”

  “You’re too kind, ma’am.” Biting back a smile, Margaret crossed to the mirror. Her mood lifted as excitement gripped her, making it hard to take a full breath against the stays around her ribs. This was it. Her night. “I wish you would change your mind and come with me,” she said over her shoulder to the woman watching from the chair. “I wouldn’t be so nervous if you were there beside me.”

  “Nonsense. You will be a stunning success. I have trained you too well for it to be otherwise.”

  A last look to be sure everything was in order, then Margaret turned to face the woman who had been almost like a mother to her for over half of her life. “Well? How do I look, ma’am?”

  The pinched lips thinned in a reluctant smile. “Like a p
rincess.”

  * * *

  The carriage ride was short yet seemed to take forever. Margaret would have preferred that Doyle had come for her himself, but she knew he was busy with last-minute preparations for the ball. This was his moment, too, showing off his new home and well-connected fiancée to the very people who had once looked down on him but who now rushed to curry his favor.

  There was some justice in that, she supposed.

  Doyle and his business partner, Tait Rylander, were standing on the front stoop of Doyle’s home, smoking long, thin cigars when Margaret arrived. Flicking his smoke into a brass urn beside the door, Doyle came down the steps to meet her as the driver opened the door.

  He looked splendid, his blond handsomeness a perfect foil to the dark severity of his evening attire. She smiled, thinking again how lucky she was.

  “Margaret, a ghra—my love.” He kissed her gloved hand, then her cheek, then gave her that dazzling smile that made women sigh, his hazel eyes alight with anticipation of the evening to come. “You look stunning.”

  “Thank you. You look quite handsome yourself.”

  As he escorted her up the wide granite steps, his gaze skimmed over the daring neckline of the dress he had chosen, his expression less one of admiration than satisfaction. “The necklace is perfect with the gown. That color makes her hair gleam like gold, doesn’t it, Tait?” he said to the man awaiting them on the top step, one hip perched on the brass handrail.

  “It does.”

  “I’ll be the envy of every man here tonight.”

  “You always are.” Straightening, Mr. Rylander dropped his cigar into the urn and gave Margaret a curt bow. “Good evening, Miss Hamilton.”

  “Mr. Rylander.”

  In addition to being Doyle’s business partner, Tait Rylander was also his friend and legal advisor. They had met during the War of the Rebellion and were of the same age—early thirties—although Mr. Rylander looked older. Perhaps because he lacked Doyle’s vibrant animation and ceaseless energy. Or because he favored a scowl rather than a smile. At least around her. They avoided each other whenever possible.

  As she relinquished her wrap to the butler in the foyer, Doyle took three champagne flutes from a silver tray held by a waiting footman. He passed one each to Margaret and Mr. Rylander, then raised his high.

  “A toast,” he announced, smiling at Margaret. “To mo mhuirnin ban—my fair darling. With you beside me, this shanty Irishman can crack elbows with the best of them. May they not soon forget it. Slainte chugat.”

  “Relax, Doyle,” Mr. Rylander reminded him in his odd, hoarse voice. “It’s a celebration, not a confrontation.”

  Doyle threw back his head and laughed, his fine white teeth catching the light of dozens of gaslight flames flickering in the imported crystal chandelier hanging from the intricately plastered ceiling. “You’re right, Tait. I’ll behave. But it’s sweet, so it is, to see them choke on their pride.”

  Margaret took a sip, savoring the bubbly tartness in her throat as she swallowed. It tasted delicious but did little to settle the butterflies in her stomach.

  The few galas she had attended with Mrs. Throckmorton had been smaller, more sedate, and certainly less expensive. Doyle never did anything in half measures, which was why this ball had to be the biggest and the best. It had less to do with proudly introducing his bride-to-be into society than thumbing his nose at the people who had snubbed him before his meteoric rise as a railroad mogul.

  She had no illusions that they would be welcomed with open arms. Tolerated, at best. Watched and whispered about, certainly. But always invited. Doyle would make certain of that. In his quest for power and wealth, he had also gained a taste for vengeance—and woe be to anyone who crossed him or tried to cheat him or overlooked him socially. No one would dare not to invite them.

  As the tall clock in the hallway chimed the hour, the rattle of approaching carriage wheels sounded through the open door. The guests were arriving.

  Doyle set his empty flute on the footman’s tray and reached for Margaret’s. “All finished, leannan?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Margaret relinquished her goblet, wishing she could ask for another to calm her racing heart.

  Doyle placed it on the tray, then turning abruptly, took her face in his hands, and gave her a hard, bruising kiss that pinched her lips against her teeth.

  Startled, she drew her head back, aware of Rylander watching. “Doyle!”

  “There, a ghra.”

  She lifted a hand to her throbbing lips and was relieved to see no blood on her gloved fingertips. “There what? Why did you do that?”

  “To mark you.” He let her go, his eyes gleaming with an emotion she couldn’t define. “With your lips swollen from my kiss, no one who sees you tonight will doubt that you’re mine.” The next instant, the intensity gave way to a broad grin. He smoothed a hand down the front of his evening coat and straightened his collar. “Smile, lass. Here they come.”

  Shaken by what he had done, Margaret struggled to regain her composure as the first guests came through the door. For the next two hours she stood at his side in the chilly foyer, receiving the endless stream of guests waiting to wish them well—or wanting to get a first look at the nobody who had captivated the charismatic and flamboyant Doyle Kerrigan. Councilmen, ward bosses, bankers, politicians, judges, and railroad builders—society’s finest, all come to honor Doyle Kerrigan and his fiancée.

  She hardly remembered a face, much less a name.

  Finally, when the muscles holding up her smile began to quiver and she’d lost feeling in her feet, Doyle signaled to Rylander, who was leaning against one of the half-dozen marble pillars that ringed the elegant foyer.

  Giving her an apologetic smile, Doyle said, “I must leave you, leannan—sweetheart. But only for a short while. Hammond has finally come around and wants to speak to me privately.” Unable to restrain his satisfaction, he grinned and leaned closer to add, “I’ve left the man sweating long enough. Sure, and I’d best sign over the foundry before he collapses.” A quick kiss on her cheek, then he handed her over to Rylander. “You left the papers on my desk?”

  “I did.”

  “Excellent. Don’t leave her side.” Then he was gone, moving with that brisk lightness of step that signaled the chase was on.

  Margaret watched him disappear down the hall toward his office with a mixture of relief and irritation. Absently, she lifted a gloved finger to her swollen lip, then remembered the watchdog posted at her side and let her hand drop. She frowned up into a pair of frosty gray eyes. “Oh, do try to smile, Mr. Rylander. People will think you’re not overjoyed to be saddled with me rather than that statuesque redhead eyeing you from behind the potted palms.”

  “I am.”

  “Overjoyed?”

  “Trying to smile.”

  “My condolences.”

  It was a moment before he responded, and when he did, it wasn’t what she expected. “You look very nice this evening, Miss Hamilton.”

  A compliment? How unlike him. And how deflating. Why did the man always bring out the worst in her? “Thank you, Mr. Rylander.”

  Another long silence. “Would you care to dance, Miss Hamilton?”

  “I would not, Mr. Rylander. My feet are numb, my back aches, and this titillating conversation is making me parched. Is there something to drink?”

  “Champagne or punch?”

  “Whichever is wettest.”

  Tucking her arm through his, he escorted her out of the foyer, following the music of the orchestra through the receiving and drawing rooms and on toward the ballroom in the back of the house.

  Unlike Doyle, Mr. Rylander’s fine manners fit him as comfortably as his expensive evening attire. She knew little about him but assumed by the way he dropped his rs and dragged out his syllables tha
t his roots were southern. Perhaps his family had been wealthy, which would account for his social polish and education in the law, although it seemed odd to her that a southerner would fight for the Union. But then, most everything about Tait Rylander seemed a bit mysterious.

  As they moved through the crowded rooms, several people attempted to engage them in conversation, but Rylander deftly steered her on until finally they entered the ballroom. Immediately a liveried footman swooped in with a silver tray of frosty champagne flutes.

  Margaret snatched one and tipped it up. As soon as she emptied it and reached for another, she heard Rylander ask the footman to bring a tall glass of cool water.

  The press of bodies made this room much warmer than the foyer with its doors opened wide to arriving guests, and despite two glasses of champagne, Margaret was still feeling parched. Crowds always made her uncomfortable, and with the noise and the heat and the nice tingly feeling brought on by the champagne, she felt quite flushed.

  When the footman returned with more champagne and the water, she reached for another flute.

  Rylander smoothly took it from her grip and replaced it with the glass of water. Dipping his dark head down to hers, he said in his low, hoarse voice, “You’ve had enough. Drink the water.”

  Disliking that he felt he could order her about, she opened her mouth to argue, then closed it when she realized he might be right. She was unaccustomed to spirits, and her balance did seem a bit shaky.

  In stilted silence they watched dancers waltz by, exchanging nods and smiles with those who looked their way. Between the cloying perfumes scenting the warm air and the swirl of bright dresses, it was like being caught in a spinning garden. She began to feel slightly dizzy.

  Beside her, Mr. Rylander emptied his flute and returned it to a footman’s tray. As he did, Margaret noted the scarring on his hand. A big, rough hand with enlarged knuckles that robbed his long fingers of any elegance they might once have had. There were other marks of his violent past—a pale scar cutting through his top lip, a thickening along the arc of bone beside his right eye, a slight bump in the ridge of his nose. Small imperfections that gave his chiseled face a dangerous, roughish cast so at odds with his mannered grace. She remembered Doyle saying that Mr. Rylander had fought for money when they had first arrived in New York after the war. “I did the betting and Tait did the fighting,” he had boasted. “And many a fat purse he earned us with those big hands, so he did.”