Fiona’s horrified demeanor was belied by her quickly stifled laughter. “Caro, pray cease or I shall only look even more the fool.”
“Not as foolish as you should were there a pea held fast in your bosom,” Caroline unwisely said. Try as she might, she failed to suppress the bubble of laughter that rose in her throat. She clapped a hand to her mouth and looked wildly to her friend, who yet struggled with silent laughter.
“Whisht!” Fiona urged as she collected herself. “Lady Bissell awaits us at the bottom of the stairs.”
“Of course,” Caroline agreed. “And what of the baron? It was not so odd that he did not greet us when we first arrived, but I wonder that he has not taken this opportunity to greet his guests.”
Caroline hadn’t time to respond before reaching the bottom step. She gave her hostess a warm smile and executed a perfect curtsey.
“Céad míle fáilte. A hundred, thousand welcomes, Miss Fulton.” Lady Bissell smiled. “And your friend is Miss O’Sullivan, I believe your father said. Now listen; all has been arranged so you mustn’t be overwrought on my account.”
“Indeed, I shall not.” It was the only response to this puzzling speech that came to Caroline’s mind. “This is Miss O’Sullivan. The O’Sullivans are prominent among the families of our county.”
Lady Bissell smiled faintly and inclined her head. “We shall consider ourselves fortunate that we have not one, but two such lovely Irish ladies to grace our party.”
As Fiona curtsied, Lady Bissell waved her hand towards a room across the passage.
Caroline took her friend by the arm and drew her along beside her as she made her way to the drawing room. “She is Irish! I had not thought it.”
“Perhaps her son shall prove a better match than you have supposed,” Fiona said with a smile of delight.
As they entered the drawing room, Caroline blinked against the brilliance of two enormous chandeliers. The aroma of candle wax permeated the air, but the anticipated sting to her eyes did not occur. It seemed Lady Bissell quailed not at spending good coin on superior candles.
“Let us take up a seat on the sofa,” Fiona suggested.
Caroline eagerly led the way, but was forced to come to an abrupt halt upon beholding a man who quite simply took her breath away.
“What is it?” Fiona hissed in Caroline’s ear.
She dragged her attention from the man and forced her limbs to take her towards the sofa. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Only that if you continue to come to unexpected halts, I shall most certainly suffer a broken nose and shall be robbed of my chance to find a husband at this house party,” Fiona said sweetly under her breath.
“Oh, my dear,” Caroline said as she spun about to assess the damage. “Are you injured? Do let me see.”
“I am well enough,” Fiona said a bit frostily, “no thanks to you. Whatever induced you to do such a thing?”
Caroline held back her reply until they were safely ensconced on the sofa. “Do you see the man standing by the mantelpiece there?”
Fiona opened her fan and peeked over its folds in the direction of the fireplace. “I have never seen such a colossal fireplace,” she whispered. “There are no less than three men standing in the vicinity. Of which do you speak?”
“Why, the interesting handsome one.”
“Which one? They are all three rather attractive.”
“Three?” Caroline cried in disbelief. “I hadn’t known you were so generous in your assessment of masculine beauty.”
“When had you the opportunity to learn in the backwater in which we live?” Fiona asked with a sigh of mock despair.
Caroline gave a trill of laughter. “Very well, then. He has black curls, dark brooding brows over almost unnaturally light eyes, and is exceptionally well-formed. He is surely the youngest of the lot; I expect he must be the baron, himself.”
Fiona gave the men at the mantel another measured glance. “I should be most surprised if he were. The one with such speaking eyes is no more than a boy.”
“No, he is older than that, surely.” Caroline murmured behind her fan. “However, the other gentlemen in the room all look far too old to be the son of Lady Bissell. The one on the right, in particular, looks old enough even to be her husband.”
“I believe we are soon to learn the truth of the matter,” Fiona replied.
Caroline looked up far more quickly than was seemly. Indeed, she wished she had not, especially when she saw that it was the oldest gentleman of the three who now approached.
“Pray forgive me if I am too bold,” he said in a pure English accent. “But I must beg your pardon. I was meant to stand with Lady Bissell, but I tend to do exactly as I please. Clearly I have erred, since it has prevented us from being properly introduced.”
“But, of course, you are pardoned, sir! I am Miss Fulton, and this is Miss O’Sullivan. It seems it is I who must beg your pardon, for I do not believe I know your name.”
The man studied her face for a moment before he threw back his head in hearty laughter. “Oh, that is rich, Miss Fulton. But, truly, how were you to know?” He bowed deeply, and there was a twinkle in his eye when he raised his head. “I am Lord Bissell, and this is my house. I am pleased that you have come to my party, Miss Fulton, and that you have brought along your friend, Miss O’Sullivan,” he added with a charming look for each of them in turn.
Caroline put her hand to her mouth to cover a gasp. To her chagrin, her gaze flew to the young man at the mantel. He immediately lowered his gaze; it was as if a pair of candles had been snuffed out. There was an air of agitation about him that only served to further rouse her interest. Forcing her attention again to the baron, she made herself smile. “I am pleased to meet you, Lord Bissell. We are delighted to accept your invitation. Oak View is very lovely.”
“I am most pleased that you have all come to stay,” the baron insisted. “Together, with my other guests, I daresay we shall make a merry party.”
“T’ere she is, me girl, me heart!”
Caroline turned towards the familiar sound. “Papa, you rogue! You were very nearly late.”
“Ah, but as ye can see, I have arrived in time.” Mr. Fulton smiled broadly over his meaty hands as he rubbed them together in anticipation of his dinner. “Lord Bissell, I see t’at ye have met me daughter. She is the apple of me eye, t’ere be no doubting!”
“Indeed,” the baron said with an inclination of his head. “She is as charming as you have described. I should like nothing better than to take her into dinner on my arm, but here at Oak View, we might as well be in London.”
Caroline was astonished when the baron turned on his heel and walked away with no further explanation. “Are we not fine enough for him?” she asked her father.
“You needn’t trouble yerself on t’at score, me darlin’. It is only t’at, as the host, he is required to take in to dinner the lady of highest rank. Lest ye allow the envy to eat ye up, she is already wife to Lord Chorley.”
“One wonders what pleasure one might hope to enjoy when expected to behave as if in London,” Fiona mused.
“I confess, I had not expected the air to be quite so stiff,” Caroline said softly. Nor had she expected the baron to be quite so old, his hair to be quite so thin, nor his teeth to be quite so yellow. How her father expected her to marry such an ancient, she could not reckon.
The young man by the hearth was a much more attractive possibility. He put her in mind of Naoise, the wildly romantic husband of the legendary Deirdre of the Sorrows. Caroline darted a glance his way and nearly came undone when he gazed back at her, frank as any school boy.
“Papa,” she said quietly as she turned her back on such impudence. “Who is that, standing by the fire, there?”
“I’ve naught seen him before,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Ye should only have eyes for the baron, young lady!”
Caroline was rescued from composing a reply by the entrance of Lady Bissell.
> “Lord Bissell and I are grateful for the safe and timely arrival of all our guests,” she announced. “We shall now go in to dinner, after which there shall be port and cigars whilst we ladies amuse ourselves in the drawing room. Shall we?”
The baron stepped to the front of the room, whilst the other men took the arm of the lady whose place most closely mirrored his own. Eventually, they fell in line, one pair behind the other.
Caroline was gratified when her father guided her, as she hadn’t the slightest notion of the names and titles of the other guests. How the young man with the haunting eyes had the presence of mind to take Fiona’s arm and guide her to the end of the line was a notion at which to wonder. She did, however, come to a pertinent conclusion: he did not have a title. As such, she would never be allowed to marry him.
Niall had never known such an ache. He was seated next to one of the wittiest, most beautiful women he had ever been so fortunate to meet. However, it was the blue-eyed girl with the golden hair seated across the table from him who had captured his utter absorption. He felt helplessly drawn to her, as if he knew her from some misremembered time and place. Since the moment she entered the drawing room, his heart hadn’t ceased its hammering against his ribs.
It was not of the slightest use to remind himself that she was surely meant for Lord Bissell; he felt curiously certain that he would wither and die if Miss Fulton were not forever buckled to his side. The loneliness that had consumed him prior to his first glimpse of her was nothing compared to the desolation he knew whilst she sat a mere few feet away. He felt himself a man dying of thirst, and she the sparkling wet salvation he was unable to grasp. He was reminded of the matchmaker’s words and knew he would not rest until he had learned her name.
Forcing his gaze away from her, he drew a deep breath. “It is Miss O’Sullivan, is it not?” he asked of the red-haired lady at his right. He hoped he correctly recalled the name he had overheard. “Yes, and you are?”
“Mr. Doherty. I am pleased that we have met.”
“Indeed,” she said warmly. “I am delighted to have been invited. I expect it is due only to my friendship with Miss Fulton and her father, Mr. Fulton.”
“I see,” he said shortly, unwilling to speak idle words whilst yet in want of Miss Fulton’s given name. “Have you been long acquainted?”
“Yes, to my good fortune. We first met at finishing school in Dublin. There is not a better soul in all of Ireland.”
Niall followed Miss O’Sullivan’s fond gaze across the table to take in the sight of her glorious friend. She was in animated conversation with a man to her left, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed a delicious shade of red. As he watched her, he experienced a heady mixture of admiration and resentment. He wanted nothing more than to meet the fellow at dawn unless it was to indulge his desire to fold Miss Fulton in his arms and cover her mouth with his own. So lost was he in his reflections that it took him a moment to realize Miss O’Sullivan still spoke.
“She excels at everything she tries her hand at, but, pray: do not reveal you know as much. I promise it shall only prove to make her self-conscious. Tell me, Mr. Doherty, how have you come to be invited to the baron’s party?”
To his surprise, Niall felt a flush rise along his neck and into his cheeks. He considered offering a falsehood in explanation, but knew that if he were to win the admiration of Miss Fulton, there must be no untruths between them. “I am tutor to Lady Bissell’s lads.” He sat back to watch Miss O’Sullivan’s reaction.
“Say you do not,” she said, her eyes wide, “set Lord Bissell to the books!”
Laughing, Niall felt instantly at ease. “I am certain we should both be at daggers drawn! No; he is the child of his father’s first marriage. It is his young half-brothers, Masters Charles and Christopher, who grace my school room each day.”
“Well, that makes matters most clear. Caro felt certain a woman so young could not be mother to Lord Bissell.”
Niall quelled the stab of alarm that assailed him. “Did you say Caro?” he asked in hopes he had heard amiss.
“Yes. Miss Fulton is called Caro, or Caroline. Why?” she asked with an arch look.
“Forgive me if I have been too bold. It is not a common name in Donegal, and I do not wish to misunderstand.”
Miss O’Sullivan smiled. “Yes, I see. A man in your position must be certain to be always correct.”
“Of course,” he said wryly. “Of what use is a lads’ tutor, a mere servant, really, who fails to discern the given name of every lady in his orbit?”
She made no reply, but he thought her eyes gleamed in appreciation before she turned to answer a question posed by the man on her right.
As the person to his left was an unresponsive Mr. Fulton, Niall had none with whom to speak. He reflected on the fact that the chair taken up by her father should have customarily been occupied by Miss Fulton. Such an unusual circumstance could have occurred only by design. And yet, his position afforded him a superior view of her face.
He could not say what it was about her countenance that called to him so. Though her creamy complexion and perfectly formed nose were pleasing, they were hardly uncommon. After further study, he determined that it was the demeanor of her countenance that so drew him in. If she were not already laughing, her features were poised for such, her lips curved in a perpetual smile.
To have such decided feelings for a stranger was disconcerting, to say the least, but the music of her continuous mirth served to soothe his apprehension. Though it was difficult to determine what it was she found so amusing from across a noisy table, he found that his delight in watching her animated face had no end. Hers was a face he could watch with as much pleasure until the end of his days.
When dinner was at an end, Niall left behind a nearly full plate and the warm promise of port to follow the ladies from the room. He fretted over how he was to explain his presence at such a time to the guests, but Lady Bissell came to his rescue.
“I do pray none of you are made uncomfortable by Mr. Doherty,” she said in a voice that brooked no argument. “He is present at my request, as I find him excessively diverting.”
Niall bowed just as he ought, despite the discomfort her words produced. He found he did not relish the role of a trained animal.
“As such,” Lady Bissell continued, “he shall entertain us with a tale whilst we go about our usual activities. I am persuaded it shall not trouble him in the least if we fail to pay him the strictest heed.”
“I am gratified that you should find my stories in the least diverting, and I am pleased to honor your request,” he said as he took up the offered chair. To his mingled satisfaction and misgiving, Miss Fulton sat directly across from him. He could not fail to see her unless he made a point of looking away.
“It shall be an Irish story I’ll be tellin’, though most of ye present be English.” His native accent was mild after years of schooling in England, but it was never more prominent than when telling a tale. He knew that a brogue gave his stories more color, and he had yet to hear a complaint. “There was once a beautiful but fearsome queen who ruled the north of Ireland for nigh on sixty years. Her hair was a flame of red, her limbs crawlin’ with sinews such as one finds in a tree, and she most often was seen with a squirrel or a stoat on one shoulder. As for the birds, well, they would forever be flyin’ about her glorious head.
“One morning, Maeve, as she was known, and her husband, Aillil, were discussing which of the two of them was the most blessed with wealth. For you see, a year and a day ago, which is to say, a very long time, women were allowed to own property, and they ruled in their own right.” He was gratified by the murmurs that rose into the air upon this revelation.
“Maeve herself was the ruler of Connacht. Any man she married became the king, but only until she tired of him and chose another. And so it was that Aillil, who had once been the captain of her guard, was in a hazardous position. He never uttered more treacherous words than when he spoke the
se: ‘It is good for a woman to marry a wealthy man.’”
“Indeed, it is!” cried an unknown voice.
Niall was never to know who so heartily agreed, but the room was filled with the sound of hastily squelched laughter.
“Indeed! Maeve took umbrage and asked why he would air such a dangerous notion. His reply only made matters worse, and soon they were entirely caught up in the countin’ of their possessions to see who was the richer. Every item was included in their assessment, from their precious jewels to the lowliest pots for the cookin’. When all that the house contained was added to the list, they went on to the cattle, the sheep, and on and on until it was determined, at long last, that Aillil was just one bull richer than his wife.
“’Twas only a bull but before it disdained being owned by a woman and transferred itself to the herd of Aillil, it was Maeve’s. Wild with envy, she was, so she sent her servant to inquire of the great cattle lord, Daire mac Fiachna, if she might rent a bull from him to make her number equal. All was well until her servant, drunk on wine and pomposity, revealed to Daire that if he had refused, the bull would have been taken by force. This so angered Daire that he refused to loan the bull. As can well be imagined, this news was not met with joy by Maeve. She gathered her men and her allies round about her and marched out to do battle with Daire mac Fiachna. And so, it began: the great Cattle Raid of Cooley.”
The end of the tale was met with an almost complete silence, with the exception of one brave young lady.
“Queen Maeve was an admirable warrior.”
Niall was startled to note that it was Miss Fulton who had dared to speak, her cheeks enticingly pink and her eyes glittering with pleasure.
“That she was eventually killed,” she continued, “with such a trifle as a piece of hard cheese is a notion at which one can only wonder.”
Niall felt a rush of pleasure at her remark but was downcast by that of Lady Bissell’s.
“It would seem that your story of Maeve,” she said, “was a dash too coarse for the ladies.”
O'er The River Liffey (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 3