It was not until she heard the butler’s muffled greeting that she fully realized the import of Mr. Doherty’s visit. He had traveled a great distance; surely it was not purely a social visit. He must have come to ask her papa for her hand in marriage. Her feelings were a mix of joy and alarm as she ran to the pier glass. It reflected a girl with cheeks grown pale, her hair half undone and falling about her face. The white muslin gown she had found eminently suitable for the warmth of the day now seemed decidedly drab.
Heart pounding, she ran again to the window to note that the carriage yet waited. She knew it to be a miracle that he had been allowed into the house; that he had come at all was a notion incomprehensible. Even as she frenziedly pinched her cheeks and smoothed her hair, she knew her father would refuse to allow her to speak with the man she loved. Still, Mr. Doherty was a clever man. Surely he would contrive a speech suitable to mollify her papa. If not, wouldn’t he, at the very least, leave her a message?
In too short a time she heard the front door snapped shut. Her heart lurched as she ran again to the window. Mr. Doherty stood on the drive, his hat and gloves in his hands. Slowly, he turned and looked at the door as if astonished to find himself chased out of the house.
As he lifted his hand to the carriage door, Caroline sprang to life. Forgetting that the window would not open, her hand slipped on the latch. Frantically, she rapped on the window, prompting the pigeon to burst from the sill. At the same moment, the clouds parted, and water poured down upon the parched earth. It was through a sheet of rain that she saw him slap his hat to his head and open the carriage door.
In desperation, she pounded on the window. “Mr. Doherty!” she cried in hopes he would hear her voice above the torrent. She thought perhaps he hesitated, but it seemed he did not hear her. Unwilling to give up, she banged on the window even after he had climbed into the carriage. Exhausted, she watched as the carriage drove away, out onto the road, and out of sight. He had never even looked up.
Thoroughly dismayed, she slid against the unyielding window to the floor. He was gone, never to return. Something inside of her broke so painfully that it made her gasp, and yet she could not weep. Instead, she sat beneath the window and entertained trivial thoughts: the carpet required sweeping; a mouse had made its home in the wainscoting; her feet were cold. She tucked them beneath her gown with such care it made her laugh. It no longer mattered what happened to her. The hope she had been so foolish to entertain had been rent asunder and fled away.
It was another se’enight of such hopelessness before a second letter was slipped under her door. Fiona was to marry Mr. Wilkinson. They would travel together to London for the wedding. Caroline was invited, but she knew her papa would not allow her to attend. She would be surprised if she ever were to see Fiona again. Naturally, it did not hurt; nothing did. Caroline threw the letter on the fire; the old life was gone.
As she lay upon her bed that night, she doubted sleep would find her. There was never enough to do in order to induce the proper amount of fatigue; and then there was the ceaseless drum of the rain against the house. Once it had begun, it seemed it would never stop. It was if the sky wept the tears she could not. It served as a constant reminder of the moment she had learned not to care.
At some point she must have slept, for she had a vivid dream. She was in a large city, surrounded by a great number of people. They seemed mostly to speak with Irish accents, but there were other languages spoken, as well. She realized that she was in Dublin, a city she had known well when she attended finishing school. The area was unfamiliar, however, and she looked about with great interest. She crossed over a bridge and walked down a street, then turned into another and another. The streets surrounded a square and were filled with leafy green trees and rows of black railings.
Then she turned onto a street that she knew; it was the location of her finishing school. She opened the gate and went up the walk. As she rapped at the door and waited to be allowed inside, she looked down at her gown. It was the dull red that she had not ordered until after leaving Mrs. Hill’s. On her hands was the pair of blue kid gloves she had purchased for her stay at Oak View the month prior. The door opened, she entered, and woke with a start.
In the morning she understood: the old life was over, but she must return to Dublin for the new life to begin. Her father, quite naturally, would never allow such a thing. She must do it on her own and, for that, she would need money. She had a few of her mother’s things she could sell, but first, she must be released from her chamber. That would never happen until she earned her father’s confidence.
She went to her writing desk and scratched out a note to her papa, telling him how very sorry she was for the distress she had caused. It sounded like a confession, of what she could only guess, but she found that she no longer cared what her father thought of her. Hoping it would induce a reaction from him, she slid it under her door, and waited impatiently for the result.
Late in the afternoon, Mrs. Cadogan rapped at the door and escorted Caroline, as if a guest in her own home, to the door of the study. More anxious than frightened, Caroline lifted the latch and entered. Her father sat in the same chair, but he held nothing in his hands. He seemed too weak for that. He appeared to be extremely fatigued, and she was persuaded that she had never known him to be so thin.
“Papa, are you well?” she asked, certain he had lost at least a stone in the past few weeks.
He gathered what strength he had to sit up and glare at her. “Ye have somet’ing to say to me?”
“Yes, Papa. I am sorry for what happened. I would never wish to give you pain. Please forgive me.”
“Very well, t’en. That was all t’at was required of ye, me girl.”
She rather doubted that was the case, but she refrained from airing her opinion. Instead, she walked to his side and took his hand in hers. It felt frail and the veins on the back more pronounced, like the roots of the oak trees in the wood. “I have always been sorry to have hurt you. It is only that you never gave me an opportunity to explain.”
He lifted his eyes to her with great effort. “Ye may tell me now.”
“There is nothing to tell, really,” she said. “I have done nothing of which you should be ashamed.”
He nodded, weakly. “T’at is good. I hear t’at Miss O’Sullivan is to be married.”
Caroline marveled at the ease of her confession. “Yes,” she said slowly. It seemed her papa was too weak to quarrel. “We are, of course, invited, but I suppose London is too far to go.”
“We shall see, we shall see...” he mumbled.
That night before she went to bed, she tried the door. It fell open at her touch. She was free.
“Why are you going away, Mr. Doherty?” Christopher asked.
Niall tucked the blankets tighter around this young lad who had wound his way round his heart. “I have a new position at Trinity College in Dublin. I am to replace a man who fell ill and cannot return to his duties.”
“Shall you like it there better than you like it here?” Charles asked.
“If by that you mean shall I like my students better than I like you, then the answer is no,” he said with a fond smile for both lads.
“Then why are you leaving?” Christopher repeated, his lower lip trembling.
“It is difficult to explain,” Niall replied, his own feelings doleful. “I suppose it has most to do with having a home of my own so that I may one day marry and raise sturdy lads such as you.”
The two of them gazed at him in silence, their eyes glowing in the light of the lamp Niall had brought to the nursery from his bedchamber.
“Mr. Doherty,” Christopher said very softly. “Will you tell us a story?”
“Of course,” Niall replied, pleased to have been asked. It was the last opportunity he would have to speak to the lads before his departure in the morning. “Let me see...” he mused, sitting upon Christopher’s bed. “I have told you so many, I do not know that there are any remaining.”
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“There must be one,” Charles pointed out in his usual prosaic manner.
“Very well, have I ever told you the story of Connla, son of Conn of the Hundred Battles?”
Both lads shook their heads, their golden curls dancing along their pillows.
“Well, Connla was the best sort of son,” Niall said quietly, thinking on the sons he was about to lose. “He was tall and strong, and very courageous. He was also handsome, with red hair that flowed down his back. One day he and his father stood on the mount of Usna when Connla saw a young maiden approach him.”
“Did she have ruddy hair like Miss Fiona or golden hair like Miss Caro?” Christopher asked.
Niall felt his heart constrict. “Golden, like Miss Caro’s,” he said softly. “And she wore a long, white gown. Still, she was somehow different from any maiden Connla had ever seen, and so he asked her from whence she had come. She told him that she was one of the Hill Folk of Mag Mell where they live together in peace and happiness, feast without end, and no one grows older or dies.”
“I should like to live there,” Charles interjected.
“As would I,” Niall said, not realizing until that moment how true were his words. “Only, it is a place that mortals cannot dwell unless invited by one of the fairy folk. Now, Connla’s father could not see or hear the maiden, so he asked, ‘To whom are you speaking, my son?’ But it was the maiden who answered and suddenly the father could hear her say, ‘Connla speaks to me, a beautiful young woman who shall never die. I love your son and shall take him away to Mag Mell where we shall live in joy and peace.’ Then she turned to Connla and said, ‘Oh, come with me, Connla of the ruddy hair and kingly form, come where thy beauty shall never fade.’ This speech frightened Conn so much, that he called upon the Druid, Coran, to save his son from such a fate.
“Coran appeared and chanted in the direction from whence the voice had been heard. Suddenly Connla could not see or hear the fairy maiden, but just before she disappeared from his sight she threw to him an apple.”
“I like apples,” Christopher said.
“As did Connla, which was a very good thing, for he ate nothing but that apple for an entire month.”
“How could he eat just one apple for so long?” Charles asked dubiously.
“That is an excellent question. It was because every time he took a bite of the apple, it became whole again. But that was not the most extraordinary feature of this apple: it represented the love of the maiden and with each bite it made him long for her until he could think of nothing else. When a month had passed, Connla was with his father when the fairy maiden again appeared to him. ‘Leave the world behind, my Connla, and come to Mag Mell, a place where you are eagerly awaited by the fairy folk. They have learned of you and your brave deeds, and long to see you numbered among their dear ones.’
“Though he could not see her, Connla’s father heard the maiden’s words and it frightened him, for those who went to live with the Hill Folk never returned. So he called again on the Druid Coran, who appeared at Conn’s bidding. But the maiden would not be banished. ‘You have no power over me and never shall,’ she said calmly to the druid. Connla’s father watched his son, however, and saw that he clung only to the words of the fairy maiden.
“Then he said to his son, ‘Do you wish to go with her?’ Connla heard his father’s voice and turned to him. ‘It is hard on me to leave all of those whom I love, but I am seized with a longing for this maiden, and it never ends.’
“When the maiden heard this, she spoke to him and said, ‘Connla, come with me in my crystal Curragh to join my people. Though the sun is sinking, we shall yet be there before the light is gone. We can live there together in joy and our days shall have no end.’ Connla spoke not at all, but ran to the crystal Curragh and leapt inside. And then could his father see all. He stood and watched the gleaming canoe glide away until it disappeared into the setting sun.”
There was a palpable silence. Niall thought that perhaps the lads were asleep. Then Christopher stirred and spoke in a small voice. “I know why you are leaving us: you wish to be with her.”
Niall quelled a bitter laugh. “No. Indeed, I should be surprised if I were ever allowed to see her again.”
“Why should you not?” Charles asked in astonishment. “She is your friend!”
Niall rather agreed. “It is not Miss Caro’s choice. At least, I do not believe it to be.” He was reminded of the letter he had found in her room, the one to her father that spoke of Niall’s qualities. He would never have gone to Dublin to seek his new position if it weren’t for what she had written of him. He owed her much.
“Then whose choice is it?”
Niall pondered the question before saying, “I shall answer your question with another story. Will that do?”
Charles nodded, and Niall moved to sit on his bed.
“A year and a day ago, a man met a maiden, just as Connla did. However, this man’s name was Sean, and it was not Sean’s father who did not like the idea of their marriage: it was hers. He did all that he could to keep them apart; he even found a new husband for the maiden. But she did not love him; she loved no one but Sean. This made her father so angry that he took her to a land far away.”
“Did she bid him a proper goodbye before she left?” Charles demanded.
“She was not allowed to speak to him. However, she did wave to him in farewell.”
“But wasn’t she sad to leave him?”
“Of course! But she loved him so much that she did not wish him to be apprehensive for her. The father was so cruel, you see. But, she left behind a letter,” Niall said, his voice faltering. “One that expressed all of the reasons she loved him so.”
“And what were they?” Charles asked.
Niall hesitated, reluctant to laud himself. “Let us say that she saw in him qualities he had not seen in himself, ones that, knowing she believed them, made him want to live up to them. So, one day, he went to the city and found work to do that would be worthy of the maiden. When all was arranged, he wished to call on her, but her father was still angry and did not allow them to meet.”
“That is unjust!” Charles burst out.
“Indeed, it was,” Niall agreed, his heart full. “So Sean spoke to the father and said that if he were not allowed to speak with her, perhaps the father could convey to her a message. The father agreed, and Sean pondered on what his message should be. For you see, he had sent letters to the maiden, and she had never replied. This made him wonder if perhaps her father had kept them from her, and he realized she must believe he did not love her. Surely it was the father who interfered, so the message he had for her must be one the father could never understand so that he did not withhold it from her. So he told the father this: ‘Please tell her that the water in the spring has run dry.’”
“The water in our spring has run dry, as well,” Christopher said sleepily.
Charles ignored his brother. “Why did Sean say that?” he asked, his nose wrinkled in bewilderment.
Niall could not help but think on the day he had spotted his father’s watch face down in the mud of the spring. The memory still caused his heart to ache. “It means that it was the father who stood in the way of their happiness, but that Sean still loved her.”
“Did she know what it meant?”
Niall nodded. “She ought to have well enough.”
“What did her father say? Did he give her the message?”
“Sean certainly hoped that he did. The father was not clever enough to know what it truly meant, so he would not see any harm in doing so.”
“Then, has Sean given up?”
Niall considered the question. If her father had indeed given her the message, it had prompted no response. It had been months since the house party; an acquaintance of five or six days, no matter how close, was easily forgotten. “He loves her still,” he insisted. “Is that what you wish to know?”
“No. What I wish to know is, did Sean give up fighting f
or her?”
Niall mustered a smile as he placed his hand on the lad’s head. “Let us hope you shall be luckier in love than have I,” he said. “Now, your brother is asleep, and you must soon join him. Miss Deakin has promised to be certain you are up and ready come the morning to meet me out front, so that we may take a proper leave of one another.”
“I am glad,” Charles said as he turned on his side and burrowed into the mattress. “Good night.”
“Good night, Master Charles. Good night, Master Christopher,” he added in the case the boy was yet awake. He did not respond. Taking up his lamp, Niall quit the nursery through the school room and looked about. The bookshelf had been cleared of his personal property, but he had not yet located the volume of Shakespeare Miss Fulton had held in her hand the night she graced them with her presence. Spotting it on a table in the corner, he retrieved it as Banquo’s words came to mind. Were the matchmaker’s sweet words half-truths? Or were they the truest words of all? Even if they were, he doubted he should ever be ready to stand on the Wellington Bridge to seek out his true love.
With a sigh, he ran his fingers over the cover of the volume last touched by Miss Fulton. Then he went to the door and left the Oak View school room forever. As he walked along the passage to his chamber, he thought how he was about to spend his last night in that particular bedchamber. It had lost a good deal of its charm once Miss Fulton no longer slumbered in the one just below.
Upon entering the room, he placed his book and lamp on the writing desk next to the coil of string he had used to lower his notes to her. A wave of melancholy assailed him at the memory it induced. He picked it up, full well knowing he should discard it, and put it in his pocket. Then he went to bed and slept without dreaming.
His parting from the lads the next morning was every bit as treacherous as he hoped it would not. For some reason Niall could not conceive, Lord Bissell had chosen to see him off. He treated Niall to the selfsame behavior that had prompted him to quit the premises in the first place. Lady Bissell, however, kindly attempted to remedy the baron’s clumsiness.
O'er The River Liffey (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 21