“The lads shall certainly miss you, Mr. Doherty,” she said. “They have never had an instructor they liked so well. I must thank you; they have become much better behaved since you arrived.”
“Thank you, Lady Bissell. I hope that I have done well by the lads, as well as you,” he said, with a bow. He sketched a bow to the baron, as well, but he had turned away to berate the lads over some trifle.
Niall waited until they had politely endured their brother’s admonishments before calling them to his side.
“Goodbye Mr. Doherty,” Charles said with a grave look into his tutor’s eyes. “I shall miss you.”
“And I shall miss you,” Niall said.
“I wish that you did not have to leave,” Christopher said sadly. “But since you must, please tell her that I asked after her.”
Niall affected surprise. “To whom should I relay this greeting?” he asked with a hand on the lad’s head.
“Why, Miss Caro, of course,” Christopher said matter-of-factly.
Niall did not wish to disappoint him, nor did he wish to lie, so he merely shook the lad’s hand and boarded the carriage. It would take him as far as the nearest coaching inn, where Niall would then board a public coach and resume his journey to Dublin. He would be required to spend the night at more than one inn, but it was a journey he had made once before, and it would not be too arduous. Rather it was the state of his heart that threatened to sink him.
Just before the carriage reached the gatehouse, Niall lowered the glass and put his head out the window. The lads waved goodbye, their expressions woeful; it was a hard thing to leave them behind. They were not the reason for the black despair that assailed him, however. It was the gurgling brook, the wide, green park, and the towering row of ash trees to which his gaze clung. To quit the very place where he had met and known Miss Caroline Fulton was a wrench to the heart from which he felt he would never recover.
Dublin, July 1816
The River Liffey lay just to the north of Niall’s lodgings at Trinity College. However, since he had arrived in Dublin, he had studiously avoided the quay along the river. Whenever he went out, he turned south towards the gracious, less congested, neighborhoods where the once-upon-a-time Doherty townhouse was found. It was a far more compelling lure than the metal footbridge that had finally been made available to the public the spring following his arrival. Despite the widespread excitement that none need ever again cross the river on a decaying ferry, Niall could not bring himself to go anywhere near.
A visit to the townhouse, however, one large enough to house Niall’s longed-for future family as well as his mother and sisters, had become a daily ritual. That his father had lost it in a game of cards was a circumstance Niall had never fully accepted. It wasn’t that his father was too irreproachable to gamble; rather it was that he was far too skilled to lose.
By winter term, Niall had become consumed with the notion of owning the home of his youth. It wasn’t only to recoup what had been lost or to possess a key that would allow him to enter the green in the center of the square; it was as much about living in the very rooms in which he had envisioned Miss Fulton. To that end, he requested from a colleague a recommendation for a solicitor.
However, it wasn’t until his students had returned home for the summer that Niall fully turned his attention to the matter of the house. He set off on foot one fine summer day, the solicitor’s address in his pocket. Before long, Niall realized that the route he must take would bring him in view of the Wellington Bridge. In spite of the hollow pit the notion made of his stomach, he forced himself to walk briskly onward. Yet, when he discovered that he must indeed cross the river, he hesitated.
He considered paying the toll to walk across one of the larger bridges meant for carts and carriages. People walked along them, as well, but, it seemed to Niall, at their peril. He recalled a tale from his youth about a poor lad who was crushed under the wheels of an English traveling coach. It seemed suddenly ridiculous to go out of his way to walk along a perilous bridge when the footbridge lay before him.
He ascended the metal steps that led to the long expanse across the water, and once on the bridge proper, he paused to take in the double length of wrought iron railings. There were a dozen people on the bridge: several gentlemen like him, a few wizened individuals, and a clutch of children accompanying three women. Whether they were married mothers or eligible nursery maids, he could not say; he refused to study them closely enough to determine the details.
With a determined step, he walked on, refusing to meet the eye of any on the bridge. He nearly laughed aloud at his apprehension, whilst questioning himself as to the reason for his absurd behavior. To his surprise, the answer came to him immediately and with great force: he feared to learn that anyone other than Miss Fulton was the one of whom the matchmaker spoke. This time, he allowed himself to laugh aloud; he had never had a thought more ridiculous. Had he not long ago accepted that Miss Fulton was not within in his reach?
A quick succession of thoughts followed: if she once loved him, she did no longer, the letter of hers that he so cherished had been written when she was in the midst of a passionate infatuation; and finally, an acquaintance of five days could not possibly forge a lasting love. And yet, he could not deny his love for her had made its home in his heart forever.
It was not until he encountered the steps on the far side of the bridge that he recalled why he had ventured north of the river in the first place. Referencing the scrap of parchment with the address, Niall continued his quest to locate the offices of the solicitor. Once he found the building, a tall, narrow affair along the quay, he realized that the main of the structure housed a fish restaurant.
Further analysis revealed that he was meant to go up a set of rickety stairs to a door on the top floor. As he climbed, accompanied by the drifting scent of decaying fish, he began to doubt that this particular solicitor could be of service. However, he had no wish to inform his colleague that he had not met with the man, so he went to the door and rapped upon it. It was opened by a clerk and Niall was asked to wait in the ante chamber. The wait seemed interminable and was long enough for Niall to determine that he should be happy never to see a dish of fish for the remainder of his life.
When he finally entered the inner office to discuss the matter at hand, the solicitor listened carefully. Niall outlined the details as he knew them in regard to the loss of the house, including his suspicion that his father might have been cheated. He also requested that the solicitor determine whether or not the owner of the house would consider selling it to Niall, and at what price. The solicitor promised to look into it, and added that he would inform Niall of anything that he learned through a letter sent to Niall’s lodgings.
Encouraged by the outcome of the meeting, Niall had forgotten about his return journey across the footbridge until he was once again on the rickety staircase. He considered taking a meal at a pub on the north side of the river, but the odor of dead fish had done away with his appetite. With no sound reason to do otherwise, he took the steps to the bridge and again paused to investigate whom he might chance upon.
There were the usual women and children, gentlemen and vagabonds, but this time, he espied two fashionably-attired young ladies walking towards him. This was precisely the portion of the population he wished to avoid. So quickly that he was again tempted to laugh at himself, he ran back down the steps and strode off along the quay. Despite his haste, a fragment of their conversation drifted his way as they descended the bridge.
“It is still difficult to comprehend you are a married lady,” came a voice that was half carried away on the breeze.
“Soon it is I who shall be saying the same of you, Caro!” said the second.
There was no mistaking this voice; it belonged to Miss Fiona O’Sullivan who, it seemed, had married. And the first could belong to no other than Miss Caroline Fulton. The moment he realized it, he whirled about, but the ladies had turned left off of the bridge where he had
turned right, and were soon lost in the crowds along the quay.
Slowly he returned to the bridge and walked across it without a qualm, the matchmaker’s promise momentarily forgotten. His thoughts were consumed with questions: How was Miss Fulton in Dublin? How did she escape her father’s tyranny? What was the meaning of Miss O’Sullivan’s remark in regard to Miss Fulton’s marriage? Was she soon to be married as well?
It seemed only a few minutes had passed before he looked up and found himself again on the grounds of the college. The brisk walk had done nothing to repair his appetite, so he went straight to his rooms. As he sat at his desk and worked on lessons for the following term, he found he was required to continually force his thoughts away from Miss Fulton. In exasperation, he rose to his feet, crumpled the parchment into a ball, and threw it into the fire with such force, he was taken aback.
Dropping into the chair by the fire, he watched the parchment turn red around the edges, then black, and finally ash gray. As his temper mellowed, he was astonished to realize he was angry. He had no right to be, of this he was certain. And yet, he could not deny the fury that swelled his veins. Miss Fulton was to marry another. It felt like a most unwarranted betrayal.
He knew he was wrong to begrudge her happiness. Did he truly prefer that she waste away in her little village for want of him? With a laugh of derision, he realized it was precisely what he had pictured. He had built for himself a new life, but he expected her to live forever with the consequences of her father’s domineering ways.
Most every night since they had parted, Niall had lain awake pondering on whether or not Miss Fulton would even now be his if he had only had the courage to speak to her father. This thought was always followed by unbidden reminders of his powerlessness. For Niall to have requested a private audience with Mr. Fulton would have been an act of indefensible irregularity. He would have been carried off by a pair of footmen and shown the door simply for deigning to ask.
But now, having beheld her in Dublin, Niall was doomed to a thorough examination of his every action in regard to Miss Fulton. Of one thing he was certain: he had behaved with honor. He had done all that he possibly could, nothing less. Once he had acquired his new post with new freedoms, he had gone to her home to speak to her father, but Mr. Fulton was not in the least interested in what Niall had to say. He refused to so much as allow his daughter to meet with her suitor.
How, then, did she come to be in Dublin with plans to marry? Niall would have wagered all he had that Mr. Fulton would prove reluctant to wed his daughter to anyone. It was a puzzle that proved only to haunt Niall.
He spent a sleepless night during which he adjured himself to forget her. When he awoke, however, he could think of nothing but seeing her again. Departing his rooms at the same time as the afternoon prior, he retraced his steps to the metal footbridge in hopes he would encounter her. It was only as he crossed it that he realized he had not taken into account the time he had spent with the solicitor.
In order to pass the time, he walked up and down the quay for nearly an hour when, quite suddenly, he saw the two young ladies just as he had the afternoon prior. Longing to know of what they spoke, he quickened his pace until he fell in step behind them as they moved off of the bridge and onto the street. He slowed his pace and strained his ears so as to overhear any inkling as to Miss Fulton’s marital status. To his delight, he was rewarded with a comment from her own lips.
“I long for those few treasures of my mother’s,” she said in a voice that bore no laughter.
Had he not known it was she who spoke, he would not have recognized her voice at all. It was if she were a different person that the Miss Fulton he knew. It could only be her, however; she wore the same dull red gown and blue gloves, hat and boots she had worn the day they had gone to the village from Oak View the summer previous. To his chagrin, they once again walked along so quickly that he was unable to hear anything more.
Waiting for their possible return, he gazed into the water and soon became lost in his reflections. He looked up only to discover that Miss Fulton had passed him by and had already crossed nearly half of the bridge. He quickly followed but was unable to catch her up until they had both reached the south quay. Trailing her, he saw with some surprise that she headed east towards Trinity College.
As he did not wish to be seen, he paced a safe distance behind, wondering again what had brought her to Dublin. Perhaps she had a relative who was sponsoring her entre into Dublin society. Or she might have chosen to stay with the family of the man she planned to wed. Neither supposition pleased.
As he rounded a corner, he was astounded to find himself on a street not far from his old home. Several houses down from the corner, she opened the front gate, went up the lane to the door and rapped. It opened and a maid, who seemed to expect Miss Fulton, ushered her inside. He made a note of the address and determined to learn the identity of the occupants as soon as possible.
He lingered at the gate for longer than was strictly wise before reluctantly returning to his lodgings. Over a meal of bread and cheese, he mused on the remark she had made concerning her mother’s treasures. He supposed any young woman about to be married should be wishful of having her mother’s things. But why did she not possess them? Had she left them at home? Had they been destroyed in a fire, perhaps? Is that why she was in Dublin? Her home and perhaps even her father were gone, and she was free? Then why had she not responded to his message?
He spent another sleepless night as he puzzled over such riddles. By morning he had reached a conclusion: he must make a journey. This time, however, when the butler presented him to Mr. Fulton, Niall would refuse to depart until he received answers to his questions. He arrived at The Hollows the following afternoon, and was greeted politely enough by the butler.
“Mr. Fulton is not at home,” he said as he stepped back to shut the door.
“Wait!” Niall cried urgently, prepared to wedge his foot in between the door and its frame if required. “Perhaps you remember me. I am Mr. Doherty. I was here to call on Miss Fulton last summer.”
The butler nodded, and frowned as if Niall’s words pained him.
“When shall Mr. Fulton be returned?”
“I cannot say,” the butler replied.
“Then I shall wait,” Niall insisted.
“I am afraid he shall not return today.” The butler seemed reticent to divulge more.
“I know better than to ask for Miss Fulton,” Niall said leadingly. “I saw her in Dublin only yesterday.”
The butler’s face fell as his eyes lit with joy. “Dublin! Did you speak to her? Is she well?”
“She seems very well, indeed, though I am sorry to say we did not speak. Had you not known where she has gone?”
The butler hesitated, then, with a sweep of his hand, said, “You had better come in.”
Niall doffed his hat and crossed the threshold into the front hall. Aside from an air of listless vacancy, it looked much the same as it had the summer prior.
“Mr. Fulton is away in search of Miss Fulton,” the butler explained. “She left a letter stating that she was going to the city. He had supposed she meant London.”
“Poor devil! His apprehension must know no bounds,” Niall said, aghast. “You must send word to him, but only say that she is safe. As to why she has left here, I can only hazard a guess as to her motives, and have no wish to betray her. I swear that when I return to Dublin, I shall see to it that she writes to her father.”
The butler nodded as tears filled his eyes. “I am that grateful. ’Tis good to know she is safe. The horrors we have been imagining...”
“I assure you, she is indeed safe. I have come, though, to learn more about her circumstances. Will you tell me how long ago she left?”
“It has been since the autumn.”
Niall reeled with the knowledge that she had been in Dublin nearly as long as he had. “Do you have any reason to believe she left home to be married?”
The butler
betrayed his shock, his eyes wide. “No! Her father did not allow her any letters, save a few from Miss O’Sullivan. He refused to post any of the letters she wrote and burned most of those she received.”
“Including those of mine,” Niall observed tersely.
“I am afraid, ’tis true,” the butler replied, discomfited. “I assumed the young miss ran away so as to attend the wedding of Miss O’Sullivan in London. I never had thought ’twould be Dublin that she went.”
“Very well then; she did not go to Dublin to meet a man. Can you think of anyone she might know there?”
“The family moved from Dublin near on ten year ago. ’Tis doubtful that she would remember any she might have known there. However,” the butler said, his voice taking on a more hopeful tone, “she attended a Dublin finishing school.”
“Of course!” Niall replied. “She had told me so herself.”
“Do you believe that she went to Mrs. Hill, then?”
“I do not know,” Niall replied, though the house she entered could very well have been a school for young ladies. “I have reason to believe she has plans to marry.” He went over the small store of words he had heard from her lips in Dublin, each one full of sorrow. “However, I do not believe her entirely happy. I will do all in my power to help her if she will allow me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Doherty,” the butler said with a bow. “How might I be of assistance?”
“I have seen her but twice, both earlier this week, both times in the company of Miss O’Sullivan. They were speaking, I believe of Miss O’Sullivan’s nuptials.”
“Indeed, Miss Fiona was married in London shortly before Christmas. Miss Fulton had already gone away. However, when she did not return after the festivities her father became concerned.”
“Of course. And yet, if she had gone to London before arriving in Dublin, how has she paid for such journeys?”
“That is a mystery,” the butler intoned.
O'er The River Liffey (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 22