The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Page 3

  “I cannot stand that loathsome man,” said Bettina. “He’s such a toad.”

  Lydia laughed. “Perhaps we could match him up with our little peasant from Ireland.”

  “If we could get rid of her, I’m all for it,” Bettina replied with a giggle.

  Evleen quickened her step. She did not want to hear the rest. She’d had quite enough of hurtful remarks for one day. Not that tomorrow would be any better, she sadly realized.

  “Tell me about Ireland,” said Peter. “I want to hear.”

  Evleen and Peter, both early risers, had eaten an early breakfast before the rest of the house was awake, then found their way to the gazebo at the bottom of the rear gardens. They were accompanied by Peter’s beloved dog, Cromwell, a lively brown and white Border collie who followed Peter wherever he went.

  What a lovely spot, Evleen reflected as she gazed at lush green lawns, clipped hedges and bright flowers. She was grateful the friendly little boy had taken to her instantly. She would start his lessons tomorrow, but today they would talk and get acquainted. Cromwell lay down next to his master and went to sleep while she began. “Let’s start at the beginning. Ireland’s earliest dwellers were the Celts, who lived many thousands of years ago. They had many gods and the Druids were their priests . . .”

  Peter listened intently while she went on to tell more of Ireland’s history. Finally the child pointed to the blue pebble that hung from her neck. “What is that?” he asked.

  Somehow the pebble had slipped from beneath her jacket. She hastened to conceal it. “It’s a magic pebble,” she replied, knowing one could be perfectly honest with a child of seven who would take such information in his stride. “But you mustn’t tell anyone.”

  Peter nodded vigorously. “Oh, I won’t, I promise. But you must show me how it works.”

  “It only works when I’m in Ireland, but I’ll show you how it’s done.” Evleen pulled out the pebble and rubbed it with her finger. “It’s as simple as this. Now if I were in Ireland, a raven would appear and then—”

  “But there is a raven,” Peter interrupted.

  She started to tell him there could not be any such thing when she heard a loud caw from behind her. Surely not! Her heart leaped.

  Peter pointed. “It’s behind you on that limb.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, she turned her head. The raven gazed down at her – she could swear – with triumphant eyes.

  “Dear God in heaven!” She leaped to her feet and called frantically to the bird, “Go away! You are not supposed to be here!”

  The raven sat silently, its sharp eyes watching her every move.

  “Here comes my father,” Peter said.

  Oh, no! In dismay, Evleen spied Lord Beaumont striding through the garden. In seconds he would be here. She turned to the raven. “Please. The English don’t believe in magic. You must go.”

  To her relief, the bird cawed softly one time then flew away. By the time Lord Beaumont arrived, Evleen had somewhat composed herself, although her heart still hammered in her chest. “Lord Beaumont.” She dipped a curtsy, fighting to control the tremor in her voice.

  Beaumont stepped into the gazebo and seated himself in a wicker chair across from hers. “Do sit down, Miss O’Fallon. I came to see how you were doing.” He glanced fondly at his son. “It appears he’s taken to you.”

  “He’s a fine little boy, and very bright. We shall get along fine.”

  He spoke to Peter. “Go feed your rabbits, son. I wish to speak to Miss O’Fallon alone.”

  After the boy left, followed by the faithful Cromwell, Evleen regarded Beaumont with questioning eyes. “I trust I have not done something wrong.”

  “Of course not.” Beaumont leaned back in his chair and casually stretched his long legs in front of him. How handsome he looked, so different from the men she had known in Ireland, whose Sunday best attire could not hold a candle to Beaumont’s elegant cutaway frock coat, perfectly tied cravat, breeches that fitted revealingly tight over his well-muscled calves. And those polished Hessian boots! So very masculine, so very appealing . . .

  Uh-oh, he’s been talking and I haven’t been listening.

  He took a long moment to gaze at her. His lip quirked, as if he were amused, but she didn’t know why. “I find you an interesting woman, Miss O’Fallon.”

  “Call me Evleen. We’re not nearly so formal at home.”

  “In that case, call me Richard.”

  She asked, “So why do you find me interesting when I’m only your poor Irish relative?”

  “Because there’s something about you . . .” His forehead creased in a frown. “You surprise me.”

  “In what way?”

  “I would have thought a woman as attractive as you would be married by now.”

  “We Irish don’t marry as young as you do in England.” Modesty prevented her from recounting the number of proposals she’d received over the years, all rejected. “When I do marry, if I ever do, it will be to someone with whom I have fallen madly, passionately in love.”

  “So you’ve never been in love?”

  “Not yet.” She tipped her head quizzically. “Didn’t you marry for love?”

  “No, of course not.” At her look of surprise, he continued, “Many marriages are arranged in England, as was mine. Rank . . . family background . . . the size of the dowry are more important considerations than whether one has been struck by Cupid’s arrow. Actually . . .” He paused, weighing his next words. “I became most fond of my first wife. Millicent was a fine woman whom I greatly admired and respected.”

  “What about Bettina?”

  She feared she’d asked too bold a question, but he readily answered. “Bettina is the youngest daughter of the Duchess of Derbyshire. Vast fortune. One of England’s oldest families. Extremely generous dowry, of course. My mother’s cup runneth over.”

  “But you don’t love her either?”

  A half-smile crossed his face. “I was raised to believe honour and duty come first. Thus, for me, love has never been an option.”

  How very sad, she thought, but decided not to say. They continued to chat, Beaumont showing no desire to leave. When his son returned, he arose reluctantly. “I have enjoyed our conversation. If you don’t mind, I shall come back from time to time in order to check on Peter’s progress.”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all.” And she wouldn’t. Watching him stride away, she found herself admiring his broad shoulders and the easy grace with which he moved. Bettina was a lucky woman. Very lucky indeed.

  In the days that followed, Evleen fell into a comfortable routine with Peter. She conducted his lessons in the classroom or, weather permitting, in the gazebo. Either way, Beaumont often joined them. Sometimes he sat quietly and listened; other times he joined in the discussions with a lively give-and-take of English history, or whatever was the topic, helping to answer his inquisitive son’s endless questions. Best of all, she discovered he had a deliciously subtle sense of humour, often revealed when the corners of his mouth quirked into an irresistible little grin.

  She welcomed his visits, even looked forward to them with increasing anticipation. But the trouble was, Beaumont’s new-found attention to his son’s education did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the house. Evleen had hoped that in time she could make friends, but now their enmity was even more evident. She overheard Lady Beaumont and Lydia again one day as she stood outside the drawing room.

  “There is something very strange about her,” Lady Beaumont was saying. “In fact, poor, dear Millicent once mentioned her Irish side of the family possessed certain mystical powers. At the time, I thought she had taken leave of her senses, but now I’m beginning to wonder.”

  Lydia replied, “There’s something unpleasantly mysterious about all the Irish, what with their Celtic culture and those ancient Druids who, I understand, practised all sorts of strange, unholy rites – all quite unacceptable.”

  “I cannot imagine why Richard spends so much time with her
,” Lady Beaumont went on. “He claims he’s only interested in Peter’s lessons, but quite frankly I don’t trust the woman. What if she casts some sort of spell over him? Well, she had best be careful. If she dares show the least sign of any so-called magical powers, I shall send her packing, and I don’t care what Richard says.”

  “At least he’ll be married soon,” replied Lydia. “That should ease our minds.”

  “And Bettina’s, too,” Lady Beaumont answered with a caustic laugh.

  Evleen’s heart sank as she listened. How unfair! What had she done to deserve such hatred? Her behaviour with Beaumont had been completely beyond reproach. Not only that, she had taken great pains to be pleasant and civil to these difficult women who were bound and determined to dislike her. As for her magic, she stood by her promise. Such a promise wasn’t easy, for often, when she was teaching Peter his lessons in the gazebo, she saw the black raven sitting on a nearby branch. It would stare down at her with a beckoning look in its eye, as if it were telling her that Merlin could hardly wait to reveal himself before her. So tempting! But she had refrained from rubbing the blue pebble. Mama had been very wise indeed to make her promise never to use her magic powers in disbelieving England.

  But as much as she missed Merlin and his magic, a deeper sorrow lay heavy on her mind. For the first time in her life, she had fallen madly, passionately in love. Each night, she lay in her bed staring into the darkness, her anguished heart keeping her from sleep. She could see no way out of her constant misery, for the man she had fallen in love with was Lord Beaumont – a man she could never marry; a man hopelessly beyond her reach.

  Late one afternoon, after Peter had left, Evleen remained in the gazebo to tidy up. She was pleased with the way the day had gone. Peter continued to be a delightful pupil who absorbed knowledge like a sponge. Also, on a personal note, she was wearing a new gown just completed by the seamstress. Made of a soft blue batiste, it had three satin bands of a darker blue circling the skirt and delicate white lace frills decorating the bodice and sleeves. Never had she owned such a beautiful gown. With her auburn hair contrasting with the blue, she knew she looked her best.

  She had almost finished putting the lesson books away when Beaumont appeared. “How did the lessons go today?”

  “Very well,” she answered, her heart quickening at sight of him. She searched for something safe to say. “Have you noticed the sunset? It’s quite beautiful.”

  He came to stand beside her. Together they watched the setting sun paint puffy clouds with gorgeous streaks of pink and gold. Finally he remarked with a sigh, “It won’t be long now.”

  “Your wedding?”

  “My wedding,” he replied in a voice totally devoid of enthusiasm.

  “You must be very happy.” What else could she say?

  “Happy?” he responded sharply. “How can I be happy when I—?” Abruptly he turned to face her. His hands gripped her shoulders, causing her to gasp in surprise. “Ah, Evleen, Evleen . . . the very thought of marrying Bettina is repugnant to me, not when I . . .” He drew a deep breath, seeming to attempt to control his emotions. “Do you know how beautiful you look in that blue dress?”

  Taken aback by his intensity, she sought to make light of it. “The seamstress did rather a good job, I thought. She—”

  He gripped her shoulders even tighter. “I love you, Evleen,” he burst out, his voice breaking with emotion. “With all my heart I have fallen in love with you.” He swung her into the circle of his arms, claiming her lips as he crushed her to him. Stunned, her knees weak, she returned his kiss with a pent-up hunger that spoke of the endless nights she had lain awake imagining herself in his arms. Finally, raising his mouth from hers, he gazed into her eyes. “I want to make love to you, my beautiful Evleen,” he said, his breath coming hard. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Day and night my thoughts are full of you – your charming smile, your wit, your lovely Irish laugh, everything about you . . . Oh, God, I want you so much I—”

  He seemed to catch himself. With an oath he thrust her away and strode to the other side of the gazebo. For a time, he stood with his back to her, hands clasped behind him, staring out at the garden. She could hear his breathing return to normal as he slowly composed himself. Finally he turned. “You must forgive me. I had no right to touch you.”

  “But I wanted you to,” she replied. “I, too—”

  “No! Don’t say any more.” He regarded her with anguished eyes. “I am betrothed. Do you know what that means in England? It means the moment I asked for Bettina’s hand in marriage, my fate was sealed. I cannot simply change my mind. If I did, my family would be in complete disgrace. I, myself, would receive the cut direct.”

  “What is that?”

  “Just like it sounds. People would not speak to me. If they saw me coming, they would turn their backs.”

  “How cruel.”

  “Yes, it’s cruel, but that’s the way of it in our society. I could endure it if I had to, but I cannot have my family disgraced. More than that, it’s a matter of honour.” He laughed bitterly. “Oh, yes, I am a man of honour, if nothing else. I shall keep my word. Forget this ever happened, Evleen. It will never happen again.” With an expression of grief, mixed with self-reproach, he abruptly left the gazebo and strode back to the mansion with determined steps.

  Evleen sank into a chair, her knees so weak she could not stand. Her thoughts swirled between joy and sorrow. Joy because he loved her. Sorrow because theirs was a love that was utterly hopeless. What should she do now? She could go away, but where? She could never return to Ireland – the cottage had been sold, nothing was left for her there. She could seek a position as a governess somewhere. She hated the thought of it. Horror stories abounded concerning the abysmal treatment of governesses in some of the great mansions.

  Worst of all, if she left, what would happen to Peter? The boy had been lagging in his studies before she came, no doubt still grieving for his mother. But since her arrival, he had blossomed, showing a brilliance that must not be allowed to lie fallow again.

  That settled it. She would stay even if she must suffer the pain of constantly seeing Richard together with his new bride. For Peter’s sake, she would endure it.

  “Ah, Miss O’Fallon, there you are!”

  Algernon. A shudder of dislike ran through her. Cousin Algernon had remained at Chatfield Court the whole time she’d been there. Nobody could stand the man. The maids fled at the sight of him. Rumour had it that Lord Beaumont had chastised his cousin more than once, warning him to stop annoying the ladies as well as the female servants. Obviously Algernon had ignored all admonitions. Evleen noted that the spark of lust still gleamed in his eye, and the disgusting I-am-God’s-gift-to-women expression remained on his pasty face.

  She scrambled to her feet and began collecting books and papers. “Yes, here I am,” she answered, hardly bothering to conceal the dislike in her voice.

  “Here, let me help you.” Algernon reached for the books in her arms, his hand “accidentally” brushing across her bosom.

  She abruptly backed away. “I can manage for myself,” she snapped. “I’m not finished here. You had best go back to the house.”

  “What a pity,” he replied in his oily voice. “I had thought we might go for a stroll. It’s time we got better acquainted.”

  Fury almost choked her. “I am much too busy for a stroll.”

  “Perhaps another time then.” Totally unfazed, Algernon bowed and walked away.

  To calm herself, Evleen stood for a while looking out over the garden. It wasn’t long before she spied the raven, staring down at her from its perch in the nearby tree. Merlin. She longed to talk to him, especially after a day like this. Well, why not? She wasn’t going to perform any magic, only talk to the magician who had been her mentor since she was eight years old.

  She reached to rub the blue pebble hidden beneath her bodice. Instantly the bearded old man appeared before her, his clasped hands nearly conce
aled by the flowing sleeves. “Why haven’t you called for me?” he asked.

  “I have missed you but I must never use my magic in England,” she answered frankly. “They would never understand.”

  “What is troubling you, child?” asked Merlin. “I see unhappiness in your eyes.”

  “It’s that odious Algernon,” she quickly replied. “I cannot stand the sight of him.”

  Merlin slowly shook his head. “It is true the man is odious, but you are quite capable of keeping him in his place. No, the cause of your unhappiness is not Algeron Kent, it’s Lord Beaumont with whom you’ve fallen in love.”

  She knew better than to argue. “I should have known you knew. Then you are aware our love is hopeless.”

  Merlin pondered a moment. “I could easily cast a spell over your Lord Beaumont, one that would make him decide to end his betrothal to Bettina and marry you.”

  “No,” Evleen cried. “Richard is an honourable man. He would never forgive me if I resorted to such a cheap, shoddy trick. And besides, he would be an outcast and would receive the cut direct. I love him too much to put him through such a disgrace. You must promise you won’t.”

  “As you wish,” Merlin replied. “Since you’re so insistent, I give you my promise that I shall never cast a spell over Richard Beaumont. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Yes, it does,” she replied, greatly relieved.

  “But you must call if you need me.”

  “I won’t be needing you,” she said. “No magic can help me now.”

  “We shall see.” Merlin gave her a nod goodbye. Then, like a puff of dust, he vanished from her sight.

  The next morning, when Evleen came down for breakfast, she discovered that Lord Beaumont had left for London at the crack of dawn. He would remain in London for the opening of Parliament and not return until the eve of his wedding, one month hence. Despite her disappointment, Evleen knew his departure was for the best. Having to see him now would be pure torture. She hated the thought of having to witness Beaumont’s wedding to Bettina, but for Peter’s sake, she would.