“Aye, Darragh,” Conall agreed as he turned to wink at his sister. “There’s no telling what evil thoughts a wee lass the likes of Dee might fall victim to were she to learn that her brother is the wiliest of rogues and a devil with the ladies.”
“So, it’s conceited ye’re getting, is it!” Lord Fitzgerald turned to Conall and looked him over, noting with satisfaction that, despite a year of warfare, his elder son looked strong and fit. “’Twas more likely the poor lass thought she was answering to the devil for her past sins!”
“M’lord, please,” Lady Elva protested softly at her husband’s elbow.
“Oh no, do not stop them,” Deirdre pleaded with an impish grin. She knew she should have been shocked by the crude remarks, but she was not. She had heard worse tales told within the convent by young daughters of the French aristocracy. “How am I to learn the ways of men if I am never to hear them speak of their adventures?”
“Ye’ve nothing to gain from the hearing of some tales,” Lord Fitzgerald advised her. “As for the ways of men,
have ye learned nothing from young Goubert? Ha! Ye
thought I knew nothing of yer interest in the Frenchman.”
Deirdre shook her head, dislodging another curl. “I’ve nae interest in Monsieur Claude. He’s nice enough but not one to win the heart of an Irish lass.”
Conall groaned, smacking his brow with a hand. “Have you nae given up that tiresome tune? ‘I will wed none but a man with Gaelic blood running hard in his veins!’” he mimicked his sister’s voice. Reaching for his brother’s arm, he linked his own through it and glanced up coyly into Darragh’s face. “’Faith, a brawny Irishman! Och, ye great beast! Aren’t ye the very lad for me!”
Darragh shoved his brother away in irritation but laughter got the better of him as Conall fluttered his lashes at him and made noisy kissing sounds. Lord Fitzgerald joined his sons’ laughter, leaving the Fitzgerald women to exchange exasperated glances.
“I do not see the joke,” Deirdre said tartly. “The pair of you refuse to wed when any half-dozen French mademoiselles in the city would have you.”
“But that’s just it, lass. When any half-dozen women will have me, why should I settle for one and make the others miserable?”
Deirdre smacked her brother’s hand away as he tried to tweak her nose. “Boastful braggart! I do not know why I was glad to see you when you treat me no better than this.”
“Now, Dee,” Darragh began. “Would you have no feelings for brothers who’ve ridden hard these last days to bring you a gift from Paris?”
“From Paris?” Deirdre’s eyes widened. “You’ve been to Paris?”
The brothers exchanged glances. “Only long enough to purchase a few wee trinkets for the women in our lives,” Conall answered.
Lifting fallen curls from her eyes, Deirdre peered through the open doorway. “I do not see a wagon. Where are all these trinkets, you fickle-hearted souls?”
Conall was about to reach into his pocket when Darragh caught his eye and nodded meaningfully at their father. Lord Fitzgerald had begun to perspire and the hand on his cane trembled under his weight. Conall lifted his hand from his pocket. “Have a heart, lass. We’ve ridden till we’re near dropping.”
“Of course! Forgive me,” Deirdre replied contritely. “Come in and sit. We’ll have ale and cakes.”
Darragh turned to his father. “You’re looking thinner, old man.”
“I am, am I?” Lord Fitzgerald challenged.
“Aye, I agree,” Conall replied. “Once I despaired of lifting you. But now, well…” He grinned wickedly as he advanced on his father.
“Keep yer distance!” Lord Fitzgerald warned softly, lifting his cane.
“Afeard I cannot only lift you but carry you away?” Conall’s grin widened.
“Not when I’ve finished with ye,” his father replied. “Keep back! Keep—” Lord Fitzgerald’s voice failed in astonishment as his son bent and hoisted him up across one shoulder.
Lady Elva gasped in horror but Deirdre caught her by the sleeve and said, “I’d like to see you carry Da the length of the hall.” She, too, had noticed the strain in her father’s face.
“Aye!” Darragh seconded. “Carry Da into the salon and tuck him into his favorite chair, as easy as you please.”
“What do you say, old man?” Conall challenged. “Are you too frail for such games?”
“Old and frail, I could still be the death of ye!” Lord Fitzgerald countered as he lightly struck his son with his cane. “Ye began this mischief, finish it. If ye can!”
“Do not look so worried, lady,” Deirdre whispered. “Darragh and Conall would lose an arm each before they hurt Da.”
Lady Elva gazed worriedly at her husband as his sons jostled him down the hall. “He is worse. Did you not notice? Do his sons not see it? Why am I the only one who sees the pain in his eyes?”
Deirdre bit her lip. “You’re not the only one, ma’am. But what are we to do? Conall and Darragh humor him, ’tis true. Yet he allows himself to be carried by them. When is the last time he called for his litter chair?”
Lady Elva turned a surprised gaze on her and Deirdre
reached out and hugged her stepmother. “Do you think them heartless, lady? They’re nae so cold as it would seem. With the pair of them for company these next weeks, plying him with brandy and tales, Da will sleep like a babe and wake with a smile. You’ll see.”
Lady Elva sighed. “You’re right, of course. Will I never learn to see good in the rough ways of men?”
Deirdre nodded. “’Tis a most peculiar goodness, to be sure. Cousin Claude confided to me that he finds the Irish a mystifying race.” She smiled coyly. “He confessed that he once feared that I would grow up to have Conall’s height, Darragh’s breadth, and Brigid’s temper.”
Lady Elva eyed her stepdaughter. “You are quite taken with Monsieur le Comte.”
Deirdre shrugged airily. “He remembers me as a wild, barefoot lass with a brogue thicker than my skull. I cannot help teasing him now that he looks at me with eyes as wide as those of a lad who’s spied an unwatched pie. I daresay his fascination will wear through soon. But enough of that. Conall and Darragh promised us gifts from Paris. I will not let them forget so quickly.”
Lady Elva linked her arm through Deirdre’s. “Your father has decided to hold a ball. I believe he intends to show off his eligible daughter.”
“Da should think better than to present me as a piece of marriageable goods,” Deirdre replied tartly.
Lady Elva nodded, approving of her stepdaughter’s maidenly reluctance. “If you are not eager for marriage ’tis only because you’ve had so little time to consider it. A lass is never complete until she’s a woman wed. A ball would bring every eligible man within twenty leagues under your eye. You may change your mind then.”
Deirdre turned her face away before her stepmother saw her amusement. Lady Elva used every opportunity these days to hint and prod her with the idea of marriage. “Who would entertain you, were some great brute to hie off with me?” she questioned lightly.
“I, above all, would be the most happy were you to find a husband,” Lady Elva answered.
Deirdre turned an astonished gaze on her stepmother.
“Is it so very difficult having me home again that you’d marry me off to the first acceptable man?”
A deep red blush suffused Lady Elva’s neck and cheeks. “Deirdre, you must know I’d never think ill of you. To think that I—I…”
Deirdre turned and quickly hugged her. “’Tis only teasing, I am.”
Lady Elva’s fine brows arched in confusion. “You were teasing? Ah, of course,” she said contritely.
Deirdre bit her lip. Lady Elva was a dear sweet lady but sadly lacking in a sense of humor, while the Fitzgeralds possessed that trait in abundance. When she married, her husband would have to be a man of wit and spirit.
Oh
,
Lord! I’m beginning to think like Lady Elva!
When they entered the salon, they found Lord Fitzgerald comfortably ensconced in his favorite chair, his injured leg raised on a stool. His sons flanked him, Conall pouring wine into a glass while Darragh unfolded a map drawn from his pocket.
“What is the news? Has Adair been promoted?” Lord Fitzgerald prompted when he had taken the wine.
“You’ll not be believing the half of it, sir,” Darragh answered. “We sketched out the campaign as we remember it. Let’s begin with that.”
“This is no place for us,” Lady Elva suggested, aware that war would be the talk of the afternoon.
“I would rather they carried the latest sketches from Parisian seamstresses,” Deirdre agreed in feigned sympathy for her stepmother’s feelings. In reality, she was eager to hear each and every tidbit of news from her brothers. During the past six months since her return from convent school, she had been driven nearly mad by the tedium of Lady Elva’s secluded life. The only thing that had kept her cheerful was the knowledge that her brothers would soon return. Now they were here and she was to be dragged away like a child.
“Lady Elva is right,” Conall concurred, deliberately ignoring the silent plea in Deirdre’s eyes. “We’ve much to discuss that would not be proper for young ears.”
“But, the presents—you promised!” Deirdre protested.
“Is that the wail of greed I hear?” Darragh said, chuckling. “Patience, lass, we’re back for more than a day.”
“More’s the pity,” Deirdre exclaimed lightly. Ah well, she told herself as she turned away from the salon, there would be other times to listen to Darragh and Conall. “Come, lady, we’ll not be drawn into their merry war talk.”
“The excitement of the morning has quite exhausted me,” Lady Elva confided when they had stepped back into the hallway. “I’m positively light-headed. I believe I would rather lie down than study sketches just now. Do you not find the air a trifle stuffy?”
Deirdre glanced sharply at her stepmother’s flushed face. Often of late Lady Elva had complained suddenly of light-headedness and overheating. There might be many causes but she hoped it was the one that would bring back her father’s triumphant smile. Siring another child would do that.
Deirdre flashed her brilliant smile. “Lady, would you mind if I returned to the garden for a little while? The day is so beautiful that the thought of remaining inside distresses me.”
“Shouldn’t you—Wait, lass,” Lady Elva called as her stepdaughter sped away. “You’ve forgotten your hat!”
Not looking back, Deirdre called, “I won’t be long, I promise!”
She pushed open the front door before the surprised doorman could aid her and swept past him and down the front steps. Once the warmth of midsummer struck her face she drew a deep sigh of relief and smiled. She was free for the moment. After a quick glance back at the house, she started toward the garden path.
Under the warmth of the midsummer sun, every blade of grass was intensely green. In the trees, birds bickered and warbled. Beneath budding shrubbery, insects sang and chirped while bees droned softly, darting in and out of the lushly petaled blossoms.
Without consciously choosing it, Deirdre followed the path through the rose arbor. Her skirts scattered the pink rose petals that had drifted down from the tangled vines of ancient roses. Here in the shade, cool air had collected, bringing with it from the garden the heady perfume of pungent jasmine and spicy pinks. Lady Elva often used the example of the gardens to illustrate what a lady should be: serene,
beautiful, and with just a whiff of wit to tantalize the senses.
Deirdre chuckled. Now that she was extolling the virtues of marriage, perhaps Lady Elva would choose the cabbage patch as an illustration.
The married state is like a cabbage garden: one’s life is neatly arranged in rows of duty and responsibility
,
the promise of a child lurks behind every plant
,
and the tiny annoyances of life are like cutworms among the leaves
.
“Not I,” she murmured. Lady Elva’s good intentions and her family’s tolerant indifference to her own desires would not deter her from her one goal in life: to return to Liscarrol Castle. She would do nothing that did not forward her return to her home.
“So then, here ye are, lass.”
Deirdre whirled about. “Brigid, have you nothing better to do than to sneak about spying on me?”
For a moment, Brigid did not answer but let her gaze skim with loving pride over the lass she had raised. Nae, Deirdre was no longer a lass; she had grown into graceful womanhood, just like her mother before her. The strong features that once had overwhelmed her childish face were now proportioned and softened by the womanly fullness of her mouth and the open friendliness in her soft green eyes.
She was not a great beauty, though few saw less than perfection when they experienced the swift charm of her smile. The quicksilver flash of her soul lit up any room she entered like lightning on a storm-dark night. It was that smile, her mother’s smile, that had beguiled Lord Fitzgerald into marriage a second time. When Deirdre found the man of her choice she would win him, even against his will, just as her mother had. Even so, there were dark times
ahead for the lass. The predictions at her birth had promised glory or tragedy. Only Deirdre herself would determine which it would be. The time was coming; the signs were beginning to show themselves.
“Why do you stare at me, Brigid? I’m not ill.”
Brigid blinked in surprise. “Yer hair’s untidy and yer skirts are mussed. Ye should go in and change. Fancy what the foreigners would say to see ye so.”