Let there still be time for this one
,
he prayed. He frowned at the boy’s labored breathing.
The bright sunshine outside offered a
startling contrast to the gloom inside. The brush of the early fall
breeze against Bowie’s face made him cough again and bury his face
deeper into Nicholas’s chest.
The baronet started briskly toward his
horse, but he paused for moment to brand into his memory the
gladdening sight before him.
Jane had already climbed onto the back of
Queen Mab, and the two children were seated before her. She was
speaking softly into Maire, and at the same time holding Daniel’s
hand and encouraging the little one to caress the horse’s soft
mane. There was softness—affection—love in the actions. It occurred
to Nicholas that this might be the most beautiful sight he’d ever
been blessed to see.
Jane’s gaze turned at his direction, and he
saw her anxious look at Bowie. She then looked up to Nicholas’s
face and, as their gazes locked, he saw in her the woman he’d been
searching for.
***
Silence hung like a pall over the Morning
Room. Seated with her two female guests at a small table by the
fire, Lady Purefoy sipped her tea and eyed the French-style
pastries tastefully arranged on a small platter. Clara sulked in a
chair by the window, ignoring the small plate and saucer of tea on
the table beside her. The words of greeting this morning had been
brief and perfunctory, and the appetite of the Spencer women
scarcely matched their hostess’s.
Lady Purefoy motioned to one of servants to
pour more tea for Alexandra, and glanced over at her daughter,
hoping to get her attention. Clara gazed out the window, ignoring
her mother.
Catherine, frustrated with the girl’s
aloofness, bit into a pastry that she could do without. It had been
the same for the past two days, Clara moping about openly before
their company. Not once had the young woman followed her directions
to ask Sir Nicholas to go out for a walk—or to give him a tour of
the gardens—or even to read to him from one of the books she always
kept her nose buried in. Why, Clara had not once tried to initiate
a conversation.
Giving a ball had been a grand idea, but
Catherine knew that one night would hardly be enough to settle her
daughter’s future. She chose another piece of pastry, but before
putting it into her mouth, another idea dawned on her.
“Have you ladies heard of our legendary
Blarney Castle?”
Their guest turned to her daughter,
seemingly waiting for her to answer. But Frances’s surliness had
increased daily since they’d arrived. She and Clara made a perfect
pair, she thought.
“Yes, we have,” Lady Spencer finally
replied. “On our drive here from Cork City, Frances was telling us
all about the gift of eloquence that is rumored to be connected
with kissing of some stone in the castle wall.”
“Yes…indeed. That is exactly the case,”
Catherine said excitedly. “I was just thinking…when Sir Nicholas
comes down this morning, perhaps we can convince him that he should
take my Clara and Miss Spencer to Blarney Castle. I don’t know a
young person who would not find it thrilling to…”
“I would prefer to stay in today,” Frances
said quietly. As her mother opened her mouth, Lady Purefoy noticed
the sharp look that the sixteen-year-old directed her elder. “I’ve
a headache.”
“Clara, I’m certain, would love to go,
anyway. Would you not, my dear?” Catherine pressed.
Her daughter’s lack of enthusiasm, though
unspoken, was very clearly etched in the troubled and pleading blue
eyes.
“Then it is settled.” Catherine turned to
Lady Spencer and gave her a reassuring nod. “This is what these
young people need these days. Someone to push them out the door and
make them enjoy themselves. Now when I was younger, we didn’t need
our mothers to tell us how to court a young man.”
The housekeeper entered the room at that
moment, surveying the tea and pastries.
“Fey, I was just about to send for you,”
Lady Purefoy called out jubilantly. “Lady Spencer and I had a
wonderful idea that Sir Nicholas and Clara should go out for a
picnic today to Blarney Castle. Kindly tell the cook to prepare a
basket for them. Oh, and tell Paul it would best if he were to
prepare my open carriage.” She smiled at Alexandra’s dubious face.
“I know your son is fond of horses, and I assure you my Clara is a
most talented rider. Call me old fashioned if you will, but I think
a young man and young woman can enjoy their conversations so much
more in a carriage rather than on horseback.”
She saw the housekeeper still in the room,
obviously looking for an opportunity to speak.
“What is it Fey?” she said curtly.
“Sir Nicholas has already gone out,
m’lady.”
“Out? Is he out with Sir Thomas?”
“I’ve no reason to think so. I heard Sir
Thomas asking for him when he was taking his own breakfast. When
Paul came up, I heard him say that Sir Nicholas had gone out for a
ride some time ago.”
“Alone?” Catherine turned curiously to her
guest, who was delicately sipping her tea. “Do you know where he is
gone, Lady Spencer? Or when he is coming back?”
“More years ago than I wish to count, ma’am,
I stopped worrying about Nicholas’s whereabouts.”
“But it is such a beautiful day.” Catherine
rose to her feet impatiently and walked to the window glancing
outside. “I simply
hate
to see it go to waste. Don’t you
agree?”
“I do.” Something in her guest’s voice made
Lady Purefoy turn in time to see the other woman smiling
enigmatically over the rim of her cup. “But perhaps Nicholas is not
wasting it, after all.”
***
The two women looked with mutual concern at
the ailing child lying on the bed between them.
“Where did these bruises come from,
miss?”
“On our way here, little Maire told me that
Bowie came back just as the soldiers were taking their mother away
yesterday. The little fighter picked up a stick and tried to stop
them.”
Jane squeezed the excess water out of towel
into the wash basin and gently continued bathing the boy’s face.
Mrs. Brown clucked compassionately and tried to remove his tattered
shirts as gently as she could.
“Maire said he was kicked a few times.”
Mrs. Brown’s ruddy face became even redder
as her temper rose. “Sons of devils, they are. Striking down wee
ones!”
Jane swallowed her own anger, but promised
herself that there would be retaliation for this. Some of the
Shanavests, like Ronan and even level-headed Patrick, had
repeatedly suggested that there should be an ambush against the
dragoons at the Buttevant barracks for the violence that they were
committing more and more freely against the Irish. But Jane had
always spoken against it. She did not want to give Musgrave a
reason to start searching out the Shanavests. It wasn’t any fear of
the magistrate’s successes that bothered her, but the certain
knowledge that many who were innocent would be hurt by the fighting
that would surely ensue.
Innocents like Bowie.
“Has Parson Adams sent for the doctor yet?”
Jane touched the boy’s fevered skin again.
“He went after Dr. Forrest himself. He
didn’t want the man tarrying because it was only some Irish widow’s
child that needed tending. Ah, no…will you look at that?” Mrs.
Brown pointed to more bruises along Bowie’s side.
“Will he come, though?”
“The parson will make sure he does,” the
housekeeper replied with certainty.
“The boy’s sister also said that Bowie had
been sick for a few days before the soldiers came. Coughing and
shivering.” Jane watched the other woman’s capable hands gently
open their patient’s mouth and feed him a few drops of water. “The
sickness…and then the upset of the mother being taken away…and then
the beating. Far too much for one as young as this.”
The young boy’s throat worked painfully, but
he seemed to swallow the liquid.
“Aye,” the older woman said, straightening
her back. “If you don’t mind, Miss Jane, would you go and look in
on the wee ones? Cook was trying to feed them, but the lass…”
“Maire.”
Mrs. Brown nodded. “I don’t think she’ll
take a bite unless you comfort her yourself. She is a worrier, I
can tell.”
The housekeeper raised Bowie’s head on some
pillows and pulled a clean sheet over the boy’s chest.
Jane reluctantly stood up. She knew Mrs.
Brown was far more capable than she was in seeing to the needs of
this sick child. But she also knew how fragile Maire, in
particular, was.
“Is Sir Nicholas still downstairs, or did he
go with Parson Adams?”
“Neither.” The housekeeper looked up in
surprise. “I don’t know where he disappeared to. He carried the lad
up here and put him on the bed, and then went down those stairs and
out the door.”
Not surprising, Jane thought. This was
surely much more than he’d bargained for. Much more than he’d been
ready to commit to.
But she had no time to think of any of this
now. She cast a final glance at the child’s still form and quietly
slipped out of the room.
This was what she was meant to do with her
life. And she wouldn’t let herself take a step off this path, no
matter what the temptation.
She told herself she should be glad Spencer
had come to his senses.
Praying that she wouldn’t be seen, Clara
tucked the worn copy of
The Castle of Otranto
under the
blanket she carried over her arm, and scurried past the small grove
of fruit trees where she’d accidentally come upon Lady Spencer
busily sketching.
More than anything else, she just wanted a
few moments of relief. A few moments alone. One more careless word
by her mother, one more vulgar mention of how she could more
effectively flaunt herself in front of Sir Nicholas, and Clara knew
she would surely go mad.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lady
Spencer put down her sketch board, stand up, and stretch. Looking
away, Clara moved deeper into the meadow. Though their guests—both
mother and daughter—were nice enough people, she simply couldn’t
bear to be engaged in conversation right now.
After breakfast, Lady Purefoy had insisted
on having a long chat with her daughter in her workroom. The
chat
had consisted of a long lecture on how disappointed
both her parents were with the way Clara had been conducting
herself with their esteemed company. And the scolding had ended
with direct instructions about just how Clara should behave in
order to win the distinguished gentleman’s attention, affection,
and proposal of marriage.
Clara felt sick at the recollection of some
of the things her mother had said. How different now from the
instructions she’d received
en route
to London! She shook
her head, realizing how shockingly ruined she would be if she
attempted to put into practice most of what her mother had told
her. She might as well walk to Cork City and join the streetwalkers
along the waterfront.
And to think that Catherine was quick to
object to Clara reading mere books like the one under her arm! And
here, when it came to real life…!
She soon arrived at a favorite spot—a corner
of the meadow, close to the paddock but protected by a hedge behind
her. Here, with the valley spreading out beneath her, the sun was
warm and she could hear the goings on in the paddock and stable
without being seen herself.
Spreading her blanket, she sat down and
opened the book on her lap. As she paged through it, Clara recalled
the exciting part where she’d left the story last.
Isabella had
just vanished from the monastery.
As she searched for the place, she paused
for a moment, thinking of the seed of an idea that had occurred to
her while she was enduring her mother’s lecture.
Henry had been invited to the party given
this Friday, and Clara knew that he would be here. Now, her mother
had made certain that absolutely no one outside of the immediate
family and Fey had been told of Sir Nicholas’s rejection.
How interesting it would be if Henry were
somehow to be told…perhaps through a letter. Henry had loved her
once. The thought that he might conceivably see it his duty to
console her regarding the loss made her tingle with anticipation.
And how absolutely delightful it would be to use some of her
mother’s suggested methods—not to try to trap the worldly Sir
Nicholas—but to seduce the infinitely more kindhearted Henry
Adams.
The very thought sent an excited shiver down
Clara’s arms. Without having read a single word, she closed the
book and rose impatiently to her feet.
This was it. She had the way. She’d had a
taste of his passion three days ago. He still loved her, despite
his hard words. He would succumb if she pursued. And he was far too
honorable not to marry her if they were…to somehow…find themselves
in a compromising situation. All she had to do was send him the
letter to start her plan in motion.
Almost giddy now, she was gathering up her
blanket when she heard a horse come up the road. The rider called
out to someone in the paddock, and Clara immediately recognized the
man’s heavy brogue. The voice belonged to a groom who worked for
Henry. She would send her letter to Parson Adams with him. Surely,
she thought, this is providence itself at work.
She stepped through the hedge and walked
toward the paddock gate. She would make the letter very short.
Perhaps, she wouldn’t even explain anything, but say it was
critical that Henry meet with her somewhere…in private.
Yes. In person and in private. Face to face,
she had the greatest chance of success.
Clara intentionally slowed her steps. She
couldn’t look too eager. The man had dismounted and was talking
with one of Woodfield House stable boys.