Chapter Fifteen #2
“Yes, I will.” Rynn’s smile at the Duchess was the first genuine one she’d managed since stepping through Ashton’s door. Whatever
else might be at fault, the woman’s love for her son could not be in doubt.
The Duchess returned her smile, patted her arm and left. As the door closed behind his mother, Thomas pivoted his chair away
from the bookshelves to raise his eyebrows at Rynn.
“Well, what do you think? Are they lions?” he asked.
“They are not,” she said, and sank down upon the sofa that had been placed perpendicular to the fire.
Like the chairs opposite, it was upholstered in a gold brocade to match the drapes that had been drawn over the tall windows.
The walls, too, were a rich gold. The rest of the furnishings were in shades of cream and green accented with dark wood, making for a cozy but luxurious atmosphere.
“Although you find them sadly prejudiced against the Irish,” Thomas said with lurking humor, and when Rynn chose the prudent
route of staying silent he shook his head at her. “Oh, don’t deny it. Your face tells the tale.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Very well, if you must know, I feel they may not have considered that to be constantly
treated as an inferior, to say nothing of being starved, thrown off our land and denied the right to make the rules that govern
our own country, might turn an otherwise reasonable people into—how did your father put it?—ah yes, villainous rogues and
rabble-rousers.” Her reply was tart. “Although I do draw the line at condoning murder, of course.”
He gave a snort of laughter. “I knew you were a rebel at heart. Though I’m glad to know you draw the line at murder.”
“Condoning murder. Oh, don’t laugh. You never know when I might become a damned mad insurrectionist myself.”
“If you must, I suppose I can live with it. Although I do hope you’ll hold off until after dinner.”
That wrung a reluctant smile from her. “I’ll do my best. I find I am quite hungry.”
Thomas eyed her keenly. “This has been a tiring day, hasn’t it? How about we skip dinner with the family and have trays brought
to us here instead?”
“Could we? That would be perfect.” Dazzled at the sudden prospect of escaping what she could only think of as the next ordeal,
Rynn let the rest of her irritation go. Reluctantly she added, “Though I wouldn’t want to be rude.”
“No one will think us rude. Indeed, they’ll love the chance to gossip all about us. No doubt our ears will be burning while
we eat.”
Rynn laughed. “Very well, you’ve persuaded me.”
“I am very persuasive, am I not? One of my more admirable traits. I persuaded you to marry me, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
The merest shadow of a frown flickered across his face as he looked at her. “Are you sorry?”
A complicated question, to which there was only one answer that she could give him.
“No.”
“Good.” His frown cleared. “You rest while I order dinner.”
After that first night, Rynn fell into an uneasy routine. Dinners on a tray might be acceptable, but the Duke had no time
for layabouts, and at Ashton breakfast with the family was a ritual all were expected to participate in. Consuming her usual
toast and tea in the breakfast room where guests helped themselves from a staggering array of dishes laid out on the sideboard
left plenty of time for her to be faced with the contents of the morning newspapers, also thoughtfully laid out for early-morning
consumption along with breakfast. The ambush at Soloheadbeg was the main story in every single newspaper and was endlessly
discussed over Ashton’s table. That a group of eight Irish Volunteers had shot and killed two RIC officers transporting a
shipment of explosives roused the British, including most of her new relatives, to volcanic fury.
The London Times called the killings premeditated murders and described them as “wicked” and “shameful.” The Duke loudly and forcefully agreed as the British government was called upon to exact a bitter vengeance.
A reward of one thousand pounds was immediately offered for information leading to the capture of the ambushers, and within two days of the ambush South Tipperary was declared a Special Military Area under the Defense of the Realm Act, which was tantamount to declaring martial law.
The British then banned the newly formed Dail as an illegal assembly.
As a result, tensions between the two sides turned white-hot.
“We are,” the Duke announced angrily after yet another meeting with Law and Churchill had him heading up to London to confer
with Prime Minster Lloyd George, “within a cat’s whisker of finding ourselves in an all-out war. Which is what the ingrates
want, damn them. Well, they’re about to get it, and have only themselves to blame if they rue the day.”
Rynn, too, deplored the violence, but from the point of view of the Irish the terrible wrongs endured under centuries of British
oppression had left them with little recourse but to fight back, as she explained to Thomas with a militant glint in her eyes.
Recalling one of Granny’s favorite edicts—“Bite your tongue before it digs your grave”—she reluctantly did just that with
the others, keeping her silence as her father-in-law and his guests raged, not wishing to find herself in what could be nothing
less than an ugly (and useless) quarrel with her new relatives. But when the Duchess and Lord and Lady Wycomb joined the Duke
in London a short time later, and the visitors stopped, and the houseguests dispersed to their own homes, both she and Thomas
heaved a sigh of relief.
Finding themselves alone at Ashton suited them perfectly. All talk of what the papers were calling the Irish problem ceased.
Instead, they concentrated on settling into their new life and getting comfortable in their new marriage. Letting go of the
vision of her future that she’d clung to over the long years of the war—marriage to Donal, a home of their own and eventually
children—was sometimes difficult, but whenever a pang of regret was especially sharp, she was able to push it away by reminding
herself that the life she’d once imagined was just that: imaginary. It had never been any more real than a pleasant daydream.
Rynn had a set of parallel bars installed in an obscure back hallway, and Thomas used them to practice walking with the fervor of a religious convert.
With his increasing strength he was able to get about on crutches over longer distances and for greater periods of time, and his spirits improved as his mobility did.
He still coughed, but not so often or so deeply.
He thought, and Rynn agreed, that his lungs were improving, too.
The rain stopped, and although it remained cold, they were able to get outside every day. Mostly she would push him bundled
up in his chair around the labyrinth of stone terraces, but sometimes he would attempt to navigate the paths through the closest
of the gardens on his crutches. Other times, if it was too cold or he was feeling particularly tired, they would take the
car and, with one of the footmen driving, explore the scenic byways of Surrey while Thomas pointed out places of interest
for her edification. Then Thomas got the brilliant notion that he would teach her to drive, which was something he could no
longer do, so that they could tootle about in privacy, without the need for a chauffeur. Ensconced in the passenger seat,
he would patiently instruct her on the use of the three floorboard foot pedals: the left one was the clutch, the middle one
sent the car into reverse and the right one was the brake. There was also a handbrake that had to be released before the car
would move. The throttle that controlled the gas was a lever on the right side of the steering wheel. Operating all those
gadgets at the right moment and in the right order was tricky to say the least. The mishaps that ensued led to much hilarity
as she practiced along the country lanes and over Ashton’s frozen fields.
By the time Thomas, in between snorts of laughter, pronounced her a splendid driver (after she’d sent them lurching through a row of carefully tended topiaries and barely avoided launching the car over an embankment into an ornamental duck pond by hitting on the right combination of pedals and levers to stop the thing at the last possible second) they’d become the very best of friends, as comfortable in their relationship as if they’d known each other all their lives.
We’re going to be all right, Rynn thought with a sense of profound relief as they arrived back at the house, where she managed to stop the car almost
where she meant to without hitting anything, including the footman who appeared right on time with Thomas’s chair. Glancing
over at Thomas, who was ruddy faced and laughing and looking as healthy and carefree as she’d ever seen him, she said the
words out loud.
“Now that you’ve got us home in one piece, certainly we are.” He shot her a teasing look.
“I’m talking about me. Us. This.” Her gesture encompassed the house, the grounds, the car, him. “Our marriage. It’s going to be all right.”
He stopped laughing. His expression turned utterly serious as he reached for her hand.
“I hope it’s going to be more than all right,” he said. “I mean to make you happy.”
For the briefest of moments, the naked adoration that she had seen in them once before blazed at her from his eyes. Then his
lids dropped as if he was afraid his unguarded gaze might reveal too much.
But that one look was enough. Enough to remind her of how he felt. He was in love with her, and while she wasn’t in love with
him, that was something that would very likely cure itself with time. Anyway, romantic love was a blindness and a folly, as
dangerous as a lightning bolt, and as ephemeral, as she had learned the hard way with Donal. Real love, the kind that lasted,
was built—yes, built—on a solid base of friendship and respect and trust. And she had those things with Thomas. All she—they—had
to do was put in the work.
“I’m happy,” she said, and in that moment at least it was true.
“I am, too.”
Carrying her hand to his mouth, he pressed his lips to its back.
The warmth of his lips against her skin, the gentleness of his still-way-too-thin fingers wrapped around hers, the growing
bond between them and, yes, the laughter they had shared, all came together in that moment to reassure her that she had indeed
chosen the right path, the one meant for her. She and Thomas would build a future together using loyalty and affection and
kindness and shared experiences and sheer time as bricks, and it would be solid and good.
She might miss Ireland, but Ireland would always be a part of her.
She might miss Granny and Glenna, but they’d made plans to come to England in the summer, when Glenna’s teaching commitment
would be at an end, by which time Thomas had promised they would have their own house where her loved ones could join them
as opposed to them all staying with his family, which she did not think Granny especially was constitutionally capable of
doing.
She might miss Donal, but the pangs of what-could-have-been were diminishing by the day. What she’d felt for Donal was the
blind infatuation of a young girl, while her growing regard for Thomas, and his love for her—that was something she could
build a life on.
For the first time since she’d raced out into the night to warn Donal, she felt whole.
She and Thomas had barely made it into the house before her newfound optimism was upended by two unwelcome bits of news.
The first one came in the form of the Evening Standard, announcing on its front page that Eamon de Valera and two associates, Sean McGarry and Sean Milroy, had somehow managed to escape the supposedly impregnable stronghold that was His Majesty’s Prison Lincoln.
The second was an invitation: they, Lord and Lady Thomas Dunne, were summoned forthwith to London to attend a fundraiser for
wounded veterans to be hosted by none other than His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.