Chapter 34
At length it was discovered that the best plan would be to get completely rid of those who were so heavy a burden upon them by shipping them to America … for the expense of transporting each individual was less than the cost of one year’s support in a workhouse.
Father never struck me. Not once in my twenty years of life.
Instead, he deprived—love, safety, comfort—whenever his anger took him to places better kept barred away.
They all thought he loved me, his heir, the son for whom he chose a stepmother with utmost care, the son for whom the sun shone in the morning and set at night.
But truth be told, it took twelve years, between my mother’s death and Lady Grace’s arrival, for him to be able to pull his demons together, into the facade of a man, one capable of raising a family.
He would grant me this reprieve, of that I was certain, for the guilt of those early years—locking me away, forgetting me, beating me—ate away at him slowly. Wasn’t that why he’d granted my marriage to Maggie to begin with? At least, that’s what he had said.
A sharp pain lanced through my chest at even the thought of my dear sweeting, but I fought the urge to wince.
For the fire in Father’s eyes, sat, as he was now, behind the grand mahogany desk of his study, surrounded by the splendors he’d acquired from abroad, threatened to snap me from wishful thinking and launch me headfirst into a fray.
“Repeat yourself,” Father demanded, still as a rock, pen poised above whatever document it was that needed his attention, ink gathering at the tip, perilously close to dripping.
Exhaustion clung to every fiber of my being, the kind that bore weight upon the limb to pressure the soul.
Yet somewhere between France and Kilrush, I’d found my voice once more—the one that perished when news arrived.
The one that had once questioned why I could not write to my heart, why she must not be burdened with my words, why I could not be there.
Or hold her. Or weep as she uttered her final words.
“I cannot marry Miss Fitzgerald,” I said, resolute, ensuring solid eye contact with my father. He’d once said the way to make a man give way was to glare him down. To never waver. To establish leadership. I hoped to God he was right.
Father set down the pen and ran a hand over his face before springing from the chair. I swallowed down the lump in my throat as he turned to glance out the window, hands clasped behind his back.
There was nothing wrong with the girl, exactly.
She was pretty enough. Pleasing enough, or I thought she likely was.
Poor thing came down with fever on our journey from Calais and was indisposed for most of it.
Really, she could have just met me here instead of taking a boat all the way to France to escort me home.
I simply didn’t love her, nor she me. And I was in mourning.
Deepest, darkest mourning, filled with naught but memories of my heart, and regret.
Such regret. Regret that our union had resulted in tragedy, and our beloved son would never know her.
Regret that I had been so frightened when last we met that I’d pulled my hand from hers when we stood before her family’s home. If only I had been kinder. Warmer.
I clenched my jaw. Tears were for women … and men, when safe in their bedchamber. Not now, not when I was taking a stand. For though Father loved me dearly, he would brook no sign of weakness.
“You’ve been married by proxy. It’s already done.
You are wed. The banns have been read,” Father said, words frosted and clipped where sorrows and prayers had so warmly greeted me upon my return.
“And most fortunate of all, her father was willing to overlook the issue of your bastard, and he supports our endeavor to have you enter the political arena.”
“Diarmuid,” I reminded him, for I had received each of her fervent letters—though I had been cautioned not to reply, lest I inadvertently cause upset that would harm the unborn child—and had named him as she would have wished, though I had not yet laid eyes upon him.
By all accounts, he was safely nestled in a wetnurse’s embrace, somewhere in Dublin City.
“His name is Diarmuid. And he would not be illegitimate had Maggie survived.”
“What’s done is done, Theodore. The boy is illegitimate, and that girl of the Fitzgeralds is your wife. She brings excellent connections, and so long as she agrees, she will be the mother of that child.”
My palms went slick at the thought. “And if she refuses?”
“I will find a suitable arrangement for him and provide a stipend for his care. You could see him from time to time, of course, but you cannot raise a bastard if you pursue a political career.”
I balled my fists, and Father turned, a sad smile toying at the corners of his lips. “You think me cruel.”
“No, sir,” I replied, but Father sighed then and absentmindedly pulled my grandfather’s watch from his pocket—the watch that would one day be mine.
I watched as the golden chain went taut, as Father flicked the latch, as his eyes drifted, not to the clockface within the engraved golden case, but to the custom-made miniature that lined the inside of the cartouche.
The miniature of my mother. The one he had commissioned on their wedding day.
“It’s just … I haven’t even seen him yet, sir,” I said. “Mayhap I could fetch him and present him to Ms. Fitzgerald so she sees him, and feels an attachment to him, and cannot in good conscience refuse—”
“Do you know why I raised you with such freedom?” Father asked, interrupting me with a chilled sharpness.
I cleared my throat. The answer was because at times, in his darkest hours, he’d simply forgotten that I’d existed … but I knew the question was mere rhetoric.
“Your mother, God rest her, was the love of my life.” He smiled at the miniature and ran a gentle thumb over her likeness.
“We started much like yourself and our dearly departed Margaret. A gentle sort of romance that kindled for years. My own father welcomed the union. Thought it would bring me closer to the people. Breed empathy, if you will.”
With a snap, Father shut the watch and shoved it back into his pocket. “But she was no different than them. Broken. Tainted. And in the end, she left me.”
Not willingly, I wanted to say, but knew better than to remind him that no one succumbs willingly to death.
He glanced at me, eyes bright as a smile forced my mother’s specter into the shadowed depths of the study.
“But there you were. My heir. My pride and joy. You would never leave me, my boy. That’s why I allowed you free rein.
So you could see for yourself how your mother’s people are.
How they need a strong master in order to survive, how they are bred for servitude.
For labor. So you could learn and apply it all when your time comes to take over the estate.
So you can gain their favor and be spoken of with kindness so others—those who can vote—would hear of your popularity.
Would back you when the time comes. Would heartily place you in Parliament—the beloved landowner who speaks for the people. ”
I closed my eyes for a moment—just the space of a breath—for there it was, the lie I’d told myself since childhood.
That I could have the life I truly wanted.
That I didn’t have to be my father’s ambition, but that I could live among those he reviled, as he had reviled me in my youth.
Maggie’s people, my people. And what had started as a simple dream grew to such heights that I feared losing her.
And I would marry her, as Father had married my mother, and bestow upon my Maggie the greatest gift in my power to give by making her the lady of the house.
We would govern over Kilrush and all our land together, and make decisions that would benefit both our pockets and the people.
But I never got to give her that gift. Instead, she’d given one to me—Diarmuid.
A gift that now weighed on my chest. Nay, not a gift …
a burden. For if my new wife would not accept him as her own, I didn’t think I’d ever want to see him.
How could I look him in the eye or peer upon his face—Maggie’s face—and explain that I was too cowardly to stand up to my father?
He was better off without me. Maggie would have been better off without me. I opened my eyes.
“I thank you for that, sir,” I intoned—the usual response, as expected.
Father nodded. “I had hoped that you would understand the larger picture, Theodore. That you would require the sort of connections that this union with the Fitzgeralds would bring. But if Margaret was your choice, I was happy to abide by your wishes.”
My chest constricted.
He glanced at me then, eyes mournful in a way I’d never seen them before.
“I loved your mother once, and I love you. Fiercely, my boy. And this is all I can do for you now. The Fitzgerald girl brings a fine promise for the future, but there’s no rule stating that you must immediately jump into your duty.
Margaret’s passing has affected us all, may she rest in peace. ”
I wavered then, shutting my eyes against the wave of sadness that threatened tears. “Amen,” I whispered.
“Now, to business.” Footsteps treaded near, and the reassuring warmth of Father’s hand came down on my shoulder. “I may be called to Dublin to report on the situation here. This could be an opportunity for me. For you.”
“When do you depart?” I asked. Father had tried, and failed on three separate occasions, to be elected as County Clare’s representative in the House of Commons. And I knew it was his greatest wish to see me elevated there one day.
“I await the summons. In the meantime, you’ll step into the role of land agent. It will be good to keep your mind off everything.”
My heart skipped a beat. “You have a land agent—”