Chapter 34 #2
“The O’Shaughnessys have decided to try their luck elsewhere and are finding a new situation for their family. Distraught over Margaret’s death, as you can imagine. Fresh start and all that. And”—Father leaned forward to whisper in my ear—“they blame you for her untimely death.”
He pulled away and slapped my back. “They claim you led her to her death, then cursed the name Moore-Vandeleur for all to hear. I was going to let them go unmolested, but part of me hopes they do not sully your name wherever they decide to settle.”
“Wh-what?” My eyes widened. No, that could not be. They couldn’t have possibly believed such a thing—
“I suppose they’re right,” Father said with a sigh. “Had she not gotten with child, she’d still be with us all.”
Ice gripped my heart as each of his words landed a heavy blow.
“Worse, I fear she believed you had abandoned her by the end and wrote such to her father.” Father strode toward the window and stared as white clouds billowed over the estuary. “In the end, it’s just you and I, my boy. And this new marriage.”
Tears stung my eyes as I stared, open-mouthed, at my father.
“What are you saying?” I asked, my voice barely a gruff whisper as this new information clogged my mind.
“It would be a shame if that upstart O’Shaughnessy badmouthed your good name and hurt your future political aspirations.
All the studying, the hard work to become a solicitor …
and the hard-won relationship between you and me.
My ambitions for you are all you have left, Theodore.
What use is this new marriage if Margaret’s father chooses to sully her memory, her wishes for you, if he destroys everything we are trying to build?
It’s what Margaret would have wanted, after all, is it not? A bright, illustrious future for you?”
Something deep in my soul broke as realization washed over me. Maggie was gone, and her father—who had spoken so unkindly to me on the evening when I’d asked for her hand—was now hell-bent on destroying whatever future I would be forced to face.
“What would you have me do, Theodore?” Father asked, returning to his desk. He gestured toward the document he’d been working on when I’d come in.
“What … what do you mean?” My brows furrowed. “Are they … gone?”
“If you sign it, they can be. It can be your first official act as land agent.” Father twisted the document around and slid the inkpot in my direction. “With one signature, you’ll be able to preserve Maggie’s memory and have the future she would have dreamt for you. What do you say?”
The future she would have dreamt for me?
I had wanted … what had I wanted? To visit with the O’Shaughnessys.
To share memories with them. To mourn with them.
To ask how the funeral went. To bring them their grandson, their nephew, and assure them that Maggie would still live.
Through Diarmuid. Through my own heart, whose shallow beat now echoed in the empty chamber that was once filled with so much love.
But now? They thought I’d killed her, and it was just as Father said. They wished to sully her memory by destroying the life Maggie would have wanted for me … for us both, for our family.
Wrath set my blood to boil as I stared at the document.
“Sign it,” Father ordered, eyes narrowing as he glared at me. “Or don’t. Their own future now lies in your hands, my son.”
Balling my fists, I stepped forward, barely scanning whatever the document pertained to.
Complaint of Fraud, Theft, and Mismanagement of Her Majesty’s Share.
Dipping a pen into the inkpot, I signed.
“This one also,” Father said, plucking the first document from its place to reveal yet another.
Order of Refusal to Administer Aid.
I signed it.
“Good lad.” My father smiled—the slow, cruel curl that always spelled my doom as a child—and a wave of nausea spilled up my throat.
Had he tricked me? My heart fluttered in my chest, prompting shallow breaths.
Maggie would know if he’d tricked me. Maggie—I wrapped my arms around my stomach as she would have done and told myself to breathe. To stop. To think.
“There’s a celebration at the parish hall tonight to announce your marriage,” Father announced, smiling—now a bright beam that meant he was happy … satisfied.
“Oh? Shall I send word to Ms. Fitzgerald—” I asked, before he interrupted.
“Mrs. Theodore Moore-Vandeleur,” Father corrected, pulling the second document beyond my reach. “Nay. The girl is ill, after all. Go and tend to her tonight. Talk a little. She’s likely as displeased with this arrangement as you are.”
“Yes, Father,” I said, bowing slightly. For what else could I do? What had I just signed? What had I just done? “W-we d-dine at the u-usual t-time?”
“Speak properly, Theodore, really. I have a prior engagement this evening, at eight, and your stepmother has decided to take supper in her chamber. You’re welcome to do the same.”
The same night: Maggie
The summerhouse lay adjacent to the walled garden and was only ever used when the family had company, which was rare.
Despite the Moore-Vandeleurs’ airs and graces, his “lordship” was naught but a colonel who’d inherited the fruit of his ancestors’ legacy—Dutchmen who had settled during Cromwell’s reign of terror at that, not even English.
But all the landlords were Anglo in station if not by blood.
All colored with the same brush, all profiting from the exploitation of a land brutally brought to heel over the course of seven centuries.
Lady Grace must’ve been fair disappointed to learn that her husband didn’t enjoy the social visits she must have envisioned. The Moore-Vandeleurs may have built up the Kilrush area, but it was remote, and the family income wasn’t near the class status of the daughter of an earl.
Still, his lordship had always kept the summerhouse in good order, and it had become a place of refuge for Teddy and me as we grew up together.
I loved the beautiful flowers, blooms from all over the world, thriving in the heat trap of its glass walls, where massive ferns and birds-of-paradise provided shade and shelter from prying eyes.
Teddy and I used to play and read on throw blankets when we were children, but when Lady Grace married into the family, she had it decorated with rugs and chaises, ornate tables and gas lamps, building the décor around the foreign feel of our little oasis.
Perhaps that’s where it all went wrong, for what two people couldn’t imagine a fantastical life—a happy ending I now knew belonged bound in the pages of a rare work of fiction—surrounded as we were by such whimsy.
I shook my head. Eight. I had said eight in my note.
Glancing at the door to the walled garden, I balled my fists.
Teddy usually made his way from the house and through the garden to meet me.
Perhaps I should greet him there, standing tall and proud next to the sundial at its center, where he would have to face me in the open, unable to tug at memories that painted every nook and cranny of the summerhouse or utter sweet words to soften the blow.
Then again, he might not come if he saw me.
With a frustrated sigh, I stomped toward the summerhouse, but then froze.
What if he did not come at all?
What if, now wed to another woman, he felt he no longer owed me a thing?
Pulling my shawl close, I pressed my lips together. No. He would come. He had to.
I grasped the door handle of the summerhouse and slid through with a shiver. It was still warm despite the cool night, its glass surroundings holding tight to every last drop of heat the day had provided.
My pulse raced, from both exertion and anger, and it took me a moment to settle.
I breathed deep, inhaling the scent of soil and earth. There weren’t many flowers in bloom this time of year, and the large green plants didn’t emit a scent of note. Still, it was familiar, and a few breaths later, my nerves had calmed enough to sit and wait.
I brushed away a large leaf of a bird-of-paradise, and my chest tightened.
Deep in the center of the summerhouse, a light flickered. A lamp, surely. And none would leave a lit lamp so carelessly in a place like this.
Sweat beaded my forehead, from both the sudden heat of the summerhouse and fear. It was one thing thinking of what I must say, and what answers I needed, but quite another when confronted with the immediate opportunity to have said conversation.
He was here.
“Teddy?” I called.
A rustle met my ears, followed by the creak of a chair. I stepped farther into the room, right as a figure stood from their seated position.
“Ah, Maggie. Well met,” he said, the voice deeper than Teddy’s soft tenor. My heart leapt in my chest as the figure bent to pick up the lamp. “I thought it wise to meet with you, as it wouldn’t be polite to have you wait all night.”
The blood drained from my head, leaving me dizzy as the light from the lamp lit up the figure’s plump face, the muttonchop beard adorning his jaw casting strange shadows. It most certainly wasn’t Teddy.
It was his lordship.
“Sit, sit. Come. How do you fare?” he asked, gesturing me forward.
Eyes wide, I stood, frozen.
“Come, child,” he insisted, clucking his tongue. “Is that any way to greet your master?”
Master. He was that. Shaking myself, I approached and took the chair opposite him as he sat, placing the lamp on the table between us.
“Have you recovered from your dreadful ordeal?” he asked.
Kind … too kind. It reminded me of the audience I’d had with him prior to leaving for Dublin.
Then I had been blinded by good faith, but now I noted just the right amount of inflection to sound kind.
With new perspective, I recognized it for what it was: false pleasantry.
“Yes, m’Lord, I thank you,” I replied. Every hair on my body stood to attention, and I fought against the shiver running up my spine. If I were a dog, I’d growl and bark to dispel whatever danger crackled in the air between us.