O'er The River Liffey (Power of the Matchmaker) Read online

  “I should be most surprised if he set himself to race against the ladies.” The very notion brought out another broad smile onto Niall’s face.

  “Oh dear! Did it hurt?” she asked, her expression compassionate.

  “Was something meant to hurt?” he asked, bewildered.

  “That smile. Because I am persuaded,” she explained, her eyes twinkling, “that I heard the corners of your mouth split.”

  Niall could not help himself; he threw back his head and laughed. “Am I so very morose?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid the answer is yes, since the moment we met.” She stepped up to the nearest jaunting car and regarded it closely. “I wonder what has happened to provoke in you such sorrow.” The nonchalance of her manner was belied by the warmth in her voice.

  He watched her run her hand over the blue-painted footboard as he considered his reply. It was impossible, however, to conjure a satisfactory answer in light of such delicious distractions. The manner in which she stepped forward and back again to regard the red-spoked wheels was as graceful as any dance; the line from her brow to the tip of her nose flowed like music. The sweep of her lashes as she lifted her gaze to look at him was artistry of a different sort, whilst the compassion in her eyes spoke of virtues more eloquent than beauty.

  “Won’t you tell me?” she asked, her blue eyes moist and her brows drawn together.

  He opened his mouth to speak when he was startled by a violent sneeze issuing forth from one of the horse stalls. “McCauley, is that you?” Niall called into the gloom of the stable.

  “Aye,” the groom replied as he stepped out from behind a stall and moved towards them. “What ye be needin’?”

  “Her ladyship would have her guests race in the jaunting cars. Take this one here,” Niall said, indicating the one Miss Fulton had admired, “and pair it with the fastest horse in the stable.”

  “T’at would be the master’s stallion,” McCauley said doubtfully. “I don’t t’ink he should be likin’ t’at.”

  “Yes, of course, he is a hunter,” Niall said for Miss Fulton’s benefit. “The brute is unaccustomed to anything but a rider.” He returned his attention to the groom. “The horse that copes best with wheels, then,” Niall amended. “Once you have done so bring it out into the yard, then return to hitch up the other.”

  “Very good, sir,” McCauley said a bit scornfully.

  Miss Fulton said nothing until they had exited the stables. “What a rude man. He ought to have shown more respect.”

  “It is good of you to say so, Miss Fulton, but as I have explained, I am without status in this household.”

  “But you are a gentleman,” she said in disbelief.

  He led her to a bench under a sprawling oak and bade her sit. “A gentleman, indeed, but one who must sustain himself through work.”

  “Yes, I comprehend you,” she said as she sat. “However, there is no call to treat you like a servant.” The outrage on her face warmed him to the core.

  “That is what I am. It is the same with all tutors, regardless of the family from whence they come. The eldest inherits all whilst the younger brothers choose a career in the military or the church.”

  “I assume you had no taste for either,” she said, looking up at him with wide eyes.

  “Not exactly.” He was suddenly so very tired. “May I sit?”

  “Yes, but only if you swear to tell me all,” she said as she made room for him beside her on the bench. “I should dearly love to know how many brothers you have and whether or not you have sisters.”

  Drawing a deep breath, he focused on the distant curl of smoke from the gatehouse chimney. “I am the eldest of three, no brothers.”

  “The eldest?” she asked in disbelief. “Then how is it that you are here?”

  He turned to look at her and smiled. The sight of her never failed to lighten his melancholy. “Through the good offices of a generous man who refused to allow tragedy to limit my potential.”

  “He seems the sort of man I should like to know.” Her voice was soft, but her eyes skeptical. “If he were so generous, surely you would be better placed than this.”

  “He was my professor at university, not a man of unlimited means. I was at Cambridge when my father’s money ran out. Professor Luce ensured I had what I needed in order to complete my schooling. He also provided valuable recommendations for a number of positions I have filled since then.”

  “I see.” She leaned forward and placed her hand on the seat of the bench alongside his. “But I believe there is more to your story, is there not?”

  “There is.” He stared down at their hands, side by side. If he were to merely wiggle his little finger, he could not fail to come in contact with hers. “My father lost everything with a single turn of a card: the money, the house, the carriages, and cattle... even the furniture. Then he died.”

  Miss Fulton gasped. “Not... ?”

  “Self-murder? No, it was an apoplexy brought on by his losses and my mother’s grief. After the funeral, she and the lasses went north to live with my aunt, and I returned to university.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments, the silence companionable. He looked down again at her lily-white hand. “How foolish of me! I have kept you in the sun without your gloves.”

  She gasped. “I had not intended to wander from the house before returning to my chamber. I certainly had not planned on taking the reins.”

  “Shall I go back to the house and arrange for someone to fetch a pair for you?” he offered.

  “You are kind, but I think it best if I were to retrieve my gloves myself. I shall first collect Miss O’Sullivan. Shall we meet you here when we return?”

  “Not here,” he said, rising to his feet. “I suspect that by then the cars shall be out on the drive. However,” he said as he assisted her to stand, “I shall hold back the one with the red wheels for you.”

  She gave him a dimpled smile and, lifting her skirts, made haste for the paddock where Miss O’Sullivan yet entertained the lads.

  He turned to watch her go and was about to call Charles and Christopher to his side when something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He turned towards the opposite end of the stables, to find that a woman had emerged and was quickly walking in his direction. What an unaccompanied, richly-dressed woman was doing in the stables he could not guess; then he noted her black hair and dusky complexion. Quickly, he turned to ascertain that the lads were in company with the ladies. To his relief, each looked in the opposite direction of the mysterious matchmaker.

  She was tastefully dressed in a green gown with a fashionably high waist, an exquisite paisley shawl, and a straw bonnet over a lace cap. As she drew near, he could see that, in the full light of day, she looked neither young nor old. He sketched her a bow and quietly, in the case he was overheard, posed the question that had troubled him since he had first met Miss Caroline Fulton. “Have you come to tell me you were wrong?”

  “Wrong?” She tilted her head and regarded him through her astounding almond-shaped eyes. “I am not wrong, Mr. Doherty.”

  “You must be. Her name does not start with an “L”; neither her last nor her Christian name.”

  “Her?” the matchmaker asked with a gentle smile.

  “Miss Caroline Fulton, the young lady whom I most ardently admire.”

  The matchmaker regarded him for a moment before she spoke. “Why are you here, Mr. Doherty? Did I not say that you would meet her on the metal bridge that spans the River Liffey?”

  “Yes,” he admitted, “but I have no purpose in going or means to be conveyed there.”

  The matchmaker clasped her hands in front of her. “Meet her on the River Liffey or do not; it is your choice.”

  “Yes,” he said with a heavy sigh, “you have said as much. You also said that I should prove happy with whomever I choose,” he challenged.

  “And so you shall. Trust yourself, Niall Doherty, son of the long-ago Niall Noígíallach, King of
Connacht. Trust in your perception, in your gift of sight. You will not choose wrong.”

  “I have already chosen,” Niall began in frustration, but the matchmaker had turned away and was walking back the way she had come. “How are you here?” he called to her, the others who might overhear all but forgotten.

  She paused and turned. “I go where I will. I go where I must.” Smiling, she resumed her journey back to from wherever she had come.

  “Tutor!”

  Startled, Niall whirled about to find McCauley pulling the horse and jaunting car in his wake.

  “Here’s yer car. I’ll be back with the other when I’m done.”

  “Very good, McCauley,” Niall said as he took the horse’s lead from the groom. “Bring it to the drive at the front of the house when you have finished.”

  With a lift of his brow and a roll of his eyes, the groom turned on his heel and stalked away.

  The lead in his hand, Niall collapsed on the bench and listened to the thudding of his heart. He had thought never to see Miss Pearl again. He looked towards the far end of the stables, but she was nowhere to be seen. He looked over his shoulder towards the paddock, but she was not there either. Neither was Miss Fulton nor Miss O’Sullivan. The lads, however, were. He called to them, and they were soon at his side, pestering him for a ride in the jaunting car and refusing to be denied. “Very well, then; Master Charles, you take this side, and I shall help you, Master Christopher, to sit on the other.”

  Once the boys were properly settled, Niall made his way to the driver’s seat, picked up the whip, and gave it a flick. The car pitched forward, the gravel grinding under the wheels, and they were off.

  “Let’s go very fast!” Charles cried.

  “We mustn’t be tiring out the horse before the racing,” Niall replied.

  “Why are the stables so far from the house?” Christopher grumbled. “I am that hungry and I want candy.”

  “The horses are kept far away so that we needn’t endure flies in our food and unpleasant smells filling the house.”

  “I should like to have flies in my food,” Christopher insisted.

  “Yes, I suppose you would,” Niall replied. “Your mama, however, would not. Ah, here we are.” Niall tugged on the reins, and the horse came to a gentle stop outside the kitchen door. “Find Mrs. Walsh and request from her the candy. Once she has given it to you, return directly here. I am expected out front.”

  “Yes sir!” the lads called as they jumped down and disappeared through the doorway.

  Niall’s thoughts immediately returned to the words of the matchmaker. None of what she had said made sense in the least. She said he was to trust himself; that he would be happy with whomever he chose. His heart had chosen for him, but Miss Fulton was not free to choose him. Her disinclination to go against her father’s wishes was only one obstruction in his path. On what would they live if her father did not approve her choice?

  His thoughts were disrupted when the lads reappeared, their hands full of sugared almonds. As they drove on and neared the house, Niall caught sight of the baron’s guests as they milled about on the gravel drive. He looked for Miss Fulton and, once he had found her, wondered how he could have missed her. She looked eminently appealing in a jaunty military-style hat and a matching pelisse in deep green. Her hands were protected from the sun by York tan gloves that echoed the jonquil of her gown, and she carried a smart, silver-mounted whip.

  As he pulled on the reins, their gazes met and she gave him a brilliant smile. He wanted nothing more than to dash to her side and present his Maeve, warrior queen, with her noble chariot. He, however, was no Aillil; not king or even captain. To behave too familiarly should only prove to bring censure on her head. It was with a stinging disappointment that he lowered his eyes and decorously descended the jaunting car.

  Once he had lifted the lads to the ground, he cleared the seats and foot board of their crumbs and whatever had made its way from their pockets and the bottoms of their shoes. Then he waited, his eyes fixed on an imaginary object above the heads of the guests. When Miss Fulton stepped up to him, he bowed and offered her the reins.

  “Thank you, Mr. Doherty,” she said playfully, as if laughing at him for his servility.

  They were joined by Lady Bissell. “Miss Fulton, you shall be among the first to race. Mr. Doherty, where is the other car?”

  “I gave instructions for it to be brought round,” he replied, turning towards the direction of the stables. “I should have thought it arrived by now.”

  “Very well,” Lady Bissell said. “Who shall drive it when it comes?” She looked around at each face. None seemed willing.

  “Shouldn’t Lord Bissell drive the other?” Lady Anne asked, with a coy glance for their host.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” Lord Bissell replied. “When the ladies have had their turn, the men shall race against one another.”

  Lady Anne turned to him with alacrity. “That shall be most stimulating. We shall then have one male winner and one female. Would it not be diverting for the two of them to race one another?”

  Niall waited for the baron’s reply with interest.

  “I shall consider it if it pleases you, Lady Anne.”

  “I have no doubt that you shall be the victor,” she replied with a flutter of her lashes, “but which female shall drive against you?”

  Niall felt a flicker of apprehension. There was something about Lady Anne’s manner that did not sit easy.

  “I don’t pretend to know who shall win,” a man, most certainly the newly-arrived Mr. Wilkinson, remarked. “However, I should give any amount of money for the opportunity to drive a jaunting car. I have heard tales,” he said with a shake of his head. “They are not for the inexperienced.”

  “And I suppose you are not among such?” Lady Anne said with an arch smile.

  “I am,” he said with a brief bow. “However, it is my intention to alter my status.”

  “I shall like to see you going about it, Mr. Wilkinson,” Lady Anne remarked.

  “Lady Anne,” the baron said, his manner sullen. “I would be honored to race against you.”

  “I?” she said with a hand to her throat. “I should only make a muddle of the entire affair. I ride capably; I have even been known to tool a phaeton upon occasion, but this is something entirely different.”

  “If you would prefer, Lady Anne,” Miss Fulton ventured, “I would be happy to instruct you.”

  “It will not be necessary,” Lady Anne riposted. “I am persuaded it is a course a true lady should not pursue.”

  Lady Anne’s remark was so cutting that Caroline knew not where to look. She stole a glance at Mr. Doherty from the corner of her eye. Though he gave no sign of it, she knew he was angry; the very air around him seemed alive with indignation.

  Lord Bissell was the first to breach the silence. “Here is the other car now,” he said with hearty enthusiasm, striding forth to meet it.

  “Miss O’Sullivan,” Caroline said loud enough for all to hear. “I challenge you to a race. What say you?”

  “Nothing could prevent me,” Fiona replied, her eyes flashing like a pair of emeralds in the sun.

  “Very well, then. Mr. Doherty, will you assist me?” Caroline asked.

  He sketched a bow and took her hand to support her as she stepped up to the driver’s seat. Once she had settled herself, she looked down to find him gazing up at her with a gleam of approval in his eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Doherty,” she said. “As you can see, I am quite secure.”

  Rather than move away, he stepped up onto the car and leaned over her to test the reins. He smelled deliciously of soap and corduroy warmed by the sun. “Pardon me,” he said. Then, in a voice meant for her ears alone, added: “I had feared she meant you some harm. However, I had not thought she would risk such a conspicuous attack.”

  “Thank you,” Caroline whispered in return, her lips close to his ear, “but you needn’t fear that my sensibilities have been injured. ’Tis a
pity, though; I should have enjoyed a race against her.”

  She was delighted when her remark earned her a sunny smile, one he took care to hide from the others. She owned that his was an expressive face, but when he smiled it was if the sun had broken through a sky of gray.

  “I wish you good luck,” he said as he returned the reins to her keeping.

  By the time he found his footing on the ground, Lord Bissell had drawn the other car forward so that it stood aligned with Caroline’s. He then assisted Fiona as Mr. Doherty had Caroline, who could not resist a glance in the direction of Lady Anne. She leaned heavily on the arm of Mr. Wilkinson, consternation evident on his face as well as in the manner in which he waved his handkerchief to and fro in her aid.

  Caroline thought Lady Anne rather brilliant; a fainting spell was an excellent means by which to deflect censure. Caroline turned to share a smile with Fiona, whose attempts to refrain from dissolving into laughter appeared futile.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Lord Bissell called with a wave of his arm. “I bring to your attention the Irish jaunting car. As you see, it is open like the English pony-drawn trap, but the passengers sit facing the road rather than the driver. Furthermore, it is not pulled by a pony, but by a spirited horse. The wheels are similar to that of the Phaeton. The tooling of it requires a specific hand on the reins; not too rough, not too gentle. I suspect this pair of Irish ladies shan’t have the least trouble,” he said with a bow in their direction. “The first one through the gate at the end of the drive is the winner!”

  Caroline stole another glance at Lady Anne, who now stood without aid, her expression crestfallen. Mr. Wilkinson, who had moved away from her, seemed to be anticipating the race with glee. He also had his eyes fixed on Fiona with an admiration that tore at Caroline’s heart. As she looked away, she exchanged a last glance with Mr. Doherty, who still stood with his hand on the horse’s flank.

  Then Lord Bissell was waving his arms and shouting. Fiona’s car lurched forward, prompting Mr. Doherty to dash out of the way of Caroline’s start. Already behind, she gave a flick of her whip, and they were off.