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

  “Yes, of course,” Miss O’Sullivan said. Miss Fulton managed a tight smile before they walked away.

  Niall was relieved she would not be witness to the reprimand that was sure to come. Before he rendered the baron his full attention, however, Niall allowed himself the luxury of watching Miss Fulton disappear through the doorway of the house. He was rewarded for his constancy with a final backwards glance over her shoulder.

  “Drive on, McCauley,” Lord Bissell directed, a command that was promptly obeyed with a grinding of the wheels against the gravel of the drive. The baron paused a moment for the noise to subside before turning to Niall with an imperious lift of his brow. “Mr. Doherty,” he said pleasantly enough. “Your impertinence these past few days has not gone unnoticed. I like to think that I am a fair man, one who treats his servants with the equity befitting their stations. What can I have done to deserve such a breach of my trust?”

  Niall longed to riposte with a question of his own: what had the baron not done? He knew, however, that such a reply would result in immediate dismissal. “My lord, I must beg your pardon if I have been impertinent,” he offered. “However, my only desires have been to protect the ladies during the jaunting car race and my young charges from their youthful folly.”

  “You forget yourself, Mr. Doherty, it is I who allowed them the toys. Therefore it is I whom you have accused of folly, and I who must be, if appropriate, censured. However, not by you, a servant who should know better than to speak when he has not first been spoken to.”

  Niall felt his face flush with the heat of his disgrace. “I am certain I never accused you, my lord, of any folly, whatsoever.”

  “It was hardly required for you to do so. What you have said is sufficient to sink you below reproach. As to the race, how was a reprimand in the hearing of all my house guests to rescue Miss Fulton and Miss O’Sullivan from any danger whatsoever? I employ a gatekeeper for the very purpose of keeping the gate, though I suppose you have an impertinent response to that, as well.”

  Niall carefully considered his reply. He dared not say anything that should indicate his feelings for Miss Fulton. “I do sometimes forget myself,” he conceded with a bob of the head. “However, despite the fact that I am paid a wage, I am hardly in the same class as Mrs. Walsh or the butler.”

  “Your lack of proper deportment speaks to an important truth,” the baron retorted. “When you allow servants privileges that are above them, they forget their place entirely. From this moment on you are not to dine in the dining room, guests or no, nor shall you be seen in the house when not in the company of my brothers at any time whatsoever, not for any reason. I shall inform Lady Bissell of my edict.”

  Niall endured the wash of heat that suffused his entire form. He did not trust himself to speak. He focused, instead, on the pain in his head which was no doubt due to the manner in which he clenched his teeth so as to stifle his tongue.

  “Do you have nothing to say for yourself?” Lord Bissell asked in the benevolent manner adopted by those who have won their arguments.

  “No, my lord,” Niall managed with a sketch of a bow.

  “Very well. Now, enter the house via the kitchen door. Go and collect your students from the ante chamber. At the end of lessons, I shall be up to question the boys as to what they have learned today. Please inform them that they shall then receive their toys and sweets, should I be pleased with their progress. It is about time someone took them in hand and did away with their appalling behavior through the application of proper encouragement.”

  Mortified, Niall forced himself into a deep bow, one that gave him a grand view of the baron’s boots.

  “Well done, Mr. Doherty, well done. And to think that m’father always maintained that the Irish are too simple to learn much of anything at all,” the baron said with a sniff before he took himself off to the house.

  As Lord Bissell marched away, Niall did himself the service of airing one silent argument after the other. In the end, he determined that none were worth the breath he longed to expel on them; it was unrealistic to expect reason from such a man.

  He made his way to the kitchen door, his knees stiff from having been locked tight in indignation. Once he had collected the lads, he led them up the staircase with perfect circumspection. Leaving them to their own devices in the school room, Niall went to his chamber and scrawled a brief note of explanation to Miss Fulton. She must know why he would not be to dinner, why he would not be allowed to sing with her, or to even see her for the duration of the house party.

  He tied the note to the string and lowered it to her window as he had the others. “Goodbye, Miss Fulton,” he said to no one at all.

  Caroline sat at the escritoire in her chamber and tapped the end of her feathered quill against her cheek. The strength of her feelings for Mr. Doherty required that she justify them to her father, and she intended to give him the whole of it in a letter. He was of such an excitable temperament that she dared not speak to him of it whilst in company, and it seemed they were never alone. Finding the right words still proved difficult, however. With a sigh, she lowered the quill to the parchment when she heard the light reverberation of footsteps from the room above.

  Assuming it to be one of the boys in the school room, she returned again to her letter. She had just completed a lengthy list of Mr. Doherty’s desirable qualities when she heard a tapping at the window. Delighted by the prospect of a message from him of whom she wrote, she lost no time in collecting the letter. It was with dismay, however, that she learned its contents.

  Now that Mr. Doherty had been banished from the house party, a letter to her father would serve little purpose. She knew it was time in Mr. Doherty’s presence her father required in order to form a favorable opinion of his own. Realizing that she had counted on the singing of the duet to serve that very purpose, her hopes plummeted. In its place rose the possibility of an offer of marriage from the boorish baron. It was a thought that did not bear contemplation.

  She passed the time until dinner in her room. Whatever it was that the other guests were up to, she hadn’t a care. When Fiona arrived to change, Caroline found that she had little to say, and was grateful to find Fiona full of news.

  “Mr. Wilkinson is the kindest man I have met,” she said, her face aglow. “He is in such considerable pain. His countenance is white with it, and yet, he never complains.”

  “There is much to recommend the man,” Caroline said dully.

  Fiona seemed not to notice Caroline’s lassitude. “He continually expresses himself as grateful for the books I secured for him at the circulating library. But, do you know,” she asked eagerly, “he has read more pages aloud to me than I to him. What do you say to that?”

  “I confess I can only assume him a man smitten.” Caroline was grateful her countenance was not visible, as it was doubtless less pleasing than her words.

  “Smitten? Do you truly believe it?” Fiona asked happily. She gave one last tug to Caroline’s tapes and sighed. “I have finished,” she said as she turned around for her own gown to be tied. “I wish you might sit with us on occasion and then you shall be capable of an informed opinion.”

  “I should like that,” Caroline said in all truthfulness. “It seems I shall have much time on my hands. I do not mix well with the English ladies, as you well know.”

  Fiona held her thick red hair away from the tapes that secured her pale green evening gown. “And,” Fiona prompted, “quite naturally, after tonight, you shall ignore the attentions of Mr. Doherty, an action I have been pleading with you to take from the outset.”

  “Yes,” Caroline said, shortly.

  “Caro,” Fiona said, a question in her voice, “you are very quiet this evening. Pray tell; you do not have feelings for Mr. Doherty, do you? It would grieve me should your heart not be unscathed.”

  Caroline had thought she would keep the truth from Fiona, but found that she yearned to speak of it. “Indeed, my heart has been wounded, and I am unhappy.”


  Fiona turned around and took Caroline by the hand, her expression downcast. “I blame myself. I ought to have been firmer in my convictions in regard to him.”

  “You are not to blame, Fiona, not in the least,” Caroline asserted. “I shall tell you all, and then you shall see who is the villain in this matter.”

  Fiona’s eyes grew large. “Do not say it is your father? Caro! No! Surely you cannot have expected him to countenance such a match.”

  “Of course not. But I had hoped that Papa would come to know Mr. Doherty as I have; to see that he is so much more than a tutor,” Caroline insisted. “When he takes my hand in his, just as you have done, I do not see a servant who is beneath me. I see an educated gentleman, one with vast knowledge and intelligence, one who plainly cherishes the same hope for a family as do I.”

  “Caroline,” Fiona began.

  “No, my dear, do not say it,” Caroline warned. “Hear what I have to say, and then you may tell me what you think. Shall that do?”

  Fiona nodded in agreement and Caroline continued. “I believe you would agree that Mr. Doherty should make an excellent father, especially after that scene today in the village. I have no doubt that he would treat me with respect and honor, as well. However, I am persuaded that the baron should not.”

  “I do believe you are correct. As to the baron, in particular, I should not like to see you wed to such a yahoo. But you need not marry the first man with dark curls and remarkable eyes who woos you so as to escape your father.”

  Caroline tsked. “You rather make it sound as if my care for him is entirely due to his outward appearance.”

  Fiona sighed. “I confess, I prefer Mr. Wilkinson, but your tutor is precisely the sort of man you admire. Having said so, the more time I spend in the company of Mr. Doherty, the more attractive he becomes. He is indeed wonderful with Charles and Christopher. But these are not arguments that should persuade your father to consider him as suitable, nor should they persuade you.”

  Caroline pulled her hand from Fiona’s grasp. “Can you not see? No amount of persuasion is required. I love him. I love him more than I have ever loved anyone; more than I can express. I have known him for less than a se’enight, but I cannot imagine my life without him.”

  “Oh, Caro,” Fiona asserted, “forgive me. I did not know. Truly I did not. I believed you to be merely infatuated.”

  Caroline dropped into the chair at the dressing table. “It was my purpose to allow you to believe it was so,” she said, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She could not say when she had ever looked so drab. “It hardly matters now. The baron took exception to Mr. Doherty’s impertinence in regard to the toys and has refused to allow him to attend the house party, not even so as to make up the numbers for dinner. As such, Papa shall never become acquainted with the gentleman I have come to know.”

  Fiona sank onto the bed, her face a mirror to Caroline’s misery. “Poor Mr. Doherty! I do not know what else to say, unless it is that Lord Bissell is abhorrent!”

  Caroline smiled in spite of her anguish. “I am grateful for your empathy, though I wish it had come about by some manner more pleasant.” She struggled in vain to blink away her tears.

  “My dear,” Fiona said as she rose and went to Caroline’s side. “I believe I know some of what you feel. I am more than infatuated with Mr. Wilkinson myself, and I believe he feels the same. That I should fall in love with such a man is nothing at which to wonder. For him to believe himself attached to me when London is full of far more suitable matches is inconceivable. And yet, love transcends such things, does it not?”

  Caroline took Fiona’s hand in hers. “Yes, it does.”

  Dinner, however, did not transcend superstition. Mrs. Walsh refused to continue her preparations once she learned there would only be thirteen to dine. The pall over the party was greatly exacerbated when the guests learned that one of the kitchen girls had succumbed to a sudden illness early that morning. The remainder of the kitchen staff, aided by Miss Deakin and the parlor maids, did as well as one could expect, but it was a grim meal, to be sure.

  As they entered the drawing room, Caroline leaned close to whisper in Fiona’s ear. “I am indeed sorry for the poor kitchen maid, but I find that I am more relieved than is strictly proper; I shall sleep without the wail of the banshee tonight.”

  “Banshee!” Fiona hissed. “Who has said anything of a banshee?” she asked with a shudder. “Put it all from your mind; I know I shall.” She looked around the room and frowned. “Should you be too bereft if I went to read to Mr. Wilkinson?”

  “Not so that it signifies in the least,” Caroline said with far more equanimity than she felt. “You must go. I believe that I shall retire early, as well.”

  As Fiona took her leave of Lady Bissell, Caroline found a seat on the sofa from where she watched the English ladies settle themselves on the other side of the room. Mrs. Knight, being the last through the door, had only a place next to Caroline from which to choose. To her astonishment, Mrs. Knight preferred to stand.

  “You may have my chair,” Lady Bissell said pleasantly as she rose and seated herself beside Caroline on the sofa. “I should like to spend more time with Miss Fulton. Perhaps,” she suggested, turning to Caroline, “you would sing for us.”

  Caroline wished to demonstrate her gratitude for her hostess’ kindness, but found she could not. To sing without Mr. Doherty was too sad a notion. “I must thank you, Lady Bissell, for your kindness, but I have developed a headache and should like to go to my room.”

  Lady Bissell nodded. “I do understand. It has been a difficult day for all of us.”

  Caroline smiled her gratitude, executed a full curtsey, and left the room without a backward glance for any of the others. Upon opening her chamber door, she went directly to the escritoire in order to pen a blistering note to the baron. She felt it the best letter she had yet written. Indeed, it was a relief to defend Mr. Doherty, as well, but she knew she did not have the courage to have the letter delivered.

  With a sigh of defeat, she tossed her quill to the desktop. It came into her mind to write a note to Mr. Doherty, instead, but she did not know how she could have it delivered with no one’s knowledge. Pushing back her chair, she rose and went to the window. It was not yet fully dark, but there was no sign of the string that he had used to lower his letters. As she opened the window for a fuller inspection, she was startled by the wails that came from the edge of the park. They were much the same as she had heard before, except that the unearthly wails frightened her even more.

  She endured a night every bit as disastrous as the day to which it put an end. Fiona had never arrived to assist Caroline to undress, and she was forced to sleep in her clothes again. Her emotions vacillated between apprehension for her friend and annoyance at her discomfort. The hem of her gown consisted of a double row of ruching that insisted on sliding up and gathering around her waist. Coupled with the ceaseless moaning, she found it impossible to sleep.

  Disposing herself as best she could against the wad of silk, she looked up into the blackness and puzzled over the footsteps she had heard before dinner. Recalling that she had often heard footsteps and pacing in the room above, she wondered how much noise such small boys could make. That either of them would be up to wander about in the school room during the night was nonsensical, as well. Suddenly, she knew: the chamber above hers could belong to none but Mr. Doherty, himself.

  Tears slid down her face as she contemplated the agony of her situation. She wished so much to see him, to speak with him; to be comforted by him. If only she could rise through the air and travel the short distance between her chamber and his. Briefly, she considered opening her window and calling for him, but there would be too many others who should hear her, as well. The possibility of being discovered whilst doing anything so gauche set her cheeks to burning.

  Then a more practical solution occurred to her. Quickly, she sat up in bed and gave three firm knocks to the wall beside her
headboard. She waited with bated breath for any response and was rewarded with the faint sound of squeaking bedsprings. This was immediately followed by a muffled series of decisive knocks, three in all.

  The tears came again; happy ones. He was there. He had known all along that she was there, as well. She slid down under the blankets, her fear all but gone. He had been aware of her; missing her; wishing for her as she was wishing for him. It was more than she had dared hope.

  Come the dawn, she was only too glad to rise. She went immediately to the window in the case Mr. Doherty had left a note. She found nothing, but it was still quite early. She had heard no footsteps as of yet, and she hoped that he was still asleep. She was about to turn away when she saw two small figures as they crossed the lawn; each held something long in one hand. It could only be Charles and Christopher with their new toys. Miss Deakin had most likely been pressed into service in the kitchen or perhaps had overslept and was still in her chamber. Either way, it was left to Caroline to prevent the lads from an encounter with whatever haunted the woods.

  Throwing a shawl over her blue spangled silk, she picked up her evening pumps, and slipped out of her room and down both staircases in complete silence. Once she had gone through the front door, she donned her shoes and crossed the park as speedily as possible.

  Once she arrived at the row of ash trees, she paused to listen. There was a wood of old oaks, their branches spread wide against the sky, just beyond the ash trees. She knew that any sound she made would echo. The realization made her feel foolish; the wailing she had heard had not been the work of any banshee. Fully alive to the presence of danger, she picked her way carefully into the woods as she looked about for the lads. Whoever was in the wood, she did not wish to draw their attention to the presence of Charles and Christopher.

  Unfortunately, they had left no discernable clues as to which way they had gone. As she looked left, then right, she considered which direction two young lads would choose. After some hesitation, she finally went straight back into the darkest part of the woods. After a few paces, the world of sky, water and mountain retreated, and she felt as if she had stepped into a cathedral. Towering canopies of leafy green blocked the sky, obscuring the faint light that shone through the clouds. The ground was soft beneath her feet and dank; the dry leaves of autumn had long ago broken down and been absorbed. All was silent save for the occasional trill of a bird.