O'er The River Liffey (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 5

  “Masters Christopher and Charles,” Niall chastised as he made his towards the homely scene, “these ladies are guests of your brother’s. You are not to trouble them.” He refrained from mentioning the trouble that would come his way if their mother were to learn of what they had witnessed. He could not help but look at their feet and was relieved to note that the ladies had already donned their stockings and shoes.

  “They are no trouble, are they, Fiona?” Miss Fulton queried of her friend. “Perhaps they might stay and share our feast with us,” she said, indicating the basket.

  Niall knew he should decline, but could not resist what might prove to be his only opportunity to learn more about the fascinating Miss Fulton. “Doubtless the lads should enjoy it every whit. Perhaps we should move up the bank,” he suggested as he grasped the basket by the handle and headed for a more even piece of ground.

  The ladies followed nearly as quickly as the lads and soon they were seated on a swathe of emerald green grass that had been warmed by the sun. Miss O’Sullivan laid out the comestibles whilst Miss Fulton set aside a parcel Niall had failed to notice previously. It consisted of a paint box, a sketchbook and a folding easel; all tied up with string.

  “Do you paint, Miss Fulton?”

  She flashed him a brilliant smile. “A little. Miss O’Sullivan and I have chosen this spot for the purpose.” She sighed as her eyes swept the horizon. “Even a wretched painter such as I could not fail to get a beautiful canvas out of this.”

  Miss O’Sullivan rolled her eyes. “It is a façade, Mr. Doherty. She regularly creates beauty from the most loathsome of scenes with those brushes of hers. The one she has begun today is no exception.”

  “A beautiful painter, an accomplished student, and ever so demure about the lot of it,” Niall said in approval.

  “Accomplished student!” It was Miss Fulton’s turn to roll her eyes. “Someone has been telling tales, to be sure. If I have my own way, she shall rue it before the sun sets,” she said with a fond smile for Miss O’Sullivan.

  “’Tis no wonder,” Niall said as he reached for a particularly plump scone, “that you have chosen this spot. There is a small spring down where the stream becomes a brook. It has long been a place to offer prayers to Brigid, goddess of much, including the handiwork of women.”

  “Do you not mean St. Brigid?” Miss Fulton asked in some surprise.

  “Yes. There are some who come to pray to the patron saint, especially for the sake of their lads and lasses. But, before that, it was Brigid of the Tuatha De Danann to whom they prayed.”

  “Do you mean to say that St. Brigid and another, older Brigid are the same lady?” Miss O’Sullivan asked.

  Niall shrugged. “Who’s to say? It was all so long ago.”

  “Well, I refuse to believe it other than a matter of design,” Miss Fulton said with contagious enthusiasm. “What could possibly prove to be a better place to offer prayers to St. Brigid than at another Brigid’s shrine? But, pray tell, Mr. Doherty, how is it that you know such things?”

  Niall paused to check that the boys were still in sight before he replied. “My grandfather was a man of many parts,” he began as he linked his hands behind his head and leaned back against a grassy bank. “He was very nearly a bard, was he, so many stories did he know to tell. And tell them he did! Many a night found the Doherty family kneeling at his feet in want of a tale or two. So interested was I in his tales of old Ireland that I read a great deal about such things whilst a student at Cambridge.”

  “Cambridge!” Miss Fulton exclaimed. “What fortunate children to have such an educated tutor. Surely you were meant for better things.”

  Niall sat up and rested his arms along his knees as the heat of humiliation crept along his neck. “It’s not a story for the telling,” he said with a glance towards the children. “However, the story of the spring is a lovely one, if you do not fear it should be a bother to you.”

  “I am persuaded there is nothing you could say that would prove tedious,” Miss Fulton said with an ardent air that made the blood sing in his veins.

  “Very well,” he said with a nod. “The ancients made a habit of making offerings at such shrines: bits of jewelry, helmets, even ornamental shields have been found at these shrines.”

  Miss Fulton smiled her interest. “Have such things been found here?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Niall replied, “despite the many treasure hunts the lads and I have mounted.”

  “Let us go hunting now,” Miss Fulton suggested. “I should like it above all things!”

  “If you do, you needs must count me out,” Miss O’Sullivan insisted. “I have had enough sun for one day. What’s more, I do not care for such relics.”

  Niall noted that Miss Fulton looked uncommonly downcast at her friend’s pronouncement. “Perhaps we might meet at this time tomorrow?” Niall suggested. “Shall you have more liking for such a venture then?”

  “Not for a moment,” Miss O’Sullivan said with a smile of apology. “Caro, shall I carry the basket and your sketchbook and colors to the house whilst you and the lads attend to your hunt?”

  Miss Fulton’s face lit with joy. “Would you?” she cried. “I promise I shall not be long.”

  “Pray do not hurry on my account. I do believe I am in want of some rest. I daresay no one shall miss you, Caro, before we assemble for dinner. Shall you be joining us again, Mr. Doherty?”

  Niall had not given the matter a thought. “I am persuaded Lady Bissell has had time enough to invite another gentleman for dinner. However, I suppose I shall be there if she has not.”

  “We should be most sorry if she has done,” Miss Fulton insisted as Miss O’Sullivan rose to her feet, the parcel of painting supplies in her hands. “Thank you,” Miss Fulton said quietly. “I daresay I shall see you before the ringing of the final dinner gong,” she said in a mysterious fashion.

  “Yes,” Miss O’Sullivan replied. “Do come and wake me so that I am not yet asleep when, uh, my girl scratches at the door to help me dress.” Her manner was equally obscure.

  Niall waited until Miss O’Sullivan had walked too far off to overhear his words before speaking. “She seems a good friend to you.”

  Miss Fulton seemed to agree. “She is more like a sister. We met at school, but her family soon after moved to my village, and we became fast friends. I shall be quite bereft should marriage carry either of us away from the county.”

  “Do you not have a sister of your own?” Niall asked as he gathered the lads to his side and led the way to the spring.

  “It is only Papa and me,” she said cheerfully as she walked by his side. “My mother and brothers were carried off by sickness when I was but a babe. It is true that I have never known anything else, and, naturally, Papa is good to me, but Miss O’Sullivan has been such a boon.”

  “Yes, I see.” Truthfully, he could not claim to see anything but the way the dark red cherries dangling from the brim of her hat danced against the sky-blue of her eyes. To his utmost surprise, he would have rather offered to be her bosom friend, life-long companion, and sole protector. He was besotted, to be sure, but he managed to collect himself. “How did you come to know the baron?”

  “I know him not at all. How he came to befriend my father, I cannot say, though I suppose it has something to do with mutton. Papa has made his fortune in sheep, and it is said that the baron intends to set himself up with lambs of his own.”

  Niall broadened his step to look past the poke of her bonnet, and into her face. “And it is yourself who shall be mistress of it all?” Niall knew it to be a question too bold. He awaited her response with a mixture of unaccountable hope and dread.

  “Perhaps.” Her smile did not reach her eyes. “He has not asked for my hand, if that is what you wish to know. And if he were to offer, I am not sure that I would accept. However...” she sighed, “Papa has his mind made up that I should wed a title.”

  Niall grunted in sympathy. “This is no world for
the unfortunate. Your father is only looking after you.” He said the words without a qualm, but they left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  She gave him an arch look. “I needn’t marry a rich man, if that is what you mean. I am sole heir to my father’s estate. His money is disgracefully new, and the house is not entailed. Had I fallen in love with a poor man, I should have been most content.”

  “But what of him?”

  “Papa? He should learn to accept it,” she said, naively optimistic.

  “No, I refer to your would-be husband. Should he be happy living in a grand house, with no means of his own, and all of his needs dependent on the wealth of his wife? Any man who could live thus is beneath you. Surely, you deserve better.”

  “You are too kind, Mr. Doherty,” she said, with a coy smile that set his heart to racing. “But I fear I have said far too much. Now, where is this spring?

  Niall looked up and saw that, in his distraction, he had missed it. “Come,” he called to the lads who had raced ahead. “We have overshot it.” Determined not to look a fool, he stalked back through the low-hanging branches that fringed the brook in search of the shrine. “’Tis here!” he called and turned to find that Miss Fulton had followed along behind and already stood at his side.

  “What a cunning little thing it is!” she cried as she moved to kneel near the shrine, in utter disregard of her charming sprigged muslin gown. “It seems that someone has carved this little well out of stone.”

  “And what a task it must have been,” Niall said with appreciation. “To be sure, it was carved before the invention of tools such as we have now.”

  She looked up at him with such trust and confidence that his heart turned over in his chest. “Where shall we look first? In the water? Or perhaps in the dirt up behind the well?”

  “First, give me your hand,” he said, holding out his own for her to grasp. “You mustn’t return to the house covered in dirt. The lads are up to the digging,” he said as he indicated a pair of small shovels leaning against the bank.

  She did as she was told and he marveled at how small and soft her hand felt in his. As he led her away from the flying mud, the lads fell to work with relish.

  “It shall be a shame if, after all, they find nothing,” Niall fretted. The thought of a fruitless search had never distressed him as it did now.

  “Then we shall merely have to try again,” Miss Fulton said sweetly.

  To his utter surprise, a lump rose into Niall’s throat. It had been long since he had been treated with kind acceptance by anyone other than his Cambridge professor. The elder Mr. Doherty’s death on the heels of his spectacular losses at the gaming table had been but one blow to Niall’s standing amongst his peers. The fact that he was the son of a gentleman dissolved into nothingness when the title of the grand townhouse in Dublin was turned over to an Englishman. All of Niall’s hopes and prospects went with it. He had no home, money, nor status. Most treated him like a piece of furniture; like a never-played pianoforte that was left to decay by installments in a room graced by no one.

  He swallowed his melancholy and cleared his throat. “I thank you for your kindness, Miss Fulton, but you are meant to be elsewhere, I am sure.”

  She shrugged. “It is of no consequence. I am determined to enjoy myself whilst I am at Oak View, not fawn over or seek the approval of the lords and ladies in attendance.”

  Niall was again surprised. “Do you not wish the life of a gentlewoman?”

  She looked at him, incredulous. “Am I not a gentlewoman, regardless of whom I marry?” When he did not respond, she shrugged again. “Perhaps you recall that Papa’s money is new. We are the height of society in our little village, but he is most usually considered a mushroom in loftier climes. Such,” she said with a wistful smile, “is the society into which my father would have me wed.”

  “Whatever others might think of your father, surely they cannot hold you to account for his lacks. Who should wish to scorn such a pleasant, talented, educated young lady with a generous dowry?” Niall asked with a sympathetic smile. The answer was none. Miss Fulton was certain to receive an attractive offer of marriage before the fortnight was out. The very thought was akin to a bucket of cold water dashed in his face. Suppressing a sigh, he turned towards the lads. “Have you found anything, you two?”

  “I do believe so!” Charles approached with a small object so covered in mud as to be unidentifiable.

  “Do hand it over.” Niall placed the long object in his hand and rolled it back and forth between his fingers. The grime began to sluff off to reveal a thin stick, or perhaps a bone. “It is most likely the remains of a small animal,” he explained as he studied it. What he saw next made his heart pound in his chest. “Wait a moment! See this small hole at the end?” he asked as he held the piece aloft for Miss Fulton to inspect. “It is most certainly a bone, but it has been carved by a human hand. The hole is the eye of what appears to be the elongated head of a bird. I do believe it is meant to be a swan!”

  “Yes, I see,” Miss Fulton replied, “but, what does it mean? How old do you suppose it is?”

  “The people who commonly created such objects,” Niall explained, “would have cast it into the water as an offering to the goddess. It is a feature of the old religion, dating back to hundreds of years before the birth of Christ. This is truly a remarkable discovery!”

  “We shall be famous!” Christopher cried, the mud squelching beneath his feet as he jumped up and down in excitement.

  “Steady on, Master Christopher. ’Tis not the Elgin Marbles.” Niall turned it over in his hand to inspect it more fully. “It is, however, quite old. Older even than the enormous oak trees hereabouts.”

  “Might I see it?” Miss Fulton asked, her hand outstretched.

  “Yes, of course.” Niall placed the little carving into her palm. “It is yours if you will have it.” As the words flew from his mouth, he marveled at his generosity, but he could hardly retract them now.

  Miss Fulton flashed him a look of pure delight before she examined the carving. “I do so love relics, and ever since I heard the story of King Lir, I have loved the swan best of all the birds of Ireland.”

  “Have you?” Niall could not have been more pleased. “Tonight, if Lady Bissell requests a story, I shall give you ‘The Children of Lir.’”

  “In that case,” Miss Fulton said with an arch look, “I shall be certain to ask Lady Bissell for a story from Mr. Doherty.”

  Niall nodded his approval, as his voice had utterly failed him. Miss Fulton’s kindness was only eclipsed by her appreciation for all that he treasured, a realization that was as bitter as it was sweet. How blessed he would be to possess her heart and hand, but it could not be. He was the precise man he had described to Miss Fulton as being so unworthy of her. All that he could do was to give her a story. He decided that it would be the best telling of ‘The Children of Lir’ that had ever passed his lips.

  Caroline studied the rigid back of Mr. Doherty as they made their way to the house. Something had gone wrong, but she could not say what. He had seemed pleased that she should beseech a story from him. Then, quite suddenly, he had turned on his heel and stalked away. He did not even shorten his stride so that she could walk alongside him. The lads dashed back and forth, but Mr. Doherty paid them little heed and spoke not at all. The thought that she had somehow offended him provoked in her a perplexing sense of doom.

  When they gained the house, he finally slowed his pace and turned. “Lads, run round to the kitchen entrance and divest yourselves of that mud before you are seen.”

  Christopher continued sifting the gravel of the drive whilst Charles gave his tutor a look of pure mutiny. This piece of impertinence was met with astounding indifference from Mr. Doherty, a circumstance that proved to be disconcerting to the lads. Swift obedience soon followed and they disappeared from view.

  “Bravo, Mr. Doherty! I have not seen them so eager to comply all afternoon.” He turned towards her at the words but
failed to meet her gaze. “I do so look forward to my story this evening,” she said, in hopes the subject would prompt a lengthier response than it had prior.

  “I shall be honored.” This economical speech was followed by a brief bow, whereupon he once again turned on his heel and stalked off.

  “Wait! Mr. Doherty!” Caroline started after him. “I neglected to thank you for my treasure.” She followed as quickly as she was able, but he seemed not to hear her and soon they were crossing the front hall in the company of others. He almost immediately disappeared into the depths of the house to attend to the cleaning up of the lads, or so she supposed. There was nothing left for her to do but make her way upstairs.

  To her surprise, her feet dragged, and her fingers trailed listlessly along the banister. It was not like her to feel so languid. When it occurred to her to show the carved swan to Fiona, her step grew lighter. Once at her door, however, Caroline remembered that her friend was most likely still sleeping. She turned away to see several of the ladies in the passageway, but they were too consumed with conversing amongst themselves to take notice of her.

  “He is indeed remarkable. Those eyes!” the older lady said quietly to the other.

  “What you mean to say is that he is attractive,” the younger lady whispered. “I positively agree. And his voice; it is so rich and lyrical it makes the hair on my arms stand on end. But you must know, Mama, he hasn’t a feather to fly with.”

  Clearly they spoke of Mr. Doherty. It was iniquitous that a man such as Mr. Doherty should be spoken of in so dismissive a fashion. And yet, she knew it was his very ineligibility that led her to confide in him. It wasn’t only that he was not in a position to gossip about her with the other house guests; there was something about him that engendered confidence.

  When she reached her chamber, she looked about for a safe place to store her new treasure. The room held such a variety of wooden and ormolu mounted boxes for trinkets, games, gloves, and the like that it proved a time-consuming chore to decide which should have the honor of cradling the carved bone. In the end, she carefully placed it in her reticule. The notion of having it always near her was a pleasant one.