O'er The River Liffey (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 7

  “Aoife ensured that the girl had the nettles and all else that was needed in order to make the skins for her brothers, for she had no belief that the girl should complete her task. She did not know that the brothers came to their sister’s window each night to beat wildly on the glass with their wings. She wished nothing more than to give them hope, to tell them how she worked so hard to aid them, but she dared not speak. Each day as she worked, and often, into the night, her tears softened the yarn of nettle, making it more pliable to her touch.

  “Finally, after seven years minus a day, it was with a heavy heart that Lir arranged for the execution of his daughter. The morning dawned cold and bright, and the people were gathered round to watch. The girl was brought forth, her knitting in her arms as she continued to work frantically on the last of the skins. Just as she was about to be tied to the pillar that would hold her fast against the flames, three swans came into view, sailed over the heads of the onlookers, and flew directly at the king’s daughter.

  “With a desperate lunge, she threw the skins into the air. Her brothers, the swans, dived under them so that they settled upon their backs. In an instant they became her brothers, and without a moment to lose, the girl spoke the words that would condemn her stepmother.”

  To Caroline’s astonishment, he stopped short of the end. “Are we not to know what happened to Aoife, Mr. Doherty?”

  “I believe some of the ladies should have reason to object,” he replied, his eyes dancing.

  “Certainly you do not think me too faint of heart to learn the truth, Mr. Doherty,” Lady Bissell asserted.

  “Nay, ’tis the English ladies who have been raised on gentler tales for whom I tremble.”

  “’Tis a mercy, it is, that Mr. Doherty, at least, has not found me wanting,” Fiona said gaily.

  Caroline laughed and turned to the tutor. “I shall tell them if you do not.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Aoife was taken and burned at the stake in the daughter’s stead. But the saddest of all was the fate of the youngest brother. His sister, who had worked faithfully for seven years, had not the time to finish the last skin. As such, he spent the remainder of his days with a swan’s wing rather than an arm.”

  “What a delightful story!” Lady Chorley breathed. “I am certain I have never heard any of its kind.”

  “And I have never heard it told so well,” Caroline said, smiling her approval. “But, that cannot be all. Do tell us another, Mr. Doherty!”

  To her unending delight, he did.

  Niall dreamed of long-necked swans with feathers as white as snow. In the morning, he woke with a story on the tip of his tongue. It was the tale of the most beautiful swan-maiden of all, and was blessed with a joyous conclusion. Perhaps that was why the very thought of it made him wretched. There was little hope of a happy ending for Niall Doherty.

  The closest thing to happiness for him was Miss Fulton and, with every beat of his heart, he wished to give her the tale. It would not do, however, to tell it in the evening by the fire, with all the household listening. For some reason he could not explain, it felt too intimate. To share it with the others would be akin to casting pearls before swine. He decided that he must tell her at his first opportunity, in the case there was not another. As he ushered the lads through the door for their walk, he hoped he would be fortunate enough to encounter her whilst they were out.

  So lost was he in reflections of Miss Fulton in her swan-like gown that he very nearly missed her. She and Miss O’Sullivan were on the far side of the park, an easel set up between them. They were paying the easel little heed, however, their attentions seemingly consumed with an alley of towering ash trees. Poised, as they were, against the backdrop of green, the ladies made a very pretty picture in their sprigged muslins, bright, wide sashes, and colorful bonnets.

  The lads did not ask permission before they darted across the grassy park to speak with the young ladies. As such, Niall had a perfectly acceptable excuse to do the same.

  “Miss Fiona! Miss Caro!” the lads called as they ran to join them.

  “Why, Masters Charles and Christopher!” Miss Fulton cried in delight as she spun about. The manner in which her gaze rose over the tops of the lads’ heads to meet Niall’s made his heart thud in his chest. “Miss O’Sullivan, it is Mr. Doherty,” she announced.

  “Indeed, it is,” Miss O’Sullivan said quietly.

  Niall thought her lovely, but Miss Fulton eclipsed her in every way. From the jaunty angle of her pretty hat to the graceful turn of her foot, she was the picture of feminine perfection. “We are just out for our walk,” he explained. “I am pleased that my charges have this opportunity to study your work, Miss Fulton. Your execution is brilliant, and I admire that you have chosen to paint such an ordinary scene. One grows weary of ruins amongst the wilds.”

  “I am pleased that you should think so,” she replied, her eyes twinkling, “as there is a paucity of ruins to paint at Oak View.”

  He knew that, behind her blithe smile, she was laughing at him. To his surprise, it injured him not in the least. In fact, he found he rather liked it. “I confess I am curious as to why there is not a single ash tree on this canvas, there being such noble examples so close to hand.”

  Miss Fulton’s gaze followed the lads as they ran back and forth between the trees. “I should like very much to paint them. However, that is not why we are inspecting them so closely today.” She pointed to a window at the third level of the house. “My room is just there, from whence I have heard strange sounds. They seem to be coming from these trees, but Miss O’Sullivan and I have found nothing unwarranted.”

  Niall paid little heed to her words. His thoughts were nearly all consumed with the knowledge that she slept each night in a bed directly below his. He nodded, and frowned in concern whilst he formulated his reply, but could think of nothing but a recumbent Miss Fulton, her golden tresses spread along her pillow, her lashes pressed against the sweet curve of her cheek. He forced himself to open his mouth. “Aaaah... Of what nature were these noises?”

  “I can see that you believe it all the work of my imagination, Mr. Doherty. However, I am persuaded it is not so. I have been woken from a deep sleep by loud reverberations of the sort that can’t be made by the wind blowing through branches.”

  “Should it make you feel more at ease if I were to take a look?” His path to the alley of trees would, of necessity, bring him close enough to Miss Fulton to brush his hand against hers as he passed. He waited not for her acquiescence, and surged ahead. When the moment arrived for him to reach out to her as he longed, however, he could not bring himself to do so. The brief contact would easily have been dismissed as a matter of chance, but he admired her too much to compromise her in any way.

  Leaving temptation behind, he quickened his pace and, once under the trees, made a show of looking about in every direction. He gave a trunk or two a sharp rap with his oak-carved shillelagh as he gazed up into the leafy canopies, but found nothing amiss. “All appears as it should. You indicated that you were awakened by the sounds. Do they happen during the night, then?”

  “No, not then.” Miss Fulton appeared to feel a bit uneasy. “It was near to dusk. I had lain down to rest yesterday afternoon. And then I heard it again this morning before going down for breakfast.”

  “I see.” He gazed intently at the line of trees as he worked on a possible means of keeping Miss Fulton longer by his side. He had a story to tell. He noted that the lads were remarkably content, larking about nearby, and Miss O’Sullivan was not in the least discouraging of his attentions. And still, he could think of no feasible way to suggest they take themselves off so he could tell Miss Fulton the story. Turning to the painting, he studied it at length. “So, you are wishful of painting the ash trees onto your canvas?”

  “Yes, but not this one. This is a different landscape altogether,” she corrected. Despite his error, her pleasure at his interest was evident. “If you look just here,” she said, pointing to a
spot along a grassy knoll, “you can see where the brook shall go. We have been to the shrine this morning already. We have only stopped here on our way back to the house on account of the noises I have been hearing.”

  “But of course,” Niall said as he inwardly winced; the painting was clearly of the area around the brook. “Pray, forgive me if I seem indifferent. It is only that a story has been turning itself about in my head all the day long, and it insists on having its say.”

  Miss Fulton smiled with delight. “We should enjoy it very much, shouldn’t we, Miss O’Sullivan?” she ventured.

  Miss O’Sullivan’s only response was a slight smile.

  “Well, I shall not rest until I have heard it,” Miss Fulton insisted. “Only first, I believe we must do something about the lads.”

  “I should think not,” Niall said, his heart pounding with hope and apprehension. “’Tis not a story too wild for the ears of children.”

  “Of course,” Miss Fulton replied, “but I believe it must wait until Master Charles is safe. Do you not see how poor Master Christopher has torn his breeches in his attempts to climb up and rescue his brother?”

  Niall did not spare a moment to respond. Rather, he tightened his grip on his shillelagh and sprinted for the tree from which Charles dangled like a monkey at the zoo. He was safe at the moment, but should he let go with either his ankles or his hands, the sudden shift in weight would pull him to the ground fifteen feet below. That was assuming that the narrow branch should prove sufficient to hold the boy’s weight for any length of time.

  Hefting himself up into the crotch of the tree, Niall measured the distance between the lad and the end of his oaken cudgel. “It’s quite all right, Master Charles,” Niall calmly said as he picked his way up to a higher branch. “We shall have you down in no time.” When he decided that he was close enough, Niall braced his feet along the branch, clung to the other with his left hand, and held out the shillelagh with his right.

  “Now, Charles, very carefully let go of the branch with your hand and catch hold of my cudgel.”

  Bravely, the boy did as he was told.

  “Very good, laddie. Now, as I pull the stick towards me, you must let go of the branch. When you are close enough, I shall catch you.” Charles managed a slight nod, such that Niall realized the poor lad was perfectly aware of his danger. Niall took a deep breath and slowly drew the shillelagh through his hands, ignoring the cries of distress from below. They were especially loud at the very instant when Charles was forced to let go of the branch. For a moment, he hung from his ankles around the branch on one end, and from the cudgel he grasped with both hands on the other. Then he was in Niall’s arms.

  He felt the boy shudder as together they sank into the crotch of the tree. “’Tis all right now, you are safe,” Niall said as he patted Charles on the back. He managed to press his face into Niall’s cravat before the tears began to fall. “You needn’t fear; he is unharmed,” he called down to the cluster of white faces below. When the cries of relief rose into the air, Charles lifted his head and wiped his tears.

  “What do you say? Should we get away from here?” Niall gently asked. “If you’ll just put your arms around my neck, you shall have a ride as I climb down. Will that be all right?”

  Charles nodded, his lips swollen and his eyes wet.

  “How can we help, Mr. Doherty?” Miss Fulton asked.

  “Perhaps Master Christopher will stand at the bottom and advise me as to where to place my feet as I descend. I shan’t be able to see well enough around this big, brave fellow,” Niall said with a smile for Charles.

  He laughed with delight at having been so described as his brother eagerly took up his place at the base of the tree.

  “Very good! Now, down we shall go. Hold on tight, Charles, but not so that I can’t draw breath.”

  Charles giggled his relief. “You only wish to spare damage to your cravat, Mr. Doherty!”

  “I assure you, Master Charles, I have not given my cravat a thought. Now, here we go!”

  Christopher very capably guided Niall down the tree whilst the ladies stood and clapped each time he found solid footing. When they reached the ground, Miss O’Sullivan took the boy into her arms, and Miss Fulton handed Niall the oak cudgel that he had tossed aside once he had a firm hold on Charles.

  “Here, now,” she said as she put her pretty, white hands to his neck cloth and smoothed it out. “There, that is better. You must excel at tying your own; prior to this moment, I have never seen you anything but perfectly elegant,” she said brightly.

  “I applaud your good taste,” he said as if he were a man who never endured a woefully tied cravat. He felt himself a fraud; for that and for his conviction that he and Miss Fulton belonged together. He knew very well they did not; he was not an acceptable suitor, nor had he met her on the bridge o’er the River Liffey. “Miss O’Sullivan seems to have the lads in hand, but I had best get them back to the house. What his mother would say were she to see Master Christopher’s breeches, I shudder to contemplate.”

  “Well,” Miss Fulton said with a mischievous smile, “yours are somewhat worse for wear, as well.”

  He looked down at his knees and saw that it was so. “I suppose we had all best enter through the kitchen and throw ourselves on the mercy of Mrs. Walsh. She is the cook here and knows as well as I how imperative it is that we keep this day’s work from reaching Lady Bissell’s ears.” He called to the boys, who had run off, and turned back to find Miss Fulton smiling at him.

  “I am feeling faint,” she said, though he very much doubted she spoke the truth. “Will you take my arm as far as the house? I shall request that Carter arrange for the collection of the easel, and Miss O’Sullivan shall easily manage the lads.”

  Now that Niall was faced with the possibility of touching Miss Fulton, of having her close at his side, he knew it to be unwise. Nevertheless, he held out his arm. She was so beautiful, her hair falling in golden tendrils all about her porcelain-smooth face, that he could not deny her.

  She put her hand through his arm and, as they walked towards the house, leaned on him enough to persuade him of her genuine distress. “Thank you, Mr. Doherty. I doubted not that you would reach him in time, but my heart was nearly in my mouth, so frightened was I when you carried him down on your back.”

  “He was quite safe by then, I assure you.”

  She paused before replying. “I have climbed any number of trees when a girl and I can imagine the difficulties of descending blind. It was for you both that I trembled.”

  Niall dared not believe the message implied by her words; that she cared for him, even if only a little. “You are very kind, Miss Fulton. I was remiss in my duty towards the lads. I ought to have been paying them better heed. If I had, you would have nothing for which to be afraid. Please forgive me.”

  “Never say so! You were only doing as I wished. But let us speak of pleasanter things. Was it you I heard singing with one of the lads last evening before dinner?”

  “You heard us?” Niall asked in some surprise.

  She smiled and nodded. “From the bottom of the stairs.”

  “Ah, I see. Master Christopher has a natural talent for it. Perhaps I had best confine his lessons to the hours of the day when the guests are downstairs or out of the house.”

  “He is not the only one in the household who can sing, Mr. Doherty.” She turned to look up into his face, her own shining.

  “I remember now; Miss O’Sullivan claims you sing like a lark.”

  “I’m afraid that Fiona exaggerates from time to time. However, it was to you I referred. You have a marvelous voice, and I would very much like to sing with you.”

  “I should be delighted, but I don’t know that it is possible,” Niall said doubtfully in spite of the way his heart lifted at her words. “You seem to forget that I am not a guest here. I don’t know if I will be invited to join the ladies in the drawing room again. What’s more, I daren’t leave those mischief-maker
s,” he said with a tilt of his head in the direction of the lads, “to their own devices whilst I spend time in the music room.”

  “Yes, I see,” Miss Fulton mused. “I realize that you know that I am here to prove myself worthy to be mistress of Oak View.”

  Niall felt as if she had taken his heart between her fine, white hands and squeezed it. “I have,” he said shortly. “There are worse fates.”

  “I only speak of it,” she said brightly, “because it has created in Lady Bissell a desire to please me. I am persuaded that were I to suggest that you and I sing for her guests, she would be most happy to comply.”

  “Yes, I believe you are correct about that.” If given the chance, he would certainly choose to please Miss Fulton by any means in his power.

  “Then, it is settled! I shall make the request when next I see her.”

  “I wish you success in the endeavor,” he said with sincerity. When she did not immediately reply, he fell to calculating the minutes he had remaining before he was again banished to a world of small boys and their lessons. When she finally spoke, it was of matters he had not the heart to discuss.

  “Mr. Doherty, let us have an understanding. We both know my father will wed me to a title. It is not what I wish,” she said, looking up at him, her eyes soft but forthright.

  He looked away; the tinge of sadness in her eyes was too much for him to bear. “And what is it we are meant to understand, you and I?” You and I. Three impossible words but they tasted sweet.

  “Only that there need be no pretense between us. Should Lord Bissell make an offer of marriage, I shall live at Oak View. You, as the lads’ tutor, shall also live here. Why should we not enjoy one another’s company as devoted friends?”

  Niall looked down into her face, one bright with happiness and glowing with trust, and knew a fresh agony. To live at Oak View with Miss Fulton as another man’s wife; to be required to be in her company, all the while his heart longing for her to be his, was a turn of events not to be contemplated. “Friends?” he echoed. “The two of us?” he asked as he continued to turn the notion over in his mind. To live in the same house, to see her face each day, to breathe the same air as she whom he adored... it was too much to endure.