Virginia Henley (5 page)

“My brother knows what he must do. But I’m ready to ride with you, anytime,” Sean offered.

Edward FitzGerald felt great pride in the young man before him. His gaze touched his hair, black as the hobs of hell, then fell to his wide shoulders. “Sean, ye’ve inherited the best of the FitzGeralds and the best of the O’Tooles. Ye have a diabolical brain that can think around corners. The
pathways of yer gray matter are like Deviation Road. Ye have it all—the brains, the guts, and the charm—but I cannot let ye ride with me, for Kathleen’s sake. It would break yer mother’s heart.” He drank off the whisky to indicate the subject was closed. “When can we move the stuff to Maynooth?”

“The same night, in the wagons that transport the FitzGeralds to and from the celebration.”

The earl nodded, his face grave. “’Tis a terrible thing to be Irish.”

Sean grinned. “Until you consider the alternatives.”

Sean ran an appreciative hand across a row of leather-bound volumes.

“This library is yours, when I’m gone. Joseph can have the books on law and politics, but I want ye to have the rest.”

“These books are like old friends.”

“Ye’ve read most of them, the histories, the mythologies, the folktales, the ones in Gaelic—you’re the only one I know will treasure them.”

When they opened the library door, half a dozen female FitzGeralds were lingering about the hallway, lying in wait for the quarry. Now Sean was turning nineteen, he might be in the market for a wife, and wasn’t the logical choice a FitzGerald? And if he had no notion to be shackled, but only had dalliance in mind, sure wasn’t the logical choice still a FitzGerald?

Sean’s mother, Kathleen, along with her sisters, was fiercely chaste as befitted a decent, God-fearing Irishwoman, but the younger generation had no such high moral scruples. During the course of the next hour no fewer than seven females tried to lure him upstairs to Maynooth’s parapets and prospect towers.

His humor came to his defense. “There are fifty-five bedchambers
upstairs. Sure and ’Tis more than my life’s worth to set one foot in that direction!”

Though Sean was being circumspect today, his conquests were many and varied. Because his mother forbade congress with the maidservants at Greystones, Sean occasionally poached the daughters of their tenant farmers. But usually he sought his pleasures in Dublin, where his opportunities were limitless. His grandfather maintained a town house in fashionable Merrion Row that Sean was free to use. In the past month he’d put the town house to good use by sampling the charms of a barmaid from the Brazen Head, a shopgirl from a linen draper’s in Grafton Street, one of the actresses from Smock Alley, and the dissatisfied young wife of Sir Richard Heron, an English official at Dublin Castle.

Sean spied his second-aunt Tiara, she of the purple veils, fluttering about within earshot. “Now if it was Princess Tiara here, luring me up to her throne room, I’d be sorely tempted.”

“If you don’t conduct yourself, I’ll pull your ear the length of your arm,” Tiara said regally.

Sean slipped his arms about her and gave her an affectionate kiss. “Don’t forget to save me a dance on Sunday.”

“You may inform Kathleen we shall attend the celebration.”

Sean had no idea if she spoke for all the FitzGeralds or was using the royal
we.
He caught a glimpse of another cousin dressed in a white novitiate’s robe. The oddities were around every corner when you visited Maynooth.

    
A
t the summerhouse on Anglesey, Amber Montague was anticipating the upcoming celebration more than all the rest of the FitzGeralds put together.

She had done everything her husband had demanded of her, sweetly, gracefully, abjectly. Ireland and Joseph were worth the price. Amber felt as if she were floating on a
blissful cloud of joy. Already she was breathless with anticipation. She knew exactly what she would wear and was rapidly going over young Emerald’s wardrobe in her mind’s eye.

How proud she would be to show off her beautiful daughter and her son to the FitzGeralds and the O’Tooles. Amber was dizzy from the thought of going home. Already she could smell the turf smoke, mingled with the scent of sweet green grass. “What time shall we be ready on Sunday, William?” she asked, eagerly searching his face as she pulled her stocking up her long leg.

The soft, dreamy look was banished from her eyes as he said, “You misunderstood me, Amber, my dear. There can be no question of
you
going.”

Her heart lurched, then stopped.

“You don’t seriously think I’d expose my wife to the vulgar celebrations of a bunch of uncouth bogtrotters, do you?”

“But, William, they are my family. My uncle is the Earl of Kildare.”

“Precisely the reason I married you. But an O’Toole celebration will likely degenerate into a drunken debauch. I will not cast my pearl before swine. You are far too tempting a morsel to display before an entire clan of randy Irishmen.”

Amber tasted ashes in her mouth. Begging would only swell him with power, while his answer would remain the same. His refusal was absolute.

“I intend to take Emerald and John, along with my nephew Jack. It will be good for the boy. He clings to your skirts too much. I intend to make a man of him. Any youth who can’t indulge in drink and women and still retain his wits is a weakling!”

Amber almost cried out,
If it’s to be a drunken debauch, why would you take Emerald?
But she stopped herself in time. She would not deprive her beloved daughter of the
chance to visit Ireland and her FitzGerald kin. Amber sighed, heartsore. She could see now it had been another cruel game. She felt stabbed to the heart and dared not cry for fear she would shed tears of blood.

To make her humiliation complete, he held out the crop he always used on her and waited implacably with hooded eyes until she kissed it.

B
y the time the first pink blush of dawn touched the sky on the day of the celebration, Greystones was alive with activity. Birthday gifts had arrived under cover of darkness so that the magic element of surprise would not be lost.

FitzGerald grooms from Maynooth had smuggled two Thoroughbreds into Greystones’s stables after midnight. The earl bred some of the finest racehorses in Kildare and had chosen a magnificent bay for Joseph and a swift black stallion for Sean.

Two of Shamus’s captains, the Murphy brothers, had sailed the new schooners from the shipyards in Birkenhead, near Liverpool. Shamus had warned them not to show a sail before four in the morning, and the Murphys were esconced in Mary Malone’s kitchen when Joseph and Sean came down for breakfast.

“Look what the wayward wind blew in,” Sean said to his brother. “The pair of water rats can smell a hooley a hundred miles off.”

“You two bastards aren’t invited!” Joseph said.

Sean took up the taunt. “Just because you married FitzGerald lasses doesn’t make you family.”

Pat Murphy cursed through his beard. “Arrogant young swines. Neither of youse will ever walk the deck of a ship I’m captain of, ever again!”

At a nod from Sean, Joe gave Pat Murphy a quick shove,
while Sean hooked the stool from beneath his brother Tim. With a great howl, all four started throwing punches and ended up in a heap of elbows and shins, rolling about the kitchen floor.

The game ended abruptly as Mary Malone threw a jug of cold water on them. “For very shame, actin’ like savages, and this yer birthday celebration. Out of me kitchen this minute, I’ve to prepare food for a hundred this day!”

For a minute the brothers stared aghast at the very real wrath of their plump cook, before they dissolved into helpless laughter.

Shamus arrived on the scene and said dryly, “They’re only larkin’ about, Mary Malone. Their spirits are so high, it’ll take more than cold water to restore order and decorum. You two devils,” Shamus addressed his sons, “on yer feet. There’s a couple of ships need unloadin’ before breakfast.”

Still laughing, all four got to their feet. “Let the Murphys do the unloading, they’re the captains of the bloody ships,” Sean said, wiping Mary’s water from his eyes.

“Now, that’s where yer dead wrong, Captain O’Toole,” Shamus declared, unable to keep the grin from his face one moment longer.

As Sean and Joseph exchanged puzzled glances, a glimmer of comprehension passed between them. With a sudden whoop of joy they picked up their heels and bolted outside, not stopping until they had torn across the wide lawns and Greystones’s own harbor came into view below them.

The schooners, riding at anchor, sparkled like rare jewels in the early-morning sunlight. They were so new, they smelled of tar and fresh paint. Though the ships were similar, they were not identical. The taller vessel was blue and gold; the longer one, black and silver.

“Ye’ll find the ownership papers inside yer logbooks and ye might as well pick yer crews today while most of the lads are here,” Shamus called, waving them on to claim their
new possessions. He let them go alone. They were men full grown and should have the pleasure of walking their own decks while each took command.

Both father and sons hid their deepest emotions for appearance’s sake. The Irish did not embrace and kiss in public. But Shamus’s proud eyes never left his sons as they strode down to the long stone jetty. Grinning like lunatics, Joseph and Sean took possession of their birthday gifts. No discussion was necessary to decide which ship belonged to whom. Joseph headed for the blue and gold, while Sean boarded the vessel that was black and silver, heaving a great sigh of delightful appreciation, immediately losing his heart to the long, sleek vessel whose clean lines foretold her speed.

Sean spoke to it as if it were a woman. A ship was like a mistress, possessive and jealous, but capable of loyalty and obedience if she was handled firmly and with love. He ran his hand along her polished rail, caressing her with his touch, his eyes, and his low, intimate voice. She was indeed a beauty that set his blood singing and his imagination soaring into the bright future that lay before him, waiting to be grasped in both hands.

    
B
y the time the wagons filled with FitzGeralds began to arrive, trestle tables had been set up on the sloping green lawns and the Greystones staff was kept on the trot, carrying out food from the huge kitchen.

Their other guests began to arrive, most of whom belonged to old Irish families, rather than the newer Anglo-Irish. They brought fiddles and soon the air was filled with music and laughter.

Edward FitzGerald smiled at his daughter Kathleen with affection. Though he’d had no sons to carry on his name, his eldest daughter more than made up for it. She’d given him two strapping grandsons any man would envy.

“Now, mind, Father, you can only talk treason half the day, the rest is for laughter.”

His blue eyes twinkled. “There’s a woman for you, always finding a reason to curtail a man’s pleasure.”

A crowd of young people surrounded Sean and Joseph as they returned to the house from the jetty and urged the brothers toward the stables, where they knew more birthday surprises were waiting. When they emerged mounted on the Thoroughbreds, their parents and grandfather beamed with happy pride.

“Thank you, sir, he’s magnificent. I’ve decided to call him Lucifer,” Sean said, rubbing the black satin neck with appreciation.

“Have you two young devils named your ships yet?” Shamus demanded, trying to take the mickey out of them.

Sean winked at Joseph. “What else would two young devils call their ships but
Sulphur
and
Brimstone?”

“Irreverence, to say nothing of courting trouble!” their mother scolded, but she adored them both and wouldn’t have altered a hair on their dark heads.

    
E
merald Montague was more excited than she had ever been in her life.
Since before
she had even learned to talk, her mother had filled her head with tales of Ireland and its people. Her bedtime stories were chosen from the rich folklore of her mother’s homeland, the songs Emerald learned were songs of Erin, and the pictures her mother’s words painted of her beloved Emerald Isle and the eccentric FitzGeralds had made her long to see them.

If Amber was sad that she was not accompanying them to the celebration, she was doing a marvelous job of hiding her feelings. Emerald suspected that her mother had buried her disappointment and emotions deep within and had focused all her attention upon making sure her children’s visit was a success.

John’s wardrobe had presented no problem. Since he was seventeen and almost a man full grown, his clothes were made by the finest tailors in London. Though here on Anglesey he preferred to roam about in old riding breeches, he had a dressing room filled with clothes that would make a dandy envious.

It was Emerald’s wardrobe over which her mother had fretted from the moment her daughter had brought it to her attention. “These are all little girls’ dresses,” Emerald vowed, surveying the entire contents of her wardrobe with dismay. “They are very pretty,” she amended quickly, hoping she hadn’t hurt her mother’s feelings, “but I’m almost sixteen and I simply couldn’t bear wearing a smock and pantalets. I don’t want Sean—I mean the FitzGeralds—to laugh at me!”