Trisha Telep: The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

«I liked that girl,» one gentlemen said. «Don’t know exactly why, but she had a certain. I guess you could say, serenity about her.»

«More than that. It was like a special aura that surrounded her,» one of the ladies chimed in. «It was almost as if I felt calmer in her presence.»

«She had a magical quality,» said another.

The gentleman laughed. «Magic? Well, I don’t know as I’d go that far.»

The lady nodded emphatically. «Magic. I felt it. I don’t know what it was, but that girl had a special gift which we all felt, and don’t you tell me otherwise.»

Halfway up the driveway, Evleen O’Fallon had to stop and catch her breath. The heat of the summer day, plus the weight of the heavy portmanteau had done her in. As she rested and wiped her brow, she looked up the hill towards the dark stone mansion called Chatfield Court.

«I’m sure you will like it,» her mother had said on her deathbed. «Lord Beaumont assured me you would.»

Mother’s gone. A tear rolled down Evleen’s cheek. I miss her so. What will I do without her?

At the end, even through her suffering, Mama had thought of Evleen. «All your brothers and sisters have a place to stay, except you. As you know, I have sold the cottage, so you cannot stay here.» She clutched a letter in her fingers, one she had received only the day before. «Some time ago, when I knew I would never leave this bed, I wrote to Lord Beaumont in England.»

«But why?» Evleen was astounded.

«You are aware that Lord Beaumont’s late wife was a cousin of ours. So I wrote and asked if he would take you in.» She’d handed the letter to Evleen. «Here is his reply. Read for yourself.»

With reluctant fingers, Evleen took the letter and began to read.

My Dear Cousin,

I am sorry for your illness and trust you will soon regain your health. In the sad event you do not, rest assured I shall be happy to give a home to your oldest daughter, Evleen. If she’s as gifted as you say, perhaps she can help with the education of my son, Peter, who is seven. Since his mother passed away, he’s been quite precocious and needs a firm hand.

I look forward to meeting Evleen. Rest assured, she will be treated not as a servant but one of the family.

Beaumont

When she finished, Evleen let the letter fall to her lap in dismay. «Leave Ireland? Never! How can I go and live with strange people in a strange land?»

«You will because you must,» Mama answered firmly. «But one warning I must give you.»

«And what is that?» Evleen asked, still numb with shock.

«You must never use the blue pebble in England. In fact, it would be best if you threw it away.»

Evleen touched a small, bright blue pebble, strung by a leather thong around her neck. «But why?»

Mama looked deep into her eyes. «Because the English would never believe a poor girl from Ireland is possessed with magical powers. They would laugh at you — make your life a misery if you even suggested such a thing.»

«All right, I promise,» Evleen readily agreed. «I suspect the pebble would be useless in England anyway. I certainly don’t expect Merlin to follow me.»

«You had best throw it in the creek right now.»

Somehow the thought of throwing the pebble away did not appeal to her. «Perhaps I shall take it along — just as a kind of souvenir.»

«Suit yourself.» Mama reached for her hand and clasped it tight. «Whatever happens, always hold your head high. You must never forget you are an Irish princess, that your father was Ian O’Fallon, son of the Duke of Connaught, who was a direct descendant of one of Ireland’s ancient kings who reigned over one of the earliest Celtic kingdoms.»

«I shall never forget, Mama.»

And she wouldn’t. Now, with a determined nod, Evleen picked up the portmanteau and resumed her trek up the driveway. No, she would never forget, but what good would being an Irish princess do her here in this strange land? Ah well, no matter. Only the future counted now.

I shall be brave. I shall make Mama proud.

«So, Miss O’Fallon, you are from Ireland?»

Seated on a silk upholstered sofa in the grand salon of Chatfield Court, Evleen hid her disappointment. Lord Beaumont had not been there to greet her, although he was expected back from London at any moment. She gazed into the cold grey eyes of Lady Beaumont, Lord Beaumont’s mother. «Indeed I am from Ireland. County Tipperary to be exact. I lived there all my life.»

Lady Beaumont, a stout woman with a large face and snow-white hair, cast an amused glance at the two other occupants of the room: Lydia, her daughter, and a giddy young woman named Bettina, soon to become her daughter-in-law. «Fancy that! I don’t know much about Ireland although I understand they are all quite poor.»

«Don’t they raise sheep and live mainly in hovels?» asked Lydia, a plain young woman in her twenties who appeared to wear a permanent sneer on her lips.

Of the two young women, Bettina, a slender girl of twenty or so, was the prettiest, with creamy white skin and a circle of bouncy blonde ringlets around her forehead. In a giggly voice she asked Evleen, «Isn’t Ireland where the fairies live? And the elves and leprechauns?»

Yes, it is, Evleen thought, but wisely didn’t say. «Not all Irish are poor,» she evenly replied. «As for elves, fairies and leprechauns, I cannot say.»

She’d been invited to the grand salon for tea by these three ladies, who obviously seemed to think she had just arrived from the moon. She knew they were laughing at her. In fact, since the moment she set foot into this huge room with its marble fireplace and plush furnishings, she’d felt acutely uncomfortable. It didn’t help that the outfit she wore — plain wool skirt, wool jacket, simple brimmed hat and high top boots — was acceptable fashion for Ireland, but compared to the elaborate dresses these ladies wore, she might as well be dressed in a gunny sack. And these were just their morning gowns! Already they’d discussed their afternoon gowns, strolling gowns, evening gowns and who-knew-what-else kinds of gowns. Evleen took a sip of tea from her fine china cup, gripping the fragile handle uncomfortably. So different from home, where she drank her tea from a chipped mug and stirred it with a tin spoon.

Lydia was speaking. «So what did you do in Ireland? Is there a ton? Do you have seasons?»

«I taught school until my mother took ill,» Evleen earnestly replied. «This past year I stayed home to take care of her. And yes, we have seasons — winter, spring, summer and autumn, just as you have here.»

For some reason, her reply set up gales of laughter from all three women. «Lydia doesn’t mean that kind of season,» Lady Beaumont explained in a lofty tone. «She means a social season, such as when we go down to London for the parties and balls.»

«Oh, I see.» Evleen could not prevent the blush she felt spreading up her neck and over her cheeks. Such a gaffe she’d made! And she hadn’t been here an hour yet. She would never fit in with these people, nor them with her. I want to go home.

The door opened. A tall, powerfully built man in his early thirties entered, followed by a slender, fair-haired boy of seven or so. «Hello, everyone,» he said in a deep commanding voice. He caught sight of Evleen. «I see our cousin from Ireland has arrived.»

Evleen hadn’t known what she’d expected, but certainly not this devilishly handsome man who stood before her. What gorgeous blue eyes! What a beautiful head of hair, dark, with a slight wave and an unruly lock falling over his forehead. She arose and dipped an unsteady curtsy, hoping she didn’t look too much like a country bumpkin. «I am pleased to meet you, Lord Beaumont.»