Wild Jasmine (62 page)

“We’ll be home by suppertime, my beauties, and there will be a fine dry stable for you and a full measure of oats.”

It rained all day. It was a chilly, steady downpour that turned the road to mud, but Rory Maguire was a skilled driver and brought the horses along at a steady pace. Finally, he drew the great traveling coach to a halt and waited for the mounted party to draw abreast. “Just over the next hill is Maguire’s Ford, m’lady. There isn’t much to it. Just a wee village and a small bit of a castle, but the land has good grass. ’Twill be a grand place for your horses, I promise you.”

“Maguire! Do not get above yer station,” Master Feeny said sharply. “Ye were hired to drive the coach. ’Tis not yer place to tell his lordship about Maguire’s Ford. I shall do that.”

“Do you come from Maguire’s Ford, Master Feeny?” Jasmine inquired. The little man annoyed her with his airs.

“
Me?
Gracious no, yer ladyship! And if I did, I’d not admit it, for ’tis a poor place to come from, I’m thinking. No, no! I was born and raised in Belfast. ’Tis a fine civilized town, Belfast!”

“If you were born in Belfast, Master Feeny, then pray, how can you tell me anything about Maguire’s Ford, which you indeed seem to hold in great contempt? A closed mind, I have found, is seldom a good judge of anything, but perhaps I mistake your words,” Jasmine said.

Rory Maguire swallowed back his laughter. The little crown estate agent was clearly almost apoplectic with his outrage, but he dared not voice it. Ye’ll not be with us long, I’m thinking, the tall Irishman predicted.

“M’lady, I have carefully inspected the plantation and its premises thoroughly. I can tell you whatever you need to know, I assure you,” Master Feeny insisted. “Indeed, I know my duties better than most. There has never been a complaint about Eamon Feeny.”

“Let us move on,” the Marquess of Westleigh said quietly. “I am most anxious to see Maguire’s Ford, and I know my wife is as well.”

At the top of the next hill they stopped once more. Below, a beautiful body of water stretched out before them, blue and inviting in the sudden late afternoon sunshine.

“ ’Tis upper Lough Erne,” Rory Maguire told them. “The lough bisects Fermanagh and runs the length of it, turning into a river of the same name that pours out into Donegal Bay at Ballyshannon.”

“It’s lovely,” Jasmine told him. “In India my home was also on a lake, and beyond it were great snow-covered mountains. Your green hills are softer and somehow more friendly.”

“
India?
What and where is that place?” he asked.

“It is a land across the eastern seas, six months in traveling time from London,” she told him. “I was born there.”

“Are ye not English, then, m’lady?” Rory Maguire was puzzled.

Jasmine thought a moment. “My father was Indian. My mother is half English, half Irish. I suppose that makes me Anglo-Irish and Indian.”

“I knew that there was Irish in ye,” he said, chuckling.
“Would ye happen to know where yer grandmother came from, m’lady?”

“My grandmother is an O’Malley from Innisfana in Connaught,” Jasmine said. “I do not even know how far from here that is, do you?”

“
An O’Malley!?
O’Malley is a famous name in Connaught,” he told her. “Your grandmother’s home is several days’ ride, on the sea.” Then Rory Maguire caught himself. They should not be speaking like friends. He pointed down the hill. “There is the village of Maguire’s Ford, m’lady, and the castle just beyond it on the lough. Can you see it?” He gently urged the horses on again, leading them down the hill.

They entered the village and it was oddly silent.

“Where are all the people?” Jasmine called to Master Feeny. The stone cottages were obviously deserted, and weeds were growing in the little kitchen gardens. There were no barking dogs, nor cattle, nor sheep to be seen.

“I have had them driven off, m’lady. You’ll not be wanting Irish in your village. It can be repopulated as soon as you desire with God-fearing English or Scots settlers. There are plenty waiting to come.”

“
You drove my villagers off?
” Her voice was high with her outrage. “Where are they expected to go, Master Feeny? Certainly there were whole families—women, children, oldsters—and you drove them off? How long ago? Get them back at once!”

“They were Irish, m’lady,” he said, in a tone that implied she was a silly woman and could not possibly understand.

“
This is Ireland
, you pompous fool!” Jasmine shouted furiously. “Now answer me!
Where are my villagers?
”

“In the bogs, in the woods, I suppose, m’lady. ’Tis not my business to keep track of a bunch of peasants,” he protested rudely.

“Go back to Belfast, Master Feeny,” Jasmine said coldly.

“
What?
” The estate agent looked startled.

“Go back to Belfast,” she replied. “Your services are no longer required by me. You are dismissed. There is no law that says I must keep you on, and if there were, I should defy it!”

“My lord, I must protest,” Master Feeny said, red-faced.

Rowan Lindley shrugged his shoulders. “I told you, Master Feeny, that Maguire’s Ford belongs to my wife. Her wishes will be law on this plantation, and there is nothing I can or will
do about it. In any event, I believe her right in this matter. It was very foolish of you to drive the villagers away.”

“They are Irish malcontents,” Feeny attempted once again to explain. “They will cause trouble with their ungovernable attitude and their wicked popery rebels.”

“You are a fool, Master Feeny,” Jasmine said angrily. “I condemn no one before I have given them a chance, and as for their wicked popery, I agree with our late queen. There is but one Lord Jesus Christ. The rest is all trifles.’ I do not believe there is but one correct road that leads to God’s front door. I think there are many roads!”

“ ’Tis mightily tolerant of you, your ladyship,” Master Feeny said nastily, “but the priests will be no more tolerant of your silly attitude than a preacher from the Church of Ireland would be. As for the villagers of Maguire’s Ford, if you allow them back here, they will defy you at every turn and cause you nothing but trouble. Do not say I did not warn you. You’ll see!”

“You may stay the night, Master Feeny,” Jasmine said coldly. “In the morning be on your way.” She turned away from him and said, “Rory Maguire, I have no doubt you know exactly where the people of Maguire’s Ford have gone. Find them as quickly as possible and tell them to come home. I have need of them, and I will be fair to all who give me their honest loyalty. Those who cannot had best be on their way, for I will deal harshly with insurrection of
any
kind.”

“They’ll want a priest,” he warned her.

“They can have one. I even have one in mind for them,” she said with a small smile, and then she lowered her voice so only he might hear her words. “My great-uncle, Michael O’Malley, is the bishop of Mid-Connaught. He will supply me with a cleric.”

“Michael O’Malley is one of the few important churchmen who has remained here in Ireland despite the English,” Rory Maguire said admiringly. “Most have fled to Paris or Rome.” Then he caught himself. Jesu. The woman had a way of putting a man at his ease. He had to be more careful. “Let me bring you to the castle, m’lady, m’lord. Then I shall go out and see if I can find your villagers. They’ll not have gone far despite Master Feeny. They’ve all lived here for generations and would not know where else to go.”

“Does the castle have a name, Master Maguire?” Jasmine asked him as she rode beside the coach through the village.

“ ’Tis called Erne Rock, m’lady. You see it sits upon a wee promontory and is surrounded by the waters on three sides. From the lough ’tis said to resemble a rock, and hence its name, Erne Rock Castle,” he told them. “You will soon see how one might gain such an impression,”

“How old is the castle, Master Maguire?” Jasmine queried him.

“Oh, I couldn’t be certain, m’lady, but ’tis said to have been here for over two hundred years or more. It began as a tower house, the customary type of home for the Irish gentry, and was added on to over the years until it became what you see before you.”

The coach drew up before Erne Rock Castle. It was a small building, but obviously it had been well-maintained over the years. Its entry was across a drawbridge that lay over what appeared to be a moat. Upon closer inspection, however, Rowan Lindley could see that the narrow land side of the castle had been dug open, allowing the lough to surround it. When the drawbridge was raised, the castle was fairly impregnable. He smiled admiringly. “Clever,” he said softly. “Very clever indeed.”

The Marquess of Westleigh encouraged his horse onto the drawbridge and over it into the courtyard of the castle. The others followed. Like the village, the castle was also deserted. “Did you drive the house servants off as well, Feeny?” he said wryly to the estate agent. “You’ll get no supper, I fear, if you did. Though my wife is expert in many things, the culinary arts are not among them.”

“The servants were ordered to remain, my lord, I swear it!” the beleaguered Feeny protested. “Their disobedience just proves my point. These Irish peasants are not to be trusted.”

“Master Feeny,” Jasmine said, aggravated by his attitude. “Are you not Irish yourself?”

“I am a Belfast man, m’lady,” Feeny replied proudly, as if that should explain everything.

“Belfast is in Ireland,” Jasmine answered solemnly, “or it was the last time I inquired. Is that not so, my lord?”

“Aye,” Rowan drawled. “You are correct, my love.”

Maguire climbed down off the coachman’s box and, opening the carriage door, helped Toramalli out. “If I might have the loan of a horse, my lord,” he said to Rowan, “I’ll go and track down the poor souls who belong to Maguire’s Ford for ye and tell them to come back.”

“The castle will be open, I assume,” Rowan Lindley said.

“Aye, my lord, it will be,” was the reply.

“Then go along, Maguire,” the marquess instructed him.

Rory Maguire untied one of the mares from behind the coach and, without even bothering to saddle the creature, swung himself upon its back and rode out of the castle courtyard, guiding the animal with his knees, a hand gripping the mare’s mane.

“Yer mad to trust that one!” Feeny said. “He’ll murder you in yer beds before ’tis all done, I’m certain.”

“Where did you find him, Feeny?” the marquess asked, curious. Rory Maguire was no servant, or farmer for that matter, Rowan Lindley knew. He was too well-spoken, and his hands, although hard, were not a workman’s hands. Feeny, of course, would not have realized any of that. He had not the wit.

“He was just here, m’lord, when I arrived to take possession of Maguire’s Ford in the king’s name,” Feeny told the marquess. “He seemed more intelligent than the others. When I offered him employment, he was happy to take it. Still, he’s Irish and you must be careful.”

“Hmmmmm,” Rowan Lindley replied, and then he said, “Come, Master Feeny, we must get the horses into the stable and the coach unhitched. You may help me. Jasmine, my love, you and Toramalli go into the castle and see just what it is you have been given by Jamie Stuart. Having never been to Ireland, I just took what I was offered. It does not seem to be a bad bargain, though I feared it might be. Come along, Feeny! The horses.”

Eamon Feeny seethed with his outrage as his stubby fingers struggled to undo the buckles and straps that fastened the horses to the coach. What kind of people were these English lords? Certainly unlike any he had met before. No real gentleman would unfasten his own coach animals and lead them whistling into the stables as this Marquess of Westleigh was now doing. And what kind of man allowed his wife to give orders to others, except, of course, female servants?

The woman was obviously a witch. An evil, ungodly creature who would tolerate popery. A foul creature who had lured her husband into his besotted state with her beauty, and probably ensorceled other men as well. That Rory Maguire looked as if he’d like to get his hands under her fine silk skirts. Ohhh, yes! He saw this Marchioness of Westleigh for what she really was. She could not fool Eamon Feeny. If it were not for Lady
Lindley, he would still be retained as land agent of Maguire’s Ford. Ahh, the shame of it! That he, Eamon Feeny, should be dismissed from a position—
and by a woman!
He would be a laughingstock in all Belfast if he returned now. The damned woman had ruined him! What was he to do? He glared fiercely after Lady Lindley and her serving wench.

The two women entered the dwelling to find a warm home with well-polished floors on the upper level and well-swept stone floors on the main level. There were two fireplaces in the Great Hall, which was not much bigger than the Family Hall at Queen’s Malvern. There were fireplaces in all the bedchambers. The furniture was golden oak, well-rubbed with beeswax over the years. It had a comfortable look and feel to it.

“Well,” said Toramalli, “I’m surprised. From all I had been told, Ireland is a barbaric place, and yet it seems not so, m’lady.”

They were standing in the largest of the bedchambers. Jasmine was looking out over the fields through the lead-paned windows, watching Rory Maguire as he rode away. “Hmmm, what, Toramalli?” she said.

Toramalli followed her mistress’s gaze and then said, “This Ireland is not so awful after all, is it? I think you should send for the children. Adali and Rohana would like it here too.” Then she giggled. “That Master Maguire is a handsome fellow, m’lady, isn’t he? I never saw hair so red-gold, and those blue eyes of his are just like the sapphires in the Stars of Kashmir necklace, aren’t they?”

“I did not notice his eyes as you did, Toramalli,” Jasmine teased her serving woman. “His hair, however, is something else. I think you could probably see him coming on a dark night with that hair.”

The object of their discussion had now disappeared from view. Rory Maguire rode like a man who knew just where he was going, and in fact he did. Entering a wood, he stopped the mare and whistled several times. He was answered by another whistle, and a young boy came forth from the thick trees.