Rescuing Mr. Gracey (22 page)

Sean’s vehement reaction startled her. “No, Mary.
Ye
must stop these rumors.” He roughly grasped her arm. “I tell ya I want to marry, and all ya say is I must stop the rumors.” His hot breath blasted her face. Now both his hands clutched her arms. “Marryin’ me will stop rumors today.”

Accept Sean’s proposal, a good man, a Catholic who does not run away when you’re in trouble, who wants to defend your honor.

He asked for marriage. ’Tis what ya’ve wanted…

~ 15 ~

“And when we came to Dolly’s Brae

 
they were lined on every side…”

Alec stumbled. “Mary,” he whispered. Blindly stretching his hand, the forest a blur, he grasped a tree for support.
You knew you risked too much. Waited too long. Now you’ve hurt her.

Clenching his fists, Alec ached to stuff the horrifying accusations down the freckle-faced farmer’s throat, along with all the gossips that lurked like snakes for the opportunity to strike unsuspecting prey with their hateful poison.

Groaning, he slammed the tree with his foot. Jealous rage, self-loathing, and spasms of fury barraged him. So ironic that they should blame Mary for loose morals, considering the heroic effort made on his part, especially this last week, when he dared not even hold her hand. The desire to sweep her into his arms, bury his nose in her hair, kiss her lips, satisfy his yearnings had intensified to such an exquisite degree that he knew, should he try even one embrace, he might indeed compromise his own promise to keep her safe.

How the effort cost him. Each night, exhausted by the restraint, he lay in his torturous bed and imagined her as his wife. In those fantasies, eyes closed, he released all the imprisoned secrets—his name, his religion, his love—and begged her to have mercy on his battered heart.

Courage retreated with every dawn, letters burned in the grate, confessions died on his conscience, dreams faded to silence.

His soul shivered with revulsion at the memory of her aqua eyes brimming and watery, her mouth turned down in confusion, her sun-bright joy faded because of his bleak silence. It would haunt him until his dying day.

How close he had come to telling her the truth in that moment. One shard of sanity held him back. Concern…
nay, terror
for her well-being. What the nation would do to her should he abandon his disguise and gather his beloved into his arms… By some force of will, he’d protected her when he walked away.

The forest stirred, the restless wind shifting, moaning as if sympathetic to his shattered heart. Watching her from his hiding spot, he braced his arm above his head while envy smothered him. The short redheaded farmer, for all his stunted height and grubby appearance, was free to offer her everything Alec could not—a family, a home, a proclamation of love—and restoration of her reputation.

He dug frustrated fingers into the bark of the tree, hopelessness howling at his heart. Fate had caught him. She was lost to him. He forced himself to watch as the farmer grasped her arm. Alec clamped his teeth together, waiting for the confirmation that she accepted the proposal. The man whispered something to her. Mary nodded.

Damnation!
His beautiful rose-scented woman with dimpled smiles and laughing eyes was a moment away from her destiny. Heaving a troubled sigh, he watched her lower her head. She nodded again. Dennison’s hand moved up her arm and now rested upon her shoulder.

She’s going to say yes. And you must not stop her.

His feet shuffled, his arms twitched. Her eyes shifted toward the ground as Dennison leaned closer. Y
ou don’t belong to me, Mary Smyth
. Dread tightened his throat; a brutal contraction slammed his chest. He could not bear it!

Squeezing his eyes, he told himself to walk away.
Turn. Put one foot in front of the other.
His hand ran through his tangled hair.
Walk down the hill and away from here…from her. Forever.

But his heart, thumping erratically, rebelled. His gaze returned to her.
Trust me. Trust me. Trust me. Give me more time.

Suddenly, she turned and searched the forest as if she’d heard his unspoken plea. Alec stopped breathing. Dennison pressed closer. The whole world paused in wait for her answer.

~ 16 ~

“Praying for the Virgin Mary

to be their holy guide.”

Lord Robert Jocelyn, the Earl of Roden, tapped the oily scrap of paper that had been delivered by a filthy waif just a few minutes before. The horribly spelled note should be discarded as rubbish.

Walking toward the fire, the earl stopped just before he threw it away. Tilting the paper, he studied the scratched contents again.
“Yong Gracey ain’t wha he purtens…”

The warning gave pause. Roden’s gaze probed every corner of the note as if it might reveal the potential legitimacy.
Implausible!

Scowling, he admitted a certain level of reluctant distrust for young Gracey. When one forced another into a role, the risk of betrayal increased. Gracey had also refused to participate in the marching season a month ago.

Could Gracey have an allegiance to the Catholics? He shook his head. No. He refused to believe any son of the elder Gracey could be so ignorant. Besides, early results showed the young man was gaining popularity with moderate and some liberal Protestant voices
.
Weak-minded fools that they were, they hoped Gracey would support Irish voting rights.
He is a man of high moral character,
they proclaimed
.
Thus, by those standards, Gracey had been correct in abstaining from the marching season.

Add to that the young man was both well liked and charismatic.

Rubbing his chin, Roden sifted other bits of memory for potential warnings. All the rallies on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays had been successful. Crowds thronged the streets just to catch a glimpse of the handsome man. The poor clung to his hopeful message, and merchants and tradesmen concentrated on promises to change restrictive law while maintaining home rule.

Appearing devoted to the cause, Alec also traveled as far as Belfast, sometimes speaking at three or four events in one day. He had met with political assets and flirted with any woman who had influence with a powerful man. Indeed, Gracey had become so popular that young ladies bribed footmen to get entrance to events, dragging their influential husbands or fathers along with them.

Long legs crossed upon the thick rosewood desk and pouring a stiff measure of golden whiskey into a finely cut crystal tumbler, Roden swirled the liquid while distantly watching the dim light reflect off the glass. Yet Gracey had demanded freedom from his own agenda on Monday through Thursday.
Why those days?

Scouring every gesture and speech made by young Gracey, Roden tilted the note, examining it as if some hidden message was secreted within the raggedness. Slapping the note against his leg, he puffed a frustrated sigh.

Gracey’s too clever, too dedicated.
The note likely originated from the liberal party in an effort to shatter the candidacy and weaken trust in the charismatic young man. To put him aside now because of some poorly written note and a refusal to march would be ridiculous.

Pacing to the fireplace, he crumpled the paper and tossed it into the flames, then watched as the brown edges curled to black ash.

His mouth thinned. Despite the gesture, a small, nagging voice lingered. If only the young man displayed more fire, more anger against the Papists. Gracey’s speeches were too balanced, too reasonable, and never disparaged the ignorant natives in spite of the fact that the illiterate group represented all that ached to be eliminated in Ireland—a perversion to all things pagan and ridiculous.

Nothing kept the earl awake more than the bleak thought of illiterate, filthy natives gaining power, and ever since last year’s uprising, more aristocrats were arguing the natives’ cause. He loved Ireland too much to allow that travesty. The blight only heightened the need to purge the natives faster.

Agitated by those black thoughts, Roden clenched and unclenched his fist. He must calm himself. Pouring another drink, he sat in front of the hearth. His carefully planned design had taken nearly a year to form, but come July, he would slap the arrogance off the natives.

His property at Tollymore Park adjacent to Dolly’s Brae was ready to host a vigorous Orange rally. Fiery speeches and song, drink, and food would bolster their courage. And then the faithful would be shaken into a frenzy by his own speech.

Rubbing his hand over bunched neck muscles, Roden swallowed the drink in one burning gulp, then lifted the pamphlet by Friedrich Engels called
The Condition of the Working Class in England.
He skimmed his favorite passage.
“These Irishmen who migrate for four pence…insinuate themselves everywhere. The worst dwellings are good enough for them…shoes they know not; the food consists of potatoes and potatoes only; whatever they earn beyond these needs, they spend upon drink. What does such a race want with high wages?”

The earl chuckled. The worthless land of Dolly’s Brae would belong to him by Christmas. The filth would be eliminated and the village reabsorbed for Protestant tenants. And the loss of income from taxes to support Catholics would end.

Rising, he walked to the window and viewed the vast valley of rich earth all around him. This country belonged to his kind. After Twelfth July, the Irish Catholics who’d stolen the beauty of his nation would flee.

Aye. A little blood goes a long way. Soon, my county will be free of the pestilence.

~ 17 ~

“We loosened our guns upon them and we gave them

no time to pray…”

“How could ya do it?” Mary punched her brother again, ignoring the jolting pain that shot up her arm. Seething with anger, she clenched her teeth. “How could ya ruin everything just to play teasing games?” Emotion clogged her throat, so she punched Patrick’s chest again.

Patrick’s face crinkled as he remained unaffected by the pounding on his chest. “Mary. Have ya gone daft?” He laughed.

“Ye’ve ruined it all.”

“Stop wasting your effort, Mary. You’re like a little ant pounding on a mighty oak. Even with that temper, it isn’t hurting me at all, but ’tis likely to do you harm.”

“You told Sean, you blithering toad.” Mary’s booted foot kicked her brother’s shin, giving her a sense of satisfaction when he howled in pain. “You ruined everything.”

“Blast ya, Mary,” Patrick growled, holding his leg with one hand while defending against Mary’s flailing fists with the other. “What in God’s merciful heaven are ya screaming about?”

A voice from behind stopped the heated shouts. “What is going on here?” Both siblings swung their heads. Their father’s scowl froze them both. “In front of the youngsters,” he whispered, shaking his head. “
Ba choir duit a bheith
.”

Her temper melted to a puddle of tears.

Patrick spoke first. “I hardly know, Da. I came in from work a moment ago, and this banshee started pounding me back and screaming about ruining something. I haven’t the slightest notion what riled her up.”

“What a liar ya are, brother. I heard it from Sean himself.”

Joseph exhaled a fatigued sigh. “We don’t talk to each other with such disrespect.” Lifting his gaze, he nodded to his wife. The silent communication had her hurrying the younger children outside the hut.

Once the door shut, Joseph pointed to the wobbly table near the fireplace. He lifted a jug of potash from the mantel and grabbed three mugs from the shelf above the stove. Pouring a portion into each, he sat and slowly sipped the homemade alcohol. The siblings did likewise, waiting. Joseph closed his eyes, folded his arms across his chest before touching his sky-blue gaze on one and then the other. “Well, let’s have it, then. Mary first.”

Sitting nearest her father, and farthest from her brother, Mary lifted her chin, determined to sound calm and intelligent. “Patrick told Sean…” She hardly recognized the horrible whining squeak that came out. Inhaling, she tried again, but only managed a confused blubber. “My reputation is ruined…and Mr. Jordan…and Sean… We have to marry…and it’s all Patrick’s fault.”

Both men, mirroring bewilderment, looked at the other. “Patrick, what is she talking about?”

His handsome face flushed. “I swear, Da, I haven’t the tiniest clue.”

Mary pointed a shaky finger at her brother. “The whole village is talkin’ that I’m a fallen woman…and I must marry and…” She clutched at the pain in her stomach. “All because Patrick…boasted at the pub…and…the lake and Mr. Jordan…” Her vision blurred, and air would not flow. “How could ya hurt me so?” she whispered.

The chair crashed backward when Patrick jumped up. “I never,” he boomed. “I never said no such thing to Sean.” Pounding his fist on the table, he continued, “I wouldn’t hurt you like that Mary. Never.”

“Sit down, the both of you. We need to sort something out.” Joseph tapped his cup for several silent moments. “This is not making any sense. Patrick, tell your side of it.”

Patrick sat, shaking his head. “Last night, I was offered more hours at the mill, so I took them. ’Twas late, well after dark when I came into the pub. Sean was in a corner talking to another fellow. A stranger. I didn’t pay much attention.” Ruffling his auburn hair, he continued, “Sean came over, all flustered and beaming red.”