The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (2 page)

Here are stories that weave a fiction from existing legend, stories that explore existing myth in greater depth, and yet more stories that stray from established lore entirely with a healthy dose of poetic licence, using Ireland’s constel ation of magical creatures in new, exciting ways. And then, of course, here are stories that are simply pure, unabashed, unashamed romance.

And the faery folk seem to have their fingers in most of the trouble and adventure that occurs.

Love affairs between mortals and the faery host are put to the test, while the High King of the
Daoine
Sidhe, Finvarra’s insatiable appetite for mortal women is legendary. Fairy interference –

er, help – in mortal life in general is definitely a recurring theme in this col ection. But you’l also be confronted with remnants of Ireland’s Viking past, its legendary warriors, battles fought and won, and the mysterious sea god Lir and his mermaids.

Jenna Maclaine brings Morrigan, the goddess of war, and legendary warrior, Cuchulainn to life as erotic, constantly battling, immortals. And as always we have a few stories that reach out to the wider world of an author’s current series (see, for instance, Margo Maguire’s world of the Druzai). I am also proud to announce the bril iant debut of a brand-new series with a story from Jennifer Ashley presenting her exciting Shifters!

A tumult of styles and themes then, this is a refresher course in Irish history, with a nod to the behemoth that is paranormal romance. Here are some writers with the power to real y take you on a ride through a Celtic mythological past, who can definitely hold their own amongst al the vampires, werewolves, shape-shifters and ghosts populating the bestsel er lists today.

So why not al ow these Irish paranormals – these
gancanaghs
(ethereal lovers who seduce young women then disappear),
alp-luachras
(evil, greedy fairies) and Irish High Kings of lore – a little room of their own? Let these writers take you into the lush, romantic, and above al magical heart of an Ireland that is, was and might-have-been.

Trisha Telep

The Blue Pebble

Shirley Kennedy

England – 1814

Passengers on the Royal Mail coach to London were surprised when the coach came to a jangling stop on the road not far from the town of Shrewsbury. No houses around. Only a winding driveway could be seen leading up through a heavy growth of trees to an immense Tudor-style mansion that nestled atop a low hil .

“This here’s Chatfield Court, miss,” the coachman shouted. “I’l toss your luggage down.”

“Thank you kindly, sir.”

While the pretty young woman in her twenties climbed from the coach, the other passengers looked at each other askance. Surely the girl should not have to carry that large portmanteau up the hil by herself. One of the gentlemen passengers stuck his head out the window and cal ed up,

“I say, coachman, can’t you take her up the driveway to the entrance? We don’t mind the extra time.”

“Can’t do it, sir. Against the rules.”

“That’s quite al right,” the young woman assured him in a rich Irish brogue. She squared her shoulders. “This isn’t the first heavy load I’ve carried in my life. I’l be fine.” She picked up the battered portmanteau, smiled, waved a quick goodbye and started trudging up the hil .

The coach started up again, the remaining passengers making clicking noises and shaking their heads. That they were concerned about a passenger they’d known only hours was surprising.

She had not uttered more than a few pleasantries, only briefly mentioning she’d been a schoolteacher in Ireland, as had her mother who had recently passed away. Mostly she sat silently gazing out the window; yet despite the paucity of her words, they al recognized an agreeable quality about her and wished her wel .

“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? Wel , I don’t know as I’d go that far.” The lady nodded emphatical y. “Magic. I felt it. I don’t know what it was, but that girl had a special gift which we al felt, and don’t you tel me otherwise.” Halfway up the driveway, Evleen O’Fal on 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 hil towards the dark stone mansion cal ed Chatfield Court.

“I’m sure you wil like it,” her mother had said on her deathbed. “Lord Beaumont assured me you would.”

Mother’s gone.
A tear rol ed 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. “Al 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 il ness and trust you wil soon regain your health. In the sad event you do not, rest assured I shal 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 wil be treated not as a servant but one of the family.

Beaumont

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

“You wil because you must,” Mama answered firmly. “But one warning I must give you.”

“And what is that?” Evleen asked, stil 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 smal , 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.”

“Al right, I promise,” Evleen readily agreed. “I suspect the pebble would be useless in England anyway. I certainly don’t expect Merlin to fol ow 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 shal 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’Fal on, 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 shal 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 wel , no matter. Only the future counted now.

I shall be brave. I shall make Mama proud.

“So, Miss O’Fal on, 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 al 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 al 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 al 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 wel be dressed in a gunny sack. And these were just their morning gowns! Already they’d discussed their afternoon gowns, strol ing 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 il ,” 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 al 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 bal s.”

“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 tal , powerful y built man in his early thirties entered, fol owed by a slender, fair-haired boy of seven or so. “Hel o, 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 fal ing 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.” Beaumont bowed in return. “Delighted to meet you, Miss O’Fal on. Welcome to England.” He placed a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is my son, Peter. He’s without a governess right now and I was hoping you might see to his education, at least temporarily. Not as a governess, you understand. I consider you one of the family.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir. I’l be happy to help any way I can.”

“Very good then,” Beaumont answered. Evleen noted he had yet to smile. She caught an air of unhappiness about him, a certain remoteness. Perhaps he was stil grieving over the death of his first wife, Mil icent. But stil , she noted, he wasn’t grieving so much that he wasn’t planning to marry again.

Bettina arose from her chair and went to greet him, thrusting her arm possessively through his.

“Richard, darling, so lovely to have you back.” She cast a quick, unfriendly glance at Evleen, as if she resented his wasting even one moment of time on his poor cousin-by-marriage from Ireland.

“Your dear mother and sister have been helping with our wedding plans.”

“How very nice,” Beaumont answered absent-mindedly. Evleen caught a certain indifference in his voice. He ignored Bettina and continued, “We must get you settled in, Miss O’Fal on. There’s a bedchamber on the third floor next to my sister’s. I thought it might please you.” Lady Beaumont uttered an audible gasp. “Are you sure, Richard? I had thought—”

“Thought what, Mama?”

“A room on the fourth floor would be much more suitable.” Lady Beaumont’s lips had pursed into a tight, disapproving line.

“The servants’ floor? I think not,” Beaumont answered firmly. “Evleen is Mil icent’s cousin’s child.

As such, she’s a member of the family and wil be treated accordingly.”

“But of course,” his mother answered with il -concealed irritation. She cast stone-cold eyes at Evleen. “We’re so happy to have you, Miss O’Fal on. I trust you’l be happy here. Dinner is at eight.”

Evleen nodded a thank you and sent a smal smile in return. Except for Lord Beaumont himself, she felt as welcome as the plague.

What a beautiful room, Evleen thought when she stepped into her bedchamber. Never had she seen such luxury. With its fine furnishings and lovely view of the rear gardens it was a far cry from the tiny room off the kitchen she had shared with two sisters. Ordinarily, she’d be thril ed, but the chil y reception she’d received in the drawing room made for a heavy heart. She sank to a chair by the window and gazed at the sculptured gardens that lay behind Chatfield Court. Ah, what wouldn’t she give to be home right now! She closed her eyes and pictured her family’s cottage. Built of stone, with lime-washed wal s, it nestled in one of County Tipperary’s lush green val eys. The forested slopes of the Galtees, Ireland’s highest mountain range, lay not far beyond.