The Rebel (17 page)

But with Henry’s rejection today, Clara was
now lost, set adrift, destined to be swept along on life’s
currents.

This marriage was to be an emotionless
contract between families. Very well. She would suffer through it
and reap the good it would bring her parents. She
was
selfless—in spite of Henry’s condemnation—and she would prove
it.

***

Egan held back her immediate objections to
the idea and—as she always did—tried to consider what good it might
bring to the people most affected by the English king’s
brutality.

“Ye all know that this is not the first time
they’ve extended an invitation to us,” Liam said. “But this
gathering in Kildare of the Shanavest leaders will be the largest
ever held. And by having representatives from all over the south,
they know they can plan a campaign of unrest that will be felt all
the way to London. Many feel it is time to send that message of
unity to every magistrate and high sheriff in Ireland.”

“It could be a trap.” Jenny, the eldest in
the group, frowned at the circle of faces before turning back to
Liam and Egan.

Liam shrugged. “It could be. But we all live
every day with a noose about our necks.”

The leader paused, and Egan watched him
focus on the discussion of those who had gathered inside the ruined
abbey. She knew as well as he did that this decision could not be
made without a consensus of those who were here. What they decided
would affect the future of all.

Liam shot a look at Egan, but she continued
to keep her silence. In the past, she had always spoken against
uniting their own efforts with the work of the Shanavests of
Carlow, Queen’s County, or Kildare. Word traveled quickly in the
countryside, and what she had mostly heard of those groups in
recent years had to do with their increasing tendency toward
violence. Where her own small band would only go so far as to scare
a landowner or cleric or sometimes steal back what had been taken
from tenants, these others were known to burn houses, maim cattle,
and even commit murder if they saw the need.

While both Liam and Egan tried hard to focus
their efforts on helping the displaced, many of the Whiteboys from
Dingle to Dundalk seemed only bent on revenge. For now, though,
attending this gathering in Kildare seemed to offer benefits too
great to ignore.

“’Tis a good two days to get there…and the
same to get back,” Patrick said, voicing the concern that a few had
already expressed quietly. “Most of us cannot just go off and leave
our families and our farms. I’ve still got a harvest to finish…and
I’m a wee bit surprised that the meeting is to be held now.”

“That’s the very point of having it now.”
Liam crouched and picked up an old straw. “Wait until after the
harvests are all done, and the English will be watching for
us.”

Liam’s gaze met Egan’s. He was looking for
her support. She nodded.

“Is Finn going?” Jenny asked next.

“He cannot...and well he should not.” Liam
replied, studying the shredded bit of straw in his hand. Throwing
it to the ground, he stood up and faced the rest. “Finn serves as
our eyes and ears. We cannot afford to do without him for so long.
Besides, outside of Cork, Waterford, or Tipperary, most of our
brothers and sisters say he is something we’ve dreamed up.”

“Ye don’t have to go that far to hear that.”
Everyone laughed and turned to look at Ronan, who was standing
against a ruined wall, his muscular arms crossed over his massive
chest.

“Liam and I should go,” Egan said to settle
the matter before anyone could get distracted. “And while we are
gone, Patrick can keep an eye on the runt here. Everyone else
should go on with the harvest as if nothing were amiss.”

Egan looked around at the group. She knew
them all. Jenny. Liam. Ronan. Patrick. All of them. All of them
lived their entire lives in this little corner of Ireland, and they
knew each other like family—celebrating and supporting each other
through baptisms and weddings and funerals.

All seemed willing to go along with the
suggestion. Jenny, though, was the one who brought up the problem
Egan still had to resolve.

“We will all lend a hand and be sure Liam’s
absence will not mean trouble for his family. His landlord shan’t
miss him. But ye, Egan…to my thinking, ye shall be needing to do
some fancy stepping to be away unnoticed for so long.”

“That’s my specialty.” She nodded
reassuringly to the group. “Fancy stepping.”

“Aye, we have faith in ye, Egan.” Patrick
asked. “So when must ye be going?”

“Ten days.” Liam answered. “’Tis the latest
we can go, if we want to get there in time.”

None of this made any sense. None of it!

The young maidservant held the robe as
Catherine Purefoy pushed her arms in it. Her nerves just couldn’t
take this. She hadn’t retired more than half an hour earlier, and
now her husband wished her in the dining room?

What a night! Sir Nicholas’s comment at
dinner had surprised her. Anticipation had then nearly killed her
as she’d waited for the men to emerge from the dining room. Minutes
had rolled into hours and there had been no news. Hope had finally
given way to disappointment, though, and it became clear that she
could not wait up any longer for them. Decency dictated that she
should retire, so she had…though reluctantly.

How curious that Lady Spencer did not appear
to share in the excitement, at all. What a strange woman! And
daughter, too! Soon after the women had retired to the parlor after
dinner, the young Miss Spencer had simply retired to her room with
a book under her arm. Lady Spencer had gone up to bed soon after
the daughter without a worry in the world, it seemed. Well,
Catherine thought with satisfaction, Lady Spencer would have her
time when Frances was ready for the marriage market.

“Are you certain that he did not wish for
Miss Clara, as well?”

“Aye, quite certain, m’lady.”

“And Sir Thomas
said
he want me come
alone?”

“Well, m’lady…not exactly in those words.
The squire just asked for you.”

The older woman looked down in search of her
slippers. The serving girl immediately produced them. Nothing made
sense.
Nothing
, she repeated to herself.

She and Clara had kept their vigil for a
while longer, but it wasn’t long before Clara was begging her, as
well, to retire to her room. Catherine remembered thinking that
this was a night for celebration, but the dispirited look on her
daughter’s face had soon put an end to her own happiness.

“And did you say Sir Thomas is still in the
dining room?” She pushed her feet into the slippers.

“Aye, m’lady. Waiting to speak with
you.”

Catherine started for the door, but then
thought of what she must look like in her robe and slippers and
night cap. She turned abruptly to the maid. “Is Sir Nicholas still
with him?”

“Nay, m’lady. The gentleman left the dining
room a while ago.” She thought for a moment. “And there was no one
in the parlor when we were cleaning up, either. Fey thought he’d
retired for the night, as well…though I didn’t see him, myself,
ma’am.”

He’d left a while ago, Catherine repeated to
herself, hurrying downstairs. The house was quiet. The servants had
apparently retired, as well. She hardly knew what to expect, but
she knocked quietly on the dining room door before entering.

Her husband was still sitting in his usual
chair. A single candle flickered brightly in the center of the
table. A half empty decanter of port and a glass sat before him. He
didn’t acknowledge her when she came in and closed the door. The
passage leading to the kitchen wing was dark and deserted. They
were alone.

“You wished to speak to me.”

He swirled the amber colored liquid in his
glass and drank it down before looking up.

“Though I should not be surprised, you have
failed again, Catherine.”

His voice was harsh—the attack wounding her
dearly. She stood attentively at the opposite end of the table from
her husband, her fingers clutching at the high back of the
chair.

“I was under the impression that you had
brought this silly chit up right. You assured me that this one
would not disgrace me, that this one would know what to say or
do…or how to act to fetch herself a proper husband.”

She shook her head. He was attacking the
only bright thing that had come of this marriage. “She does, sir.
Clara’s manners are impeccable. Her charm…”

“Not enough, by thunder.” He slammed a hand
on the table, making her jump. She saw his hand shake as he poured
more port from the decanter. “She lacks finesse. She acts like a
simpleton. Young…naïve…innocent. The chit appears to the world to
have no mind of her own.” His words were slurring, and she watched
him push the glass away, ignoring it when it sloshed over the rim,
staining the tablecloth.

“How else would you have her act?” Catherine
could not comprehend him, at all. “She is the perfect young woman.
Accomplished in the feminine arts. Moral. Deferential. Quiet.”

“Well, these things are apparently out of
fashion.” He leaned back against the chair, glaring at her. “And I
do not blame him for not wanting her. I have yet to hear her
express an opinion on any subject. The chit has never taken a stand
on anything. Defended anything. I never hear her speak without
being spoken to first. She is just a pretty face. She has no soul.
No substance. No presence. She’s a bloody ghost.”

Catherine felt hot tears rush to her eyes at
this unfair and critical view of their daughter. She knew she could
defend her. She could easily remind her husband that Clara was the
opposite of
everything
that he hated in Jane. That it was he
himself who had required that she be brought up to be exactly as he
described.

She fought to be calm, wracking her brain
for the real reason that Sir Nicholas had not proposed as they’d
expected. There must be another reason, she thought. Well, she was
not going to shoulder the responsibility for this. No, indeed.

“There will be other suitors,” she said
assuredly. “Clara is a noted beauty, and has a fortune to offer, as
well. Others who are not as critical or
fashionable
will
find no flaws in our child.”

“This is it.” He leaned forward. “Clara is
not
a child. I do not particularly care to be entertaining
other suitors. I want
this
man. He is not like the other
fops we saw hanging in the doorway of every party in London. His
title and wealth be damned, I tell you. Even without them, I would
gladly welcome this one into my family. He is a real man.”

Catherine stared, shocked at her husband’s
words.

“I tell you, he gave me dressing down after
you all left…the likes of which I have not seen since the Duke of
Cumberland relieved General Hawley of his command in Scotland.” Sir
Thomas rose to his feet, placing a hand on the table to steady
himself. “Hang it, this one is not afraid of me in the least. The
valiant rogue looked me right in my eye and said, ‘You are wrong.’
‘
You are wrong
,’ he tells me!”

Sir Thomas’s shout echoed in the room, and
Catherine glanced hesitantly behind her, glad she’d closed the
door.

“The…
talk
…he wanted to have with me
this night had little to do with Clara, at all.” He eyed her
critically from across the way. “He had the gall to reprimand
me…rebuke me…for the way I allow
Jane
to be treated.”

“Jane?”

“Jane. He does not care at all how I allow
her to be treated by
Musgrave
. By thunder, he went on for a
quarter of an hour about the insolence with which the new
magistrate addresses her. He complained how
we
—” He pointed
a finger at her and then back at himself. “—fail to include her
properly as a member of this family. He talked unceasingly about
Jane. Defending her. Do you hear me? Not Clara…he has no interest
there. But only defends
Jane
and her bloody impertinence.”
He laughed shortly and then drew a breath. “Oh, yes. He did say
that your prize filly is far too young for him. He cannot possibly
consider taking her as a wife.”

“What are we to do?” she asked nervously as
Sir Thomas started around the table toward her. “We can’t change
her age…how can we convince him otherwise?”

As he reached her, she could see the look in
her husband’s eye. She’d seen it more than she cared to admit. He
placed a hand on her shoulder, and she tried to hide her
distaste.

“Our guest will be staying the fortnight as
originally planned. So it is now
your
job, madam, to see to
it that while he is here, he recognizes Clara’s other charms.”

She swallowed hard as his gaze descended to
her bosom.

“I can…I can plan a party…a ball,” she said
as he began to move his hands over the silk brocade of her robe.
“Girls are always seen in a far better light in such settings. I…I
shall plan it for this coming week.”

“You do whatever you must,” he said vaguely,
turning her toward the table.

At his urging, Catherine leaned forward onto
her elbows. He lifted the layers of her robe and nightgown to her
waist. She felt him position himself behind her and stared at the
burning candle as he fumbled with his breeches.

“I shall send the invitations out tomorrow
and…” She winced slightly and braced herself as he took hold of her
hips and entered her. “I shall have Fey bring in half a dozen more
workers from the farms to help with the serving.” Her husband’s
tempo was increasing, and she felt the heat rising into her face.
“I…I shall have her…have her get more help for…for the kitchen,
too. And yes, a new…a new dress for Clara. Something more
sophisticated and…and revealing.” She was glad to hear his final
grunt of release. She frowned and waited as he backed away from
her.