Rescuing Mr. Gracey (4 page)

Alec inhaled, then exhaled. The retort in his throat burned, yet he remained silent.

“Besides, Dolly’s Brae promises lousy food, bad liquor, and the disgusting stench of potatoheads. Why would anyone attend such an event?”

“I have had enough of this conversation and your crude remarks. And, may I add, you sound like a boorish bigot.”

“Please, sir, do not insult. That is the language of the popish rats that steal English rights and forfeit them to their Italian mackerel.” Bender’s lips disappeared with his sneer. “Mark my words. After one dance with her, you will stink like the village.”

Do not allow him advantage. Stay calm.
“’Tis harmless. I am going.”

“As a sponsor of the earl, you must heed my advice and give your time exclusively to his designs.”

Disgust churned his stomach like overcooked stew. “You are wrong, sir! I belong to no one, most especially to you.” He clasped his arms behind his back, and angry fire twitched his fisted hands.

Bender’s clothing dripped with sweat as the effort to match Alec’s stride overexerted his physical stamina. “Sir. To put it bluntly, this woman is not to be your mistress. To do so would get her killed.”

Alec’s legs stretched longer and longer lengths from the man who sorely needed a thrashing.

“If you are so foolhardy, I adamantly insist you find a dark corner and toss her back when you’re done…”

As if slammed into a hard wall, Alec jerked to a stop. His jaw locked in a clench. “She is not a tavern wench, you offensive, vulgar excuse for a man.” Alec could not remember ever having this kind of anger, this kind of black hatred. “I never treat any lady in such a vile manner. I certainly would not do so with Miss Smyth.”

Bender’s mouth dropped, trembling a little. “Hold on, kind sir. No need to get so vexed.” Red brows frowned with astonishment. “Good heavens, everyone knows that the word ‘lady’ and ‘Catholic’ are not compatible. That Lily creature is as cheap as a dirty blanket, and your girl would likely do anything for a piece of cheese.”

Raising his fisted hand toward the man, Alec leaned forward. Bender stumbled back. “Mary Smyth is both educated and well-mannered. A lady I would put up against most whom I have encountered this year past.”

James’s cheeks splotched an unhealthy crimson. “Lady? Did you see her dress?” His voice, but a puzzled whisper, softened further. “Did you see her hands? She is no lady.”

Alec grabbed James, lifting him a foot from the ground. “Shut your foul mouth,” he roared, shaking him. “After your insulting and threatening behavior, she still handled herself with perfect decorum.”

Distorting to a purplish flush, Bender clawed at Alec’s arms. “Please, sir. Unhand me.”

The snake represented everything wrong about the nation—arrogance, bigotry, disregard for human beings. Alec heard a satisfying rip on Bender’s vest as he thrust the man away.

He had to escape from the stench of prejudice. Nearly jogging, Alec was relieved to see the top of Gracey Manor. He ignored the sound of Bender gasping for air behind him.

“I attempt only to relay accurate information, but, of course, I also worry when you get such strange notions.” Bender huffed behind, wheezing with an effort to keep up. “I…I express regret for my language. I am, however, determined to protect your campaign and your family. You know what the earl can do to your father.”

A hot, heavy blanket of mental exhaustion slowed his gait. Bender caught up and took advantage with strategic and very logical assaults. “You have been away and may not realize how despised the Gracey name is among the natives in this area. If it were discovered that you attended the dance, the conservative support will disintegrate.”

They rounded the last street before Gracey Hill. Alec could not remember a more torturous journey.

“And…should the earl learn of it…well, you read your father’s letter…the mill, your home, all that the earl has financed, will be gone. Whispers of such an association will destroy your father.”

Damnation.
Obligation squeezed his pounding head.

“I understand you are a sympathetic man. That is one of the reasons the earl chose you. However, in this instance, those emotions are misplaced.” Heaving for air, he placed his chubby hand upon his side before continuing. “The Papists suffer poverty because drunken fathers waste the family income and force their children to beg. Though aid runs like water toward the natives, it disintegrates once they touch it. Your own family donates food, clothing, and money to the Banbridge workhouse, yet the natives complain there is never enough.”

His stomach twisted with bitter bile. Lowering his head, Alec clasped his hands behind his back.

“Why do they stay in Ireland?” Bender added. “It is beyond logic. Landowners graciously and frequently pay the ship passage for previous tenants who are unable to meet the rent. In spite of that, they refuse the opportunity. Most of the natives cannot even manage their own children. However, they desire political power and a vote. Can you fathom the disaster should these people run the nation? Imagine the barefooted natives hosting foreign dignitaries at Dublin Castle.”

The Graceys’ elegant manor, nestled atop a landscaped hill as if to remind him of his lofty place in society, came into view. With each step heavy, Alec neared the outer gate.

“I must also warn you, sir, that if her family discovers your wealth, considering her poverty, they may use even the one excursion into Dolly’s Brae against you. Obviously such a leak that you visited a Catholic gathering, especially in this political election, will ruin you.”

The last fortress fell. Alec growled with frustration. All his reasons for seeing her—stacked as a pile of unstable blocks—toppled.

Attending a Catholic dance in the middle of a Catholic village with her Catholic friends and family was beyond reckless. And for what purpose? It could not go beyond one night.

~ 3 ~

“To walk all round Lord Roden’s park,

 
and right over Dolly’s Brae.”

The cracked mirror did nothing to encourage Mary about her appearance. Instead, her warped reflection seemed to amplify the dreaded freckles and her faded dress.
Perhaps a bit of blue ribbon.

“Mary, darling,” her father, Joseph Smyth, chastised. “The good Lord created the entire universe in as much time as ’tis taking you to comb that hair.” He tapped on the tattered cloth that separated her small alcove from the rest of the stone hut. “We’re going as a family, and you’re keeping us all waiting.”

Clumsy fingers reknotted her long hair into a bun, then twisted the blue ribbon round and round the top. “Coming,
Dadai
.”

Once more studying the reflection, Mary groaned. The effort had not improved anything. She ran her hands down the blue linen dress, acknowledging that Sean Dennison would not be impressed. Though the gown hugged her waist, dipped at the neck, and even had matching blue slippers, he saw it every Sunday.

“Mary, we are still waiting.”

Ripping off the ribbon, Mary let her hair tumble freely over her shoulders. She fluffed and fanned until the cinnamon strands caressed her oval face and waved down her back.
Perhaps the fairies will sprinkle dust about Sean Dennison.
She shrugged and flipped the thin curtain that gave her privacy.

“Finally,” piped her older sister, Agnes. “Ya think she’s intendin’ t’ woo some gran’ prince or somethin’.”

“Agnes, watch your accent, girl,” her father teasingly reprimanded. “Remember, you benefited from the best education available to a native child—that of your own father.”

Everyone laughed except his wife.

Maureen Smyth, the family matriarch, sat proud and upright in her chair. “Aye, count your blessings that
Athair
’s gift of knowledge passed on to you.” She folded her arms and huffed. “St. Patrick must be agonizing over the children of Erin and how they are forced into heretical schools. All the while, the brightest, most talented teacher in County Down works the pub at night and plants a worthless field by day.”

“Oh-ho. Mary, look what you’ve done by fussing so long. Now we all must suffer a lecture from
Máthair
.” Joseph stroked Maureen’s cheek with a callused thumb. “Your mother longs for the days when I called myself a Hedgemaster and the food that came with the title.”

Mary exchanged a knowing glance with her father. “Do not lay the blame upon me, Da. We all miss you being the county teacher.” Winking at her sister, she said, “Yet that is not what irritates Mam. She fears Agnes has forgotten proper English from working in that Protestant home. Perhaps she does not even remember Gaelic
brehons
or Irish history.”

Joseph chuckled, tapping his hands against his chest. “I see your point, Mary. We must remind Agnes of her upbringing and education.” Lifting his thick brows, he puffed out his chest and imitated the accent of a stuffy aristocrat. “Agnes. Repeat after me. ‘Do you think a grand prince will be attending our poor excuse for a dance this evening?’”

In spite of her children giggling, Maureen pouted. “Ah, make light of it, all of you. But, Joseph, you know how I worry. You work too hard and are wasting the talent the good Lord gave you.”

He hugged his wife and whispered soothingly, “’Tis nothing more than all our children do to keep us going, dear heart. There’s no other way to hold the land.”

Maureen’s brow lifted as she stared into her husband’s eyes. “Mark me words, Joseph Smyth. As soon as the blight is over, ye’ll be teaching again, and we’ll not be eating pitiful
prátaí
neither. In the meanwhile, our very own children will not be forgetting their lessons. I’ll see to that.”

Tugging his mother’s hem, three-year-old Joey added, “Me too.”

“Da, please,” Agnes whined. “Couldn’t we hold this discussion for another day? I only get home once per month, and I’d like to have a dance or two before returning in the morn.”

“Let’s make haste, then,” Joseph said, crossing one leg over the other. “Me feet are impatient to meet the pipers, and me arms long to hold me darlin’ wife in a waltz beneath the moon.”

He wrapped Maureen in a bear hug before placing a gentle kiss upon her forehead. She blushed, her beautiful girlish smile playing at her mouth.

Patting his chest, she winked. “I’ll believe ya, Mr. Smyth, but a thousand others wouldn’t.”

Joseph chuckled as he opened the door. Seven-year-old Brian, three-year-old Joey, Agnes, and Mary followed their parents across the property and down a rutted road.

Distant sounds of fiddles and pipes,
bodhrán
drums, and tapping feet on barn-door floors floated through the starry night. The
feis
dancing competition had been going since noon and now crowds gathered for the scheduled dance.

As they got closer to the dance, Mary touched nervous hands to the protruding edges of her ribs. She was a pragmatist and acknowledged that the years of famine and working in the sun and not eating properly had all combined to steal her youth. That was why tonight she was almost desperate to pursue the small dream of having her own family and home.

She must be bold, her sister Bridget had written in a letter last month. Pursue the man with cunning so that he did not know he had been caught. Yet doubts about her ability to do so slowed her progress toward the dance. What if, after her best attempt at stirring Sean Dennison’s interest, he laughed at her? A queasy burn knotted her stomach. What if he thought her too skinny to be a good farmer’s wife?

Like tedious rain, each day for the last four years had dripped away with a sort of helplessness. So consumed with surviving, Mary had little time to worry about the dreams that died with each sunset.

Her sister believed Sean needed a flirtatious little push, but logic told her otherwise. After all, he never sought her for ideas or conversations. And, truthfully, his topics rarely varied from pigs. He never attempted to see her during the week or bring little courtship tokens or flowers or notes.

Don’t men who wish to marry do those things? Her anxious heart tripped like a clumsy dancer. What if he simply had no interest?

She inhaled, then released tense air.
Stop, Mary Smyth.
Sean always sat beside her at Sunday Mass, visited each Sunday afternoon, enjoyed a small Sunday meal, and drank ale afterward, she reassured herself.

Her cheeks warmed as she thought of him.
Don’t his clear, green eyes shine when I enter a room? And doesn’t he sit on my rickety porch for at least a full hour after Sunday dinner?
Aye. Sean Dennison was the most responsible gentleman in Dolly’s Brae, and that was the reason he had no time for courtship. Definitely.
Much too busy to bother with notes and flowers and such.

Besides, everyone, Mary included, assumed that Sean intended to marry her.

Someday.

She was nearly one and twenty, and that
someday
had not come, and now she
needed
him to rouse. Tonight, she must fan the embers of this last dream or face a future inside a very small hut with her parents.

“Mary, darlin’. Keep up, girl,” her father called back.

Mary looked up, startled that she had fallen so far behind. “Sorry,
Dadai
. I was just thinking on something.”

“Well, think on it a wee bit faster.”