Some Enchanted Waltz (17 page)
Tara was disappointed to find her husband still asleep when she left with Lady Fiona on their shopping excursion. She had hardly slept all night, trying to remember why the name Fitzgerald gave her chills and brought a feeling of impending disaster. The man in question was so charming and pleasant. He hardly warranted suspicion.
Unlike that elusive highwayman; Captain Midnight was the dangerous outlaw who chanced upon her dreams at night to steal a kiss. The dream was always the same. She could almost taste his lips, feel the black silk scarf pressed against her cheek. The odor of sulfur and smoke lingered about his clothing as he held her firmly against him. It was always night in the dream, a stormy, cold night, just like the night of the shipwreck. The highwayman cradled her on his lap. They were on horseback. He dismounted Tara into what seemed to be a cave.
Tara would wake up shivering, feeling that cold rain once again, with her lips tingling from their stolen kiss. The kiss of a phantom, a figment of her imagination. A blush stole across her cheeks as she glanced at Lady Fiona. It had to be her imagination, that was all there was to explain it. A recurring fantasy dredged up from her subconscious mind, an image impressed upon her from a novel she read during the voyage here.
She crossed her legs, ignoring her mother-in-law’s reproving look as the coach swayed back and forth on the streets of Cork. Tara smiled softly as she remembered the flame her husband’s kiss had ignited in the parlor, before Lord Fitzgerald interrupted their embrace. And then she began to worry about his association with Fitzgerald.
The coach drew to a stop, bringing Tara out of her musings.
They were fortunate to be able to find several gowns that had been commissioned weeks ago and then canceled by the lord who had broken off with his mistress. There was a forest green riding habit with a smart hat, and velvet gowns in rich jewel hues.
“I have one more that should prove suitable for the White’s Ball.” The matron removed herself to the back room once again, leaving Tara and her mother-in-law in the posh dressing room.
“The apple green suits her coloring.” The proprietress helped Tara remove the cerulean blue velvet winter gown, and then pulled the sheer fabric up about her shoulders when she stepped into the skirt.“Oh.” Lady Fiona breathed.
“Enchanting, is she not?” The shopkeeper beamed with pride. “With an emerald pendant, a wreath of silk flowers in her hair, she will appear the woodland sprite come to life from a fairy story.”
“Quite.” Lady Fiona agreed. “Could you fashion some matching wings? It is a costume ball, after all.”
“Yes, Milady. I have some sheer silk fabric of this same shade set aside.”
“Excellent. We will need it before Friday. We leave for Seafield House then.”
Tara gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She could have been cast as Titania, the fairy queen of Shakespeare’s
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. The sleeves were of the sheerest green material, enhanced by gathered panels of fabric that draped over her shoulders, down her arms and swirled about her wrists like gossamer, giving the wearer the illusion of being an enchanted woodland spirit. The underskirt was of a darker shade of green, like the forest, also enhanced by attached panels of the sheer, light fabric.
As she whirled about the panels of the skirt and sleeves swirled out in an elegant spiral, adding the illusion of floating rather than standing before the mirror. “I’ll freeze to death.” Tara murmured, turning to see if the back covered her fairy wings tattoo. Fortunately it had a high back that came to her neckline. “It’s very impractical.”
“Lovely, we’ll take it.” Lady Fiona rose. “Tara, darling, I’m famished. We’ve enough clothes to get you through the weekend at Seafield House. Perhaps you can return another time to order more gowns. Madame Elise is very good to deal with, I’m certain she can arrange to have your trousseau sent on to Glengarra Castle when it is completed.”
“Yes, my lady. Is there anything else I can find for you before you leave?”
Tara stepped out of the dainty creation as the attendants helped her. A mischievous smirk reflected in the mirror at Madame Elise. “You wouldn't happen to have any long johns, would you?”
The other women looked at her with bewilderment. It was clear they didn’t know what she meant. “Um, . . . thermal underwear?” Tara gestured helplessly with one hand. “Men wear them in the winter. They are fitted to come down to your ankles?”
The proprietress stared at her with horror. An attendant giggled and then placed her hand over her lips to hide her smile.
“This is a decent business that caters only to women of the highest reputations.”
“And men who can afford to dress their mistresses in style.” Lady Fiona quipped. “My son’s wife is from America. I’m certain she will agree with me when I say that they are much more sensible in their choice of winter clothing, not being given to such frivolities as fashion and style. She wishes to purchase sensible inexpressables, perhaps something made of heavy flannel. Our family seat at Glengarra is damp and drafty. If you cannot provide the Viscountess with them, I am sure Madame Couvillion’s across the street would appreciate our patronage.”
At Lady Fiona’s rebuke, the dressmaker was only too happy to fulfill Tara's strange request. Although she hadn’t a pair made, she would see to it immediately and have the flannel pantalets delivered to the townhouse by the end of the week.
Since their arrival at Cork, Lady Fiona seemed to be a different person entirely, stimulated out of her melancholy by the bustle of city life and the social prospects before her. They enjoyed another round of shopping for gloves and hats after their luncheon.
* * *
The dinner party that evening at Sheares House was so small it could almost be considered exclusive. Only the Dillon Family and Lord Fitzgerald were the guests.
The Sheares brothers were a contradiction of each other. Horace, the eldest, was a pallid, rather colorless man with watery grey eyes and a long, narrow nose that at the moment was reddened. He lifted a thin hand from time to time to dab at it with a handkerchief. His thick thatch of untamed hair the color of sand and his large, wide eyes gave him the appearance of being continually startled.
As the evening progressed, Tara noticed Horace depended on his more dapper brother, Jasper, for direction and leadership. And Lady Fiona wanted her sixteen year old daughter to marry this revolting wimp so she would be financially secure?
Jasper was attractive. His thick blonde hair was cropped short in just above the intense ice blue eyes. He sported a tan and a golden mustache framed his handsome face. Unfortunately, every time she caught him gazing at her, Tara had the distinct feeling Jasper was undressing her in his mind.
Mrs. Sheares conversed with Lady Fiona, while the men talked on about sheep, the weather, the stock quotes at the London exchange this month and the health of King George as if by rote, carefully evading any real conversation in the presence of the ladies. Mr. Sheares was at least twenty years his wife’s senior, a frumpy old man who seemed more concerned with the contents of his plate than appearing polite to his guests.
Lord Edward was the redeemer in a miserable dining experience. He was quite the gallant, asking Tara polite and probing questions regarding her experiences in Cork.
“Have you visited the Coffee Shop, Lady Dillon? No? Why you mustn’t leave Cork without tasting his hot chocolate, it’s divine. The twist of cinnamon makes all the difference. Just yesterday I begged him to give me his recipe so our cook at Leinster House can make for me when I’m in Dublin.”
Adrian was quiet. Tara was learning that he was always reserved at dinner, whether they dined alone or with guests.
“Tell me about America, Lady Dillon.” Lord Fitzgerald broke into her thoughts. “I’m intrigued with their new system of government. A democracy--all men are created equal. I say, have they abolished the ancient agrarian system that shackles Ireland and England?”
His question left Tara speechless. First, she had trouble recalling the details of anything regarding her life before Adrian, and secondly, he was addressing her, a woman, with the same respect and equality that he would a man. She was taken aback by the fact that he wanted to discuss the aspects of democracy with her.
Tara stared into his deep blue eyes for what seemed an eternity, trying to formulate an answer that would accurately portray America at the close of the eighteenth century.
“I believe I neglected to mention that my wife has suffered a great deal of memory loss due to the shipwreck.” Adrian interjected in the silence.
Lord Edward kept looking at her, brushing off her husband’s remarks like an annoying insect buzzing as he waited for her to answer. “Yes, I believe you mentioned it, Adrian. Perhaps if she were intellectually stimulated, rather than stifled, she would recover her memory quicker.”
“How is Lady Fitzgerald?” Adrian quipped, his meaning obvious. “I’m surprised you did not bring Lady Pamela with you to Cork.”
“Pamela is well, thank you.” He answered Adrian’s probe and smiled at Tara. “She resides in Hamburg, Germany. She was raised in the court of France, and finds our bonny Ireland to be too remote for her liking. We are ill suited, I fear, and lead separate lives. Such is the way of love. Now, Tara, dear, tell me how you find this new democracy working in your country. I was at the last battle of your War for Independence. I find your liberal idealism inspiring.”
Adrian bristled. His attempt to deflect Edward’s attentions defeated.
With a demure smile, Tara answered Lord Edward’s question. “The democracy you speak of is more in theory than in practice. There are still large plantations that make a tidy profit for the owners while employing slave labor. Those are mostly in the south.”
“Yes.” Lord Edward sipped his wine thoughtfully. “The slave trade is a sorry business. England decries it, yet keeps her own vanquished nations enslaved by her tyrannical rule. What nation deserves her freedom more than Ireland, where a peasant farmer is no better off than the black slaves in America?”
“Ah-ah-ah. No such talk at my table, young man.” Mrs. Sheares scolded.
“Well, perhaps we should leave the ladies to enjoy our cigars in the library.” Jasper Sheares said as he rose. The other men took his lead and followed him. Only Mr. Sheares was left in the dining room, although not for long, as a servant to wheel him out.
“Shall we retreat to the parlor?” Mrs. Sheares rose. “When the men have finished their brandy and cigars, we can play some parlor games.”
Lady Fiona agreed, rising to follow her hostess. Tara wanted sorely to hear the conversation in the library. “If you don’t mind, Lady Sheares, I should like to rest for a few moments, upstairs.”
“As you will.” The gracious woman conceded. “Lizzy, show Lady Dillon to the blue room upstairs so she may lie down.” With that, the two matrons left Tara in the capable hands of the downstairs maid.
Tara allowed the girl to lead her up the large marble staircase to the room allotted to her. She learned from the maid that the library was on the same floor, on the west wing.
After the maid left her Tara peeked into the hallway. Seeing no one, she tiptoed down the hall to the library. Fortunately, the hallway doors were set in about two feet from the hall, with molded panels of dark cherry wood. She could listen to the conversation within and still hide in the shadows from passing servants in the hall.
She placed her ear to the door, yet could make out only mumbled voices. Slowly, carefully, she turned the knob and looked inside with one eye in the crevice. The men were at the far end, beyond the bookshelves, near the hearth. She could not walk in without being seen, as Lord Fitzgerald stood at the mantle, facing her. Adrian and the Sheares brothers sat with their backs to her. At least with the door ajar she could hear their conversation.
“We have yet to decide where the French fleet should land. Adrian, I believe your neighbor, Lord Bantry, has proven to be a liability. His actions last year make it difficult to plan another invasion on the Bay of Bantry. We may go further north this time round.”
“Understood.” Adrian’s calm voice echoed in the large room.
“Traitorous Bastard.” Jasper Sheares spat with disgust. “We should follow our French brethren’s example and execute those who refuse to support a new order.”
Lord Edward spun around. “Jasper. How can you say such things? You recall the horrors of the Revolution claimed the lives of innocent women and children as well. Would you have every peasant in Ireland, every noble woman and child, live in terror of ‘The Committee’, every one of us live in constant fear of being accused of treason and executed within the same day, without the benefit of trial.”
Lord Edward’s face was white with anger as he chided his companion’s rash words. “My God, Jasper Sheares, we would be no better than our British oppressors. Perhaps you enjoyed your time in France too well.”
“I witnessed the execution of Louis. It was a grand triumph for the revolutionaries.”
“Gentleman, please.” Horace interjected. “We will accomplish nothing by arguing.”
“Would you have our lovely dinner companion, Lady Tara, tied to a cart and marched through the howling mob, pelted with foods, offal, and rocks as they dragged her to the guillotine? You forget, Jasper, there are innocents involved, we have no desire to re-invent the days of
The Terror
here in Ireland.”
