The Secret Rose (5 page)

Aisleen bit her lip. Why now, after three years of silence, had her mother written to her? Where were all the answers to the dozens of letters she had written over the years?

She opened her hand and allowed the letter to fall to the floor. She had read it over and over until every word of it was imprinted in her brain, and yet it explained very little.

Me dear, darling daughter,

I write ye not for the first time, but I fear that these may be the first words ye’ve received.

’Tis sad I am to say this letter brings terrible news. Yer da, God bless him, is dead. Run over on a Dublin street, he was. The constable says he was killed instantly, the iron shoes of the horses being the murderous things they are.

’Tis me hope that ye’ll be forgiving him his hard
heart these last years. And that ye’ll be comin’ home where ye belong.

Yer loving mother

“No,” Aisleen whispered defiantly. She would not go home. Home? She had no home. Her father had sold Liscarrol out from under her in the same stroke with which he had exiled her. She was an orphan in fact now, but in her own mind she had become one three long years ago when her father had betrayed all her hopes for happiness, permanence, and security. Even her mother was a stranger. The letter had not said so, but it must be true that her father had blocked the letters her mother had written. Another betrayal, another instance of his hatred of her.

“I am alone, no more or less than I have ever been,” she murmured resolutely to the night. For three years she had managed alone, and survived. Only in being strong, in relying on herself alone, had she existed. Nothing had changed with the news she’d been given. If the letter had never reached her, she would not have cared. It brought no sadness or gladness. She felt nothing on learning of her father’s death.

So why did her heart hurt? Whence came this aching rift that threatened her world? She did not want this pain, this sorrow for what might have been if only she were loved. It hurt too much to care, to care when her caring was not returned. She felt torn by tongs, buffeted by desires that could not be met, starved for that which could never be hers.

She bent and picked up the letter and carried it to her chiffonier, where she placed it in a drawer. In the morning, when she had recovered, she would write to her mother, the stranger who had borne her, and be the dutiful daughter. Perhaps, in time, they would become friendly once more. But she would not seek her mother’s love. That way led to pain, this shattering, splintering ache that made her catch her breath sharply.

No! She felt nothing. Nothing!

She tasted blood and realized that she had bitten through her inner lip. The metallic taste of blood was quickly joined by the saltiness of tears as they streamed down her cheeks and into her mouth.

“Da! Da! Why could you not love me?”

September 1850

“A post?” Aisleen repeated. “Here at your school, Miss Burke?”

Miss Burke nodded. “I know that it comes as a shock to you, Miss Fitzgerald, but shocks are not always unpleasant events. You have shown yourself over these last six years to be of sound, if forward, temperament and a reliable, if somewhat passionate, nature. Were you to return to Ireland, I daresay you would find yourself educated quite beyond those of your past acquaintance. You would not find a post worthy of you. As for marriage, well, you must know how little hope there is of obtaining a suitable match, things being what they are. In short, you have few alternatives. Ireland is prostrate from the effects of famine and mismanagement.”

“You refer to the years of starvation that England saw fit not to prevent?” Aisleen questioned.

“That kind of talk will land you in the gutter,” Miss Burke rapped out. “Ungrateful chit! Always were, always will be!”

Aisleen could scarcely contain her smile. She had never sought Miss Burke’s favor, only her respect. Now she did not need Miss Burke’s approval any longer. “For the past
two years, I have worked as a teacher without benefit of salary or title. In that time I have not asked for nor received from you in the form of benefit a single sum. You will understand that I could not well refuse your dubious charity until
now
.”

“Until now? Why now?” Miss Burke asked.

“Because, Miss Burke, I have obtained a post.” Aisleen withdrew a paper from her apron pocket. “It’s a post as a governess for the Beetons of Salisbury. I have agreed to their terms and will leave on the morning coach at the end of the week.”

“Ungrateful chit!” Miss Burke repeated hoarsely. “After all I’ve done for you! You’ll regret leaving here. You’re not fit for the world beyond these doors. You’ll regret it!”

“Perhaps,” Aisleen agreed. “But I feel that it is my right to test myself against the world’s measure.”

“There’s a man in this,” Miss Burke said suddenly. “You believe you shall catch yourself a husband, that’s it!”

Aisleen shook her head firmly. “One thing I would not wish for myself is matrimony. Nothing I have ever heard or seen of it persuades me to believe that marriage is a fit institution for a woman of good morals and sound mind. You yourself have never married, and yet you prosper. So shall I.”

Miss Burke regarded the young woman before her in mingled pride and rage. “I have made you! You must never forget that. I turned you from a Gaelic heathen into a well-bred young lady. If you ever forget yourself, you are lost. As for marriage, it’s a trap for fools and dullards, and you’re neither, my girl, and do not forget it!”

Aisleen smiled “I do not intend to, Miss Burke.”

* * *

Beeton Cottage, Somerset: 1851

“Such a serious creature, Giles,” Mrs. Beeton said, as she buttered another slice of breakfast toast. “I do wonder that the children are not thoroughly frightened of her.”

Mr. Beeton peered over the edge of his newspaper. “‘Of whom do you speak, dear?”

“Of Miss Fitzgerald, of course. She’s quite the most daunting nanny any child ever had. I find myself correcting my own posture when she’s about.” Mrs. Beeton smiled coquettishly. “She’s positively a replica of Miss Burke!”

“’Tis why you hired her,” her husband answered reasonably. “I’ve not seen much of the young woman these past months, but I defer to your tastes in such matters.”

Far from mollified by his answer, she said, “I had hoped that a young woman of whom Miss Burke approved would prove beneficial to the girls, but I had forgotten quite how miserable I was my first year at Burke’s Academy.”

Mr. Beeton lowered his paper a fraction more. “Are the girls unhappy with Miss Fitzgerald?”

“Oh, no. I would not tolerate a single day of their misery, as well you know. All the same, I wish you would speak to her, Giles. She appears to be quite bereft of the finer feelings of nurturing that one would expect in a young lady. Why, I wonder if that explains why she has not wed. She’s passably pleasant to look at. One does wonder, Giles, why she has not formed an attachment.”

Giving up, Giles folded the paper. “I suppose her lack of suitors would have something to do with the lack of opportunity, my dear. A young woman closeted behind the doors of Burke’s Academy for six years would have little opportunity to meet gentlemen. As for the future, you must remember that she’s Irish and, well, there will be few of her kind who are her equal.”

“That’s true,” Mrs. Beeton mused. “Educated above her class and Catholic into the bargain. I suppose we performed an act of charity by taking her on.”

“I suppose,” her husband murmured, regarding his poached egg with distaste. “I do abhor poached eggs!”

“All the same, you will speak to her?” Mrs. Beeton urged.

Mr. Beeton looked up. “If you wish it, dear. A letter arrived for her in the morning post. I shall take it to her the moment breakfast is done. You will, of course, tell me what to say to her?”

“Of course,” his wife agreed in a pleasant voice. “Servants of her caliber are difficult to obtain. They must be handled carefully.”

*

At exactly half past ten o’clock, Mr. Beeton found himself crossing the topiary garden at the rear of his home in search of his governess and two daughters. The sound of laughter drew him to the wall that separated the gardens from the orchards.

“Up you go, Miss Hillary. Now hold on. I won’t allow you to fall. Pick the shiniest, reddest one! Pull hard. That’s my girl!”

Mr. Beeton entered the orchard just as his younger child was being swung high in the arms of the governess. Startled to find his stern governess caught in a moment of play, he paused in the shadows to watch.

“What a clever, clever girl you are!” Aisleen cried in approval when she had set Hillary on the ground. She bent forward to observe the treasure in the girl’s small hands.

“Why, I do believe that this must be the biggest, juiciest apple in all the county.”

“Mine’s bigger!” Mary called down from the branch onto which she had climbed. “See? Mine is the biggest apple of all.”

“Miss Mary, you come down from there this instant,” Aisleen said firmly.

Mary tossed her apple onto the ground and began to shinny backward until her sash caught on a limb. “Nanny! Oh, nanny, I’m stuck!”

“Serves you right for being a very naughty girl,” Aisleen replied, but she quickly added, “Don’t cry, dear. I’ll climb up and get you.”

To Mr. Beeton’s surprise, his very proper governess reached down and pulled the hem of her gown up between her legs and tucked it into her waistband. Then, using the stone bench at the base of the apple tree, she reached up and pulled herself into the lower branch of the tree.

His lips twitched as he spied a slim ankle encased in a black stocking. Was this the young lady his wife thought of as a termagant? She seemed more like one of the children than the severe lady his wife’s words had painted in his mind’s eye.

Aisleen grabbed Mary about the waist and handily returned to the ground with her charge in tow. “Now then, Miss Mary, what have you learned from today’s adventure?”

Mary looked down at her torn sash, and then a pair of dimples appeared. “That the biggest and best apples in all the world are at the top of the tree.”

Aisleen tried to keep a straight face, but it was impossible and she laughed. “You should be scolded. Your mother would be horrified to learn that her daughter climbs trees.”

“Then you must not tell her,” Mary said precociously.

Aisleen’s copper brows lifted. “If I do that, then you must do something for me in return “

“What?” Mary asked suspiciously.

“You must promise never to climb a tree again.”

“I think that a jolly good pledge!”

Aisleen swung about at the sound of a man’s voice and saw Mr. Beeton striding toward them. Blushing furiously, she shook out her skirts and then folded her arms primly. “Mr. Beeton. Curtsy to your father, Mary. Hillary.”

The clipped toned surprised Mr. Beeton, for it was quite different from the voice she had used with the girls before he appeared. “I trust you are adjusting well to your new life here,” he said kindly.

“It is sufficient to my needs,” Aisleen answered softly, embarrassment making her feel awkward. She was so seldom in the company of men that she did not know how to behave.

Mr. Beeton stared at the brim of her bonnet because she had lowered her head before his gaze. Where was the young woman who had moments ago climbed a tree with abandon and laughed freely? His wife believed her to be a Tartar. In reality, she appeared as tongue-tied and shy as any green girl. “Are there any changes that you would make?”

Aisleen shook her head, her eyes still downcast. “No. Thank you for inquiring, but I am quite content.”

At a loss, Mr. Beeton remembered the letter he carried and offered it. “This came for you in the morning post.” When Aisleen lifted her head, he smiled encouragingly. “It’s from Ireland—a relative perhaps? I hope it’s good news.”

To his amazement, she turned white as her gaze fell on the postmark. “Thank—thank you,” she said unsteadily and clutched the letter in her fist. “If I may be excused…” Without waiting for his permission, she turned and walked rapidly out of the garden.

“Was it sad news, Papa?” Hillary asked

“I don’t know, child,” Mr. Beeton replied. “Perhaps it’s delight that overcame Miss Fitzgerald.” But he doubted it. What a strange young woman she was. Perhaps his wife was right, that she bore watching.

*

Aisleen impatiently tore open the letter. It was from her mother. As she frantically scanned the lines, her heart slowed. There was no crisis, no emergency. It was nothing more than a friendly note.

Aisleen cast it angrily away, annoyed with herself for reacting so foolishly. Her mother was well, not ill or starving. And yet she felt responsible for her, as if her father had been correct when he said that the burden of her family had been placed at birth on her shoulders.

“I’ve never had a say in family matters. I have no family!” Aisleen murmured as she paced her small room. Yet this feeling of dreaded anticipation came over her more and more frequently in recent weeks. At every turn, Miss Burke’s final words echoed in her mind: “If you ever forget yourself, you are lost!”

Why did she so often feel on the verge of forgetting herself? The impetuousness of climbing an apple tree was forgetting herself. Laughing and running and glorying in the beauty of the day were threats to her peace of mind. Why should that be so?