Virginia Henley (2 page)

Her laughter trilled out as she disappeared over the wall.

That night, after their grandfather had mended the boots, he reached for his fiddle. “No, no, Grandada, not tonight. I’ve things to discuss with Terrance.”

“What’s on your mind, Kitty?” Terry asked.

“Things are bad, Terrance; they’ve never been this bad before.” He nodded and waited for her to continue. “We’ve been in the big house lots of times to look about and nobody’s ever been the wiser. Why should some have so much and others have nothing?”

“By Jasus that’s what I’d like to know,” he agreed.

“We could slip in and pick out a couple of small objects they’d never even miss and you could take them and sell them,” she suggested.

“Well, I could pinch a ride into Dublin from somebody surely now,” he said and grinned.

“The only trouble is, I think the squire’s coming tomorrow, so we have to act first thing in the morning.”

“You’re on, Kitty. I only hope the bloody weather is foine.”

“Faith, but we’ll have to be mighty careful, Terrance. If we’re caught, it would mean a whipping at the cart’s tail, or even transportation.”

“Stop your blathering, Kitty. They’ve never caught us afore!”

The next morning they made their way around the east wing of Castle Hill and climbed a huge sycamore that reached past the second-story windows. Kitty was thirteen, but she was so small that she looked only ten. They were both extremely nimble and it took but a few minutes to reach a bedroom window, pry it open and swing over the ledge into the room.

As they stood quietly taking in the richness of the room thick carpet caressed Kitty’s feet. They were alert for the sounds of servants as their eyes swept about the bedroom. The furniture was heavy black oak, polished to a mirror shine. A magnificent wardrobe stood in one corner with a full-length mirror upon its door. Kitty was drawn to it. She held out her skirts and curtsied prettily, then clapped her hand to her mouth before her laughter came trilling out. Terry climbed onto the big four-poster and gave it a tentative bounce. The walls held valuable paintings and the desk had a silver inkstand and a jeweled letter opener. A table beside the
bed displayed all manner of small, attractive pieces that caught the eye and made Kitty’s fingers itch to touch them. She selected a silver chased snuff box and a colorful paperweight. Terry opened the little drawer in the table and gasped as he seized a handful of gold sovereigns. The silence was shattered.

“What in Christ’s name is going on here? Who the devil are you?”

Kitty looked up at the man who towered over them, looking at least seven feet tall.

“Patrick John Francis O’Reilly,” breathed Kitty.

“Himself!” said the squire’s son in a voice that sounded like thunder. She looked up into blazing blue eyes, arrogant nose and mouth and squared chin, and he gazed down at the most beautiful child he had ever seen. Her hair was a mass of over a thousand black silk ringlets as wild as a blackberry thicket, her mouth was naturally bright red and the wind and rain had given her patches of scarlet on her high cheekbones. Her eyes were a velvety brown with double rows of black lashes framing them. She gave Terry one warning glance, which conveyed he was to keep his mouth shut and go along with whatever story she concocted.

“Milord, I shall have to tell you the whole truth and throw myself on your mercy.” She paused for dramatic effect, then launched into her tale.

“Me brother Terrance stole this here paperweight and this snuff box, but faith, ye can’t blame the poor wee man, he hasn’t eaten in two days.”

She let that sink in, then continued, “When he brought them home and showed them to me I said, ’Terrance, ‘tis a wicked thing you’ve done and we must put them back immediately,’ and that’s just what we were doing, milord,” she said and curtsied. She noticed a slight twinkle in the bright blue eyes and thought, We are going to get away with it!

“I believe you, but thousands wouldn’t,” said Patrick O’Reilly.

“What the devil’s going on up here, and what are these filthy little buggers doing in my house?” a loud voice demanded.

“The bloody squire!” muttered Kitty.

She might be able to fob off his son with a glib explanation—after all, he couldn’t be more than twenty—but the bloody squire was a different kettle of fish. He was hard, cruel, selfish, with a terrible temper, completely used to having everyone obey him immediately and without question. He held his riding crop in the air, poised over Kitty, ready to bring it crashing down upon her head, when she blurted out, “Milord invited us in.”

“You lying little bugger, what in hell would he want with the likes of you?” he demanded harshly.

Kitty gulped, then plunged on, “He said he’d give me a shilling if I’d pull me drawers down.”

Immediate silence fell like a thunderbolt. Then Patrick threw back his head and roared with laughter. His father turned on him, “By God, I’ve put up with your drinking and gambling and whoring, but by Christ this is child molestation!” He slashed him with the riding crop. Patrick quickly took the whip from him but offered no rebuttal. The squire spluttered, “You’ll go back to England tomorrow. You two get home before I send for the constable!”

Terry fled, but Kitty gathered her dignity about her and descended the wide staircase like a duchess. Only when she was outside did her feet take flight. She caught up with Terry and demanded furiously, “Why didn’t you know they arrived days ago?”

He flashed her a cheeky grin and said, “Jasus, you’re supposed to be the one with the second sight. I just about shit
myself when Patrick O’Reilly caught us. He’s a big bugger, isn’t he?”

She tossed her head at the mention of the handsome young man. “Arrogant bastard!”

Early the next morning Kitty was on her way to steal some more milk when a huge black stallion almost ran her down in the mist.

“You stupid child, I could have killed you.”

“Little you’d care! I thought you were being sent back to England,” she taunted.

He laughed and said, “I stopped taking orders when I was seven, and I think that probably applies to you too, from your cheek.”

She put her small nose in the air, tossed her curls and pointedly ignored him. “Faith, you act like you own the place, instead of being …” He hesitated.

“Gypsy ragamuffin?” she finished for him. “Well don’t look down your arrogant nose at me, O’Reilly; someday I shall be a lady and have a carriage of my own!”

He threw back his head and laughed, “Lady Jane Tut!”

“Lord Bloody Muck!” she flung back.

“There’s only one way to achieve your ambition, and that’s to marry money,” he advised her.

He laughed at the speculative look that came into her eyes.

“Nay, lass, you can’t have me. I’m disinclined toward marriage to begin with, but when I do saddle myself with a wife, she’ll bring me a bleachworks or a brewery at the least.” He reached into his pocket and tossed her a coin. “Here’s that shilling I’m supposed to have promised you,” he said with his eyes twinkling.

She was left standing alone and for once she hadn’t had the last word; that was most rare for Kitty Rooney.

*   *   *

Jonathan O’Reilly sat with his son in the library. “Have you had a chance to assess the estate yet, lad?”

Patrick stretched his long legs to the fire. “Aye, father. Things aren’t good, but remember, it’s all the counties, not just this one.”

“Quit beating about the bush. You know what I want to know. Is the place still able to support itself?”

“No. The crops are ruined. There’ll be no food for the people and no feed for the herds. It’ll all have to be imported. The tenants won’t be able to pay their rents and they shouldn’t be pressed into doing what’s impossible!”

“That’s all my arse of a tale!” O’Reilly shouted. “They have the use of the land, they should pay the rent.”

“Futile,” Patrick said shortly. “You can’t get blood out of a turnip.”

“Well, I’m determined to have this place support itself and not be a continual drain on my pocket. I’ll sell some of the Thoroughbreds.”

“If you could be farsighted, Father, you’d see that’s exactly what you shouldn’t do. You should increase the number of horses. It’s the only thing you can make money on, and getting rid of them would put a lot of your people out of work. That’s dangerous.”

“Then where does the money come from?” he demanded.

Patrick shrugged and said, “You could use some of the profits from the mills, although if you were intelligent enough to look into the future you’d see that the mill profits should be turned back into improvements, new machinery and greater safety measures.”

“Intelligent? That’s what I sent you to that bloody London university for, and let’s not get off on that tack about improving the bloody mills. I make a damned good living from them mills, so we’ll just let it be. We’re discussing Ireland at the moment.”

“Yes, we’ll discuss it and then you’ll go ahead and do exactly as you please and not take any notice of the advice I try to give you.”

“Oh, aye, we know there’s only one with any brains in this family, but let me tell you I’ve got more common sense in my little finger than there is in that whole bloody university!”

“You could be right there. It’s crammed with young men who are England’s future and once they receive the finest education that’s available in the world, they go off and race their horses and sleep with their mistresses and fritter away their fortunes gambling and never, ever, under any circumstances soil their hands with trade. But commerce is what makes England strong and if they applied themselves to making money instead of wasting it, we’d be the richest, most powerful country in the world.”

“I always thought we were.”

“How long will it last if everyone’s as shortsighted as you?”

“All right, all right, try me. Give me a suggestion and I’ll carry it out.”

“If the people of Ireland have no food and conditions get worse, mobs will descend like locusts on estates like these and pick them clean. They will eat your prize cattle and strip your house bare.”

“We’d call out the militia before things got to that state.”

“They’ve almost reached that state. Those children were here to steal yesterday, so my suggestion is let them work for wages. Give the boy work in the stables with the horses and let the girl work in the kitchens.”

“The thieving little buggers will steal me blind, and I’ll have them off the place tomorrow!” he shouted.

“Goddamn it to hell, you old hypocrite, you said you’d carry out one of my suggestions! Talking to you is like banging
my head against the wall.” He arose swiftly. “Good night.”

“By Christ, my word is as good as my bond! Don’t you ever insinuate otherwise!”

“Then it’s settled,” Patrick said quietly.

Kitty sat with a candle, poring over a dog-eared copy of
Etiquette for Ladies and Gentlemen
, the ladies’ indispensable assistant. There were instructions on dress, behavior in the street, visiting, behavior at dinner, how to make introductions, how to make entertaining and amusing conversation. A whole section was devoted to the preliminaries for marriage, love letters, and “popping” the question. Kitty’s attention was riveted, although she must have read them over a hundred times. Her eyes avidly scanned the words:

Kitty closed the book slowly. Two words at least had penetrated her brain and set her imagination on fire—silk stockings!

The next two years were devastating for Ireland. There was famine in the land, babies died at their mother’s breasts, women begged in the streets and men banded together to steal, murder and finally starve. It seemed the whole population became destitute and homeless.

Safe in Lancashire, Jonathan O’Reilly knew only that his Irish estate was a money eater. He had had it up for sale for over a year but there had been no takers. He had ordered the servants to pack everything inside Castle Hill and ship it to his London house in Cadogen Square. Long gone were the milky herds of Charolais. The few remaining horses had to be guarded night and day. Let it not be said that old O’Reilly didn’t have a shrewd head on his shoulders, for while Patrick was busy at the mills, Jonathan made a quick trip to London and disposed of his Irish troubles swiftly. Upon his return he could not forgo the pleasure of bragging of his perspicacity to his son.

“You’ve done what?” demanded Patrick, thunder in his face.

“Signed a contract with the government to billet the militia at Castle Hill; and I’ve sold them the horses too,” he added with satisfaction.

“Christ, don’t you have a conscience, Father? How can you do this to your own people?” Patrick asked incredulously.

“My first loyalties are to England. I was born in Lancashire, not across the water, even though the name is O’Reilly.”

“All the people who work for us in Lancashire are Irish. If word gets out, you’ll be getting a late-night visit from the Molly Maguires. Do you want the mills razed?”