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  THE IRISH UPSTART

  A Regency Romance by Shirley Kennedy

  County Clare, Ireland, 1816

  Evleen O'Fallon is shocked when handsome Lord Thomas Linberry appears at her family’s humble cottage overlooking Galway Bay. Just arrived from England, he bears the news that Evleen’s young half brother Patrick—born to the dissolute Englishman who stole her mother’s heart and spent her fortune—is the heir to a vast estate. Patrick’s mother won’t let him go to England with Lord Thomas unless Evleen accompanies him. Thus begins Evleen’s harrowing journey from her beloved Ireland to England, where she finds herself an outcast in London’s snobbish high society.

  The author’s meticulous research of Ireland in the 19th centuiry brings authenticity to the story. Thomas and Evleen’s romance begins under the Whispering Arch at the ancient ruins of Clonmacnoise. It survives a nightmare journey across the Irish Sea on The Countess of Liverpool. They come from different worlds. Will their love survive?

  This book was originally published by Signet

  Copyright © 2011 by Shirley Kennedy All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Dedicated with heartfelt thanks to my many friends on the Internet who helped me with my research for The Irish Upstart.

  They include Paddy Kavanaugh of Athlone, Ireland, who supplied me with information on Clonmacnoise, as well as Ireland’s early coaching days.

  They also include the learned gentlemen of a certain maritime history group who went out of their way too supply me with details about the ships that sailed between England and Ireland in Regency times. Many thanks!

  Chapter 1

  Dublin, Ireland, 1807

  Evleen O’Fallon took one last look around the drawing room of her Dublin townhouse and choked back tears. In all her fifteen years, this was the worst day of her life. She thought again and quickly corrected herself. No, not quite the worst because the worst was five years ago when Papa died. That would make today the second worst . . .

  No. The second worst was the day Mama married the Englishman.

  So today was third worst, no question. It was the day she must say goodbye to the only life she had ever known and face a life of . . . what? She had yet to see their future home, that small farm to the west, near Galway Bay. “It’s going to be fine,” Mama had assured them, but Evleen knew better. How could anything in the world be as good as the life she had now? What could replace her debut into the glittering Dublin society that she’d so looked forward to? Nothing. And Mama knew better than to promise there would be the same balls and soirees on the other side of Ireland in barren County Clare, which, as far as she was concerned, might as well be on the other side of the moon.

  And all this thanks to the Englishman. Bitterness filled Evleen’s heart as she thought of Randall, Lord Montfret, whose lies and slick charm had fooled Mama completely. Despite all the warnings, Mama had married him. Then, just as friends and family predicted, he squandered her money, practically down to the last farthing, and then had the gall to up and die. Typhoid, the doctor said.

  As a consequence, Mama had been compelled to sell their elegant townhouse on Lower Fitzwilliam Street, directly across from Merrion Square. Although the sale of the townhouse had fetched the tidy sum of eight hundred pounds, Mama, citing the family’s poverty, sold most of their possessions as well. “Don’t for a moment think we’re rich,” she warned. “We will no doubt have to stretch those eight hundred pounds for years to come.” As a consequence, there were no more jewels, baubles, and pretty clothes; no more servants, no more lady’s maid to help them dress and fix their hair...

  Evleen squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, I must stop this. I’m the oldest. I must remain strong, not only for Mama, but for Darragh, Sorcha, Mary and Patrick.

  Wrapped in misery, Evleen watched as two indifferent draymen removed the few fine things of Mama’s she’d decided to keep to the wagon outside. At least Mama had kept her needlework boxes, and, thank heavens, all the books they owned. Still, there were so many lovely things that, of necessity, would be left behind. Evleen glanced at the fireplace and called, “Mama, are you not taking the pole screen?” A lump rose in her throat as she remembered the countless evenings Mama sat by the fire with her needlework, her pretty face shielded from the heat of the flames by the elaborately carved mahogany screen.

  Mama called back, “I think not, Evleen. I’ll have no use for it, not where we’re going.”

  Evleen felt her spirits plunge even lower, if that was possible. “But we’ll still have a fireplace. And you’ll still be sitting beside it.”

  Mama entered the room, sighing deeply, on her hip the baby, red-headed Patrick, who was just one year old. “That screen was used mainly to keep the wax in my makeup from melting. I won’t have much use for makeup now.” An ironic smile crossed her face. “Not unless I want to impress a bunch of sheep.” She lowered her voice and continued, “Lord and Lady Aimsberry are here.” At Evleen’s questioning gaze, she continued, “Don’t you recall? They’re the English couple who bought the house. They’re looking around in the library. Go ask if they’d like tea.”

  Evleen bit her tongue, but the words burst out anyway. “I still don’t see why you had to sell our beautiful home to an Englishman.”

  “Because he has the money,” Mama answered in her usual blunt fashion. Just like her, Evleen thought. Even in the midst of adversity, Mama remained strong, accepting her unfair fate with wondrous equanimity. She even looked as beautiful as ever, despite everything, with her thick red hair pulled into a bun atop her head, her white skin flawless, her figure slender still, despite five babies. This new trouble had taken its toll, though. Lately fine lines had appeared at the corner of her eyes. Strain showed on her face, and her shoulders slumped, although ever so slightly.

  I, too. Evleen caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass. She much resembled her mother, tall and slender, with the same fair skin and blue eyes, although her hair was black, not her mother’s flaming red. With dismay she noted the rosy glow that usually brightened her cheeks had disappeared. Now, like her mother, her face was drawn tight by worry and strain.

  “I shall go ask if they would like tea,” Evleen said and made her way to the library door.

  Inside she heard voices and immediately identified those unmistakable, lofty accents so characteristic of the English ton. She was about to enter when she heard a woman, no doubt Lady Aimsberry, ask disdainfully, “How long must we stay in this miserable, God-forsaken country?”

  A man’s voice, no doubt Lord Aimsberry’s, replied, “But surely you find Dublin quite civilized.”

  His wife retorted peevishly, “Dublin would be all right if it were not filled with the Irish, whom you know are inferior. Not far above savages, if you want my opinion.”

  Evleen heard a patient sigh, followed by Lord Aimsberry’s voice again. “Our stay will be two years at the most, until I see my bank is safely established. Meanwhile, you must admit this townhouse is every bit as elegant as ours in London. Note the magnificent ceiling plasterwork. And this chandelier. Magnificent! Genuine Waterford crystal, don’t you agree?”

  “I suppose, but really, Edward, I cringe at the thought of residing where some shabby Irish family once lived. It’s all just so distasteful.”

  “But my dear, the O’Fallons are not shabby,” protested Lord Aimsberry. “Mrs. O’Fallon is most cultured and refined. Quite knowledgeable, too, and with an appreciation of fine literature and art. In talking to her, I learned the family is descended directly from the Kings of Ireland who
were descended from . . . er, the first Milesian king, Ollam Fodla, or some such thing.”

  “Such rubbish. Who gives a fig for Irish nobility?”

  “But her second husband was English.”

  “Really? Well, if the second husband was English, what is she doing with that dreadful Irish name?”

  “From what I understand, the marriage was quite hush-hush. Apparently the fellow fled England and was disowned by his family. Debts, apparently. Not long after the rascal arrived in Dublin, he married Mrs. O’Fallon, ran through all her money in no time flat, then up and died. And that, my dear, is why she is compelled to sell this townhouse.”

  “So where are they going?”

  “To a piece of property that belonged to the scoundrel—his only legacy, apparently. I don’t envy them. From what I understand, it’s a wretched farmhouse and a bit of rocky land, enough for a sheep or two, I suppose, located on a desolate hillside overlooking Galway Bay.”

  “Am I supposed to feel sorry for her? Far as I am concerned, it serves her right. She should have known better than to rise above herself and marry an Englishman.”

  The gall. Tea indeed. Evleen turned and fled back to the drawing room, unwilling to hear another word. How could they talk about her mother that way!

  “What’s wrong, Evleen?” Her sister, Darragh, stood forlornly by the fireplace. She was pale. Her eyes were red from crying.

  “It’s that wretched English couple who bought the house. The fools. You should hear them talk—going on and on about how superior they think they are to us Irish. I didn’t like the way they talked about Mama.”

  “Mama,” repeated Darragh seizing upon the word with that ominously incensed tone that warned Evleen she was about to start again. “How could she have married that man? She has ruined our lives, she–”

  “That’s enough,” Evleen interrupted, kind but firm. “I’ll not hear one more bad word about our mother.” Her heart went out to poor Darragh. It was hard enough being fourteen under the best of circumstances. She was still a child in so many ways, yet wanting to be treated like a grown woman. Not so very long ago, Evleen, herself, was fourteen, and she could well remember her own feelings. Still, she didn’t think she’d been as rebellious as Darragh, nor so sullen and resentful. At least she hoped she hadn’t. “What’s done is done, little sister, try not to make Mama feel worse than she already does.”

  Darragh’s blue eyes narrowed in resentment. “Everyone told her not to marry him. Everyone warned her. Well, she did what she wanted and look what happened. Now we’re poor and my life is over. Oh, I shall never forgive her.”

  Issuing a silent prayer for patience, Evleen gripped her sister’s shoulders. “What you say is true, Darragh. You have every right to be angry and upset. Mama made a terrible mistake, but it was out of love, don’t forget, so you mustn’t condemn her.”

  “Love? Ha! How could anyone love an Englishman?” A corner of Darragh’s upper lip curled with contempt. “Mama was a fool. That scoundrel never loved her. He was only out to rob her of her fortune.”

  Evleen answered softly, “That may very well be, but the man is dead now. There’s no sense in nurturing a grudge. He won’t know, and it certainly won’t do Mama any good. You must think of the good things about our mother—all she’s done for us, all--”

  “It’s time to go, girls,” called Mama, entering the dining room carrying Patrick, followed by her two youngest daughters, Sorcha and Mary. All were dressed in warm clothes suitable for travel.

  Time to leave. A lump rose in Evleen’s throat. “I’ll get my coat,” she said, and softly added, “and have one last look around.” I shall never do this again. Evleen lifted her skirts and sped up the three flights of stairs that led to her room. Her heart wrenched as she thought, never again would she ever climb these stairs, or stand by the window of her room and gaze down at bustling Merrion Square, or lie in bed of a morning and drowsily gaze at the flowered wallpaper while she daydreamed of all the parties she’d attend and beaux she would have when she turned sixteen.

  Oh, it was so hard to keep from crying.

  By the time she was downstairs again, dressed in a warm redinggote, she had regained at least a part of her usual composure. “This might even be fun,” she said brightly as they piled into the old wagon packed with their belongings, a far cry from the smart Barouche they used to own. At least we’re all together, Evleen thought as she looked at Sorcha and Mary, near tears and huddled together; at Darragh, a mass of quivering indignation and despair; and rosy-cheeked Patrick, bundled up and safe in Mama’s lap. He was only her half-brother, son of the hated Englishman, nonetheless beloved by them all. She must try to be cheerful, Evleen reminded herself, and pasted a careful smile on her face. “Just think, we’ll get to live near the ocean, and milk the cows and feed the chickens, and herd the sheep.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Darragh asked in an anguished voice. “We are but peasants now, just poor Irish trash. Oh, it makes me ashamed. We can never hold our heads up again.”

  “Ashamed to be Irish?” Mama squared her shoulders; her chin lifted with dignity; pride blazed in her clear blue eyes. “You must never forget, my children, that your father was Ian O’Fallon, son of Daniel O’Fallon, eighth Earl of Dunkerry, who was directly descended from the Duke of Connaught, who was a direct descendent of Euchaid, one of the ancient kings of Ireland who reigned over one of the earliest Gaelic kingdoms many centuries ago.” She turned to Evleen. “Can you tell us more of Euchaid?”

  Evleen promptly answered, “Euchaid was a great king, Mama, descended from the first Milesian king, Ollam Fodla, who was a true father to his people, and an able statesman.”

  Mama nodded proudly and looked back at Darragh. “Ashamed to be Irish? You, all of you, should be bursting with pride that the blood of Irish kings runs through your veins.”

  Tears glistened in Mama’s eyes, a sight Evleen had never seen, not even when Papa died, most assuredly not when the Englishman drew his last breath. “We know,” she said gently and clasped her mother’s hand. “We’re proud to be Irish. Darragh, too, no matter what she says, and we’ll never forget, no matter what happens or how poor we are.”

  “Always hold your head high,” Mama said, calmer now, and smiling.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “And never love an Englishman.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  The wagon began to move. Evleen turned her head for a last glimpse of their elegant red brick townhouse with its tall sash windows, wrought iron balusters, and intricately carved wooden front door. Tears sprang to her eyes and she had to turn away, knowing in her heart she would never see it again.

  Chapter 2

  Hertfordshire County, England, 1816

  The medieval towers of Northfield Hall, the ancestral home of the Marquess of Westhaven, rose majestically through December’s evening mist as a lone horseman turned into the long, winding driveway that led to the front portico.

  Lord Thomas, second son of Lord Linberry, fifth Marquess of Westhaven, smiled as the beautiful old mansion came into view. A flood of pleasant memories struck him at the sight of the home where he’d spent his happy childhood. He had been away three long years. Despite his fatigue after his journey from London, he was elated to be home.

  At the marble steps of the portico, Thomas, a man of medium height, with dark good looks and a sinewy build, swung from his horse with the graceful, fluid ease of a man much accustomed to the saddle. He looked toward the entry way, half expecting his father to burst forth at any moment. In the past, Papa, a florid-faced, blond bear of a man, had always greeted his sons with a warm hug and a booming “Welcome home!” Apparently not today, though. Instead, Thomas’s sister, Penelope, swung open the door. When she spied him, a look of delight spread across her pretty face.

  “Oh, Thomas, you’re home.” She flew down the steps and threw her arms around him.

  “You’ve grown up,” Thomas laughingly remarked when they finally broke apart.
He held her at arm’s length, his eyes admiring as he looked down upon his slender, blonde-haired sister. “Why, Penelope, what a beauty you’ve become. How old are you now, eighteen?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “And not yet married.”

  She tossed her head. “Hardly. And I warrant I shan’t be if I don’t find the right one.”

  He grinned and said, “Independent as ever, I see. You were never one of those bubble-headed girls dead set on finding a husband.”

  “And what about you?” she asked. “Has some young belle lured you anywhere close to the altar?”

  “Not a chance,” Thomas replied, eyes twinkling. “That’s one of the many joys of being a second son. Nothing’s expected of me, including heirs. Which reminds me, I don’t suppose Montague is here?”

  Penelope made a little moué. “Of course not. Our dear brother is firmly ensconced in London. If you’re expecting he’s mended his ways by now, you’re doomed to disappointment.”

  “He’s still drinking, gambling . . . ?”

  “And whoring.” Penelope grinned impishly at her use of the naughty word. “Worse than ever. Poor Papa is so disappointed.”

  Thomas’s gaze flicked toward the door. “And speaking of Papa–?”

  “In his room, in bed.” A shadow crossed Penelope’s bright, young face. “It’s the gout. He suffers terribly.”

  His father not well? It took Thomas a moment for his sister’s words to sink in. Papa was never sick. Thomas could not remember a time when his vigorous, burly father was not a robust picture of health. “Why didn’t he let me know?”

  “What good would it have done? You were all those many miles away in the West Indies. What could you have done except worry?” Penelope frowned. “And speaking of that, we received your letter telling us you were coming home, but you didn’t say why. Is something wrong? Will you be returning to Jamaica?”