It was getting close to noon. The sun had disappeared behind the clouds and the wind began to blow. Kit glanced off into the distance toward the sea. Dark clouds hovered on the horizon. A sudden squall had erupted a few miles off the coast. On a day such as this, on the coast not far from here, nineteen years ago, George Ramsey, the fifteenth marquess of Templeston, had gone sailing with his latest mistress and never returned. Their bodies had washed ashore miles away from the port from which they’d sailed, and Drew had suddenly become the sixteenth marquess of Templeston.
“Lord Kilgannon?”
Kit turned his gaze away from the distant storm and focused his attention on the priest beside him. Father Francis’s question had given him the opening he needed to probe deeper. “I was thinking about my fath—about the fifteenth Lord Templeston.”
Father Francis nodded in understanding. “I heard that he and his companion sailed off on a beautiful day and ran into a ferocious squall, not unlike the one brewing out there.” He followed Kit’s earlier gaze and watched as the clouds darkened and spread. “They were swept overboard by the swells cresting over the side and drowned at sea. Such a tragedy. Such a loss for you and for your family. Come,” he added, pointing to the wheel tracks that encircled the burial ground. The furrows, made by the heavy carts and wagons that brought the dead to their final resting place for centuries, were spaced wide enough apart for two men to walk abreast, and the soft heath that grew in between the furrows made an ideal walking path. “We’ve time for another round.”
They walked in silence for a few moments before Kit inhaled deeply, slowly exhaled, and plunged into the topic weighing heavily on his mind. “So Mariah Shaughnessy’s mother grew up with my mother at the castle.”
“That she did,” Father Francis confirmed. “She wasn’t born at the castle. Or in Ireland. But that wasn’t unusual. You see, the late Earl Kilgannon didn’t return to Ireland to live in the castle year-around until after his wife died. In the old days Lord and Lady Kilgannon kept a town house in London, another in Paris, and an estate in Normandy.”
“Normandy?”
“Yes,” the Father answered. “The late countess was French, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.” Kit frowned. There seemed to be a great deal he didn’t know about his Irish inheritance or his long-deceased relatives. Kit had never heard his mother mention her mother being French or that she’d spent her girlhood traversing the Continent. Perhaps he’d misunderstood. It was possible that his mother wasn’t the earl’s daughter at all… But then how to explain his inheritance?
“Well, I can’t say as I blamed them for spending so much time away from Ireland. If my family had been able to leave, I’m sure we would have, too. The English made it very hard for us to remain true to our church. It was easier to be Catholic in France or even London than it was to be Catholic here in Ireland. When the countess died in Paris, the earl returned to Ireland with the girls. I don’t remember exactly how old the girls were, but they must have been nine and eleven.”
“Ford said there were only two girls,” Kit probed.
“That’s right.”
“My mother and the earl’s ward.”
“That’s right. Lady Siobhan and Lady Alanna.”
“Lady Alanna?” The hairs on the back of Kit’s neck were standing on end once again.
“Lady Alanna Caitria Frances Kilgannon Farrington,” Father Francis said softly. “Your mother.”
Kit gasped, turned white, then moved as far away from the priest as he could without falling over a headstone. “You are mistaken. My mother’s name is Kathryn.”
“The mother you’ve always known and loved is named Kathryn. But the mother who died shortly after giving you life was Lady Alanna Caitria Frances Kilgannon. I baptized her when she was born, and I administered her last rites.” Father Francis reached out to touch Kit on the arm. “She was a beautiful girl with long brown hair and brown eyes. You look very much like her. Your eyes are the same shade of brown. She wasn’t much older than you are now.”
“No.”
“She’s buried over there.” Father Francis pointed to an elaborately carved stone mausoleum that dominated the graveyard. “In the Kilgannon family crypt along with her father, grandparents, and great-grandparents. The countess is buried at the estate in Normandy, but Lady Siobhan Shaughnessy and her husband, Declan Shaughnessy, are buried in the crypt as well as the Kilgannon infants who died over the years. I’ll wait outside if you’d like to pay your respects. The iron gate is locked, but the key to it is on the ring I gave you yesterday.”
“I’ll pay my respects to my family when I visit them at Swanslea Park,” Kit said coldly. “When last I saw them, my mother and father and my two sisters were very much alive and well.” Turning on his heel, Kit left the track and cut across the cemetery heading for the gate, his long strides eating up the distance.
But Father Francis followed, dogging his steps like a persistent terrier. “I’m sorry that you found the information I’ve given you so upsetting, Lord Kilgannon.” Father Francis’s voice was full of sorrow. “You have parents who love you and parents you love in return, but they are not the parents who gave you life.”
“They’re the only parents who matter,” Kit replied tightly.
“If you had been unwanted and unloved by your natural parents, I would agree with you. But, Kit—”
“I haven’t given you leave to address me by my pet name.”
Father Francis reacted as if Kit had struck him. “I was the first person other than your mother to speak your name. I held you in my arms and consecrated you to God, then stood helplessly by and watched as your mother’s life bled out. I administered last rites to her and comforted her father. I don’t ask or require your leave to address you by your pet name. I’ll address you however I choose. It’s my right. I earned it.”
“Then why wasn’t I baptized Christopher George Kilgannon?” Kit lashed out.
“Your mother was a Kilgannon by birth and a Farrington by marriage.”
“She was married?”
The priest nodded. “She believed she was a widow when she met your father. Her husband, Michael Farrington, was a young naval officer who had been reported lost at sea when his ship went down. She fell in love with George Ramsey and you were conceived before she learned that her husband was alive. She could have passed you off as her husband’s child and pretended not to notice when folks began counting the number of months between Michael’s last visit home and your birth. It happens all the time. But when Lieutenant Farrington returned to London, Lady Alanna told her husband the truth.
“It was all quite civilized. The three of them—Lady Alanna, her husband, Michael Farrington, and your father sat down to discuss the situation. No one was to blame. Neither George nor Alanna had meant to cuckold Michael. They believed she was a widow, and since you were not to blame for the circumstances of your birth, Farrington agreed to claim you and raise you as his own if George agreed to step aside and allow Alanna to spend her confinement with her father in Ireland. And that’s what would have happened, but Alanna died giving birth. Neither man accompanied her to Ireland. Farrington was assigned to a new naval command, and George remained behind in London. Alanna was, after all, Farrington’s wife. But she didn’t survive her confinement.” He paused to see if Kit was listening. The young man still had his back turned, but he was no longer walking away. He had stopped to hear what the priest had to say. “Your mother died for you. The midwife could have killed you and saved her, but Alanna refused to allow it, and she made her father and me promise not to allow it. You might perish in the end, if that was God’s will, she said, but you would not be sacrificed to save her. I held your mother’s hand when you were born. I placed you in her arms, and she cradled you until her strength began to fade, then your grandfather placed you in the crook of his arm and held you at an angle so she could see you as I administered the last rites. I’ll never forget how he cradled you in one arm and he
ld on to his daughter’s hand, or how Alanna opened her eyes, whispered your name, and took her last breath.” Father Francis took a deep breath to steady himself. “When it was over, Lord Kilgannon sent for George Ramsey because he was unable to reach Farrington at sea. I thought George would go mad with grief when he arrived. He blamed himself. You see, he’d lost two women in childbirth. He’d lost his wife—Drew’s mother—and the child she carried, and he’d lost your mother. But he was determined that he would not lose you.”
“What happened afterward? What happened to me?” Kit asked.
“Your grandfather—Lord Kilgannon—wanted you, but he was in ill health, and the loss of his daughter made it worse. With Lady Alanna gone, there was no one here to look after you. So George took you home to England and found a mother for you. I never saw George again. When your grandfather, Lord Kilgannon, died, Ford sent for me. I notified George, through his solicitor, that you were named as Lord Kilgannon’s heir.”
“I could not inherit Lord Kilgannon’s title,” Kit protested. “Not if I was born outside the marriage bed.”
“But you weren’t.” Father Francis shook his head. “You were born while your mother was married to Michael Farrington. You were George Ramsey’s natural son, but you were Michael Farrington’s legal one.”
Kit frowned. “What about Farrington?”
“I wrote to tell him the truth—that Alanna had died in childbirth and that we’d sent for George because we couldn’t reach him. And we told him George had taken you.” Father Francis wrinkled his brow at the memory of the look of sadness on Michael Farrington’s face. “He accepted it. He didn’t return to London or to Ireland until nearly a year after Alanna died, and when he asked to see the parish registry, I granted the request. I had entered your birth and your mother’s death as one entry in the parish registry under Farrington, deliberately smudging the ink a bit, so that anyone reading it would assume that both Lady Alanna Kilgannon Farrington and her infant son had perished. Michael remarked that if you survived, you might need proof of your legal name at birth one day, so he wrote it out. Christopher George Ramsey Farrington. For although Alanna had died and George had taken you away, Michael intended to honor his promise by claiming you as his son. No one would be hurt by the tiny deception and he saw no reason to ruin your life by allowing you to be labeled a bastard because the irony of it all was that if you lived, you would be in line for the title of marquess of Templeston. Although I was unaware of it until Michael Farrington mentioned it that day. There was a family connection. He and George were cousins. George’s father and Michael’s maternal grandfather were brothers. Michael was second in line to inherit the title of marquess of Templeston behind Andrew Ramsey. Since Andrew was young and healthy, the likelihood of any son of Michael’s inheriting the Ramsey and Templeston fortunes was very small.”
“How was it possible that I ended up with Mama and Papa and still became Lord Kilgannon’s heir?”
“When Michael was reported drowned, George, Lord Templeston, took it upon himself to call upon his widow to relay the news. That’s how George and Alanna met. That they fell in love was purely chance.
“I don’t know what legal arrangements George and his solicitor made in order to give you to the current Lady Templeston,” Father Francis said. “But it was arranged and as Michael’s legal heir, you would be next in line. When George took you to England, you became the son of the one woman George knew would love you like her own.” Father Francis looked at Kit. “You have always been greatly loved, Kit. George and Lady Alanna gave you life, and Andrew and Kathryn nourished it.”
“What happened to Michael Farrington?”
“He sailed to India to join the East India Company. He died there a few years later.”
“Did he remarry?”
Father Francis shook his head.
Kit covered his face with his hands. “Why didn’t Mama and Papa tell me?”
“I’m not certain how much they could tell you. I don’t know how much they knew until Lord Kilgannon’s wishes were made known. But Telamor Castle was rightfully yours. Your inheritance actually came from Lady Alanna. She was her father’s legal heir.”
“A peeress in her own right?”
“Yes,” Father Francis answered. “Had she lived, Lady Alanna would have inherited as countess of Kilgannon. As her only child, you inherited what would have been hers.”
“But everyone thought that Lady Alanna’s child died with her. No one knew I was that child.”
“Lord Kilgannon, your father, and your solicitor, Martin Bell, knew. That was enough. They arranged it.” Father Francis reached out a hand and patted Kit on the back. “I know you’re shocked and confused and angry and feeling betrayed because your parents loved you enough to try to protect you from gossip and pain. But you should fall to your knees and give thanks to God for allowing you to be twice blessed.” Father Francis placed his hand on Kit’s shoulder. “You were born to loving parents. Look around at your friends and acquaintances and see the ones who were born within the bonds of matrimony to unloving and unlovable parents and give thanks. Everyone has a cross to bear. You’ve been fortunate. Your cross has been far lighter than most.” He patted Kit on the shoulder one last time, then turned and started toward the church. “Think about it.”
Chapter Sixteen
She moves a goddess, and she looks a queen.
—ALEXANDER POPE, 1688–1744
Think about it.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Kit had spent the remainder of the morning and afternoon riding over the estate, racing his horse across the moors, pushing himself and his horse to the limits of their endurance, before returning to the castle well after afternoon tea. But his mood had not improved with his ride. If anything, it had worsened. He couldn’t stop thinking about the priest’s revelations. He couldn’t stop wondering, couldn’t stop the doubts.
Kit cursed. He was cold, tired, hungry, and wet from getting caught in a cloudburst from a squall that had rapidly moved ashore, and he was in no mood to see or speak to anyone. It didn’t seem possible, but a few minutes of conversation with a parish priest had shaken the foundation of his whole world. The man who sired him wasn’t the man he wanted as a sire. The woman who bore him wasn’t the mother he adored. And he wasn’t really who he thought he was—or thought he should be. Drew had adopted him and made him the heir to the title and to Swanslea Park knowing that as their father’s younger bastard son, Kit wasn’t entitled to any part of Swanslea Park.
Be careful what you wish for, he reminded himself, because you just might get it. He had wanted answers, and by God, he’d gotten some. Unfortunately, none of the answers were what he wanted to hear.
Christ! What a tangle! But the worst thing of all was that his mother had lied to him. The woman he loved above all others wasn’t his mother at all. His birth had killed his mother. Kit sighed. No wonder George had instructed Drew to adopt him and raise him as his own. The man he had always called grandfather had died before Kit reached his fourth birthday, and Drew had married Kathryn shortly afterward. Kit didn’t remember George. He didn’t remember seeing him or hearing the sound of his voice. His earliest memories began with Drew and with Kathryn. They were all his family. All he’d ever known. All he ever wanted.
He felt as if he were drowning in a quagmire of anger, self-pity, and doubt. And the only cure he’d ever needed for any sort of doldrums—an hour or two spent on the back of a fine horse—didn’t seem to be working.
He was beginning to wish that he’d never come to Ireland, that he’d never heard of Telamor Castle, or the earldom, his dead relatives, Father Francis, or Mariah Shaughnessy. He was beginning to think his mother—the live one—the one he adored—had been right in trying to persuade him to stay home where he belonged. Except now he wondered if he belonged there at all, or if Swanslea Park would be better served if someone else inherited it.
Suddenly it seemed that the best and most logical thing for him to do was to
collect Everleigh and Mirrant and go back to London. There was nothing to do in Inismorn anyway, and London offered a host of amusements—drinking, gambling, carousing—all of the things young men of his age and station in life were accustomed to doing. He didn’t need to live at Telamor Castle to inherit the title or the money that went along with it. And the castle staff and the village of Inismorn could do very well without a lord in residence. They seemed to have managed quite well without him these past twenty years. Even his ward was perfectly capable of managing without him. She was neither poor nor a child. She was a grown woman with a trust fund. He could simply instruct Martin Bell to set up a generous allowance from her trust fund—one that would keep her quite comfortable until she married. Hell, she could stay in the castle for all he cared. Or marry the squire or do whatever she wanted. It wasn’t as if she were part of the family … He’d only known her one day … It wasn’t as if he owed her anything …
“Cool him down slowly,” Kit ordered as he dismounted, tossed the reins of his lathered horse to the waiting stable boy, and took the front steps two at a time. He opened the front door, removed his hat, raked his fingers through his hair, and stepped over the threshold into the vestibule before Ford could assist him.
Kit dropped his hat and gloves on the small gilt table by the front door and headed toward the breakfast room.
“Good evening, my lord.” Ford followed at his heels. “I trust you enjoyed the morning service.”
“Where’s Everleigh and Mirrant?” Kit glanced around. The breakfast room was empty, but the sound of several voices in excited conversation drifted from somewhere close by.
“You were gone so long and the hour grew so late that they decided not to wait for you. Your guests have already broken their fast, eaten luncheon, and enjoyed afternoon tea.”
“Good,” Kit pronounced. “Find them and tell them to pack their things. I’m leaving.”
Ford froze. “Sir?”
Kit whirled around and glared at the butler. “I’m leaving. Packing up. Going back to London.”