Kit relaxed, exhaling the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Dalton had never been as forgiving as Ash. He took everything to heart, whereas Ash always tried to see both sides of every situation. “I didn’t tell you about my Irish inheritance because I gave my father my word that I wouldn’t say another word about it until my mother had time to become accustomed to the idea.”
Dalton frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Kit took a deep breath and slowly expelled it.
“Is there a problem with the title?” Dalton asked. “Or the castle? Is there a reason you would choose not to claim it?”
“Other than the fact that it’s in Ireland?” Kit shook his head. “Not that I am aware of.”
“Then what?” Dalton demanded.
“The idea of my leaving England for Ireland has upset my mother. And you know how my father feels about upsetting my mother.”
“So, your mother prefers England to Ireland.” Dalton shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t say as I blame her. But that’s no reason to make a fuss about your deciding to go.”
“She’s afraid I won’t come back.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Dalton scoffed. “Of course you’ll come back. England is your home. And no one in his right mind would choose a castle in Ireland over Swanslea Park. Especially the marquess of Templeston’s heir.”
Kit kept his own counsel.
Ash got to his feet and walked across the salon. He placed a hand on Kit’s shoulder. “Your mother is afraid that if you go to Ireland, everything will change. She isn’t trying to hold you back,” he said. “But she’s a mother, and mothers generally want to hold on to their children as long as possible.”
Kit smiled. His father had said almost the same thing. “I know.”
“How does your father feel about it?” Ash asked.
“He sees it as an opportunity for me to become my own man.”
“But he doesn’t relish being caught between your opportunity and your mother’s objection to it.” Ash immediately grasped the situation.
“No, he doesn’t,” Kit said.
“And you don’t want to hurt your mother.”
“No.” Kit gave Ash a grateful glance. “I gave her a year to get accustomed to the idea. But property needs attention, and it’s time I laid claim to mine.”
“Is Lady Templeston still opposed to the idea?” Ash asked.
Kit hesitated before answering. “She still doesn’t like the idea of my going, but she’s no longer voicing opposition.”
Dalton grinned. “Then she’s gotten used to the idea.”
“I hope so,” Kit replied. “Because I don’t relish the idea of waiting another year any more than I enjoyed keeping secrets from my best friends.”
“You gave your word to your father.” Dalton uncrossed his arms and smiled at Kit. “And you were honor bound to keep it. We understand that. We’re your mates. As long as it doesn’t happen again, we won’t hold your keeping secrets from us against you.”
Kit nodded. “I can’t promise that it won’t happen again,” he said, “because a gentleman’s word is his bond. But I promise to be as forthcoming with my two closest friends as possible whenever possible.”
“Fair enough,” Dalton pronounced.
“Agreed.” Ash responded. “And since Kit”—he glanced at Dalton—“invited us to accompany him in the search for his destiny, I only have one question to ask.”
“And that is …” Kit prompted.
“When do we embark on this adventure?”
“I had planned to leave tomorrow.”
Dalton laughed. “Then, we might as well make the most of tonight.”
Chapter Three
The Angels were all singing out of tune,
And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon
Or curb a runaway young star or two.
—GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON,
LORD BYRON, 1788–1824
INISMORN, IRELAND
One week later
“We’ve a problem,” the Mother Superior announced.
Father Francis O’Meara sighed. As the spiritual leader of its parish, St. Agnes’s Sacred Heart Church, and the convent three-quarters of a mile away from the church rectory fell well within his providence. “Mariah?”
The abbess matched the priest’s sigh with a long-suffering one of her own.
“Is she still sneaking out at night?”
“You knew about it?”
He nodded. “I hear her confession. Do you know where she goes?”
“She won’t say,” the Reverend Mother admitted. “And punishment seems to have no effect. I try to impress upon her the dangers of a young woman wandering around alone at night, but Mariah refuses to give up her secretive escapades. She simply accepts whatever punishment I mete out to her and continues to sneak out at night.” She looked at the priest. “I’m afraid she may be meeting a young man.”
Father Francis was thoughtful. “Have you seen a young man or heard Mariah speak to any of the sisters or any of the other children about one?”
“No. But what else could it be? Why else would she sneak out at night?”
The priest shrugged. It was possible that Mariah had succumbed to the lure of sin and lust and fallen from grace, but he didn’t believe it. “She’s been sneaking out of the orphanage since she was a child,” he reminded the Reverend Mother.
“That’s true,” the Reverend Mother agreed, “but she’s a young woman now. It’s time for her to put aside her headstrong and childish ways.”
“She’s a young woman with a good head on her shoulders. Aside from sneaking away from the convent at night, Mariah’s most vexing sins have always been her determined nature and a healthy measure of pride.”
“That may be true, Father, but I don’t know what to do with her anymore.” The Reverend Mother made the sign of the cross. “She refuses to tell me where she goes, and her defiance is a bad influence on the other girls.”
Father Francis frowned. He had watched Mariah Shaughnessy grow up and was quite fond of her, despite her penchant for sneaking out of the convent. Or perhaps because of it. He and the Reverend Mother had chosen the religious life, but the orphans who had grown up at St. Agnes’s had not. And a cloistered environment was no substitute for life within a family. Although he worried about her and often deplored that particular facet of her personality, Father Francis secretly admired Mariah’s individuality and her strength of character.
“I know you’re fond of her, Father. I’m fond of her, too, but her birthday is fast approaching. She’ll soon be one and twenty. She cannot remain at St. Agnes’s after that age without becoming one of us.”
“Have you approached Mariah with that intent?” Father Francis asked.
“Of course,” the abbess replied. “We approach all our young charges to determine if they have the calling. But Mariah insists that she doesn’t want to become a novitiate and join the order, so I accepted a proposal of marriage on her behalf.”
“You did what?”
“I accepted a proposal of marriage from a local gentleman on her behalf.”
“What man?” Father Francis was instantly on guard. “When?”
“Some months ago Squire Bellamy approached me and asked if I would accept his suit of Mariah Shaughnessy with a purpose toward marriage.”
“Squire Bellamy offered for her?” Father Francis was stunned by the news that the middle-aged squire had asked the Reverend Mother for Mariah’s hand in marriage. “What’s wrong with the young men of Inismorn? Haven’t you had any young suitors asking for Mariah’s hand?”
The Reverend Mother gave the priest a wry look. “Many of them. Single and married. Convent-reared girls are in great demand in a village the size of Inismorn. I must confess to being taken aback by the married men who approached me and offered to make a place for Mariah in their households, but I don’t suppose you can look the way Mariah looks and
not have young men asking for her hand or anything else she might wish to share with them, but the young men of Inismorn are common men. There isn’t a gentleman in the lot.”
“But Squire Bellamy?” Father Francis frowned once again. “He’s a nice enough fellow and appears to be quite well-to-do, but as a husband for Mariah … Well, I’m not certain I can fathom that. How could you welcome his suit?”
“How could I have Mariah’s best interest at heart and not welcome the squire’s suit?” the Reverend Mother responded. “Mariah’s mother charged us with the responsibility of ensuring that her daughter would be the wife of a gentleman, and Squire Bellamy is the only gentleman in Inismorn who has come to call.” The abbess of St. Agnes’s Sacred Heart Convent sounded more than a little apologetic. “He has been diligently seeking to press his suit, and he appears to have a genuine desire to marry Mariah.”
Father Francis sucked in a breath. “Of course he wants to marry Mariah. What man wouldn’t? She’s as lovely as she can be, and she’s the finest baker St. Agnes’s has ever produced, but we promised her mother we would see that Mariah had a London season.” He met the Reverend Mother’s withering gaze.
“Squire Bellamy would be much better for her than a London season.”
“That may be true in your eyes,” the priest reminded the Reverend Mother, “but not necessarily true in Lady Siobhan’s or Mariah’s eyes. I’m told that most young ladies dream of a London season and the opportunity to choose a husband from among the cream of society, rather than settle for one of someone else’s choosing. I’m sure Mariah is no different. Besides, it was Lady Siobhan’s dying request.”
The abbess shuddered. “Lady Siobhan met her husband during her London season, and I would not wish her fate on anyone. Certainly not her only child.”
“We made a promise,” Father Francis repeated. “I gave Mariah into your care because you assured me that we could fulfill that promise and provide the child with a proper education and the opportunity to take her rightful place in society.”
“I was mistaken,” the Reverend Mother admitted. “At the time I thought we could fulfill that promise, but I was wrong.”
Father Francis shook his head. “Simply admitting you were wrong is not enough, Reverend Mother. You must find a way to rectify the error.”
“We’ve provided Mariah with a superior education and the skills necessary to make her way in the world.”
“You taught her to read and write and speak Latin and French,” he said, “as well as how to cook and clean and sew.”
The Reverend Mother nodded. “We have educated Mariah to the best of our ability.”
“Exactly,” Father Francis agreed. “You have taught Mariah how to succeed in our world—at St. Agnes’s or in Inismorn. But what about her world?” He fixed his gaze on the nun.
The splotches of angry red color staining the Reverend Mother’s face stood in stark contrast to the snowy white wimple framing it. “Father, you cannot expect us to teach Mariah how to be a society lady.”
“That is precisely what I expected,” Father Francis replied. “I promised Mariah’s mother I would fulfill her dying request. I did not promise her that I would allow her daughter to be betrothed to Squire Bellamy because he happens to be the only unmarried gentleman in the county.”
“He is, at least, a gentleman,” the Reverend Mother defended.
“That he is,” the priest agreed. “A gentleman who happens to be twice Mariah’s age. I’m not questioning his veracity or doubting that he’s a good man, but he’ll not be taking Mariah to London for the season. He’ll not be wanting the competition he knows he’s sure to find there.”
“We can’t take her.” The Reverend Mother gasped as if Father Francis had blasphemed. “You’re a priest and I’m a nun,” she reminded him, her voice shaking with frustration and anger. “We were wrong to make that promise to Mariah’s mother. If we had been born into gentle families, we might have succeeded, but you and I were born to poor, hardworking Irish farmers. We can play the fiddle and dance a jig, but we know nothing about London society or its seasons or how to go about providing one.” She shot the priest an unforgiving look. “The truth is that Mariah became our responsibility because we made promises to ease the passing of a dying mother—promises we knew we could not keep.”
“Don’t be so certain,” Father Francis said. “The good Lord always provides.”
“That he does,” the Reverend Mother answered in an echo of Father Francis’s earlier words. “He provided Squire Bellamy.”
“He provided better than that.”
“What? A London season?”
“A way out of this predicament.” Father Francis wiped his brow with the back of his forearm, then ran his index finger around the neck of his collar loosening it a bit. “I hope. Because, you see, Reverend Mother, we no longer share sole responsibility for Mariah’s education or for her future well-being. Neither you nor I have the authority to betroth Mariah to anyone.”
“I don’t understand …” the Reverend Mother began.
Father Francis held up his hand. “We’ve done our utmost to act in Mariah’s best interest these last few years, but Mariah isn’t a ward of the church. She never was.”
“What?”
“She’s the earl of Kilgannon’s ward,” the priest answered. “Just as her mother was before her. He is Mariah’s legal guardian.”
“The earl of Kilgannon is dead,” the Reverend Mother reminded him.
“The one you knew is dead,” Father Francis said. “But his heir, the new earl of Kilgannon, has recently reached the age of majority and is on his way to Inismorn to claim his inheritance.”
The Reverend Mother was clearly surprised. “You are certain of this?”
“Quite certain,” Father Francis replied. “I sent a copy of the old earl’s will and a note informing the family of his passing to the young earl’s father, who placed it in trust with his solicitor until the young earl reached his majority. The solicitor informed me that he had turned the letters over to the young earl on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday. I’ve been waiting over a year for word from Lord Kilgannon, and I received a letter from him in last week’s post.”
“What are you going to do about Mariah?”
Father Francis grinned. “I’m going to keep my promise to Mariah’s mother by making certain that the young earl is made aware of that promise and of his duty to see that it’s fulfilled.”
“Does he know? Has he been told that he has a ward?”
The priest hedged. “Not that I am aware of.”
“When do you intend to tell him? And what do we do with Mariah until the promise is fulfilled?”
“I don’t know,” Father Francis admitted, “but I’ll think of something.”
“Think of something soon. I live in fear that she’s allowed herself to be seduced by sweet talk and moonlight.” She turned to the priest. “I don’t know what will happen to her or to us if she turns out to be with child….” The Reverend Mother allowed her words to trail off. Father Francis understood the consequences as well as she did. Not only would Mariah and her child’s future be at stake, but also the future of St. Agnes’s and all of the nuns who lived there. If the bishop learned of a scandal, he could have St. Agnes’s closed and all the nuns removed to other orders. He could also have Father Francis removed to another church in another parish. It was one of the ironies of religious life that fallen women could seek food, shelter, and sanctuary within the confines of a convent wall, but it was quite common for the nuns, novices, and orphans living within those walls to be expelled for that same failing. The Reverend Mother didn’t agree with the practice, but she accepted that it was her job to uphold St. Agnes’s standards. During St. Agnes’s long history, there had been occasions when nuns and novices had fallen from grace, but those mistakes had taken place long before the present Reverend Mother’s tenure. If Mariah were to give birth to an illegitimate child, that child might be permitted to
live at St. Agnes’s, but Mariah would have no place at the convent. And unless he turned out to be the father, there would be no alliance with Squire Bellamy or any way for the Reverend Mother or Father Francis to fulfill the promise they made to Mariah’s mother. Another suitor would have to be found. And neither Mariah, nor her guardian, nor Father Francis, nor the Reverend Mother would have the luxury of first choice.
“She can’t marry anyone before she reaches the age of one and twenty without losing her inheritance,” Father Francis said. “And she can’t marry after she reaches the age of one and twenty without her guardian’s permission.”
“She can as long as her guardian remains unaware that Mariah is his ward.”
“Reverend Mother! I am ashamed of you.”
“Well, we can’t send her to live in a gentleman’s household without a chaperone—unless he has a wife.” The Reverend Mother sounded hopeful.
“He doesn’t.”
She sighed, her disappointment palpable. “Then Mariah must remain at the convent until her guardian decides what to do with her. Unless she decides to marry the squire.”
Father Francis shook his head. “It doesn’t matter if Mariah decides to accept the squire or not. Now that her guardian has come of age, he has the say in who she marries. The young earl will have to accept Squire Bellamy’s suit.”
“But, Father, he doesn’t even know he has a ward.”
“We know,” the priest reproached. “That’s enough.”
“But I gave my word to the squire.”
“Then we’ll just have to explain the situation to the young earl and hope he agrees with your choice.”
“Is that likely?” she asked.
Father Francis shrugged. “Without having met the young earl, it’s hard to say.”
The Reverend Mother straightened herself to her full height, accentuating her already rigid posture. “Well, there’s nothing more to be done about it except to accept the fact that I’ve more long nights ahead of me, praying for Mariah, worrying about Mariah, wondering where she goes when she sneaks out of the convent at night and who she goes to meet.”