family if she likes. If not the mother, then the sister, that Evleen. Does the boy get along with her?”
“Famously.”
“Well, then tell this Sinead O’Fallon that if she sends the daughter along with the boy, I’ll see that the daughter—how old did you say she was?”
“She’s twenty-four.”
“Hmm... a bit old, but still... Tell the mother I shall give the girl a Season. Find her a good match, don’t you see? I’ll see she’s presented at court if she likes—brought out. She’ll have new gowns, as many as she pleases, and hats, shoes, gloves—all those baubles so dear to a pretty girl’s heart. Er, that is... she is pretty, isn’t she? I trust she’s not one of those sturdy peasant girls with rough hands.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Well, then. That’s sure to win her over, don’t you think?”
“I’ll do what I can, sir.” A few baubles? Thomas recalled that first moment he’d laid eyes on Evleen O’Fallon, standing by the door of her humble cottage, the wind playing such devilish tricks with her gown he’d felt a surge of excitement just watching from a distance. Later, when she’d been fixing dinner and he’d watched fascinated by her every move, he’d been struck not only by her beauty but by her competence, maturity, and the proud, sure, no-nonsense way she’d carried herself.
A few baubles?
He tried to picture Evleen in the midst of her London Season, bosom half-exposed in her low-cut gown, giggling behind her fan, fluttering her eyelashes at some cravat-choked, simpering, superficial dandy.
Never. Ludicrous. Utterly impossible.
Chapter 7
With a heavy heart, Evleen left the pot of soup she’d been stirring and went to stare moodily at the sea from the small cottage window. There would be rain soon. The sky was dull and leaden, a perfect color to match her mood. Actually, all the family’s mood now that Mama wasn’t well.
Darragh, who had been sitting by their mother’s bedside, came into the kitchen, huddled in her shawl. “Mama’s sleeping now. I think she’s a mite better.”
“Do you?”
“I suppose it’s wishful thinking.” Darragh’s brows drew together in a frown. “It’s that Englishman’s fault. She was fine until his letter arrived.”
With a shake of her head, Evleen answered, “Let’s be fair. Mama has not been feeling well for ages, long before the letter. Don’t you remember all those times she was breathless, all the times she felt faint?”
“I suppose,” Darragh answered tartly, “but you must admit her condition has worsened since that day. If you ask me, she’s sick with guilt. She knows very well she’s done Patrick out of his rightful inheritance.” Her face clouded. “And us, too. Just think what forty pounds a year could do.” She glanced down at her well-worn light calico gown, her lips thinning with irritation. “Look at this old thing. No wonder I haven’t a husband. We could have new clothes, live in a half-way decent house, if only Mama would relent and send Patrick to England.”
Evleen felt a sudden urge to inform her sister it was not the lack of pretty clothes that was turning her into an old maid, it was her waspish tongue and selfish attitude. Such a chastisement would be most unkind, though. Unjust, too. Despite her faults, Darragh worked as hard as anyone and worried as much as anyone about Mama. Evleen replied gently, “Don’t be hard on our mother. Can’t you see why she loathes all things English? Surely you understand why she could never send Patrick to live with his grandfather.”
It came as no surprise when Darragh gave her a look that said she’d never understand.
Later, after everyone else had gone to bed, Evleen sat by her mother’s bed and smiled down at her. “All the chores are done, Mama. You see? We get along very well without you.” She noted with sorrow that her mother, once the picture of health, now lay on her bed, pale, hollow-eyed, and exhausted, a mere shadow of her former self.
“I hate this,” Sinead said with a deep sigh. “Where has my strength gone? Why can’t I walk a step without panting as if I’d just run a mile uphill?”
“You know it’s your heart, but the doctor says if you keep taking your tonic you’ll get better. In a while I’ll fix you some chamomile tea.”
Mama turned her face to the wall. “Chamomile tea won’t fix what ails me. Nothing will.”
At her mother’s embittered words, Evleen felt a chill around her own heart. She had made a valiant effort to remain optimistic but had known from the