The Lord and the Banshee (Read by Candlelight #13) - Gillian St. Kevern Page 0,16

families depart.”

Cross could not help but contrast the condition of the houses with the cottages of Foxwood. “The effects of the blight continue to be felt today by the look of things.”

Mrs O’Flaherty sighed. “The late Lord of Connaught did what he could, but an event like that is not easily recovered from. There’s not a person in the village who didn’t lose some friend or family member to it.”

“What measures have been taken for the village’s recovery?”

Mrs O’Flaherty pursed her lips. “Well—”

“What measures need to be taken? These people can leave if they choose. What is preventing them from, like so many others, finding opportunity elsewhere?” O’Flaherty scowled at the cottages lining the Main Street. “New York is full of those people who, faced with hardship, had the gumption to make something of themselves. I do not understand this expectation of support for doing nothing.”

Cross glared at him. “It is my experience that farming folk, rather than doing nothing, are some of the hardest working people you will find. Without their labour, you would struggle to feed the occupants of Connaught Castle, or indeed, maintaining it at all.”

O’Flaherty shook his head. “I don’t buy into that feudal tradition. It’s a mutual bind—trapping the tenants in a lifestyle that might not suit them, and the lord to an antiquated way of life, regardless of his intentions.”

“One cannot expect an outsider to understand what it is like to grow up here.” Twin red spots burned in Miss O’Flaherty’s cheeks. “But you must understand the deep attachment to land that comes of a family tilling the same fields for generations, of being brought up in a farming household expecting you will continue your father’s work. There is a deep feeling for the land, deep enough that many here would choose—and did choose—the hardship of remaining over the pain of leaving.”

“You’re right—I don’t understand.” Connaught surveyed a desolate cottage, his lip raised. “Rather than attachment to the land, I would say fear of the unknown. It boggles my mind that any would prefer this putrefying existence to the prospect of a fresh start.”

Cross opened his mouth to reply, choked by rage. How dare this upstart American criticise a way of life it was clear he neither understood nor had tried to understand!

“You do not have any home feeling for a place, Lord Connaught?” Pip cut in.

He shook his head. “A place is just a place. Some are more congenial than others—but there is no point in becoming too invested in one. My home is wherever I sling my cap.” Connaught nodded, a speculative glint in his eyes. “I cannot imagine staying in one place longer than a few years.”

“Not even New York?” Julian asked. “I think you mentioned keeping your apartment there.”

Connaught glanced at Julian. Surprised he remembered an idle comment? “If there is any place I feel a connection with, it is New York. But my appreciation is less for any part of the city, but for the city itself. It is ever changing, a building being torn down to make way for a skyscraper, a fashion surfacing, becoming adopted, then just as quickly discarded… One never knows what the day will bring in New York. It is the life, the pulse of the city itself that calls me, not its parks, its buildings nor its individual people, though the city would not be the city without them.”

“Consider then that though the pace is different, your country counterpart might appreciate the change that you thrive on in New York in the changing seasons and the particular traditions associated with them.” Thomas had mastered his anger enough for a civil reply. “There is much enjoyment gleaned by looking for and reading the signs of the approaching season in the weather and landscape, and the knowledge that every task has its allotted time.”

Connaught looked startled. “I had not considered the matter in that light. I will take your word for it that such a feeling might exist. For my part, I cannot imagine staying long in a place where the chief excitement is whether the baker’s loaves are underweight.”

Miss O’Flaherty looked up. “That is an outrageous thing to say. You do not know our baker, but Murphy is a very respectable man, and would no more cheat a customer than he would his own children.”

Connaught threw up his hands. “It was only an example.”

“An example that might harm,” Miss O’Flaherty continued. “You are, though you do not seem to realise it, Lord of Connaught.