Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The following day, while John Campbell lingered along the banks of the salmon-rich River Suck, Elizabeth Gunning was kept busy fetching a bucket of water from St. Bridgid’s well at Holywell House, then washing her sister’s silvery-blond tresses. They sat in the sun while Elizabeth brushed in the finger-ringlets and formed dozens of tiny tendrils around the perfect, oval face.

Bridget darned the girls’ only stockings then began to take down the hems on their cotton dresses. There would be no showing their ankles in Dublin; it would create a scandal.

“I’ll walk over to Longacre Farm and see if Tully will buy the goats,” Jack said.

His wife gave him a scorching look. “We need transportation to Dublin. Don’t come home without it.”

When Beth saw her father tethering their six goats with a rope, her heart flew into her mouth. “Where are you taking them?”

“I’ll see if Tully will buy them.”

She felt a measure of relief. Longacre was a prosperous place, and Tully took good care of the farm’s livestock. “I’ll help you, Father. I’ll carry the baby.” She picked up the little black nanny goat and dropped a kiss on its nose. She’d stayed up the entire night with its dam when it had been born to ensure a live birth and named it Eyebright, after the weeds in the meadow.

At Longacre she left the men to their business talk and went into the barn. In a back stall she found a sheepdog with a litter of black-and-white pups. She stroked the bitch and told her what a good mother she was, wishing with all her heart that she could have one of the litter. She knew it was impossible, for the Gunnings had only enough to feed themselves. With a sigh of resignation she pulled herself away from the happy little family and went back to the stable yard.

“I’ve talked him into a cartload of turnips in exchange for the goats. We’ll have to return the mule, of course, but we can sell the turnips once we arrive in Dublin.”

“Well, a cart and a mule are certainly what we need, since we can’t walk to Dublin . . . and the turnips are a bonus.” She hoped and prayed her mother wouldn’t rant and rave when they got home.

“Only trouble is,” Jack said, running a hand through his thick blond hair, “the turnips are still in the field.”

“I’ll help you, Dad.” She immediately braided her golden hair into a thick plait. “Turnips are big and round—it won’t take that many to fill up a cart. You get the mule and wagon, and I’ll go to the field and start pulling up the turnips.”

As it turned out, it was dirty, backbreaking work. The turnip field was a sea of mud, and Jack didn’t dare take the mule-drawn cart close to the crop. So Beth bent over and extracted the turnips from the oozing mud, while her father carried them to the cart at the top end of the field. By the time they had a full load of about two hundred turnips, the sun had begun to set, but there was still plenty of light for Jack to see the state his daughter was in. “You’re mud from arse to teakettle. Your mother will throw a bloody fit!”

Beth’s knees were already shaking at the reception they’d both get. “Let me off here. I’ll bathe in Lough Ree and wash my smock at the same time. You go and convince Mother that you made a good swap for the goats.”

She walked along the bank of the river until it opened up into the scenic Lough Ree. She breathed in its beauty with deep appreciation. As the red ball of the sun slowly sailed down the sky to dip beneath the lake, she thought surely there could be no more mystical place on earth. She threw off her smock beneath the sheltering branches of a bay tree and slowly waded into the water until it was breast-high. She shivered as the cool water closed over her sensitive skin, then began to wash off the clinging mud. She spotted what she thought was an otter swimming close by the bank. She’d seen the playful creature there before with his mate. On impulse, she decided to approach and try to swim with him.

Beth filled her lungs with air then slipped under and swam beneath the water to the place where she’d seen his dark head.

She glided up smoothly, without splashing, and stared into a pair of glistening brown eyes. They were not the eyes of an otter.

“My Lord Oberon!” she gasped.

“Splendor of God, I’ve thought of you so long I’ve conjured you!” John Campbell couldn’t credit the ethereal creature of his daydreams had come to him in the form of a mermaid. He kicked out with a long stroke and grabbed her wrists before she could submerge. “You’re real!” he declared.

“I’m real, and the predicament I’m in is very real too, sir. You must let me go!” As he held her fast he gave the impression of sheer brute strength, and her knees turned weak. A strange frisson from his strong fingers went up her arms, making her shiver. While he held her fast, all she could think of was the feel of his lips on hers. She wondered if he would do it again. What a wicked thought! I must not let him do it again!

“I’ve waited all day for you—I’m not about to let you go yet.”

“Why were you waiting for me? Because I stole your salmon?”

Because you stole my senses.“If you pay me for the salmon, I can hardly say you stole it, can I?”

“But I have no money, sir.” She tried to pull her wrists from his powerful hands in vain.

A delighted grin spread over his face. “I know.” His grip tightened. “There’s other currency between a man and a maid.”

She looked at him solemnly. “Yes, there is forgiveness and there is generosity.”

“Precisely! If I forgive you, you must be generous.”

“What do you want?”

He rolled his eyes just thinking of what he wanted. The water revealed much of her high-thrusting breasts, and he was enjoying the view immensely. “I only want to talk.”

“We cannot talk, sir. We have no clothes on.”

He laughed at such an ingenuous notion. “If we cannot talk, then I suppose I’ll have to settle for a kiss.”

“I’ll not give it,” she whispered.

“You need not give it—I’ll take it.”

She knew she was trapped. She knew he would never let her go until he got what he wanted, perhaps not even then. The innate actress inside her took over. Her eyes widened solemnly and shone with unshed tears. “I mistook you for a gentleman. I imagined you to be a man of decency and honor.”

Damn, she was completely indifferent to his teasing charm. “I am a man of honor. I won’t hurt you, Beth.”

“Then will you give me your word of honor you will let me go?”

He hesitated for long moments as he towered above her. The tension between them stretched taut. He imagined her complete state of undress, picturing her rising from the water like Botticelli’s Venus. He envisioned her lying naked beside him in the grass. The thought of her delicate, slim form was irresistible to him. He had a hungry craving to touch her, smell her, taste her. What was this fascination he felt for her? “After the kiss,” he bargained.

“All right,” she conceded with wary reluctance.

He released her wrists and cupped her bare shoulders. As he drew her toward him he felt her tremble and saw her eyes liquid with apprehension. A sudden wave of doubt swept over him as it began to dawn on him that perhaps his water sprite was as sweet and virginal as she looked. Though the desire to possess her raged hot in his veins, the urge to protect her waged a battle with his lust and won. As he gazed down at her beautiful face he could not bear the thought of spoiling her innocence in any way. He touched his lips to hers in a chaste, gentle kiss that took his breath away. It was as brief and delicate as the brush of a butterfly wing, yet its impact was like a blow to his solar plexus. Dazed, he lifted his hands from her shoulders. “Go. Go quickly,” he ordered.

By the time Elizabeth arrived home it was twilight. She had missed supper, but she had also missed the explosive row that had erupted between her parents over the wagonload of turnips, for which she was profoundly thankful. She would rather endure anything than be subjected to her mother’s blazing anger.

Before she went to bed, she helped her father pack the theatrical trunk with the old costumes, wigs, masks, and makeup they’d accumulated over the years. She wrapped up the small Irish harp in a shabby velvet cloak, carefully placed the pair of rapiers in their gilt leather sheaths on top, and bound the trunk securely with a rope.

In the bedroom she shared with Maria, she helped her sister pack her carpetbag before she packed her own. Each of them had a cotton dress, a shift made from bleached flour sacks, a pair of black stockings, an extra pair of drawers, and a woolen shawl. They shared a hairbrush, a flannel towel, and a lump of soap.

Maria climbed into their bed and pulled up the quilt. “You missed a battle royal tonight. Father was holding his own until she demolished him by calling him ‘Jack and the Bloody Beanstalk’!”

“Please don’t talk of it—it makes me feel ill. I hope Mother’s not still angry in the morning.”

“She won’t be. Dad has a way of taking her to bed and mollifying her. Oh, Beth, I can’t wait to be in Dublin again, ’tis years since I’ve seen the city.”

Beth blew out the tallow candle and removed her smock, which was still wringing wet from the scrubbing she’d given it to remove the mud. She spread it across the back of a wooden chair then, covered with gooseflesh, slipped into bed and tried not to shiver.

“You’re making the bed shake,” Maria complained.

“Sorry. I’ll try to think warm thoughts.” The moment she uttered the words a vision of the dark male she’d encountered the last two days came to her full blown. As she pictured his muscle-ridged chest and black waving hair that brushed his wide shoulders, she began to feel quite hot. Then she remembered his mouth touching hers, and her lips felt scalded. Yet in spite of the burning heat of her body she still shivered. As she dropped into exhausted sleep, however, the shivering ceased and she drifted off in a warm pool of dreams.

She was an otter, swimming in the water with her mate. He was a sleek, brown creature with gleaming eyes, extremely bold and playful, yet always protective of her. Every evening, just at twilight, he dove into the water with reckless daring, luring her after him. She followed, unable to resist his potent attraction or the compelling hold he had over her. The game they played tonight was joyful, ever touching, teasing, taunting, until he led her from the water into the tall grasses. Suddenly, Elizabeth realized that they were not really otters, but a young man and woman having fun pretending. They were completely naked and enjoying every wicked moment of the delicious game they played. When he lifted her high she laughed down at him and allowed her golden curls to cascade and brush across his powerful chest. He slid her down his hard muscled body until her toes touched the ground, and his mouth covered hers in a long, lingering kiss that filled her heart with yearning.

The dream vanished when Beth awoke to the raucous crowing of the cock from a nearby farm, as she did most mornings. Today, however, it was still dark. She reached for her smock, which was yet slightly damp, then pulled on her black stockings and button-up leather boots. When she went down to the kitchen she met her father coming in from outside, carrying eggs.

He winked at his daughter. “I found these before they were lost. Quick, get the pan.”

By the time the travelers set off they had filled their bellies with eggs, melted cheese, and goat’s milk; they would remember the meal fondly over the next four days when their food consisted of boiled turnips, raw turnips, turnip greens, and more turnips.

Their spirits were high the first day as they traveled along the country roads, bathed in late-summer sunshine. They’d no money for inns and spent the first night under the shelter of a church lychgate. Jack unhitched the mule and allowed him to crop the grass of the cemetery. The girls used their carpetbags for pillows, and Maria was thankful that Elizabeth had had the foresight to pack their bedquilt.

At Ballyclare, great activity was underway. The young lords’ servants and valets were busy packing their masters’ trunks with everything from formal evening attire to hunting clothes, caped greatcoats and beaver hats, from riding boots to dancing slippers, and fine linen undergarments. The young aristocrats not only traveled with their own mounts, saddles, and hunting dogs but with their own snowy bedlinen and eiderdown-filled bolsters and comforters. The stack of trunks, boxes, and gun cases in the entrance hall already resembled a mountain, yet the packing was only half finished. A fortnight ago, the visitors had arrived at Ballyclare in three heavy berline coaches, two of which were used for baggage alone. Each traveling coach was pulled by a matched team of four carriage horses and driven by a seasoned coachman.

In the dining room on their last evening, the gentlemen lingered over their port and Irish whiskey, recounting tales of the great hunting and lamenting over the fish and game that had gotten away.

“You’re silent tonight, brother. Don’t tell me this ill-begotten land has enchanted you.”

John Campbell smiled. “Just thinking of a rare bird I saw by the river—far too lovely to bag.”

“Speaking of rare birds,” Michael Boyle interjected, “my cousin Lady Charlotte is to be presented to Will’s father, the Viceroy, at Dublin Castle’s drawing room next week. She’s of high enough rank that she’ll be able to sit on the dais with His Excellency. It will give you a damn good chance to look her over, Will.”

“Go over her fine points again,” William Cavendish urged.

“Let’s see, a brother and sister died in infancy, leaving her the sole heiress of my extremely wealthy uncle, Third Earl of Burlington. She’ll not only inherit the Piccadilly mansion and the Palladian villa by the Thames at Chiswick but will get the Boyle estates at Londesborough and Bolton Abbey in Yorkshire. Need I mention the vast tract of land in County Water-ford, crowned by the magnificent Castle of Lismore?”

“No, you needn’t mention Lismore, ’tis the jewel of Ireland.” Will’s mouth curved with desire. “I think I’m already in love.”

“Love!” John Campbell mocked. “We all know there is no such thing. Love is a foolish fantasy indulged in by females only.”

“Well, let’s hope my valet packed my ballroom shoes so that I may dance attendance upon Lady Charlotte and lure her into indulging her foolish fantasy.”

“Surely, in Dublin, it won’t be all rigid formality?” Henry Campbell asked with dread.

“I’m afraid it is patterned after the Court at St. James.” Will’s eyelid drooped in a wink. “However, since Father’s viceregal appointment as Governor of Ireland is up, he’ll turn a blind eye on the final night of his term. The champagne will flow and a saturnalia will prevail to ensure a successful reign.”

“Thank God for that! I wouldn’t want a cold bed on my last night in Ireland,” Henry jested.

“You’ll have your choice of attractive matrons, or the pretty daughters of solicitors or physicians who have little social rank, but the débutantes who are to be presented are absolutely ‘off limits’ for dalliance. Marriage proposals are the only offers they may consider,” John Campbell warned his younger brother.

“Mother would run mad and Father disinherit me if I even thought of bringing home an Irish bride. Being the heir, your case is even worse, John. Sometimes I believe that none less than royal blood will be deemed good enough to mate with Argyll.”

“Ha! You don’t imagine Hanover blood would measure up to His Grace’s expectations, do you? Scots and Germans may share a battlefield but not a marriage bed, I can assure you.”

“My sister Rachel has a secret tendre for you, John. You could do worse, you know—as the eldest daughter she’ll come into a good deal of wealth and property,” Will Cavendish pointed out.

“Lady Rachel was being courted by Lord Orford last time I was in London,” John Campbell demurred.

“Well, she can’t wait forever for you to declare yourself,” William teased.

“Our mother has a bevy of aristocratic ladies she is grooming as contenders to become John’s wife. There’s Mary Montagu, the Duke of Buccleuch’s daughter, Dorothy Howard, the Earl of Carlisle’s daughter, and Henrietta Neville, the Earl of Westmorland’s chit.”

When his friends raised their eyebrows, questioning if there was a front runner, John laughed and shook his head. “There’s safety in numbers, thank God!” Though he jested, he knew it was his duty to marry well, and his family was pressuring him to stop putting it off. Even Will was coming to terms with the fact that he must marry soon and beget heirs. Duty to family was paramount.

Will stood up and stretched. “If we get an early enough start tomorrow we should make it to the Black Bull Inn. They have a large coachyard and hostlers aplenty to take care of our cattle.”

“The Black Bull gets my vote,” Michael agreed, “they have a very good cellar and will even roast our own venison, if bribed.”

Thanks to the diligence of their servants, the travelers got an early start and the four companions were in the saddle before seven the next morning, galloping well ahead of their carriages.

The high spirits of the Gunnings had drained away by the time they’d been on the road for six hours on the second day and weariness set in. The steady diet of turnips did nothing to lift their mood, and their slow progress, which made the journey seem endless, did nothing to soothe Bridget Gunning’s irascible temper.

Elizabeth felt so sorry for the mule with its heavy burden that she refused to ride in the cart. Instead she held its reins and walked beside it, encouraging it with soft words or sometimes a song. She’d known from the beginning that she’d be walking for most of the journey; it was the reason she’d put on her leather boots that first morning. In the afternoon, to make matters worse, the rain started. Once Irish rain began, it fell in a steady drizzle for days. With unwavering stoicism, Beth pulled her woolen shawl up over her head and patiently urged the mule to plod on to Dublin.

Long hours in the saddle had little effect on John Campbell or his brother, who were both military men. In the late afternoon, however, as the light faded from the leaden sky, they gladly joined their companions in seeking the comfort of their berline traveling coach as shelter from the bone-chilling Irish rain.

Presently, however, the entourage found itself slowed by a plodding mule cart. The coach driver made several attempts to pass, by whipping up the horses, but the road simply wasn’t wide enough. Finally, William Cavendish opened the window and gave instructions to the driver. “Get the damned fellow off the road while we pass. We haven’t got all night, Bagshot.”

“Aye, my lord.” Bagshot stopped the carriage and set the brake.

Then he strode through the rain to the wagon. “My good fellow, your turnip cart is blocking the road. Their lordships are due at the Black Bull Inn and shan’t arrive until midnight at this rate,” he told the farmhand in the shabby coat and soaking cap.

“My heart goes out to them,” Jack Gunning replied cheerfully.

“No, you don’t understand. You must get off the road and let our carriages pass.”

Jack looked over at his daughter, who was patiently holding the mule by its harness and stroking its muzzle. “No, you don’t understand. We have the right-of-way.”

Beth pulled her shawl closer and bit her lip to keep from laughing. Her father was enjoying himself at the driver’s expense.

“These traveling coaches belong to His Excellency, the Viceroy of Ireland. Surely, you will oblige him?”

“The Viceroy is a generous man, I’ve heard tell, and wouldn’t be averse to a little compensation for such a great favor.”

The coachman reluctantly reached into his greatcoat pocket for a coin. “What do you say to a shilling?”

Jack took the coin and bit down on it. “A shilling sounds about right for me. Now, what are you willing to offer the mule here?”

Purple in the face, the coachman handed over a sovereign and strode back to the carriage. He was subjected to laughter from the mule cart and laughter from the young lordlings in the coach. He cursed under his breath. “That cost me a bleedin’ sovereign.”

“That’s why we’re laughing, Bagshot. You didn’t even have the presence of mind to get us a turnip!”

Within the hour the four gentlemen were seated around a roaring fire drinking mulled ale, while a haunch of their own venison turned on a spit in the inn’s vast kitchen. The dozen carriage horses had been unharnessed and taken to a barn with dry straw. Their thoroughbreds were stabled, curried, fed, and covered with horse blankets. Their hunting dogs had been kenneled, and their servants were seated in the common room enjoying steaming bowls of mutton stew.

It was more than two hours later that the weary mule plodded into the yard of the Black Bull. At the kitchen door Jack Gunning bartered two dozen turnips for a night’s shelter in the barn, while his wife petulantly parted with tuppence for some hot roasted potatoes. Jack unhitched the mule and brought it inside, then they all four sank down on the straw to eat their supper.

Unlike the others, Elizabeth did not devour her potato. She held it in her hands, its heat seeping into her fingers. Then she lifted it to her nose and breathed in its delicious aroma. When her belly started to rumble and her mouth began to water, she allowed herself a small bite. She relished the earthy taste of the potato’s soft white inside and saved the skin until last. She chewed slowly, savoring the thick roasted outside and sighed with deep appreciation as she swallowed the last mouthful.

“There you are, my beauties, snug as bugs in a rug,” Jack declared expansively.

“More like drowned rats!” Bridget countered. While their mother angrily spread their soaked shawls to dry, Maria pulled the quilt from her carpetbag and crawled beneath it. Beth, dreading her mother’s mood, went over to look at the carriage horses. Though their size dwarfed her, she felt no apprehension as she stroked their necks and whispered to them. She had an affinity for all animals, wild or domesticated, and they in turn welcomed her affection.

When she returned, she was dragging a leather feed bag behind her, excited at the treasure she’d discovered. “Real oats! Would you believe they feed the carriage horses real oats?” She struggled to lift the bag over their mule’s head.

“Oats? Don’t let the mule eat them, you thoughtless girl!” Bridget protested angrily. “We can have porridge tomorrow.”

“Oh, please don’t take them away from her,” Elizabeth begged. “There’s plenty more over there. I’ll fetch some.”

Jack stood up and brushed the straw from his behind. “Well, if you’re all right and tight my beauties, I’ll go and try my luck in the common room.”

“I’ll have that sovereign before you go gaming, Jack Gunning!”

Bridget took the gold coin and gave him a shilling in its stead.

He winked at his wife. “It’ll be like taking jam from a baby.”

“If that coachman’s in there, it might be more like getting blood from a turnip,” she taunted with exquisite sarcasm.

Elizabeth shuddered. Mother always gets the last word. She took off her boots and slipped under the quilt beside Maria. She was asleep in minutes, far too weary to dream tonight.