Page 10

Chapter 9

The next morning, Emily sat in the sun-drenched drawing room of the house on Rutland Square, her pencil and sketchbook in her hands. She had not brought her easel from England, so for the duration of their stay in Dublin and at Oakleigh she would have to be content with sketching. At least she had completed the still life with the pearl necklace before they had departed from Bewley Hall, and it had in fact travelled with them, for her mother had implored her to permit it to be the first new artwork to grace the walls of Oakleigh Manor, whose previous paintings had been destroyed in the terrible fire that had also taken the life of Emily’s grandmother. Her mother had even said that she would commission further pieces for the manor and that it would delight her to be Emily’s first official patron.

Although the prospect of this honour greatly pleased Emily, right now her thoughts were focused less on the ideas she was idly sketching for it and more on the events of the previous night. What a shock it had been to see Henrietta on that stage. Her parents had not said very much when they returned to their seats after the interval, only that Henrietta was well and that they hoped to meet her again the following night. But Emily could tell from her father’s morose face that the reunion with Henrietta had not been a particularly heart-warming one and she could only imagine what the girl might have said. In their previous interactions, Emily had found her to be sullen and unfriendly, and she could even vaguely recall that Henrietta had pinched her once when they were both little girls. Was she still the same as that contrary child, or had she matured in the interim?

Jack’s voice broke into Emily’s musings. ‘No, that’s an illegal move,’ he said patiently to Gus, who was sitting opposite him across a chess table nearby. ‘The knight can’t go in a straight line—remember it has to make an L-shape.’

‘Fine,’ Gus grumbled, prodding his knight back and pushing his tricorne up his forehead to scrutinise his pieces more closely. While Emily may have left her easel behind, there hadn’t been a doubt in the world that Gus’s beloved three-cornered hat would accompany him to Ireland. He pointed to another square on the board. ‘Can I put it there?’

‘Yes, but look again at your other pieces. You’ve got one that could make a really good move against mine.’

Gus’s eyes widened and he pored over the board in deep concentration. Beyond his curly head, Emily observed Rory wearing a similar expression as he sat at a round table with a newspaper spread out in front of him. Mr Humphrey had not travelled with the family, but he had left all three of his students with the enthusiastic instruction to continue sharpening their minds in his absence.

Patrick was also present in the drawing room but he had chosen to sit apart from the rest of them, lounging in a chair over by the window. Emily marvelled at his ability to be content doing absolutely nothing. During the interval at the Theatre Royal, she had apprised him of her father’s connection to ‘Angelica’; he had absorbed the news with obvious astonishment but his only response had been to say, ‘My uncle is a man of many hidden layers.’ Now, he glanced out the window with a preoccupied gaze.

Suddenly, Rory let out a low whistle. ‘Listen to this,’ he said to the room in general, his tone grave. ‘There’s been a rebellion down in Tipperary.’

Emily’s head whipped towards him. ‘A rebellion? Led by whom?’

‘The Young Irelanders. It says here that they split away from the nonviolent Repeal Association to take more radical action in ending British rule in Ireland. They decided that an armed rebellion would be the only way to achieve their goal.’

Jack and Gus abandoned their game of chess, their young faces solemn.

‘Did it work?’ Jack asked, his voice small. ‘Did they manage to end British rule?’

Rory let out a short, bitter laugh. ‘If it was that simple, they’d have done it long before now. According to this, they planned the uprising poorly and didn’t get enough local support.’

‘No surprise there,’ Patrick contributed unexpectedly, turning in his chair to face them. ‘What did they expect, with the people starving in their hovels? They’re only thinking about where their next meal is coming from, not who’s holding sway in Dublin Castle.’

Emily gaped at him. He threw her a look of annoyance.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, am I the enemy here?’ he said tartly. ‘Does my English blood offend you?’

‘Of course not,’ she said hastily.

‘And you’re half Irish anyway,’ Gus piped up. ‘Because you’re Auntie Mary’s son. Da told us all about her—she was his big sister, just like Emily’s ours.’

Patrick’s expression became shuttered. He jerked his chin at Rory. ‘What transpired with the uprising?’

Rory scanned the newspaper article again. ‘It collapsed after a skirmish between the rebels and the constabulary. There was a stand-off when the rebels cornered a troop of constables in a farmhouse in Ballingarry, but reinforcements came for the constabulary and the rebels scattered. The leaders have been arrested and will be tried for high treason.’

‘Was anyone killed?’ Gus asked, his countenance pale beneath his tricorne.

Rory hesitated. He glanced over at Emily, caught the subtle shake of her head, and said delicately, ‘Uh, it doesn’t say.’

Gus looked relieved. His gaze dropped back to the chess board and he blurted, ‘Oh, I should move my bishop!’

He slid his bishop in a diagonal across the board and captured one of Jack’s pieces with a flourish. His exclamation of triumph broke the heavy mood that had swelled just moments before, and Rory turned the page of his newspaper while Emily returned her attention to her sketchbook, wondering uneasily whether the Young Irelanders’ short-lived rebellion would have longer-lasting ramifications.

Jack gave his younger brother a smile of approval before scrutinising the board again himself. As his hand hovered in indecision between two of his pieces, Gus swivelled towards Emily and pleaded, ‘Will you tell us more about the ballerinas?’

He had asked a hundred questions at breakfast about the previous night’s glamorous occasion, begging for specific details on every aspect of the experience, from how soft the cushioned seats had been to whether food was allowed inside the auditorium. Now, at Emily’s tolerant nod, he embarked upon another flurry, and she responded as patiently as she could. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Patrick observing them and wished he would make a sociable effort to offer some answers himself. After she had addressed the matter of the dancers’ satin slippers and how quiet their steps had sounded on the stage, Gus emitted a sigh.

‘I wish we could have been there,’ he said longingly. ‘Do you think Ma and Da might let us go tonight?’

‘I doubt it, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘You and Jack are not quite old enough yet to attend the theatre.’

‘It’s your turn again, Gus,’ Jack said, but Gus wasn’t listening.

‘I suppose it’s for the best,’ he said, his expression pensive. ‘There might have been some judgemental stares, what with us being illegitimate and all.’

Emily’s heart clenched at his matter-of-fact tone. ‘Have Mama and Papa talked to you about that?’

Jack nodded, lacing his fingers together on the edge of the chess table. ‘They said it’s better for us to understand what it means, so we’re prepared for how society might treat us in the future. They said it probably won’t be easy.’

‘If only we had a good story like cousin Pat,’ Gus said. ‘Then we’d be able to get away with it and no one would know the truth.’

Patrick gave a snort of amusement, but then he blinked as Gus’s words sank in properly. ‘Wait, what do you mean by that?’

Before Emily could intervene, Gus went on breezily, ‘You know, how your da lied about marrying Auntie Mary so he could tell society that you’re his legitimate heir.’

The room went still. Rory’s head snapped up from his newspaper. Emily’s pencil slipped from her numb grip and bounced onto the drawing room rug. Patrick’s face drained of all colour.

‘What did you say?’ he said, his voice coming out in a croak.

Gus gulped, seeming to realise that he had divulged something profound. ‘Um, I-I thought you knew. Your da never actually married our auntie. He just let everyone believe he did.’ He looked frantically at Jack and asked in a carrying whisper, ‘Was that supposed to be a secret in the family as well?’

Emily watched Patrick as his countenance filled with incredulity for the merest second before it was replaced by dawning horror. His hazel eyes went wide.

He hadn’t known the truth.

She thought back to the day Garrett had introduced her to Patrick in the gardens at Berkeley Square, when he had sought her assistance in getting his son to acknowledge him. After the arrogant boy, who at the time had still insisted upon being called Edward, had departed from the gardens, she had asked Garrett directly if he had truly married her aunt. Even when he had avowed it to her face, she had harboured doubts. The meagre number of witnesses, their willingness to sign written statements so many years after the wedding had supposedly taken place, the fire that had destroyed the church’s marriage register – it had all struck her as too convenient. On the ship back to Boston, she had expressed her scepticism to her father and he had declared it all to be an elaborate lie. Mary had confessed to him that she had never been married and that she had stolen a wedding band from a dead woman she found lying in a gutter to hide her unmarried state from her family.

But Mary’s death meant that she could not deny Garrett’s version of events and there was no other concrete evidence to contradict the narrative he had put forth to the world, that he had wedded her in secret and been a widower when he had married Emily’s mother. He had maintained that his first marriage had been valid, and that any issue from that union was consequently legitimate, and society had believed him.

And, evidently, so had his son.

In his shock, Patrick let down his guard for once and Emily was able to easily read the emotions that now played across his face – confusion, anger and shame all fought for dominance. However, she discerned the one that prevailed over every other by the two rare spots of red that appeared high on his cheekbones: he was deeply embarrassed.

How could he not be? It had been an act of true na?veté that he had accepted his father’s story without question. Still, the blame for that lay at Garrett’s feet – regardless of the front he was obliged to present to society, why had he never revealed the truth to Patrick in private? How mortifying for Patrick to now confront the reality of his illegitimate birth, especially in the presence of others who had already known it.

He gripped the arms of his chair so hard that his own arms trembled with the exertion. Despite her mixed feelings towards her cousin, Emily was moved to compassion. She rose, dropping her sketchbook onto her seat, and took a few tentative steps towards him.

‘Pat,’ she started, even though she had never felt compelled to use that more familiar form of his name before.

His gaze swung in her direction. ‘You knew?’ He stared past her to Rory. ‘You all knew?’

The silence that greeted him was answer enough. He let go of the chair to run both of his hands through his black hair, his features full of anguish. Gus’s lower lip wobbled as he apprehended the damage he had inadvertently caused.

‘I’m really sorry,’ he whimpered.

Patrick’s jaw clenched. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he muttered without looking at Gus. ‘It’s mine, for being such a damn fool.’

‘You’re not—’ Emily tried to say, but he leapt up from his chair, his face livid.

‘No?’ he flung at her. ‘What else would you call me? A halfwit? A simpleton? An idiot? Any one of those would fit the bill.’

Rory got to his feet too, bristling. ‘Mind where you’re pointing your temper.’

Emily made a shushing motion at him before approaching Patrick cautiously, as if he were a wounded animal. ‘Don’t let this define you. It doesn’t actually change anything.’

‘It changes everything,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not entitled to my father’s title or his estate, or the education he paid for me, or an ounce of recognition from the upper classes. I have no right to any of it.’

‘But society isn’t aware of that,’ she said, surprised by the ache of sympathy in her chest that urged her to alleviate his distress. ‘Only your father and our family know the truth. And we won’t tell anyone.’

‘Your secret’s safe with us, we swear,’ Jack said earnestly.

‘Why bother keeping it?’ Patrick scoffed. ‘It’s a lie, and what’s new about that? My whole life has been built on one lie after another. I was never Lord and Lady Anner’s nephew, and now I learn that I’m not even my father’s lawful heir. None of it has been genuine.’ He swallowed. ‘I’m nothing but a bastard.’

Emily flinched, not at the vulgar word itself but because it could also be applied to her two innocent brothers. Patrick’s vehement reaction would only serve to plant insecurity in their impressionable minds.

‘You mustn’t call yourself that,’ she said.

‘Fine,’ he retorted. ‘If I’m not the bastard, then he is.’ He curled his hands into fists. ‘He’s a damn liar. He led me to believe I’m someone I’m not, just to serve his own purposes.’

Emily could practically see the bedrock of Patrick’s identity, already nebulous, shifting and crumbling beneath his feet.

‘His choices are not your burden to bear,’ she said, striving for a calmer atmosphere. ‘We can’t be held accountable for our parents’ actions.’

‘That’s easy for you to say—you don’t have a blackguard for a father. I do. His blood runs in my veins. His deceit, his sins…they’re a part of me, whether I like it or not.’

With that, Patrick strode across the drawing room and stormed out the door, slamming it shut behind him with a resounding finality.