Page 7 of The Irish Gypsy

Terrance ran up the steps in Half-Moon Street and pounded on the door. After the second pounding, Mrs. Harris opened the front door apprehensively.

"I must speak with Mr. O'Reilly,"

Terry said breathlessly.

"I don't dare disturb him. I would lose my job."

She had heard the carryings-on upstairs and she wanted no part of it.

Impatiently, Terry pushed past her and ran upstairs to the sitting room, with Mrs. Harris following him, wringing her hands. Finding the room empty, he took the next flight of stairs and pounded on the bedroom door. He called out.

"Patrick, I must speak with you."

Patrick quickly got out of bed and went to the door naked. Kitty sat up in bed and cried out, "Terry!"

"How the devil did you know where to find me?"

Patrick demanded.

"You know I try to keep my eye on Kitty. I knew you were bringing her here."

"Terry, you came for me,"

she cried.

He lowered his eyes from his sister's nakedness.

"No, I didn't come for you. I came for Patrick. Your father's had a bad turn. The doctor thinks it's a stroke."

Kitty said accusingly.

"You knew what would happen to me, but you let him bring me here."

"It's better than being a servant, isn't it?"

Terry flared.

"No, it's just the same! I'm like a chambermaid who must be obedient to my master's demands, except I'm to be paid with pretty dresses instead of wages."

She saw her clothes where Mrs. Harris had hidden them under the bed. Patrick was almost dressed, so she ordered.

"Wait for me. I'm going back with you. Mr. O'Reilly will have need of me."

"Kitty, I need you too. Stay here, please. I'll go to Father."

"I hate you! I'll always hate you for what you did to me. I can't bear to stay here another minute."

Terry looked at Patrick angrily.

"Did you have to be brutal?"

"Damn it, she's like a wildcat. Would you like to see the bites she inflicted to my wound? If there had been a knife within her reach she would have plunged it in and spilled my guts."

Kitty said to Terry.

"You ought to kill him for me!"

Terry regarded her with the smoldering arrogance of the Gypsy male.

"You challenged his manhood--he had to master you."

Patrick asked.

"Did you bring the carriage? Good! I'll drive; you go inside with Kitty."

In the dark interior of the carriage she realized for the first time in her life that men and women were natural enemies. She knew without a doubt that Patrick would always conquer her in any physical encounter; therefore her weapons would have to be more devious and subtle.

Upon arrival at Cadogen Square, Patrick turned the carriage over to Terry for stabling. Patrick tried to help Kitty alight from the carriage but she brushed past his proffered hand and swept up the steps and into the brilliantly lit salon.

"Where have you been?"

Julia demanded, looking them over speculatively.

Kitty's yellow organza was badly creased from the hurried carriage ride, but she held up her chin and said.

"Is there anything I can do to help Mr. O'Reilly?"

"The doctor is still with him, so we won't know what to do until he gives us our instructions. Go and make us all some tea, Kitty; that should make us feel better,"

Julia said.

Barbara sat unhappily in a corner with red-rimmed eyes. Patrick spoke up quickly.

"No, Kitty may go and tell one of the servants to make tea, but she is no longer here in the capacity of a maid. She may share in father's nursing duties, but that's all."

Kitty went to find a footman to order the tea, feeling grateful toward Patrick and at the same time hating herself for feeling that gratitude.

As soon as she was out of earshot Julia said.

"Well! Don't you know it's bad form to keep your mistress under the same roof as your family?"

Patrick glared at her with ice-cold eyes and Julia paled and realized she shouldn't have spoken to him so boldly.

He said quietly.

"Kitty has refused to be my mistress. You'd better keep a civil tongue between your teeth when you are speaking to me, miss. Now be good enough to tell me what occurred with Father."

"Well, it really all started this morning. Father got into the most violent argument with two draymen who came to make a wine delivery. Somehow ninety-six bottles were smashed and Father demanded they replace them at their own expense. The shouting match went on for hours. The whole household was in a state of upheaval. At lunchtime he still hadn't calmed down. The men were long gone, but he kept at it with Barbara and me for his audience. I swear he covered every conceivable subject, from the inefficiency of the British working classes to the folly of putting a woman on the throne. He drank deeply at lunch and I suspect carried on throughout the afternoon. Just when everything seemed to have quieted down and settled back to normal he clutched his head and fell to the floor. It took us forever to get him upstairs and into bed. We sent for the doctor immediately but he didn't come for ages and ages, and you know the rest. I was going mad, not knowing where you were, but Terry said he would find you."

Patrick said.

"I think I'll go up and speak with the doctor. Terry said something about a stroke. I imagine that's what he has had. He does tend to live at the top of his voice, doesn't he?"

Kitty came back into the room and Julia said to her.

"Well, Irish, you've more sense than I gave you credit for, rejecting our Patrick. He thinks he's God's gift to women, you know. Now then, what I have to figure out is how to keep this business from affecting my wedding plans. If he dies now, I'll kill him!"

She laughed at herself.

"Well, that's Irish if I've ever heard it.

Barbara cried.

"Julia, how can you think of yourself at a time like this?"

Julia looked at Kitty and said.

"You know, don't you? A woman has to take care of Number One first. Men will always sacrifice our wishes for their convenience. A woman is expected to give all for love, but what man is willing to do that? If a woman doesn't take care of herself, no one else will. I'm a survivor and so is Kitty. You, my little gutless wonder, will fall by the wayside because you've got a wishbone where your backbone should be! For God's sake stop sniveling. Ah, here's the tea. I think I'm going to have some brandy in mine. How about you, Kitty?"

Kitty nodded her appreciation and Barbara piped up.

"I'll join you, by God."

Patrick went quietly into his father's bedroom to find the doctor just closing his bag.

"Ah, Mr. O'Reilly, glad to meet you, sir. I'm very pleased to be able to tell you that your father's stroke was a slight one. He's settled quite comfortably now. He'll be in a very heavy sleep for the rest of the night, but that's quite natural. His eyes have a great deal of blood in them. It will take a few days before his system drains it away. I can't be sure if there will be any paralysis until I check him tomorrow."

He glanced over to the bed and beckoned Patrick outside the room.

"Now, I don't want to worry you unduly, but these slight strokes sometimes are warnings, and quite often days or weeks later they are followed by a massive stroke that either totally paralyzes or kills. All you can do at the moment is keep him warm and quiet."

Patrick saw the doctor to the front door and came back to answer the questions his sisters would put to him.

"The doctor says he's been very fortunate and it's just a mild stroke. I'll sleep in Father's room tonight and I suggest you girls go to bed and get some rest. You can take over tomorrow. You know what he's like when he's ill--you'll be run off your feet fetching and carrying."

He looked at Kitty. She was deathly pale and swaying on her feet. A great wave of protectiveness swept over him. He wanted to pick her up and carry her to bed. He wanted to cradle her against his heart and beg her forgiveness for being such a swine to her. He swore he'd make it up to her, but now wasn't the time. He decided the kindest thing he could do was leave her alone, so he said good night and went to his father.

Jonathan O'Reilly was a tough old man and within a few days he was recovering satisfactorily. The only noticeable effect the stroke had had upon him was that his speech was slightly slurred and one corner of his mouth was lifted a little. This gave him an appearance of perpetual amusement, which was, if anything, an improvement of his rather harsh features. As the three young women moved about his room administering to his needs, they cracked jokes and gave him the acerbic side of their tongues if his demands grew too outrageous. Even Barbara learned to answer him back. This treatment did a great deal to aid his recovery. If they had spoken in subdued whispers with an air of polite deference, he would have feared his death was imminent. They never saw Patrick during this time. He slept within calling distance of his father every night, but arrived home so late and quit the house so early each morning that no one saw him. As soon as he knew his father was going to recover fully, he plunged back into his business endeavors with unflagging vigor.

Jeffrey Linton sought him out anxiously to see if the wedding plans would have to be altered. Relieved when Patrick told him the wedding could go ahead as planned, he invited Patrick to his club in St. James's Street for the evening.

"I thought you needed a title to walk into the hallowed halls of White's."

"To become a member, perhaps, but you would be coming as my guest,"

said Jeffrey.

"Wasn't it Beau Brummell, upon being invited to Manchester, said, 'Gentlemen don't go to Manchester'? By the same token, factory owners don't go to White's."

"Come now, Patrick; only last week you told me the ideas of the Regency were dead. You're not afraid of being snubbed, are you?"

asked Jeffrey politely.

"Afraid? Me? You must be joking! I'll pick you up at nine."

They entered the cardroom and to Jeffrey Linton's great surprise, Patrick was hailed heartily by Sir Charles Drago.

"Patrick! Christ, it's good to see you. I didn't realize how much you could miss London until I started seeing some familiar faces."

Patrick clapped Charles on the back.

"Martinique, wasn't it? Is your term of governorship over then?"

"It's St. Kitts. I've another three years yet, but my health hasn't been what it should be lately, so I returned for a few weeks. Damned tropics eat a man's vitals."

"Sorry, Jeffrey, this is Sir Charles Drago. I went to school with his younger brother Kevin. Charles, this is Viscount Linton, soon to be my brother-in-law."

"So you're popping Julia off this season, are you? I could use a wife to look after me in my declining years. You've got another sister, haven't you?"

He winked.

"She's only thirteen, I'm afraid. Ask me again in three years' time when you return from the islands,"

Patrick said and laughed. He turned to Jeffrey.

"Don't look so astounded that the likes of me knows the likes of him. We're both Irish and we're both from the North. His father is the Duke of Manchester."

Charles Drago was in his early forties. He was a square, thick-set man with wavy dark hair showing the first trace of silver. He was handsome in a full-blooded, florid way. The tropical sun never had bronzed him, but only burned him until his skin peeled, and then repeated the process over and over again until he had the color of a boiled lobster. He contrasted greatly with the rest of the English nobility currently in the room, who looked more the color of oysters, thought Patrick privately.

Charles told Jeffrey.

"This young man has a knack for making money. I can spare about thirty thousand pounds right now; how would you like to invest it for me? I'll wager you've something cooking at the moment."

Patrick said.

"Well, I've acquired part interest in Stowils Wines, and Jeffrey here is introducing a new line into society for me. Now, the vineyards that produce this wine are in St. Emilion at Chateau Monlabert, and they're currently on the market for about a hundred thousand pounds. If the three of us throw in an equal amount, we could get them as an investment. Charles and myself will be silent partners and Jeffrey here can describe himself as the directeur. Why Jeffrey, you'll be entitled to fly a flag with the company's coat of arms, a fleur-de-lis and a lion or some such device, and you can honeymoon at the eighteenth-century chateau. All your snobby friends will try to wangle invitations, and Julia will adore you for investing her marriage portion so wisely."

"Do you think it's quite the thing for me to use Julia's money?"

Jeffrey asked stiffly.

"Don't be squeamish, man,"

urged Patrick.

"You'll have to put up with all the disadvantages of marriage, so you might as well enjoy its advantages."

"How many acres?"

asked Sir Charles.

"Fifty acres planted in Sauvignon and fifty in Merlot. They produce a full-bodied red premier grand cru. I also think champagne is the coming thing here in London. Soon it will be as popular as it is in Paris. Especially if we keep the prices outrageous,"

added Patrick.

The acquisition of the chateau was accomplished without Patrick having to set foot outside London.

Kitty's youthful vitality soon reasserted itself; however, she was troubled in her mind. She wished she could have gone to her grandfather for advice and understanding. She dreaded a confrontation with Patrick and knew that so long as they were both under the same roof, meeting would be inevitable. She was glad that the drudging tasks of housework had been replaced by the lighter tasks of nursing and realized that it was a step up on the social scale. The doctor was pleased with O'Reilly's improvement but was very strict with regard to his diet and absolutely forbade him intoxicants. He was allowed out of bed a few hours a day now, and he spent these complaining bitterly to anyone who would listen When Kitty brought him a bowl of clear soup, he pulled his face and began another tirade.

"I'd rather be dead than live on gruel for the rest of my life! Bloody doctors! No smoking, no drinking, but did you ever see one who practiced what he preached? Fornicators!"

Kitty said thoughtfully.

"I wonder what your own doctor would say? The one in Bolton, I mean. He might suggest that we feed you up to get your old strength back."

"Do you think so? Kitty, try to smuggle me something more substantial from the kitchen, there's a good lass."

"Well, it's very difficult with that chef down there and then there's always that butler poking his nose into everything. Now, if it were your housekeeper in Bolton, Mrs. Thomson, I wouldn't have any trouble at all,"

she said sweetly. She saw the wheels begin to turn. She had planted the seeds of suggestion, all she had to do was wait until they took root.

Another week passed in which O'Reilly seemed to have returned to normal, except for tiring easily. He called his children together for a conference.

"I've been thinking, and I've decided I'd be much happier in me own home, in me own bed,"

he said, coming straight to the point.

Julia looked alarmed.

"But, Father, we can't return to Bolton now. It's less than a month to the wedding."

"Now, who said anything about us going back? I'm talking about me. You can manage without me at the wedding. Patrick can give you away and then fetch Barbara home to Bolton after the wedding."

Secretly, Julia was relieved. She was ashamed of her father, and if his presence were removed, her social life would be vastly improved.

Patrick questioned.

"Are you sure you will be well enough for the journey?"

"I'm fit as a fiddle, or will be once I get back on me own midden. I'll take young Kitty with me. She's a good lass and pleasant to look at."

Patrick's mouth tightened.

"I'll get you a nurse, Father."

"Keep your nurses--I'll take Kitty, thank you. We deal very well together,"

Jonathan said firmly.

"I'll send her brother along with you then, but I have my doubts about such a long coach ride. It will take at least twenty-eight hours from London to Bolton and even allowing an overnight stop in Leicester, that's at least two fourteen-hour days on the road. I think you should go by rail. These new locomotives cut the traveling time in half. If I get you settled in a railway carriage first thing in the morning, you'd be home by nightfall. What do you say?"

Jonathan stroked his chin reflectively.

"Well, I wouldn't say 'no'."

He tried to veil the look of excitement that sprang to his eyes at the thought of trying out this new method of transportation.

"Good. I'll arrange your tickets. When would you like to go?"

asked Patrick.

"Tomorrow,"

Jonathan answered without any hesitation whatsoever.

Late that night all Patrick's thoughts centered on Kitty. He had kept away from the house during the daylight hours because being under the same roof as the tempting beauty played hell with his peace of mind, to say nothing of the physical effect she had on him. His inventive mind built one fantasy on top of another relentlessly and he knew he was besotted with the beautiful little baggage.

A dozen times he'd almost gone to her room in the dead of night. Her exotic beauty lured him like the moon lured a lunar tide. The one taste he'd had merely whetted his appetite so that each night he felt more ravenous than the last. He was in one hell of a state. He'd tried easing his hunger with other women, but soon knew the only cure for what ailed him was Kitty....Kitty!

Perhaps it was for the best that she was going back north. At least he'd be able to concentrate on business again. But he felt so reluctant about letting her go. He wanted her back at Half-Moon Street as his exclusive property, but she pretended she'd have none of him and he'd be damned if he'd go down on his knees to beg her!

On the other side of the house Kitty lay awake thinking of Patrick O'Reilly. In spite of his wickedness he was the only man she would ever want. If he'd ask her to marry him, she'd say yes in a flash, but fat bloody change there was of that. He just wanted her for his fancy piece and she was relieved she was leaving for Bolton before she gave in to temptation. She dashed a tear away before it dared to form and wrapped her arms about her aching breasts. Then she sighed and gave herself up to her dreams, which with any luck, would fly her to Patrick's waiting arms.

On the station platform Kitty was rather nervous of the huge iron monster, chugging out clouds of dirty smoke, ashes and cinders. The noise was a clattering assault on the eardrums and everything was confusion and disorder as baggage was loaded before the passengers. Kitty carried a lap robe for over O'Reilly's knees and a wicker lunch basket of food. Suddenly, a cinder blew into her eye and she let out a little scream and tried to rub it away.

"Don't do that,"

Patrick commanded. He took out a white linen handkerchief and lifted her face without so much as a by-your-leave and extracted the foreign body. The moment he touched her, Kitty began to tremble. As he looked into her eyes, she blushed a deep pink and lowered her eyelashes.

"Look at me,"

he ordered. Her eyelashes fluttered upward momentarily and he said low.

"Do you forgive me?"

She caught her lip between her teeth but could not speak, so she shook her head vehemently.

"To hell with you then!"

he said savagely.

Soon the dirty buildings fell away and they were traveling through green hills and then fields of golden ripe wheat, dotted with red poppies. Farmers were haymaking and the scenes were so peaceful that Kitty fell into a sort of daydream. In a way she had hated to leave the excitement of London, and she hadn't enjoyed saying her farewells to the girls last night. Barbara, bless her, almost had been in tears. Julia was so full of the wedding, of course, she could think of nothing else. Kitty, realizing the next time she saw Julia, she would be a married woman, felt it her duty to forewarn her of what to expect from Jeffrey. She broached the subject by asking.

"Julia, aren't you just a little bit afraid of marriage?"

"Afraid? Of course not,"

she said and laughed.

"I can't wait. Married women have so much more freedom, you know."

"I suppose so, but you will be expected to share your husband's bed,"

persisted Kitty.

"Oh, no, I shall insist on my own bedroom. Oh! I know what you're hinting at--the intimacy business,"

laughed Julia.

"Oh, Julia, don't laugh. It will shock you so deeply. You have no idea what it's like to be with a man that way."

"Don't I?"

Julia arched her brows.

"What quaint notions you carry around in that head of yours, Kitty!"

She was brought abruptly back to the present as Jonathan O'Reilly shook her arm for the second time.

"Yer off somewhere wool-gathering, lass. Be a good girl and open that lunch basket and let's see if we've got 'owt worth eating, eh?"

There was some cold chicken and some small jars of calves' jelly for invalids. A dozen small red tomatoes had been carefully packed to keep them separate from the russet apples.

"What muck!"

Jonathan complained. He brought out his wallet and handed some money to Terry.

"Here's a quid, lad. At the next station go and get us some pork pies and a bottle of hock."

Kitty almost protested, then realized that he would have his way no matter who put forth objections. However, an hour after he had partaken of the heavy pork pie, he was rolling about with indigestion.

Kitty was very anxious for hi.

"Mr. O'Reilly, you don't think you are having another stroke, do you?"

"Nay, lass. it's the wind. Next stop get me some peppermints. Ask for Mint Imperials; they should do the trick. I'm often plagued with wind. You know, life's funny--when I was a little lad I went hungry many a time, and now that I can afford anything I like, it doesn't like me. By gum, I'm feeling poorly."

By the time the little party wound its way to Hey House, all three were suffering from exhaustion. Terrance soon made himself scarce and after Mrs. Thomson helped Kitty get O'Reilly to bed, Mrs. Thomson took her into the kitchen, where a bright coal fire blazed.

"Take a load off yer feet, child, and I'll get you a cup of tea. If himself rings in the next half hour, you just ignore him. He can be a mithering old devil."

"Oh, Mrs. Thomson, I'm glad I'm back,"

Kitty said helplessly.

"They say that there London just seethes with vice. It's nothing but a den of iniquity. Did anything happen to you out of the ordinary?"

Kitty looked at the bright eyes, avid for a juicy tidbit. She said slowly.

"Just one thing: I stopped being a little girl.”