Page 5 of The Remarkable Myth of a Nameless Lady
Jacob laughed. “That was before we sailed for Africa, and I daresay I could not. There is a certain requirement for a ship’s officer, to have a certain amount of dress uniforms for every occasion. We are all quite civilized, after all, regardless of what part of the English Empire we might find ourselves in.”
“I am then doubly surprised, for is not Northern Ireland as wild a place as any stronghold in Africa? Truly, Brother, you do not know how uncivilized this place can be,” Owen said, his dark eyes surveying him with much seriousness.
Uncivilized.
There was that uneasy feeling again. He’d been quite aware that there had been more than one unfriendly set of eyes upon him in that village. The tension he’d felt had not been entirely due to one blustering fool, or even his spitfire daughter. Something else lurked there. Something dark and sinister.
“Pish tosh, what nonsense. Ireland is every bit as civilized as anyplace in England, though you would not know it the way we are keeping you standing here upon the cobbles. Owen, let Constance know to prepare the west chamber, I think. I imagine Jacob will want to rest. After some tea, of course,” Harriet Norton, the Duchess of Woodworth said, hooking her arm through his and leading him into the house.
“I expect she already knows, as I am sure you have told her at least three times in my hearing that you intended that space for him,” Owen remarked, then chuckled as Harriet held up a hand as if to shoo him away. “Yes, yes, I am going. But do save your tales of your journey until I rejoin you.”
“I will not speak a word regarding anything even remotely interesting until you rejoin us,” Jacob promised, putting an arm around his mother, though she was the one guiding him.
The house seemed dark after the bright sun outside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he looked about him in surprise, for he saw that many things had, in fact, changed considerably. Gone were the dour portraits that had graced this particular hallway, and in their place were beautiful landscapes, in bold greens that had to be Ireland itself.
“Your brother has discovered several talented artists among the locals,” his mother said, following his gaze. “Quite lovely, are they not? You will find many such things within the manor.”
“Though I expect you will still serve a good English tea,” Jacob said, as he led her through the door that she indicated.
“Of course! We have not forgotten our solid British roots.” Her face took on a troubled look. “Not entirely, at any rate.”
Stepping through the doorway was stepping back in time. This room had not changed at all, with the exception of the drapes which he suspected were new, for he could not remember such a rich brocade from his last visit. The settees and chairs were the same, though, as were the small ornaments scattered around the room. Here, too, were the portraits of his grandparents and their parents before them.
“I could not bear to have them relegated to the attic. This room has always been my own,” his mother said, taking her place in a chair next to a table that held a massive bouquet of peonies. “This and my workroom.”
Jacob took the chair next to hers, “Things have changed elsewhere, then, outside of the landscapes in the foyer? I was unaware that Father had taken such a liking to all things Irish.” He smiled as he said the last, hoping to tease a smile from her, but Harriet only frowned.
“Your father made his desires quite clear on that count,” she said, and the eyes she raised to him were somber. “He was very insistent that every stick of furniture in this house would be only things he had himself brought with him when he was appointed Duke here. There was not a thing of Ireland between these walls so long as he drew breath.”
It was no less than Jacob had expected. The former Duke had cared very little for the remoteness of the location despite the prestigious title that came with the lands. He had been very insistent on maintaining a very British manner in everything from landscaping to education, which had led to Jacob being sent away to school nearly the moment they had arrived.
“I am sorry I was not here when he passed, Mother,” Jacob said quietly, though he had not felt close to his father. But then, how could he?
“No son of mine will grow up Irish!”the Duke had proclaimed when he’d found that Jacob had gone fishing with a local boy and come home with a string of trout and the beginnings of a brogue. This decision had held through every school holiday when young Jacob had been denied time and again the chance to come home. He’d gone from Eton to Cambridge and from there into the Navy, never once coming home again.
Oddly enough, the same strictures had not pertained to Owen. Born sickly and even frail, he had stayed at home while Jacob had been away. Though to look at him now, one would not have guessed it. Owen’s shoulders had grown broad, and the hand that had grasped his had held a certain strength that had been lacking when Owen had been young.
“He was always very proud of you,” Harriet dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “He said it many times in his final illness. Not that he regretted sending you away. You have seemed to thrive in the years since we saw you last.”
What was there to say to this? In some sense, he had. He had done well at school, and won many promotions and recognitions already in his short time as a Captain of the Royal Navy. But those honors had been hard won, and he had had enough of wars.
“So, then the change in décor is recent,” Jacob said, to change the topic of conversation though he knew well it was awkwardly done. He gave a significant glance around the room, as though wondering what else had changed.
But this failed to entice his mother into more casual gossip. Harriet’s eyes were troubled “Owen holds a great love for Ireland,” his mother said finally.
Jacob gave her a sharp look. “You do not feel the same?”
“It is not Britain,” she said simply, then brightened as she looked beyond him, an expression of relief crossing her face. Perhaps she too was finding it difficult to know what to say. They were strangers after so long. “Oh, the tea is here. I imagine you might well be in the need of a good cup after that ride. Was it dreadful?”
She rose to pour tea for them both from the cart, pausing to offer him a variety of small tarts from a porcelain plate herself, despite the fact that a maid stood by who could have served them both.
The gesture was not lost on him. Jacob selected a tart and smiled, truly regretful that he’d allowed so many years to fall between them without more than the occasional letter.
I should have written more often. I am glad I have come to stay. I have been separated from my family for too long.
Jacob took a breath and smiled gently, wanting badly to connect with this lady he barely knew despite the fact that she was his mother. “On the contrary. I found the countryside to be beautiful, much like your landscapes, though a touch more lively. The village, especially…”
“Are you speaking of Ballycrainn?” Owen asked from the doorway. “I am surprised you did not take the coastal road instead.”
