“I sent Searcy to remove them from the oven.”
“He was too late,” Mariah pronounced. “They were too brown on the top and nearly burnt on the bottom.”
Father Francis was mildly alarmed. “I’ve never known you to burn a batch of tarts before. The ingredients are too dear for that.”
Her reputation as the best baker in Inismorn at stake, Mariah gave Lord Kilgannon a sweet, I-told-you-so smile. “I wouldn’t have burned them had I been allowed to leave my guardian’s august presence in time to save them.”
“I’m sure Lord Kilgannon had his reasons for keeping you from your tarts.”
“Of course he did, Father,” Mariah agreed. “He doesn’t like sweets.”
Father Francis looked at Kit as if he’d blasphemed.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like sweets,” Kit corrected, placing his hand against the small of Mariah’s back, guiding her to her chair and politely seating her at the table on his left.
Kit waited for the others to sit before taking his place at the head of the table. Dalton was seated on Father Francis’s right and Ash was seated on Mariah’s. “I said I rarely eat them.”
Father Francis took the chair on Kit’s right. “Then the two of you have something in common.”
“Pardon?” Kit wasn’t sure he’d heard the priest correctly.
“You and Mariah.” The priest chuckled. “I won’t have to worry about either one of you confessing to the sin of gluttony.” He shot a glance at Mr. Mirrant before turning his attention back to his host. “Our Mariah bakes like an angel, but she never eats what she bakes.”
Kit glanced down at his ward. “If I hadn’t tasted your strawberry confection for myself, I’d take that as a bad sign,” he teased, nodding to the footman to remove Sister Mary Beatrix’s place setting and to begin serving the first course. “A cook who won’t eat what she cooks. Let us hope the same doesn’t apply to Mrs. Dowd’s cooking.” He meant it as a joke, but Mariah did not see it that way.
“I cannot afford to enjoy my cooking,” she replied. “Mrs. Dowd is a widow, but I’m unmarried. If I eat too many sweets I’ll get fat, and it’s doubtful that even the squire would want to marry me then.”
A glimmer of a half-forgotten memory stirred in Kit’s brain. You’ll get fat if you eat cake every night, and if you get fat eating cake, no prince will marry you. He brushed the memory aside. It was too absurd to consider. And yet …
“It should not make any difference,” Kit said.
“It should not, but it does.”
“You’re a lady of considerable means.” Kit met her gaze. “That alone would guarantee you suitors. Even if your face and form did not.”
“So Englishmen care more about fortunes than they do about faces and figures?”
“Some do,” Kit admitted. “Not all. But you’ve no cause to worry, Miss Shaughnessy, because you have face, figure, and fortune and a guardian to help you select the proper suitor.”
Mariah inhaled sharply, unable to determine whether she should feel complimented or insulted. Did he think that being Irish and a lady made her stupid? Or that having a pleasing face and form made her so? “And here I thought the Irish had a reputation for being mercenary,” she retorted, covertly watching Ash as he reached for his soupspoon.
Kit recognized an insult when he heard one. “Why don’t we ask your Irish squire and find out?”
Her spoon slipped out of Mariah’s fingers and clattered against the edge of her soup bowl.
“That’s no teasing matter, my son.” Father Francis’s tone of voice turned serious. “The squire is a mild-mannered sort of fellow, but I should think he’ll be very unhappy at the prospect of losing Mariah. He’s sure to pay you a visit and offer for her once again.”
Kit reached over and retrieved Mariah’s spoon and handed it back to her. “If that day comes, then I am sure Miss Shaughnessy and I will both have the opportunity to discover what the squire covets most—her or her fortune.”
Chapter Eleven
The guests are met; the feast is set:
May’st hear the merry din.
—SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 1772–1834
Mariah hadn’t thought supper could get worse, but in that she was proved wrong. She watched the gentlemen closely and followed their lead, but still encountered mishaps and accidents every time she reached for a piece of cutlery or a goblet or a cup.
Supper that evening consisted of six courses, served in the Russian style, all with their own special dishes and cutlery. Mariah had never seen so many dishes or such a variety of food. Nor was she certain that she ever wanted to again. She felt inadequate and out of place and terribly embarrassed.
And Lord Kilgannon hadn’t made the ordeal any easier. He had watched her all evening and his gaze was far from soothing. Mariah had been as nervous as a mouse in a roomful of cats. She had begun the meal by dropping her soupspoon, and the disasters had continued. She had selected the incorrect fork twice, picked up the wrong goblet once, and spilled sauce on the tablecloth—all before the meat course was served.
At the convent she’d been taught that education and religion separated the working classes from the aristocracy, but tonight Mariah decided that supper parties were the true divining rod between the aristocracy and the poor.
The poor considered themselves fortunate to have food on the table. The wealthy took it for granted that food would miraculously appear. The poor didn’t care how the meal reached the table. The rich cared more about the method of delivery than the food. How else did one explain the fact that there was barely enough time to taste a course before the footman removed that one and replaced it with another?
As if the selection of spoons and knives wasn’t difficult enough, she was expected to make polite conversation on a variety of subjects. For a girl who had grown up in a convent where meals were eaten in strict silence, the art of polite dinner conversation was harder to grasp than the choice of cutlery.
“Dessert, Miss Shaughnessy?” Kit asked when the tablecloth had been removed and the selection of sweet wines and desserts had been set upon the table. “We’ve strawberry tarts, and the baker assures me that they’re the best in the parish.”
“I don’t doubt that your baker is correct, my lord,” Mariah replied, “but I’ve had my fill of strawberries today.”
Kit nodded toward the footman. “Miss Shaughnessy will take her refreshments in the yellow salon across the passageway.”
“Yes, my lord.” The footman moved to stand behind Mariah’s chair. “Miss?”
The gentlemen rose from their seats.
Mariah remained seated and realized immediately that she had made another mistake.
Lord Kilgannon leaned toward her and whispered, “It’s customary for the ladies to retire from the table and gather in another room so the gentlemen can enjoy port and cigars without fear of giving offense.”
“Oh.”
Mariah looked up at him, and Kit read the panic in her eyes. “My mother always stands up and says: Gentlemen, I thank you for the pleasure of your company, but it is time I leave you to enjoy your cigars and port.”
The look she gave him was dubious.
Kit smiled. “Yes, Miss Shaughnessy, I have a mother. A rather extraordinary one. A true lady.”
Mariah rose from the table, met each pair of expectant eyes, and replied, “Gentlemen, I’ve been honored to share your company, but now, it’s time for me to withdraw and leave you to enjoy your cigars and port.”
“Well done,” Lord Kilgannon whispered as she walked by and Mariah found herself warming to the look in his eyes and his praise. “Good evening, Miss Shaughnessy.”
Father Francis glanced at Lord Kilgannon. “Thank you for supper, Lord Kilgannon, but I’m afraid I’ll have to forego the cigars and port. Mass comes early in the morning. If you’ve no objection, I’ll escort Mariah to the yellow salon and take my leave.”
“I’ll see you out,” Kit offered.
“No need,”
Father Francis replied. “I know the way. Enjoy your refreshments with your friends. I’ll collect my tarts and join Mariah in a cup of coffee before I go.”
“Very well, Father.” Kit nodded to the footman. “Please see that Father Francis’s batch of strawberry tarts is waiting for him when he’s ready to leave.”
“Thank you, Your Lordship, for a pleasant evening and for the strawberry tarts,” Father Francis said. “I’ll say good night to you now. And I expect to see you at morning mass.”
“Morning mass?” Lord Kilgannon coughed. “Father, you do understand that I was brought up in the Church of England?”
Father Francis’s eyes twinkled in merriment. “An unfortunate occurrence to be sure,” he teased. “But one I’m hoping we can rectify.” He looked at Kit. “Relax, my son, the services are very much alike, and as earl of Kilgannon, your presence is expected.”
“Why didn’t you explain this earlier, Father?” Kit asked.
“You had enough to digest for one morning,” Father Francis replied. “I decided to leave the rest for a better time.”
Kit eyed the priest. “Am I to expect more of the same?”
Father Francis bestowed his most innocent, priestly look on the young earl.
“Surprises, Father,” Kit elaborated. “Am I to expect more surprises like the ones you’ve given me today?”
Father Francis shook his head. “I cannot say what the future will hold, my son.”
Kit groaned.
Mariah smothered a giggle.
Father Francis looked from one to the other. “I’ll see you both at morning mass. Good night, my lord.” He bowed to the earl, then offered his arm to Mariah. “Come, my dear, coffee and dessert await us.”
* * *
“What do you think of your guardian?” The priest asked as soon as the footman arranged the dessert tray and closed the doors of the yellow salon behind him.
“He’s …” Mariah murmured, staring down at the coffee in her cup.
“A gentleman,” the priest offered helpfully, “a young, healthy, intelligent and responsible gentleman. And I suppose there are young women who would find him handsome.”
“Very handsome.” Mariah looked up and met Father Francis’s gaze.
Father Francis drank his coffee, then stood up. “I hate the thought of losing you to some man far away in London, my child, but I know your debut will be a success.”
“Yes, Father.” Her eyes stung and her voice quavered, but she remained steadfast before her confessor.
“No fretting about it, then, eh?” He chucked Mariah under the chin, the way he’d done when she was a child.
“No, Father.”
“Good. Lord Kilgannon is your guardian, he’ll do what’s best for you.”
Mariah tried to hold her tongue, but the words tumbled out anyway. “What is best for me? Marrying me off to an English stranger as opposed to an Irish one?”
“I don’t know,” Father Francis said. “Only you can decide the answer to that. You decide what you want, and Lord Kilgannon will arrange for you to have it.”
“If it’s up to me, why is Lord Kilgannon my guardian?”
“Because you are a woman, and in this time and in this place, women have few rights or protections. In the eyes of the law you must have a legal guardian to act for you. You don’t have to have him think for you as you are quite capable of thinking for yourself.” Father Francis took Mariah’s hand in his. “I know this is all strange to you, but you’ve grown up, Mariah, and things cannot stay the way they were. You have been denied so much, lost so much, that I wanted you to have a chance for a different sort of life. This is your opportunity. Make the most of it.” He smiled at her. “Think about it. And follow your heart. It will tell you what to do.” He reached out and patted her on the hand. “Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“All right, Father.” She waited until she heard the sound of Father Francis’s footsteps disappearing down the corridor toward the entryway, waited until she heard the low exchange of conversation as the butler opened the door and bid the priest farewell before she walked over to the velvet-covered settee and slowly sank to her knees in front of it.
Burying her face in the soft fabric, Mariah allowed the tears that were burning her eyes to fall, not in a polite ladylike trickle, but in huge torrents. Shoulders heaving from the force of her anguish, Mariah sucked in great, gasping breaths of air and expended them in equal force, kneeling on the cold floor before the velvet-covered settee, crying hot, wet tears into the fabric.
Chapter Twelve
“Whatever tears one may shed,
in the end one always blows one’s nose.
—HEINRICH HEINE, 1797–1856
“Sir?”
Kit looked up as Ford entered the study and walked over to him. The butler leaned over Kit’s right shoulder and spoke in a tone of voice too low for Dalton and Ash to hear.
“Are you certain?” Kit asked.
“Completely, sir.” Ford assured him.
“All right,” Kit said. “I’ll be right there.” He set his glass of port on the table beside his chair, pushed himself to his feet, and followed Ford to the door.
“Leaving so soon?” Dalton asked, moving a black knight across the chessboard he and Ash had spent the past quarter hour contemplating.
“Check.” Ash took Dalton’s queen.
“Damn!” Dalton swore.
“I’ve something I must do,” Kit said. “I’ll return shortly. Make yourself comfortable.”
“We intend to,” Dalton called after him. “Do hurry back. Ash and I were going to try out your billiard table, and we’d like the opportunity to relieve you of a portion of your inheritance.”
Kit followed Ford out the door and across the hall to the yellow salon.
“I came in to remove the coffee tray and to ask if she required anything else of me. I thought at once that something was amiss,” Ford explained in a low voice.
Kit eased the salon door open. There was no doubt about it. Something was most assuredly amiss with Miss Shaughnessy. Kit was surprised they hadn’t heard her across the hall for she was crying as if her heart would break or as if it had already broken. “Thank you for alerting me, Ford,” he said. “I will take care of it. I will ring if I require your services. That will be all.”
“Very good, sir.” Ford bowed politely and withdrew.
Kit stepped inside the room and pulled the pocket doors closed behind him. Miss Shaughnessy never noticed. Nor did she hear him cross the floor and kneel beside her. Kit exhaled. “Miss Shaughnessy?”
“Go away.” She sobbed harder.
He placed an arm around her shoulder and turned her to him.
She clung to him, burrowing into the warmth of his chest as she cried against his shirtfront. “There, there, Miss Shaughnessy.” He patted her shoulder, then began the slow, soothing, circular motion his mother and Ally always used to soothe away his childhood hurts. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“H-how c-can y-you a-ask th-that?” Mariah pushed away from his chest and stared up at him. “Y-you w-were th-there.” Her face crumpled before his very eyes, and her shoulders began to shake once again. “Y-you s-saw m-me a-at s-supper. F-Father F-Francis th-thinks I-I’m g-going t-to m-make a-a s-successful d-debut.” Her words came out as a series of sobs and hiccups. “B-but y-you s-saw m-me. I-I d-didn’t e-even k-know w-what k-knife or s-spoon t-to u-use.”
“How could you know?” he asked, his voice as calm and soothing as his hand on back. “When you’ve probably spent most of your life in a convent?” Kit pulled her back into his embrace and pressed his lips against her forehead. “How old were you when you went to live at St. Agnes’s?”
“F-five.”
“There. You see?” Kit whispered. “You went from the nursery to St. Agnes’s. No one has ever taught you. You aren’t to blame for that. They don’t serve six course dinners in the nursery nor at St. Agnes’s, I suspect.”
She sho
ok her head. “N-no.”
“I thought you did quite well,” he continued in his low, soothing baritone. “Very well. Extraordinarily well.” He lifted her chin with the tip of his index finger and looked her in the eye. “You should have seen me the first time I was allowed to attend a dinner party. It was a disaster.” He wrinkled his nose at her, then made a funny face. “I was all elbows and thumbs. No goblet was safe. My mother and my governess and later, my tutors, despaired that I would ever learn which knife and spoon went with which dish. But I eventually figured it out, although I do still forget to use my shrimp fork upon occasion.”
“Y-you?”
“Me.” He grinned at her. “And I have had the benefit of years of instruction, plus years spent peeking through the banisters, spying on my parents’ dinner parties and country balls. You had no instruction whatsoever.” He gently tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. “One slip of a soupspoon is nothing compared to my years of mealtime mayhem.”
“I-I c-can’t b-believe i-it.”
“Believe it.” Kit removed his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “The point is that I eventually learned everything I needed to know in order to be considered presentable in society. And while my mother and my governess and the tutors who followed my governess despaired that my table manners would ever improve, my father never doubted that I would become the sophisticated gentleman you see before you. He believed that I would live up to my potential, just as I believe you will live up to yours. A few lessons and you’ll be ready to take London society by storm.”
“I-I w-will?” She hiccupped.
“Of course, you will.” Kit stared at her. Her eyes and nose were red and swollen from crying and her flawless complexion was blotchy, but Kit was struck by the fact that she was incredibly lovely in spite of it. And that vulnerable look in her dark blue eyes made him want to protect her and keep her safe from harm. “Come on, now. Dry your eyes and blow your nose and tell me what has you in such a state.” He leaned close. “Because I know that it would take more than a dropped soupspoon to upset the best baker and the loveliest woman in the parish.”