right. She should have known better than to rise above herself and marry an Englishman.”
The gall. Tea indeed. Evleen turned and fled back to the drawing room, unwilling to hear another word. How could they talk about her mother that way!
“What’s wrong, Evleen?” Her sister, Darragh, stood forlornly by the fireplace. She was pale. Her eyes were red from crying.
“It’s that wretched English couple who bought the house. The fools. You should hear them talk—going on and on about how superior they think they are to us Irish. I didn’t like the way they talked about Mama.”
“Mama,” repeated Darragh seizing upon the word with that ominously incensed tone that warned Evleen she was about to start again. “How could she have married that man? She has ruined our lives, she–”
“That’s enough,” Evleen interrupted, kind but firm. “I’ll not hear one more bad word about our mother.” Her heart went out to poor Darragh. It was hard enough being fourteen under the best of circumstances. She was still a child in so many ways, yet wanting to be treated like a grown woman. Not so very long ago, Evleen, herself, was fourteen, and she could well remember her own feelings. Still, she didn’t think she’d been as rebellious as Darragh, nor so sullen and resentful. At least she hoped she hadn’t. “What’s done is done, little sister, try not to make Mama feel worse than she already does.”
Darragh’s blue eyes narrowed in resentment. “Everyone told her not to marry him. Everyone warned her. Well, she did what she wanted and look what happened. Now we’re poor and my life is over. Oh, I shall never forgive her.”
Issuing a silent prayer for patience, Evleen gripped her sister’s shoulders. “What you say is true, Darragh. You have every right to be angry and upset. Mama made a terrible mistake, but it was out of love, don’t forget, so you mustn’t condemn her.”
“Love? Ha! How could anyone love an Englishman?” A corner of Darragh’s upper lip curled with contempt. “Mama was a fool. That scoundrel never loved her. He was only out to rob her of her fortune.”
Evleen answered softly, “That may very well be, but the man is dead now. There’s no sense in nurturing a grudge. He won’t know, and it certainly won’t do Mama any good. You must think of the good things about our mother—all she’s done for us, all--”
“It’s time to go, girls,” called Mama, entering the dining room carrying Patrick, followed by her two youngest daughters, Sorcha and Mary. All were dressed in warm clothes suitable for travel.
Time to leave. A lump rose in Evleen’s throat. “I’ll get my coat,” she said, and softly added, “and have one last look around.” I shall never do this again. Evleen lifted her skirts and sped up the three flights of stairs that led to her room. Her heart wrenched as she thought, never again would she ever climb these stairs, or stand by the window of her room and gaze down at bustling Merrion Square, or lie in bed of a morning and drowsily gaze at the flowered wallpaper while she daydreamed of all the parties she’d attend and beaux she would have when she turned sixteen.
Oh, it was so hard to keep from crying.
By the time she was downstairs again, dressed in a warm redinggote, she had regained at least a part of her usual composure. “This might even be fun,” she said brightly as they piled into the old wagon packed with their belongings, a far cry from the smart Barouche they used to own. At least we’re all together, Evleen thought as she looked at Sorcha and Mary, near tears and huddled together; at Darragh, a mass of quivering indignation and despair; and rosy-cheeked Patrick, bundled up and safe in Mama’s lap. He was only her half-brother, son of the hated Englishman, nonetheless beloved by them all. She must try to be cheerful, Evleen reminded herself, and pasted a careful smile on her face. “Just think, we’ll get to live near the ocean, and milk the cows and feed the chickens, and herd the sheep.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Darragh asked in an anguished voice. “We are but peasants now, just poor Irish trash. Oh, it makes me ashamed. We can never hold our heads up again.”
“Ashamed to be Irish?” Mama squared her shoulders; her chin lifted with dignity; pride blazed in her clear blue eyes. “You must never forget, my children, that your father was Ian