Just then, a knock sounded on the door. Evleen opened it to find a middle-aged, prim-faced woman dressed in a maid’s uniform, with a white satin gown draped over one arm. In a French accent, she announced, «I am Yvette, Lady Beaumont’s lady’s maid. Lord Beaumont sent me. He thought I could be of assistance in dressing you for dinner tonight.» She held up the gown. «This was his wife’s, poor thing. She hardly wore it before the typhoid struck her down. You seem about the same size.»

Yvette proved to be a godsend and, when eight o’clock arrived, Evleen took one final, incredulous look at herself in the mirror. The high-waisted gown fitted perfectly over her slender figure. But it was so low cut! Never in Ireland had so much of her bosom been exposed. «Think nothing of it, miss,» Yvette assured her. «You will find it is quite modest by today’s standards.»

Evleen regarded her thick, dark auburn hair, which Yvette had piled atop her head in a becoming style with soft curls and fastened with a set of pearl combs. Pearl earrings dangled from her ears, matched by a luminous pearl necklace. The result? Never in her life had Evleen looked so. so. the word was beautiful, but modesty prevented her from saying so, or even thinking it to herself. Instead, she exclaimed, «Yvette, you have a wonderful way with both clothes and hair.»

«And here is your fan, miss.» Yvette produced a delicate ivory and white lace fan, which Evleen took reluctantly. Never had she owned such an accessory. A fan was not necessary in Ireland, she thought amusedly, especially when she was scrubbing clothes or cutting peat from the bogs and dragging it home.

«So what do I do with the fan, Yvette?»

«You flutter it, miss, and you flirt with it. The fan has a language all its own. You’ll soon learn it if you’re here long enough.»

When Evleen hurried down the stairs to dinner, she was grateful she looked her best, yet dreaded another confrontation with the hostile ladies who no doubt would have preferred she eat with the servants. She found Lord Beaumont already seated at the head of the table, unsmiling as usual. His eyes opened wide when she sailed, head held high, into the dining room in her lovely gown, daintily holding her fan. «Good evening, Miss O’Fallon,» he said, surprise in his voice. «You look quite lovely this evening.»

«Isn’t that one of Millicent’s old gowns?» Lady Beaumont asked, none too kindly.

Beaumont replied, «There’s no reason why Miss O’Fallon can’t make use of it.»

In a voice edged with sarcasm, his sister, Lydia, said, «How charitable of you, Richard, always lending the poor a helping hand.»

Beaumont replied, «As a matter of fact, I’m sending for a seamstress to refresh Miss O’Fallon’s wardrobe.» Then he nodded towards a balding, thick-lipped man sitting to his right before addressing Evleen. «I don’t believe you have met our cousin, Mr Algernon Kent, who’s just come up from London to stay with us a while.»

A feeling of dislike overtook Evleen but she nodded politely at Beaumont’s cousin. Something about him was repulsive. Maybe it was the lecherous look in his near-lashless eyes when he gazed pointedly at her exposed bosom. She resisted the impulse to tug up the bodice of her gown.

Lord Beaumont spent much of the dinner discussing his son. «You will find he’s extremely bright and never stops asking questions. By the way, Miss O’Fallon, the nursery and classroom are a bit cramped. While the weather is warm, you might find the gazebo at the bottom of the garden more accommodating for the teaching of lessons.»

Evleen gladly thanked him, always happy for the opportunity to be outdoors. Later, after dinner, she became acquainted with a quaint English custom she’d never heard of in Ireland: the women adjourned to the drawing room while the men stayed at the dining table drinking brandy and smoking their cigars.

«Do you play cards, Miss O’Fallon?» Lady Beaumont asked as the ladies settled in the drawing room. Evleen shook her head. Beaumont’s mother feigned a disappointed sigh. «What a pity. Well, I suppose you could stay here and read while we play, but of course if you’re tired you might wish to retire for the night.»

Lady Beaumont so obviously wanted rid of her, Evleen instantly said she was tired and left for her bedchamber. On her way out, she overheard Bettina and Lydia discussing Cousin Algernon.

«I cannot stand that loathsome man,» said Bettina. «He’s such a toad.»

Lydia laughed. «Perhaps we could match him up with our little peasant from Ireland.»

«If we could get rid of her, I’m all for it,» Bettina replied with a giggle.

Evleen quickened her step. She did not want to hear the rest. She’d had quite enough of hurtful remarks for one day. Not that tomorrow would be any better, she sadly realized.

«Tell me about Ireland,» said Peter. «I want to hear.»

Evleen and Peter, both early risers, had eaten an early breakfast before the rest of the house was awake, then found their way to the gazebo at the bottom of the rear gardens. They were accompanied by Peter’s beloved dog, Cromwell, a lively brown and white Border collie who followed Peter wherever he went.

What a lovely spot, Evleen reflected as she gazed at lush green lawns, clipped hedges and bright flowers. She was grateful the friendly little boy had taken to her instantly. She would start his lessons tomorrow, but today they would talk and get acquainted. Cromwell lay down next to his master and went to sleep while she began. «Let’s start at the beginning. Ireland’s earliest dwellers were the Celts, who lived many thousands of years ago. They had many gods and the Druids were their priests.»

Peter listened intently while she went on to tell more of Ireland’s history. Finally the child pointed to the blue pebble that hung from her neck. «What is that?» he asked.

Somehow the pebble had slipped from beneath her jacket. She hastened to conceal it. «It’s a magic pebble,» she replied, knowing one could be perfectly honest with a child of seven who would take such information in his stride. «But you mustn’t tell anyone.»

Peter nodded vigorously. «Oh, I won’t, I promise. But you must show me how it works.»

«It only works when I’m in Ireland, but I’ll show you how it’s done.» Evleen pulled out the pebble and rubbed it with her finger. «It’s as simple as this. Now if I were in Ireland, a raven would appear and then» —

«But there is a raven,» Peter interrupted.

She started to tell him there could not be any such thing when she heard a loud caw from behind her. Surely not! Her heart leaped.

Peter pointed. «It’s behind you on that limb.»

Slowly, reluctantly, she turned her head. The raven gazed down at her — she could swear — with triumphant eyes.

«Dear God in heaven!» She leaped to her feet and called frantically to the bird, «Go away! You are not supposed to be here!»

The raven sat silently, its sharp eyes watching her every move.

«Here comes my father,» Peter said.

Oh, no! In dismay, Evleen spied Lord Beaumont striding through the garden. In seconds he would be here. She turned to the raven. «Please. The English don’t believe in magic. You must go.»

To her relief, the bird cawed softly one time then flew away. By the time Lord Beaumont arrived, Evleen had somewhat composed herself, although her heart still hammered in her chest. «Lord Beaumont.» She dipped a curtsy, fighting to control the tremor in her voice.

Beaumont stepped into the gazebo and seated himself in a wicker chair across from hers. «Do sit down, Miss O’Fallon. I came to see how you were doing.» He glanced fondly at his son. «It appears he’s taken to you.»

«He’s a fine little boy, and very bright. We shall get along fine.»

He spoke to Peter. «Go feed your rabbits, son. I wish to speak to Miss O’Fallon alone.»

After the boy left, followed by the faithful Cromwell, Evleen regarded Beaumont with questioning eyes. «I trust I have not done something wrong.»

«Of course not.» Beaumont leaned back in his chair and casually stretched his long legs in front of him. How handsome he looked, so different from the men she had known in Ireland, whose Sunday best attire could not hold a candle to Beaumont’s elegant cutaway frock coat, perfectly tied cravat, breeches that fitted revealingly tight over his well-muscled calves. And those polished Hessian boots! So very masculine, so very appealing.

Uh-oh, he’s been talking and I haven’t been listening.

He took a long moment to gaze at her. His lip quirked, as if he were amused, but she didn’t know why. «I find you an interesting woman, Miss O’Fallon.»

«Call me Evleen. We’re not nearly so formal at home.»

«In that case, call me Richard.»

She asked, «So why do you find me interesting when I’m only your poor Irish relative?»

«Because there’s something about you.» His forehead creased in a frown. «You surprise me.»

«In what way?»

«I would have thought a woman as attractive as you would be married by now.»

«We Irish don’t marry as young as you do in England.» Modesty prevented her from recounting the number of proposals she’d received over the years, all rejected. «When I do marry, if I ever do, it will be to someone with whom I have fallen madly, passionately in love.»

«So you’ve never been in love?»

«Not yet.» She tipped her head quizzically. «Didn’t you marry for love?»

«No, of course not.» At her look of surprise, he continued, «Many marriages are arranged in England, as was mine. Rank. family background. the size of the dowry are more important considerations than whether one has been struck by Cupid’s arrow. Actually.» He paused, weighing his next words. «I became most fond of my first wife. Millicent was a fine woman whom I greatly admired and respected.»

«What about Bettina?»

She feared she’d asked too bold a question, but he readily answered. «Bettina is the youngest daughter of the Duchess of Derbyshire. Vast fortune. One of England’s oldest families. Extremely generous dowry, of course. My mother’s cup runneth over.»

«But you don’t love her either?»

A half-smile crossed his face. «I was raised to believe honour and duty come first. Thus, for me, love has never been an option.»

How very sad, she thought, but decided not to say. They continued to chat, Beaumont showing no desire to leave. When his son returned, he arose reluctantly. «I have enjoyed our conversation. If you don’t mind, I shall come back from time to time in order to check on Peter’s progress.»

«I wouldn’t mind at all.» And she wouldn’t. Watching him stride away, she found herself admiring his broad shoulders and the easy grace with which he moved. Bettina was a lucky woman. Very lucky indeed.

In the days that followed, Evleen fell into a comfortable routine with Peter. She conducted his lessons in the classroom or, weather permitting, in the gazebo. Either way, Beaumont often joined them. Sometimes he sat quietly and listened; other times he joined in the discussions with a lively give-and-take of English history, or whatever was the topic, helping to answer his inquisitive son’s endless questions. Best of all, she discovered he had a deliciously subtle sense of humour, often revealed when the corners of his mouth quirked into an irresistible little grin.

She welcomed his visits, even looked forward to them with increasing anticipation. But the trouble was, Beaumont’s new-found attention to his son’s education did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the house. Evleen had hoped that in time she could make friends, but now their enmity was even more evident. She overheard Lady Beaumont and Lydia again one day as she stood outside the drawing room.

«There is something very strange about her,» Lady Beaumont was saying. «In fact, poor, dear Millicent once mentioned her Irish side of the family possessed certain mystical powers. At the time, I thought she had taken leave of her senses, but now I’m beginning to wonder.»

Lydia replied, «There’s something unpleasantly mysterious about all the Irish, what with their Celtic culture and those ancient Druids who, I understand, practised all sorts of strange, unholy rites — all quite unacceptable.»

«I cannot imagine why Richard spends so much time with her,» Lady Beaumont went on. «He claims he’s only interested in Peter’s lessons, but quite frankly I don’t trust the woman. What if she casts some sort of spell over him? Well, she had best be careful. If she dares show the least sign of any so-called magical powers, I shall send her packing, and I don’t care what Richard says.»