Read Online Flight of the Eagle by Peter Watt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Watt
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fox hunts and thoroughbred horses. When Sir Alfred was not attempting to thus engage the dinner guests, he berated the magistrate George Balmer on the scourge of the lingering Fenian threat to life and property in the county. Patrick took an instant dislike to the loud, garrulous knight of the realm on account of what he represented to the Ireland of Patrick's Catholic ancestors.
At the end of the table, seated next to Sir Alfred and his wife, sat the Reverend John Basendale and his wife Tess. The Reverend Basendale was the vicar from the local Church of Ireland and a frequent dinner guest of George Fitzgerald. It was not as if George found the man interesting – he was a meek and colourless man in comparison to Eamon O'Brien – but he could at least deliver the traditionally acceptable Church of Ireland form of grace. The minister and his wife smiled dutifully at Sir Alfred's stories but did little else.
Along Patrick's side of the table sat the distinguished American Randolph Raynor and his pretty wife Ann. He and his wife were guests of Sir Alfred, as were the Norrises. The American had investments in railways and cattle in his own country and it was obvious that the common interest of the Raynors and Norrises transcended continents. Randolph Raynor was a tall, well-built man who spoke softly but carried an air of authority about him like a military cloak. This was not surprising; he had served in the Civil War as a young colonel in a militia unit of the Northern forces of Mister Lincoln.
Beside Ann Raynor sat die Norrises' daughter Letitia. Now eighteen, she had blossomed into a very attractive young lady – and a very eligible catch for some worthy young man of good (and wealthy) stock. Her raven hair and dark eyes contrasted with her milk white complexion that was highlighted with a hint of rouge. It was obvious from die moment she had set eyes on die tall, broad-shouldered young captain wearing the uniform of a Highlander that all men in her life would mean nought should the dashing British officer ask her to elope with him.
Letitia was a prudish snob who did not like Catherine. She considered her as too free in her ways and thus not a lady. Or was it that she felt deep jealousy for the way all men stared with undisguised admiration for the girl with flaming red hair and flashing smile? She sulked in petulant silence as she toyed with her food and snapped irritably at one of die old women servants who placed a dish before her. Letitia was not happy having been seated away from the handsome Captain Patrick Duffy.
At one end of the stout oak table sat George, presiding over the dinner, with his beautiful and socially accomplished grand-daughter at the far end, facing him along a row of candles flickering in their silver candelabra. The soft, yellow glow highlighted the costly jewellery worn by the ladies around slim throats and dangling from dainty earlobes.
The same soft glow reflected off the polished brass buttons and badges of Patrick's resplendent uniform. The gentle glow also highlighted the faces of the guests and flashed off the crystal goblets raised as the guests sipped excellent French and Spanish wines. George Fitzgerald tapped the goblet in front of him with a silver spoon to silence the babble of voices for a moment.
Patrick rose, as did the other guests, and glanced down the table. Brett Norris stood as tall as Patrick himself and carried the arrogant air of one born to wealth. He leant to whisper something in Catherine's ear just before George Fitzgerald proposed the toast to the Queen and, in deference to his American guests, the President of the United States of America, Mister Grover Cleveland. Catherine giggled and placed her hand on the handsome young man's wrist while her lips pressed close to his ear. The intimacy of her gesture did not escape Patrick's notice. He mumbled his response to the toasts as social protocol required, resumed his seat and stared morosely into the dark coloured
At the end of the table, seated next to Sir Alfred and his wife, sat the Reverend John Basendale and his wife Tess. The Reverend Basendale was the vicar from the local Church of Ireland and a frequent dinner guest of George Fitzgerald. It was not as if George found the man interesting – he was a meek and colourless man in comparison to Eamon O'Brien – but he could at least deliver the traditionally acceptable Church of Ireland form of grace. The minister and his wife smiled dutifully at Sir Alfred's stories but did little else.
Along Patrick's side of the table sat the distinguished American Randolph Raynor and his pretty wife Ann. He and his wife were guests of Sir Alfred, as were the Norrises. The American had investments in railways and cattle in his own country and it was obvious that the common interest of the Raynors and Norrises transcended continents. Randolph Raynor was a tall, well-built man who spoke softly but carried an air of authority about him like a military cloak. This was not surprising; he had served in the Civil War as a young colonel in a militia unit of the Northern forces of Mister Lincoln.
Beside Ann Raynor sat die Norrises' daughter Letitia. Now eighteen, she had blossomed into a very attractive young lady – and a very eligible catch for some worthy young man of good (and wealthy) stock. Her raven hair and dark eyes contrasted with her milk white complexion that was highlighted with a hint of rouge. It was obvious from die moment she had set eyes on die tall, broad-shouldered young captain wearing the uniform of a Highlander that all men in her life would mean nought should the dashing British officer ask her to elope with him.
Letitia was a prudish snob who did not like Catherine. She considered her as too free in her ways and thus not a lady. Or was it that she felt deep jealousy for the way all men stared with undisguised admiration for the girl with flaming red hair and flashing smile? She sulked in petulant silence as she toyed with her food and snapped irritably at one of die old women servants who placed a dish before her. Letitia was not happy having been seated away from the handsome Captain Patrick Duffy.
At one end of the stout oak table sat George, presiding over the dinner, with his beautiful and socially accomplished grand-daughter at the far end, facing him along a row of candles flickering in their silver candelabra. The soft, yellow glow highlighted the costly jewellery worn by the ladies around slim throats and dangling from dainty earlobes.
The same soft glow reflected off the polished brass buttons and badges of Patrick's resplendent uniform. The gentle glow also highlighted the faces of the guests and flashed off the crystal goblets raised as the guests sipped excellent French and Spanish wines. George Fitzgerald tapped the goblet in front of him with a silver spoon to silence the babble of voices for a moment.
Patrick rose, as did the other guests, and glanced down the table. Brett Norris stood as tall as Patrick himself and carried the arrogant air of one born to wealth. He leant to whisper something in Catherine's ear just before George Fitzgerald proposed the toast to the Queen and, in deference to his American guests, the President of the United States of America, Mister Grover Cleveland. Catherine giggled and placed her hand on the handsome young man's wrist while her lips pressed close to his ear. The intimacy of her gesture did not escape Patrick's notice. He mumbled his response to the toasts as social protocol required, resumed his seat and stared morosely into the dark coloured
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