finding him away from home, they contented themselves with brutally assaulting his wife and one of his sons,” Clay said. “Does your uncle approve of Burke’s methods?”
“He encourages them,” she said drily. “I’m afraid he classes the Irish with the negroes—both races being naturally inferior to his own and conceived that way by God.”
“Sir George must indeed be a man of penetrating intelligence,” Clay observed. “Might I enquire whether you sympathize with his views?”
“As my grandmother on my mother’s side was a Hindu, born and raised in Calcutta, you might say I’m prejudiced,” she told him.
They walked their horses along the track, allowing the animals to choose their own pace and Clay glanced sideways at her. The mixed blood was plain in the large, almond-shaped eyes and the creamy skin peculiar to Eurasian women.
She turned and, finding him looking at her, flushed. For the moment, her self-assurance seemed to desert her and she became simply a young eighteen-year-old girl with a rather boyish charm. Then she smiled shyly and in that brief moment of revelation, he knew she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. A queer, inexplicable tenderness flooded through him. He reached across and squeezed her hand reassuringly, and her smile seemed to deepen, to become luminous, and she no longer looked afraid, but completely sure of herself.
At that moment, the rain increased into a monsoon-like downpour and she spurred her horse forward with a gay laugh. Clay gave Pegeen her head and galloped after her. She turned her horse off the track and rode down into a small wooded valley, and through the trees he caught a gleam of water.
She stopped in the shelter of a huge beech tree whose roots reached down to the edge of a small, quiet pool, and as he dismounted, she slid to the ground.
She pushed a damp tendril of dark hair away from her forehead. “We’ll be safe here until it eases up a little.”
Clay took out a cheroot and lit it, while she threw pieces of twig into the water with an absorbed look on her face and snapped her fingers as a duck swirled across the water, expecting to be fed.
A small wind blew from the other side, bringing with it the dank, wet smell of rotting leaves. “That smell,” she said, turning toward him, her face vibrant with emotion, “Isn’t it wonderful? Doesn’t it make you feel good to be alive?”
He nodded. “My favorite season, the fall. Always something a little sad about it, though. Old dreams like smoke in the air, still lingering for a brief moment before disappearing forever.”
It was impossible for him to keep the bitterness from his voice as he thought of his own dream, the dreams of thousands like him, which had ended with the Confederacy at Appomattox.
She placed a hand on his arm and said gently, “I’m sorry, I was forgetting what this year has brought you.”
He managed a wry smile. “I thought it had at last brought me peace, but I’ve found precious little of it in Ireland so far. Tell me, what were you doing so close to the Rogan place? It’s hardly good weather for riding.”
“I intended going to Claremont to see you,” she said. “There’s a sick child in the village—a little boy. I wondered if you would have a look at him. There isn’t a doctor nearer than Galway.”
“Surely you chose a roundabout way of going to Claremont?”
She smiled. “One of the servants overheard my uncle giving Burke his orders and told me. I rode over to warn the Rogans. They’re friends of mine—good friends.”
With an abrupt and almost childlike gesture, she reached up and traced a finger along the sabre scar that sliced his cheek. “When did you get that?”
He shrugged. “A long time ago—a thousand years ago. Pittsburgh Landing.”
A slight frown creased her forehead and then it cleared. “Oh, yes, I was forgetting you had different names for some of the battles. The Yankees called it Shiloh, didn’t
“He encourages them,” she said drily. “I’m afraid he classes the Irish with the negroes—both races being naturally inferior to his own and conceived that way by God.”
“Sir George must indeed be a man of penetrating intelligence,” Clay observed. “Might I enquire whether you sympathize with his views?”
“As my grandmother on my mother’s side was a Hindu, born and raised in Calcutta, you might say I’m prejudiced,” she told him.
They walked their horses along the track, allowing the animals to choose their own pace and Clay glanced sideways at her. The mixed blood was plain in the large, almond-shaped eyes and the creamy skin peculiar to Eurasian women.
She turned and, finding him looking at her, flushed. For the moment, her self-assurance seemed to desert her and she became simply a young eighteen-year-old girl with a rather boyish charm. Then she smiled shyly and in that brief moment of revelation, he knew she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. A queer, inexplicable tenderness flooded through him. He reached across and squeezed her hand reassuringly, and her smile seemed to deepen, to become luminous, and she no longer looked afraid, but completely sure of herself.
At that moment, the rain increased into a monsoon-like downpour and she spurred her horse forward with a gay laugh. Clay gave Pegeen her head and galloped after her. She turned her horse off the track and rode down into a small wooded valley, and through the trees he caught a gleam of water.
She stopped in the shelter of a huge beech tree whose roots reached down to the edge of a small, quiet pool, and as he dismounted, she slid to the ground.
She pushed a damp tendril of dark hair away from her forehead. “We’ll be safe here until it eases up a little.”
Clay took out a cheroot and lit it, while she threw pieces of twig into the water with an absorbed look on her face and snapped her fingers as a duck swirled across the water, expecting to be fed.
A small wind blew from the other side, bringing with it the dank, wet smell of rotting leaves. “That smell,” she said, turning toward him, her face vibrant with emotion, “Isn’t it wonderful? Doesn’t it make you feel good to be alive?”
He nodded. “My favorite season, the fall. Always something a little sad about it, though. Old dreams like smoke in the air, still lingering for a brief moment before disappearing forever.”
It was impossible for him to keep the bitterness from his voice as he thought of his own dream, the dreams of thousands like him, which had ended with the Confederacy at Appomattox.
She placed a hand on his arm and said gently, “I’m sorry, I was forgetting what this year has brought you.”
He managed a wry smile. “I thought it had at last brought me peace, but I’ve found precious little of it in Ireland so far. Tell me, what were you doing so close to the Rogan place? It’s hardly good weather for riding.”
“I intended going to Claremont to see you,” she said. “There’s a sick child in the village—a little boy. I wondered if you would have a look at him. There isn’t a doctor nearer than Galway.”
“Surely you chose a roundabout way of going to Claremont?”
She smiled. “One of the servants overheard my uncle giving Burke his orders and told me. I rode over to warn the Rogans. They’re friends of mine—good friends.”
With an abrupt and almost childlike gesture, she reached up and traced a finger along the sabre scar that sliced his cheek. “When did you get that?”
He shrugged. “A long time ago—a thousand years ago. Pittsburgh Landing.”
A slight frown creased her forehead and then it cleared. “Oh, yes, I was forgetting you had different names for some of the battles. The Yankees called it Shiloh, didn’t
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