“Are you averse to such a match?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Then it hardly matters how it came about.”
I’d been reading the book Patrick had given me that he’d said would tell me something about him. The poet was James Clarence Mangan. An Irish poet, as Patrick had said, and at first all I’d seen were pretty poems about Ireland and ancient heroes.
But the more I read, the more I saw what Patrick must have wished me to see. The poems were pretty, yes, but they were much more than that. “Lament for Banba” held the lines: “For the hour soon may loom / When the Lord’s mighty hand / Shall be raised for our rescue once more!” And in “Dark Rosaleen”: “’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, / My Dark Rosaleen!” I remembered what Aidan had said about Patrick being a member of the Fenian Brotherhood, and I understood. These were poems of war, about Ireland rebelling against British rule. Patrick was telling me of his passion for Ireland and her politics.
I closed the book, looking out my window onto the street below, and tried to decide how I felt about Patrick’s involvement. I thought of the way he looked at me, the things he’d said. Ireland didn’t matter to me, but I liked the passion it inspired in him. I liked that there were things that mattered to him beyond himself. He wasn’t like the other boys I knew, who talked only about horses and drinking. He was like those men in the stories I loved: heroes riding into battle because the world needed saving. Patrick
was
a white knight.
I rubbed my thumb across the worn cover; clearly Patrick had read this book many times, and suddenly I could not wait to discuss it with him, to discover more of him.
It wasn’t the butler who opened the door for us when Mama and I arrived at the Devlins’ for tea but Patrick himself. “You’re here at last,” he said, looking at me, making my heart flutter. “Come in, please. Mama and Lucy are waiting.”
“You won’t be joining us?” I asked, trying not to sound disappointed when he led us to the parlor.
“I’ve business to attend to first, I’m afraid. But it shouldn’t take long. I’ll be with you shortly.”
I couldn’t help smiling like a fool, and he smiled back; and it was a moment before I realized we were just standing there smiling at each other while everyone looked on. I ducked my head, and Patrick said, “I’ll be quick, I promise,” and left.
“How wonderful that you could come,” Mrs. Devlin saidas she poured tea. “Dare I hope that this means your mother is feeling better?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mama said. “But we’ve left Aidan with her, and I trust she’s in good hands.”
I said nothing, though Mama and I both knew it would be a miracle if Aidan were still there when we returned. I watched as Lucy smiled distractedly and wandered to the window.
Mrs. Devlin said, “Lucy, my dear,” and then, to us, “I’m afraid my daughter is not herself this afternoon.”
“I’m quite myself,” Lucy disagreed. “More myself than ever, I believe.”
I knew that tone. Lucy was in love. The Astor boy still, or someone new?
Mrs. Devlin said in a low voice, “You must forgive her. She’s been in a state. Now, Maeve, you must tell me—” She was off then, speaking again of Grandma’s health, and Mama and she were soon engaged in conversation.
I went over to Lucy, following her gaze. Nothing but the park beyond the windows, fully leafed trees trembling in a warm breeze. I said, “We’re blocks from the Astor house. You couldn’t hope to see him from here.”
“The Astor house?” she asked blankly, and then, “Oh. Oh no. I’m done with him.”
“I suppose that’s best, as you had no hope of him.” It was a bit harsh to say it, but there was something about Lucy that brought out the worst in me.
She threw me an annoyed glance. “Yes, I know. And he’s a callow boy anyway. Nothing like—” She broke off.
So Lucy had another secret love. If she
“No,” I admitted.
“Then it hardly matters how it came about.”
I’d been reading the book Patrick had given me that he’d said would tell me something about him. The poet was James Clarence Mangan. An Irish poet, as Patrick had said, and at first all I’d seen were pretty poems about Ireland and ancient heroes.
But the more I read, the more I saw what Patrick must have wished me to see. The poems were pretty, yes, but they were much more than that. “Lament for Banba” held the lines: “For the hour soon may loom / When the Lord’s mighty hand / Shall be raised for our rescue once more!” And in “Dark Rosaleen”: “’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, / My Dark Rosaleen!” I remembered what Aidan had said about Patrick being a member of the Fenian Brotherhood, and I understood. These were poems of war, about Ireland rebelling against British rule. Patrick was telling me of his passion for Ireland and her politics.
I closed the book, looking out my window onto the street below, and tried to decide how I felt about Patrick’s involvement. I thought of the way he looked at me, the things he’d said. Ireland didn’t matter to me, but I liked the passion it inspired in him. I liked that there were things that mattered to him beyond himself. He wasn’t like the other boys I knew, who talked only about horses and drinking. He was like those men in the stories I loved: heroes riding into battle because the world needed saving. Patrick
was
a white knight.
I rubbed my thumb across the worn cover; clearly Patrick had read this book many times, and suddenly I could not wait to discuss it with him, to discover more of him.
It wasn’t the butler who opened the door for us when Mama and I arrived at the Devlins’ for tea but Patrick himself. “You’re here at last,” he said, looking at me, making my heart flutter. “Come in, please. Mama and Lucy are waiting.”
“You won’t be joining us?” I asked, trying not to sound disappointed when he led us to the parlor.
“I’ve business to attend to first, I’m afraid. But it shouldn’t take long. I’ll be with you shortly.”
I couldn’t help smiling like a fool, and he smiled back; and it was a moment before I realized we were just standing there smiling at each other while everyone looked on. I ducked my head, and Patrick said, “I’ll be quick, I promise,” and left.
“How wonderful that you could come,” Mrs. Devlin saidas she poured tea. “Dare I hope that this means your mother is feeling better?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mama said. “But we’ve left Aidan with her, and I trust she’s in good hands.”
I said nothing, though Mama and I both knew it would be a miracle if Aidan were still there when we returned. I watched as Lucy smiled distractedly and wandered to the window.
Mrs. Devlin said, “Lucy, my dear,” and then, to us, “I’m afraid my daughter is not herself this afternoon.”
“I’m quite myself,” Lucy disagreed. “More myself than ever, I believe.”
I knew that tone. Lucy was in love. The Astor boy still, or someone new?
Mrs. Devlin said in a low voice, “You must forgive her. She’s been in a state. Now, Maeve, you must tell me—” She was off then, speaking again of Grandma’s health, and Mama and she were soon engaged in conversation.
I went over to Lucy, following her gaze. Nothing but the park beyond the windows, fully leafed trees trembling in a warm breeze. I said, “We’re blocks from the Astor house. You couldn’t hope to see him from here.”
“The Astor house?” she asked blankly, and then, “Oh. Oh no. I’m done with him.”
“I suppose that’s best, as you had no hope of him.” It was a bit harsh to say it, but there was something about Lucy that brought out the worst in me.
She threw me an annoyed glance. “Yes, I know. And he’s a callow boy anyway. Nothing like—” She broke off.
So Lucy had another secret love. If she
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