Chapter Thirteen

Sculthorpe Abbey

Thursday, a quarter past 7 in the morning...

"Dommy... Dommy, please... Listen..."

"Mamaí!" Byrne shot up in bed and stared about the room — as if he'd find her in her small bed by the kitchen fire as she was on her last days. But he wasn't in a kitchen in Cloghroe, but a bedroom at Sculthorpe.

"No," he breathed, laying down and squeezing his eyes shut. "Come back..." He didn't dream of her as much as he once did and he'd begun to worry that he was remembering her wrong — that the face he saw, the voice he heard, had both been distorted by the years.

God, he was so desperate to see her that he'd even take her on her last day.

He closed his eyes and laid down again, trying to recapture the dream. Yet the present was intruding. The sound of birds, of shuffling in the halls, of doors opening and closing, a persistent knocking at the adjoining door all pulling him out of sleep. Damn them.

He didn't know what had brought her into his dreams last night, but he didn't care. He wanted more. Just a moment more. But it wasn't to be.

He turned over, stared at the canopy above him, a flowery feminine thing, though faded. Perhaps that had brought her to him, this dainty room, dingy as it was, but clean enough. He'd volunteered to take the mistress' chamber to save all the rooms his staff and his money had so nicely made over for the guests. Tony couldn't very well put any of the ladies in a room with a door that he could sail through at any moment.

As he did now. "Are you still abed? It's after seven!"

"Yes, I am abed," Byrne grumbled, "and I'd like to stay that way for another half-hour at least, so if you don't mind..."

"A host shouldn't be the last to breakfast, particularly not at his ooooown party," Tony tutted in a stuffy voice that sounded nothing like Byrne's. "Well, here I am, being a good host and an even better friend, trying to share breakfast with you before you go off to parts unknown all day."

Byrne sat up. There was no getting that dream back, anyhow. Off to parts unknown. Yes. That was why he'd dreamt about his mother. Everything he was doing today could be traced back to her.

"Come now. Up you get!" Tony pulled at the blankets.

But Byrne held fast. "If I were you," he warned, "I wouldn't."

"Ah, a challenge!" Tony grinned. "I'll have you know I was quite good with tug o' war in my school days and I never give up until–"

"I sleep naked."

"Until I have a good reason to," Tony finished, quickly dropping the covers and turning to face the window. "Would you put something on? And please hurry. No one else is about and I am starved for conversation... and also for breakfast. So stop being such a layabout."

"Not lazy. Simply tired," Byrne said, sitting up and reaching for his robe at the end of the bed. "And I had no plans to—"

"Yes, I suppose you must be exhausted after all your frantic machinations last night."

"Meaning?" Byrne prodded, tying his sash, wondering why he was being so coy. He knew exactly what Tony meant. He was actually quite surprised Tony wanted to share breakfast with him at all. He'd been a bit stiff when they'd said their goodnights.

"Every time I thought I might succeed in drawing her away, there you were!"

"There I was," he conceded. He'd spent last night panting after Miss Crewe like a hound, caressing her face behind sofas, stealing Tony's second dance with her, insisting on finding her spectacles, trying to convince Tony to woo anyone else but her, preventing Tony from getting her off alone... He'd never believed in the luck of the Irish till that rain came pouring down as if on his command.

He could keep lying to himself, he supposed, keep insisting that it was only her odd behavior that had him thinking about her generous lips and her bottomless eyes and... Damn it all! Why her? Why not someone graceful like Lady Adele? Someone witty like Miss Poole? Miss Crewe was, in fortune and rank, the least likely prospect.

Even if Miss Poole's endless talk of books and poetry nearly made him sleep where he stood. And Lady Adele's conversation consisted of nothing but attempts to understand each other through gestures and pantomime. It must have taken them all of fifteen minutes to agree that it looked like rain again. But both girls were still more likely to turn heads — in public, at parties, and in the papers.

There was also Miss Marbury, with her lofty connections. She might offer him the best chance of being invited to the finest parties, provided her family and friends didn't disdain the match. Still, she was past the age of majority and her fortune was her own, so she wouldn't need consent. Yes, she was also a much better match than Miss Crewe.

Even Miss Hartley was a better... No, he wouldn't go that far. Her family's connections were respectable enough, and she was considered fashionable and talented in all the right ways, and she might be the prettiest girl here, apart from Lady Adele. But her manners... They weren't outright disrespectful, but there was something about them that put him off. He mustn't be the only one. She was still unmarried despite her attractions, after all.

He'd experienced her manners first-hand at a series of parties last season. She'd been staying with another wealthy friend, Miss Brennan, then. He remembered her fondly as, despite being engaged, she was very friendly to him whenever they met. Irish, of course, but not from his part of Ireland. She kept asking if he knew this family or that until he finally had to assure her that he was not likely to know any of the same families she did, having begun his life on a sheep farm.

Miss Brennan had found it amusing, but Miss Hartley had been very disdainful and insisted on pulling her friend away... until the next day. They'd met again at a boating expedition on the Thames and she was suddenly insisting on sitting near him, prodding her friend to ask him more questions, begging his assistance stepping on and off the ramp.

The change was easy to explain. Byrne had heard her father made most of his fortune with plantations overseas. And since public sentiment against slavery had grown to the point of absolute disdain, word had it that the man's debts were eclipsing his profits. So when Miss Hartley obviously found out what he was worth, of course she was all sweetness and light. She wasn't the first girl who found herself suddenly fascinated by him upon their second meeting, but she was definitely the most aggressive. Out of all the insufferable debutantes, the disingenuous ones rankled him most.

And since he was disposing of Miss Hartley, he should do the same to Miss Crewe. She was quite possibly the worst dancer he'd ever beheld. Definitely not a good quality in the wife of a man of stature. And that wasn't even going into her strange behavior last night, particularly after Miss Marbury and Miss Hartley arrived. She acted as if she might quit the party entirely. He doubted Miss Marbury was the problem, since Miss Crewe barely did more than nod at the girl, while she stared at Miss Hartley as if she were absolutely petrified... and he couldn't let it stand. He wasn't sure how the girl might have slighted her in the past, but he'd felt this strange need to do something at her obvious distress.

Every time he was in her company, he wanted more of it. Even when she caused disaster to his person and his clothing, he wanted her back the moment she walked away. Inconvenient as it was, Miss Crewe was the one he wanted. As much as he tried, he couldn't make himself even feign interest in the other girls. There was no use denying it.

"I know very well what you were about," Tony said, still facing the window. Byrne couldn't quite tell, from his back, just how miffed Tony was.

This would put a certain damper on their friendship. Hell, it might even make rivals of them. But he supposed there was no helping it. He'd have to admit it to Tony, even though he'd barely begun to admit it to himself. "You can turn around now," he sighed, preparing to confess. "As to Miss Crewe, I acknowledge that I—"

"I resented it last night, but in the light of day..." Tony turned, shrugging. "Look, I know you thought you were helping..."

Byrne shook his head. That wasn't the case at all.

"You think I'm moving too fast. And rightly so. Hadn't I just lectured you yesterday about the delicate task of wooing? Bombarding her so soon might be folly."

"I actually—"

"I know, I know! She's been here but two days and I've danced with her once, so the idea that she might accept a proposal is ridiculous, but I wasn't going to go that far."

"Really, I must confess that I—"

"I am grateful for your advice, as always. But you can't be hovering about like an older brother... especially since I am a full year and three months older than you are."

"Tony, that isn't the—"

"And yes, I know age means nothing. You're a much smarter man than I and I'm not ashamed to admit it, but I'm not completely without wits."

"I never said you were," Byrne groaned, guilt prickling at the back of his mind. No, Tony was not stupid. He was trusting. Too trusting. "If I inconvenienced you last night, I apologize," he said, quite sincerely. Perhaps it was best to let Tony believe what he wished. How long had he known the chit? Barely two days now. He'd denied himself things he wanted often enough. And this attraction was still new enough to stamp out. And not only for Tony's sake, but for his own. Today was far too important to allow for distractions.

"It isn't that I don't appreciate the thought, but I must be allowed to do things my own way, win or lose. And last night... Well, I wasn't going to propose! I only wanted to speak to her alone for a spell, perhaps about Miffles or—"

"Mopsy," Byrne corrected absently, moving to the wardrobe where his greatcoat hung and searched the pockets, determined to think only of his meetings today, as he should.

"Yes. Mopsy. I'd best remember that. That dog is likely the only attractive thing about this place for her," he said on a chuckle. "Speaking of that," he began, his tone more serious. "I am thankful for all you did getting this place kitted out, but I'm starting to feel strange about the whole thing. I mean, here I am, resolved to give a very honest proposal, yet I'm engaging in a sort of deceit. She'll be thinking she's marrying into some well-appointed house when, really, once you and your staff depart, it'll be left a shell... albeit a much cleaner, more well-repaired shell, but still..."

"Tony, you're not deceiving anyone." Byrne tugged on the bellpull, then moved to the desk, in search of his leather billfold. Fletcher was always moving his things from one place to another and never allowing him to keep anything in his coat pockets, even when he said to leave it there. "If anything, I was the one who convinced you to have this party in the first—"

"Very well. No lies have been told, but it still feels a bit crooked. So I thought it might be fun to announce at dinner, perhaps, that you are just as much a host as I am. That the staff is yours and all that—"

"Why? So the ladies might all flock to me," Byrne said, looking through the drawers. "Is that what you wish?"

"Not necessarily true. You don't make enough effort to be charming for that," Tony said, "and I'm quite sure they already know how damned rich you are."

"If only it were enough," Byrne said, finally pulling out the leather pouch he'd been searching for, thumbing through the contents. He was sure it was all there, but also unsure if it would suffice today.

Tony let out a low whistle, staring at the stack of banknotes. "My, you do mean business today."

"Some people don't want to negotiate by promises." He'd sent his secretary and a solicitor out this way some months ago, but half of his targets wouldn't even discuss selling. He'd done all he could remotely. Now it was time to take matters into his own hands. After meeting the developer, he'd make his way around to the more stubborn hold-outs. "Sometimes it takes seeing the money in front of them to make a deal more worth considering."

"Where are you off to again?"

"Coton."

"Ah, yes. So close to here," Tony droned. "A more cynical man than I might think you were only here to be nearer to there, to aid your ridiculous rail fantasy."

"Then it's a good thing you're not a cynic," Byrne said, despite the fact that Tony was partially right. It was one of the reasons. "And it's no fantasy. It's looking like a very distinct possibility."

"You and your obsession with Richard Trevithick. I wonder that you didn't invite the man so you could marry him."

"Yes, I'd considered it," Byrne said dryly, "but word has it he's already married with five children and bigamy is frowned upon."

"Didn't that 'Puffing Devil' of his quite famously break down and burn?"

"His works since fared better, a little each time. He shouldn't have given up. Good thing Murray has carried on the work." Trust an Irishman to persevere. Though he supposed Matthew Murray wouldn't have been able to correct things without Trevithick's steam system to start. The Salamanca had been chugging along for three years now. The only mistake Murray had made was in limiting possibilities to carrying coal from Middleton to Leeds. Byrne had yet to fail in negotiating his way to his means. He could convince Murray's man to extend its reach further south. He knew it. He just needed to show him the possibilities... that and finish buying up the necessary land. "This is progress, Tony. I know you landed gentry types frown upon the idea, but..."

"Yes, yes. Progress, industry, railways... I've nothing against it. Still, you're mad to be out in this weather. Aunt Dotty is certain we'll be nursing you in your sickbed this very night."

"I've a heartier constitution than that." He'd survived quite a few illnesses in Ireland. They were quite common there, ill-nourished and weak as most people were. He'd say he was lucky to survive the last one that swept through, but he'd never seen it as luck. Surviving alone was one of the most unlucky fates he could imagine...

***********************************

Cloghroe, Ireland

1802

"Dommy?"

"Mamaí," he rasped, sitting up so fast his head spun.

Domhnall Byrne had once slept like the dead. His mother would say, or even shout, his name over and over and it didn't stir him until she finally shook him violently, frantically telling him that the earth was shaking or a flood was coming or his best sheep dog had run away or, a few times, that Maimeó was jailed for a drunken brawl.

His grandmother wasn't amused by that last one, not even a little. "Bréaga. Never had a drop of that devil's nectar in me life."

"That's why it's so funny, Máthair," Uncle Ciarán would pipe up, which would only have her walking away grumbling about how a respectable woman like her could raise such amadáin for children.

Byrne's sleep of the dead stopped abruptly in this, his sixteenth year. His mother had to call his name but once. She didn't even have to shout. A faint cry, weak as a kitten's mewl, would have had him not only up, but across the kitchen and at her bedside immediately, as he was now. Except she wasn't in her bed.

"Domhnall?" he heard again.

"I'm here, Mamaí," he called out, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Where are you?"

"In my own room, buachaill amaideach."

His lips thinned as he made his way to the back of the house. Before the sickness, he might have bristled and protested that he's not a boy, nor was he silly, but that wasn't what had him so cross right now. It was that she'd gone and moved herself alone, something she was too weak to be doing, and that her drafty bedroom's fireplace was insufficient for the chills, even when it was lit, which it was not!

"You got no call to be in here," he growled as he approached her room. "I put everything you need in the kitchen just so you..." He trailed off as he rounded the doorway. She was leaning hard on her wardrobe, pale beneath the nearly purple rash on her cheeks. "Mam!" He rushed to her side.

"Oh, Dommy, I'm fine. It's too hot in that kitchen. It muddles m' head."

He put a hand on her cheek. It wasn't as bad as yesterday, but it was still dry and hot. "No, it's the fever that does that."

"Then all the better to be in a cool room, now isn't it?" she said weakly, very obviously out of breath. "Now help me with this drawer. It always sticks and—"

"It's too much for you today. Maybe tomorrow."

"You always say that. Why else do you think I had to sneak m'self out of bed? So tomorrow could finally come, you wee jailer," she said on a laugh that quickly turned into a cough.

Domhnall only scowled back at her, rather wanting to argue that he'd been taller than her for three years now, but that wasn't the important part. "This is not funny. You're not well enough to—"

"Come now, you have to laugh, Dommy. It's a sight more fun than crying," she said, as she often did, glancing sideways at him, waiting for him to smile before she gave that up. "So serious, just like your... grandmother," she finished, her own smile falling.

The blanket she'd had over her shoulders fell, too, exposing her in only her shift. He'd been embarrassed early on, seeing his mother in so little. Now he barely flinched at the sight, though the dark spots on her arms made him shudder. Uncle Ciarán had them all over toward the end.

Maimeó hadn't even made it to the spots. The fever took his grandmother within three days, despite his mother's diligent nursing. She'd nursed them all, including him.

He'd been the first in the house to fall ill, right after half the sheep. In his fevered state, he believed he alone brought this curse to the house, as if he'd done something wrong. But his mother had told him it wasn't so. Fiabhrus Morgaighthe, or Typhus as Father Fitzmaurice called it, had swept through the village already before reaching surrounding farms like theirs.

Father had it as a child, and he'd seen it in his first parish. "It didn't touch me then, nor has it now," he'd said on one of his visits way back when Domhnall was the only invalid in the house... Was it only three weeks ago? It seemed impossible, but it was so.

Domhnall's head was clearer that day, just enough to be embarrassed by the whole business of Father praying over him and anointing his head with oil.

"I'm grateful it hasn't got me a second time, that's for certain. But it's sad to see it again," Father had sighed

"Cloghroe hasn't put up much of a fight," his grandmother had lamented.

"Crops the way they've been," his mother put in, "none of us old folks have the strength of a mouse."

"You're not old folks," he'd protested weakly, though he couldn't say the same about Father, nor Uncle Ciarán and Maimeó.

"Well, I'm sure not as young and strong as you. So you'll fight. Won't ye, my sweet Dommy?" she'd pleaded. "You'll fight hard for me."

He would do anything for her, so he had. Even when the cold rags felt like sandpaper rubbing his skin raw or when he thought he was being smothered in heat, or when he'd rather die than take any more broth, he'd done as she said every time. He'd fought his way out. He wished she was fighting harder for him, instead of fighting him at every turn.

She'd been trying to get into this room all week, telling him she had things to show him, to tell him, before the end. But he wouldn't hear it. It wasn't the end, not if he could help it.

He bundled the blanket around her again now. "I'll help you back to bed. You'll catch your death in here."

"Oh, Dommy. I think it's caught me, whether we like it or not. Now, you just help me to my chair, so I can catch my breath."

If he wasn't still so weak from his own bout with the fever, he'd pluck her up and put her back in bed despite her protests. He'd also argue about the other thing. As it was, he helped her to the spindly chair by her writing desk as it was the only place in the room to sit with the bed gone.

He'd moved her bed to the kitchen weeks ago along with his, grasping the opportunity for help on Father Fitzmaurice's last visit. Father wasn't a young man, but he was a sturdy one and had, thankfully, done most of the lifting.

He'd been a boxer in his youth and might have stayed so if his last fight hadn't "knocked a call from God right into me," as he'd said. "Surely that headache was a punishment from God Hisself for all me wicked ways. I tried to tell Him getting to be a priest was an even bigger headache. Had to go all the way to Spain to do it, wander without a church of my own, escapin' the law for years and years... and then, God save us all, I ended up here with little Bridget Byrne bossin' me about, the worst of it all!"

"Bossin' you about," his mother would scoff. "You wouldn't know if your hat was on your head without me and that's the truth. Let alone runnin' this school of yours!"

He'd then argue whether it was his school since she'd been the one who convinced Father Fitzmaurice to host the hedge school in the first place, and at great personal risk. He could be arrested for such an endeavor, have Saint Augustine's shut down.

The Irish — Irish Catholics in particular, but also Irish Lutherans or Baptists and such — lived on shaky ground. The English thought it was enough they were allowed to practice their faiths freely. But they weren't supposed to be educated except in schools run by The Church of England. And since the English had a mind to teach the Irish and Scots to be grateful the English came to save them from their savage, Celtic ways, most balked at such a thing.

The Scots seemed to, after the Jacobite rebellion failed, have long since settled into accepting a life under English rule. And while the Irish, inspired by the Americans, tried once more for  freedom, they were slapped down before a year had gone by. These days, the Irish were wise enough to know they hadn't the coin nor the strength to rebel, but they found their own little ways.

It's what led families — even poor families who didn't believe their children had need to know reading, writing, nor arithmetic — to send their young to "hedge schools," so named for their meetings, often in clearings hidden by actual hedges, or by riverbanks, but other times in private homes or barns. Any place where the English or the landlords couldn't look in too easily.

Father Fitzmaurice had been kind enough to allow Bridget Byrne to host one in his small church — but always with a readiness that the children would drop to their knees in prayer should the authorities come. Even the Lutheran and Baptist children had rosaries at the ready for such an occasion.

Father liked to make much of the risk, but Bridget Byrne knew he'd not have it any other way. He wanted this village to know of a larger world beyond theirs. "St. Augustine was a philosopher, after all," he'd sometimes say, "we've a duty to send great minds from this church."  And he was grateful he had someone to make it so, even if that meant letting "a bossy little miss young enough to be his granddaughter" tell him what to do. Everyone knew that, if it weren't for Bridget Byrne, there wouldn't be a person in Cloghroe that could sign their own name, letting alone read what they were signing.

She'd started their school and she'd been the person to run it every day with only one absence. That was when a sickness in the family took her off to care for distant Byrne cousins in Galway... for about nine months. Tongues wagged when she returned with what she claimed was her cousin's infant son, saying she'd be raising him like a mother.

Father Fitzmaurice stood by her, and those mothers who pulled their children from the school soon returned them. Even those who claimed they knew the truth of the matter decided that, if Bridget Byrne could keep their little ones from being underfoot all the day, perhaps she deserved mercy. There seemed to be a silent agreement not to harass her, since Father wouldn't allow it.

But children always knew better how to stay beneath notice when torturing each other. So there wasn't a day in Domhnall Byrne's young life that the other children didn't remind him that he was less then them, that he was a bastard, whatever other claims were made. He supposed he couldn't fault them. He didn't like pretending he was something he was not, anyway.

He learned as much as he could in school, faster than the others, enough to convince his mother to allow him to quit the school as soon as he could. Then he could work with Uncle Ciarán in peace. Sheep and dogs had no care whether the person tending them was a bastard or not. And neither did Uncle Ciarán.

And now Uncle Ciarán was gone, as was Maimeó.

And God help him, he couldn't take it if his mother was gone, too.

He stared at her now, with barely enough strength to sit up in her chair. "You told me to fight, Mam, to get better for you. Now why aren't you fighting for me?

"Oh, mo stór, I am. I'm fightin' for my life. Why do you think I'm still hanging on?" She grasped his hand. "Dommy, I will dance a jig every night after supper if I make it through. But if I don't, I need to know you can face it if you must," she said, her voice stronger. "So I need to tell you things, Dommy. Things Maimeó and Uncle Ciarán told me before..." She stopped, releasing him to swipe at her eyes. "Well... before."

"It's not fair." She was still grieving the loss of her mother and brother. And now she had to fight for her own life?

"When did life ever promise to be fair? Now, listen..."

"Why can't you tell me later, when you get better?" he pleaded, his voice wobbling slightly.

"Because I can't promise..." She gripped his hand again, though her grasp was still so weak. "Dommy, please... Listen..."

Everything in him wanted to shake his head, cover his ears, even walk away. But he nodded instead, dropping to his knees in front of her. He was rather tempted to lay his head in her lap, the way he used to do when he was little. But that wasn't what was happening today. He needed to listen, and not in that absent way when she would stroke his hair in front of the fire while she read aloud. This was important to her. If he didn't know it from the way she dragged herself in here, weak as she was, he would know it by the look in her eyes, clearer than they had been for so long now. So he nodded and waited...

She tore her eyes from his and turned to the papers on her desk, looking rather like she had when beginning lessons. "I've nearly got it all sorted now. There's some other things in the wardrobe. But it's mostly here." She stared at him hard. "The farm is yours." She held up a hand when he started to protest. "Uncle Ciarán wanted it that way from the day I brought you home." Her eyes grew soft. "You were such a help to him, even when you were a little thing following him about, he was so happy you came to us. I hope he told you enough."

Uncle Ciarán had, in his own, gruff way. Sometimes, he'd put his hand on his shoulder, which was as close as his uncle could get to a hug, and tell him he did as fine a day's work as he'd ever seen.

"He knew you had the strength to run this farm, hard as it may be alone, but he... He wouldn't judge you if you sold it, found your fortune elsewhere. The deeds are all—"

"Well, I can't sell it because we live here, so..."

"I'm not finished." She took a sealed envelope from her stack of papers, holding it out with her shaking hand. "This is for Father. He needs to send out inquiries for a new teacher now. Today if he can. I know he says the school is fine, but he's no good at keeping them at their lessons. They only hoodwink the poor old gabhdán an' he knows it."

He took it, but in protest. "Mam, the school isn't important now. You—"

She held up a hand. "They've gone without lessons for a month now. If they go too long, they might never start again and I worked too hard to let this village slip back into the dark ages."

Domhnall thought it would slip back, no matter what, without her. He hadn't the heart to tell her that half her pupils had been taken away already and the rest, if their parents had succumbed, likely had more on their mind than letters and numbers and catechism. "The damn school can wait for you to get better."

"Conas dare tú, Domhnall Breandan Byrne," she said quite loudly. "Swearin' in front of your own mother. I'd box your ears if I wasn't so damned... tired." She attempted to swat his head, but it missed him by several inches.

He couldn't help but smile slightly. "You just said damned."

"Well, I'm allowed in my invalid state. Now are ye goin' to listen or do I have to tire m'self out boxing your ears?" She started to list sideways.

He caught her quickly, then scooped her up, glad he had the strength to do it. "That's it. You're goin' back to bed."

"But my papers—"

"I'll bring them to you."

"Such a strong young man, you are," she said as he lowered her to her bed. "I always knew you would be. It's why I named you Domhnall. You could be ruler of the world if you wanted to. And I bet you'd be a very kind one, too."

"Aye, I'm just a tower of strength," he said, sitting on the edge of bed to catch his breath. He wasn't fully recovered himself, though he was getting stronger every day. He kept waiting for her to take such a turn, but she was only getting worse. "Why don't ye rest for now and later—"

"Not yet," she broke in, pulling herself up against the pillows. "There's more. And I need to say it before my head muddles itself up again. There's a box in my wardrobe drawer."

Domhnall knew about the box. He'd seen it a few times. It had started smaller, the size of a cigar box, but the last time he'd seen it, it had been as big as a hat box, filled with letters in bundles, all lovingly tied with red ribbons.

He knew they must involve him. Every time he caught her slipping something in the box, her eyes were soft and sad, the way they always were when she talked about his father.

"Please bring it to me, Dommy. It's the most important part."

But is it really so important that you must venture out in this? Come now, Byrne, do be reasonable...

*************************

Byrne shook his head, pulling himself out of the past gladly, turning to Tony. "What were you saying?"

"I was saying it's coming down in buckets now. You'd do better to stay here with me."

"I would if I could," he said absently, still shaking off the memory. Having thought earlier that he'd take seeing his mother, even on her last day, his mind had obviously granted his wish. He'd rather it hadn't. He'd rather the happier times before, but those memories never came so easily, overshadowed by the pain that came later. Maybe when this was over, when he'd done right by his mother, he could finally remember happier times.

"But you could put it off till tomorrow if you wished," Tony prodded. "Don't you work for yourself?"

"I do, but—"

"I hate to say it, but that employer of yours is a tyrant." Tony laughed. Tony was always laughing. Byrne wished he could laugh so easily. "It's only fair to give him the slip just for one day. We can play billiards or darts or—"

"I am obligated to—"

"Come along, Byrne. You never want to play anything."

"It can't be helped. I'd made these appointments some time ago and I am expected. Perhaps tomorrow we can play... something or other."

"Aye, I won't be holding my breath on it," Tony pouted. "I'll consider it your fault if I injure myself while playing all alone."

"Can't you play with the others?" Byrne asked, feeling rather like he was talking to a child.

"But the other men are so deadly dull." Tony tossed himself on the bed like a boy denied sweets. "I recognize that's why they were invited but must they be so good at it?"

"They can't be more deadly dull than I am, according to you."

"Yes, but you're dull in a different way. There's hope for you, or so I keep telling myself. At least tell me you'll be back for supper. I can't possibly charm all these ladies alone."

"I thought I was no help there either. But I make no promises. I'll likely be gone till dark."

"But that's not fair at all!"

"Are you that starved for company?"

"No, it's not fair to you, you dolt!" Tony sat up, pointing at him. "Yesterday, you spent half the day holed up in the library with your correspondence. Today, you're off to Coton for the entire day... and in the pouring rain! I keep trying to tell you that working yourself to death is not the way to a happy life. Do something you enjoy, at least once in a while. Can you even think of anything?"

"There's time for all that when work is done," Byrne said peevishly. Yesterday, Tony harangued him about loosening his cravat and today he was expected to know what he enjoyed. None of it had a place in his plans. But maybe, if today went as it should, he might...

"No. I'm quite curious. Name one thing that you enjoy."

Byrne didn't think any mention of Miss Crewe would go over well. He'd laughed more in two days, with her, than he had in ten years. Luckily, he was saved having to answer by two soft knocks on the door. "Come in, Fletcher."

"Ah, Fletcher," Tony said, getting up quickly. "The least enjoyable thing I can imagine," he muttered, then put on a wide smile as Fletcher sailed in, arms laden with starched cravats and a steaming towel. "Greetings, Mr. Fletcher! I hope you're having a fine morning."

"I am not, sir," his valet said with a slight bow, his permanently displeased expression unmoved by pleasantries, "but thank you for inquiring."

"Well, then. All is as expected," Tony said, nudging Byrne as he moved to the door, whispering, "There's your future if you don't heed my words," before raising his voice as he opened the door, calling out jovially, "Have a wet and miserable day!"

Byrne found himself chuckling a bit. He supposed Pembroke might sometimes count as enjoyable company. He envied him sometimes, the ease and pleasure with which he met his days. Sure, the man was a bit flighty and irresponsible, but he was quite sure Tony could live in a hovel and still find something to be pleased about.

"Sir?"

He turned to find Fletcher gesturing to a chair. He sat with a sobering sigh. "I suppose you want to tell me what's marred your morning, though I believe I can guess." Fletcher had been very cool with him last night, upon learning the dog would be allowed to sleep in the house.

"Not at all. I shouldn't like to burden you," the man said with a long-suffering tone, "what with all you have to do today."

Byrne leaned his head back. "Well, that's very thoughtful of—"

"But if you insist," Fletcher said, immediately swaddling his face in the hot towel. "Now, about that awful beast..."

TBC

*************************

Poll time!

Tony is...

A) Correct. Byrne is a very tyrannical boss of himself.

B) Very irresponsible and Byrne shouldn't listen to him or he'd be a wastrel.

C) Probably going to poke himself in the eye with a billiard cue.

D) All of the above.

Translations:

Mamaí: Mama

Máthair: Mother

Maimeó: Grandma

Bréaga: lies

Tá: yes

Amadáin: fools

buachaill amaideach: silly boy

mo stór: my dear

Gabhdán: gullible person

Conas dare tú: How dare you