“We shall discuss that later,” he said ambiguously, raising warm gray eyes to hers while kissing her hand.
When Flynn left, she rushed from the room, her hand against her hot cheek. There was much to do. Having made up her mind, she was nervous, impatient, and excited to embark on this journey. She had never been to Ireland.
Three days later, she and Flynn set sail from Liverpool. It was a rough crossing. Clouds skipped across the leaden sky, driven by fierce winds and slanting rain. Fortunately, the wind came from the right direction to drive them fast toward land. The ship rolled as it ploughed through the white-tipped waves, canvas sails stretched by the surging squall. Crowded onto the deck, passengers struggled to remain upright against the pitching surface.
Never before having been at sea, Althea enjoyed the journey, although her poor maid, Sarah, had not inherited her brother’s love of sailing. She was sick over the side. Althea held her shoulders. “We’re all going to end up in Davy Jones’ locker,” the maid wailed.
Flynn offered his handkerchief. “Allow me to assist you ladies below, out of the wind.”
In the late afternoon, they docked at Dublin Port and disembarked along with the rest of the windswept travelers. Althea’s land legs almost deserted her. The ground still seemed to rise and fall, and she gripped Flynn’s arm to cross the wet, slippery cobbles to the carriage that was to take them into Dublin town.
At the Gresham Hotel in Sackville Street, they ate a welcome hot stew, which Flynn washed down with a dark brew called Guinness. After their meal, he hired a carriage to take them south, and they began the final leg of their journey to Greystones Manor.
They left Dublin, following a road that hugged the coast, winding past hills covered in heath with a view of the gray Irish Sea. The salty breeze blew in through the window and washed away Althea’s fatigue. She sat up alert, excited at the prospect of seeing his home.
As they traveled along narrow lanes, which became tunnels of greenery, Flynn appeared very much at ease. He regaled them with tales of tiny leprechauns with hidden pots of gold and how the patron saint, Patrick, rid the island of snakes. Then the carriage turned inland, past fields of black-and-white cows, black-faced sheep, and whitewashed farmhouses.
The sun began to set, painting the horizon in rose pink and sapphire hues as the carriage rattled along past tall hedges and then slowed to enter through towering iron gates flanked by yew trees and stately Greek statues. “My goodness,” Althea murmured. She’d never expected anything so grand.
“The family employed a French gardener in the sixteen hundreds who introduced the French baroque style to Ireland,” Flynn said. “You’ll find some of it still remains, in the avenue of limes, ornamental beech hedges, and the fountain.”
The carriage left the wood, and the road wound through green fields dotted with graceful oaks. They reached the formal gardens and approached the mansion’s bulky dark shape, rimmed in gold by the setting sun.
Althea took in the twin round towers and crenellated roof and gasped.
“Welcome to Greystones.” Flynn’s voice sounded flat. There were sad memories here. She felt a stab of guilt knowing he’d come here for her.
“You failed to mention it was a castle,” she said, as the carriage stopped. The building towered above them, water dripping from gargoyle spouts.
“It was converted to a manor house a hundred years ago,” Flynn said. “Some land was sold off, but a thousand acres remains.” Was there a note of reluctant pride in his voice?
“Why do they call it Greystones? The stone is a lovely honey color.”
“Only when the sun shines,” he said with a smile as he helped them both from the carriage.
An aged groom hurried from the stables. Althea stretched her legs as a small man burst out of a pair of studded timber doors with a big smile. “Welcome, milord.”
“This is Lady Brookwood, Quinn. She will remain here in my absence,” Flynn said, removing his gloves. “I know you will serve her well. I trust the house has been made ready for us?”
“Milady.” Bandy-legged Quinn made an awkward bow. “As much as possible, milord. Mrs. Shannon has had O’Mainnin throwin’ coal into the stove all the long day while she cooked enough food for the rest of winter and spring besides. We have a new housemaid, Brigit, as well as Maeve. They’ve done their best to set things to rights.”
“I’m sure they’ve done a splendid job.” Flynn took Althea’s arm and led her inside. “The house is understaffed, rather like yours.”
“You’d need an army of servants here.” She gazed around as Flynn helped her out of her cape. They stood in a breathtaking, wood-paneled great hall which had a minstrel’s gallery. The family crest decorated the wall above the mammoth stone fireplace. More of the riotous gargoyles peeped from corners and trailed up the oak staircase.
Flynn handed Quinn their coats and hats. “Sarah is Lady Brookwood’s personal maid.”
“I’ll take Sarah down to the kitchen to meet the staff, milord. There’s a fire in the drawing room.”
“Lady Brookwood will have tea. A whisky for me.” Flynn turned to Althea, his hand at her elbow. “Allow me to show you the upstairs.”
The musty house seemed as though it had slumbered untouched for years. The drawing room furniture was heavy and the furnishings faded. They did not do justice to the fine proportions of the room.
Flynn drew a damask-covered chair closer to the fireplace for her, where a peat fire smoldered and spat. “I hope you’re not too disappointed.” He chose a scarred brown leather wing chair.
“No! Why on earth would I be?”
“The house is not at its best. Too long unoccupied. I haven’t been able to find a tenant.”
