His Cinderella Heiress. Marion Lennox
like you.’
‘She’s never met me before tonight. I imagine it’s that she doesn’t...she didn’t like my mother.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I didn’t like my mother myself. Not that I ever met her.’
He stared down at the dinner, baked hard onto the plate. Then he shrugged, lifted the lid of the trashcan and dumped the whole thing, plate and all, inside.
‘You realise that’s probably part of a priceless dinner set?’ Jo said mildly.
‘She wouldn’t have served you on that. With the vitriol in the woman it’s a wonder she didn’t serve you on plastic. Sit down and I’ll make you eggs and bacon. That is...’ He checked the fridge and grinned. ‘Eureka. Eggs and bacon. Would you like to tell me why no one seems to like your mother?’
‘I’ll cook.’
‘No,’ he said gently. ‘You sit. You’ve come all the way from Australia and I’ve come from Kilkenny. Sit yourself down and be looked after.’
‘You don’t have to...’
‘I want to, and eggs and bacon are my speciality.’ He was already hauling things out of the fridge. ‘Three eggs for you. A couple—no, make that three for me. It’s been a whole hour since dinner, after all. Fried bread? Of course, fried bread, what am I thinking? And a side of fried tomato so we don’t die of scurvy.’
So she sat and he cooked, and the smell of sizzling bacon filled the room. He focused on his cooking and behind him he sensed the tension seep from her. It was that sort of kitchen, he thought. Maybe they could pull the whole castle down and keep the kitchen. The lawyer had told him they needed to decide what to keep. This kitchen would be a choice.
‘To take and to hold. Is that really our family creed?’ Jo asked into the silence.
‘Accipere et Tenere. It’s over the front door. If my schoolboy Latin’s up to it...’
‘You did Latin in school?’
‘Yeah, and me just a hayseed and all.’
‘You’re a hayseed?’
He didn’t mind explaining. She was so nervous, it couldn’t hurt to share a bit of himself.
‘I have a farm near Kilkenny,’ he told her. ‘I had a short, terse visit from your grandfather six months back, telling me I stood to inherit the title when he passed. Before that I didn’t have a clue. Oh, I knew there was a lord way back in the family tree, but I assumed we were well clear of it. I gather our great grandfathers hated each other. The title and all the money went to your side. My side mostly starved in the potato famine or emigrated, and it sounded as if His Lordship thought we pretty much got what we deserved.’
He paused, thinking of the visit with the stooped and ageing aristocrat. Finn had just finished helping the team milk. He’d stood in the yard and stared at Lord Conaill in amazement, listening to the old man growl.
‘He was almost abusive,’ he told Jo now. ‘He said, “Despite your dubious upbringing and low social standing, there’s no doubt you’ll inherit my ancient title. There’s no one else. My lawyers tell me you’re the closest in the male line. I can only pray that you manage not to disgrace our name.” I was pretty much gobsmacked.’
‘Wow,’ Jo said. ‘I’d have been gobsmacked too.’ And then she stared at the plate he was putting down in front of her. ‘Double wow. This is amazing.’
‘Pretty impressive for a peasant.’ He sat down with his own plate in front of him and she stared at the vast helping he’d given himself.
‘Haven’t you already eaten?’
‘Hours ago.’ At least one. ‘And I was lambing at dawn.’
‘So you really are a farmer.’
‘Mostly dairy but I run a few sheep on the side. But I’ll try and eat with a fork, just this once.’ He grinned at her and then tackled his plate. ‘So how about you? Has your grandfather been firing insulting directions at you too?’
‘No.’
Her tone said, Don’t go there, so he didn’t. He concentrated on bacon.
It was excellent bacon. He thought briefly about cooking some more but decided it had to be up to Jo. Three servings was probably a bit much.
Jo seemed to focus on her food too. They ate in silence and he was content with that. Still he had that impression of nervousness. It didn’t make sense but he wasn’t a man to push where he wasn’t wanted.
‘Most of what I know of this family comes from one letter,’ Jo said at last, and he nodded again and kept addressing his plate. He sensed information was hard to get from this woman. Looking up and seeming expectant didn’t seem the way to get it.
‘It was when I was ten,’ she said at last. ‘Addressed to my foster parents.’
‘Your foster parents?’
‘Tom and Monica Hastings. They were lovely. They wanted to adopt me. It had happened before, with other foster parents, but they never shared the letters.’
‘I see.’ Although he didn’t. And then he thought, Why not say it like it is? ‘You understand I’m from the peasant side of this family,’ he told her. ‘I haven’t heard anything from your lot before your grandfather’s visit, and that didn’t fill me in on detail. So I don’t know your history. I’d assumed I’d just be inheriting the title, and that only because I’m the next male in line, no matter how distant. Inheriting half this pile has left me stunned. It seems like it should all be yours, and yet here you are, saying you’ve been in foster homes...’
‘Since birth.’ Her tone was carefully neutral. ‘Okay, maybe I do know a bit more than you, but not much. I was born in Sydney. My mother walked out of the hospital and left me there, giving my grandfather’s name as the only person to contact. According to the Social Welfare notes that I’ve now seen—did you know you can get your file as an adult?—my grandfather was appalled at my very existence. His instructions were to have me adopted, get rid of me, but when my mother was finally tracked down she sent a curt letter back saying I wasn’t for adoption; I was a Conaill, I was to stay a Conaill and my grandfather could lump it.’
‘Your grandfather could lump it?’
‘Yeah,’ she said and rose and carried her plate to the sink. She ran hot water and started washing and he stood beside her and started wiping. It was an age-old domestic task and why it helped, he didn’t know, but the action itself seemed to settle her.
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