«But why?» Evleen was astounded.

«You are aware that Lord Beaumont’s late wife was a cousin of ours. So I wrote and asked if he would take you in.» She’d handed the letter to Evleen. «Here is his reply. Read for yourself.»

With reluctant fingers, Evleen took the letter and began to read.

My Dear Cousin,

I am sorry for your illness and trust you will soon regain your health. In the sad event you do not, rest assured I shall be happy to give a home to your oldest daughter, Evleen. If she’s as gifted as you say, perhaps she can help with the education of my son, Peter, who is seven. Since his mother passed away, he’s been quite precocious and needs a firm hand.

I look forward to meeting Evleen. Rest assured, she will be treated not as a servant but one of the family.

Beaumont

When she finished, Evleen let the letter fall to her lap in dismay. «Leave Ireland? Never! How can I go and live with strange people in a strange land?»

«You will because you must,» Mama answered firmly. «But one warning I must give you.»

«And what is that?» Evleen asked, still numb with shock.

«You must never use the blue pebble in England. In fact, it would be best if you threw it away.»

Evleen touched a small, bright blue pebble, strung by a leather thong around her neck. «But why?»

Mama looked deep into her eyes. «Because the English would never believe a poor girl from Ireland is possessed with magical powers. They would laugh at you — make your life a misery if you even suggested such a thing.»

«All right, I promise,» Evleen readily agreed. «I suspect the pebble would be useless in England anyway. I certainly don’t expect Merlin to follow me.»

«You had best throw it in the creek right now.»

Somehow the thought of throwing the pebble away did not appeal to her. «Perhaps I shall take it along — just as a kind of souvenir.»

«Suit yourself.» Mama reached for her hand and clasped it tight. «Whatever happens, always hold your head high. You must never forget you are an Irish princess, that your father was Ian O’Fallon, son of the Duke of Connaught, who was a direct descendant of one of Ireland’s ancient kings who reigned over one of the earliest Celtic kingdoms.»

«I shall never forget, Mama.»

And she wouldn’t. Now, with a determined nod, Evleen picked up the portmanteau and resumed her trek up the driveway. No, she would never forget, but what good would being an Irish princess do her here in this strange land? Ah well, no matter. Only the future counted now.

I shall be brave. I shall make Mama proud.

«So, Miss O’Fallon, you are from Ireland?»

Seated on a silk upholstered sofa in the grand salon of Chatfield Court, Evleen hid her disappointment. Lord Beaumont had not been there to greet her, although he was expected back from London at any moment. She gazed into the cold grey eyes of Lady Beaumont, Lord Beaumont’s mother. «Indeed I am from Ireland. County Tipperary to be exact. I lived there all my life.»

Lady Beaumont, a stout woman with a large face and snow-white hair, cast an amused glance at the two other occupants of the room: Lydia, her daughter, and a giddy young woman named Bettina, soon to become her daughter-in-law. «Fancy that! I don’t know much about Ireland although I understand they are all quite poor.»

«Don’t they raise sheep and live mainly in hovels?» asked Lydia, a plain young woman in her twenties who appeared to wear a permanent sneer on her lips.

Of the two young women, Bettina, a slender girl of twenty or so, was the prettiest, with creamy white skin and a circle of bouncy blonde ringlets around her forehead. In a giggly voice she asked Evleen, «Isn’t Ireland where the fairies live? And the elves and leprechauns?»

Yes, it is, Evleen thought, but wisely didn’t say. «Not all Irish are poor,» she evenly replied. «As for elves, fairies and leprechauns, I cannot say.»

She’d been invited to the grand salon for tea by these three ladies, who obviously seemed to think she had just arrived from the moon. She knew they were laughing at her. In fact, since the moment she set foot into this huge room with its marble fireplace and plush furnishings, she’d felt acutely uncomfortable. It didn’t help that the outfit she wore — plain wool skirt, wool jacket, simple brimmed hat and high top boots — was acceptable fashion for Ireland, but compared to the elaborate dresses these ladies wore, she might as well be dressed in a gunny sack. And these were just their morning gowns! Already they’d discussed their afternoon gowns, strolling gowns, evening gowns and who-knew-what-else kinds of gowns. Evleen took a sip of tea from her fine china cup, gripping the fragile handle uncomfortably. So different from home, where she drank her tea from a chipped mug and stirred it with a tin spoon.

Lydia was speaking. «So what did you do in Ireland? Is there a ton? Do you have seasons?»

«I taught school until my mother took ill,» Evleen earnestly replied. «This past year I stayed home to take care of her. And yes, we have seasons — winter, spring, summer and autumn, just as you have here.»

For some reason, her reply set up gales of laughter from all three women. «Lydia doesn’t mean that kind of season,» Lady Beaumont explained in a lofty tone. «She means a social season, such as when we go down to London for the parties and balls.»

«Oh, I see.» Evleen could not prevent the blush she felt spreading up her neck and over her cheeks. Such a gaffe she’d made! And she hadn’t been here an hour yet. She would never fit in with these people, nor them with her. I want to go home.

The door opened. A tall, powerfully built man in his early thirties entered, followed by a slender, fair-haired boy of seven or so. «Hello, everyone,» he said in a deep commanding voice. He caught sight of Evleen. «I see our cousin from Ireland has arrived.»

Evleen hadn’t known what she’d expected, but certainly not this devilishly handsome man who stood before her. What gorgeous blue eyes! What a beautiful head of hair, dark, with a slight wave and an unruly lock falling over his forehead. She arose and dipped an unsteady curtsy, hoping she didn’t look too much like a country bumpkin. «I am pleased to meet you, Lord Beaumont.»

Beaumont bowed in return. «Delighted to meet you, Miss O’Fallon. Welcome to England.» He placed a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. «This is my son, Peter. He’s without a governess right now and I was hoping you might see to his education, at least temporarily. Not as a governess, you understand. I consider you one of the family.»

«That’s very kind of you, sir. I’ll be happy to help any way I can.»

«Very good then,» Beaumont answered. Evleen noted he had yet to smile. She caught an air of unhappiness about him, a certain remoteness. Perhaps he was still grieving over the death of his first wife, Millicent. But still, she noted, he wasn’t grieving so much that he wasn’t planning to marry again.

Bettina arose from her chair and went to greet him, thrusting her arm possessively through his. «Richard, darling, so lovely to have you back.» She cast a quick, unfriendly glance at Evleen, as if she resented his wasting even one moment of time on his poor cousin-by-marriage from Ireland. «Your dear mother and sister have been helping with our wedding plans.»

«How very nice,» Beaumont answered absent-mindedly. Evleen caught a certain indifference in his voice. He ignored Bettina and continued, «We must get you settled in, Miss O’Fallon. There’s a bedchamber on the third floor next to my sister’s. I thought it might please you.»

Lady Beaumont uttered an audible gasp. «Are you sure, Richard? I had thought» —

«Thought what, Mama?»

«A room on the fourth floor would be much more suitable.» Lady Beaumont’s lips had pursed into a tight, disapproving line.

«The servants’ floor? I think not,» Beaumont answered firmly. «Evleen is Millicent’s cousin’s child. As such, she’s a member of the family and will be treated accordingly.»

«But of course,» his mother answered with ill-concealed irritation. She cast stone-cold eyes at Evleen. «We’re so happy to have you, Miss O’Fallon. I trust you’ll be happy here. Dinner is at eight.»

Evleen nodded a thank you and sent a small smile in return. Except for Lord Beaumont himself, she felt as welcome as the plague.

What a beautiful room, Evleen thought when she stepped into her bedchamber. Never had she seen such luxury. With its fine furnishings and lovely view of the rear gardens it was a far cry from the tiny room off the kitchen she had shared with two sisters. Ordinarily, she’d be thrilled, but the chilly reception she’d received in the drawing room made for a heavy heart. She sank to a chair by the window and gazed at the sculptured gardens that lay behind Chatfield Court. Ah, what wouldn’t she give to be home right now! She closed her eyes and pictured her family’s cottage. Built of stone, with lime-washed walls, it nestled in one of County Tipperary’s lush green valleys. The forested slopes of the Galtees, Ireland’s highest mountain range, lay not far beyond.

Next to the cottage were the scattered ruins of Tualetha, an ancient monastery, spread over several acres. As a child, Evleen often visited the ruins. She and her brothers and sisters liked to play hide-and-seek amidst the crumbled remains of stone buildings and huge tombstones, decorated with faded Celtic carvings, which towered over their heads.

Adrift in her memories, Evleen reached to touch the blue pebble that still hung around her neck. Despite her mother’s advice, she could not bear to part with it, although now she always hid it beneath her clothing and had vowed never to use it. As they had countless times before, her thoughts drifted to the day, when she was just eight years old, that she visited the ruins alone. She had brought a book along and was sitting on a flat rock next to an ancient cairn when the persistent cawing of a bird caught her attention. Looking up from her book, she was surprised to see a huge black raven sitting on the low branch of an oak tree. It seemed to be staring at her. Suddenly the bird spread its wings and flew away. As it did so, a small black feather fell from its wing to the ground.