A/N: This is the farthest I’ve ever gotten with a story, so far as chapter numbers are concerned. I’m giving myself a pat on the back for that. Feel free to join me. *cricket chirps* hehehe. Now enters our good Protestant, since I’m not a Catholic supremist and I know there were only some a**holes. *cue another resounding duuuuh* Meet Miss Agnes Warren.

Agnes Warren extended a graceful arm, and her servant’s eyes traveled along that arm to the wrist connecting it to her pale hand. The hand itself was soft and small, the only truly lovely thing to be found on his mistress’s form. She caught sight of his searching eyes and scowled. “Do hurry!” she barked, snapping the wrist he had been eyeing so that her palm faced the ceiling. James Gardiner obediently dropped a travel-stained letter into her hand. She sighed irritably and tore open the seal. 

                “Who is that from, sister?” her brother Andrew asked, stepping into the room. He smiled at his seated sister, and she smirked at him in return, leaning back to meet his warm eyes. “The Masons again.” He laughed, letting his hands rest on her shoulders. She blew air irritably from her mouth, and he kissed the side of her face. “I am off to see one of them as we speak – Richard, the brother of Charles. You at least can shut up your letter and leave the bloody fools with their own words. I must converse with the devils.” Agnes sighed and slumped moodily in her chair. “I’d like to take all the bastards and---”

“Agnes…”

“Ah, well, evil has its purpose, I suppose. Good luck, brother.”

                As Andrew left, Agnes smiled wearily to herself, slumping even further in the chair. She settled down for another painful read of the Mason’s yearly brag letter.

Dearest Cousin Agnes,

                I must bring you our yearly news, as your eagerness for hearing of our family life pleads for it.

She silently cursed her own politeness, and Andrew’s extravagance, in the overly kind and overly sweet replies they sent.

As I am sure you expect, Charles is the talk of all the young ladies in our area. These Irish “lasses”, as they would call themselves, have very little to choose from. It is a pity you yourself could not find so magnificent a match as my son; he was always fond of you and Andrew. Of course, I am sure you return his affection in full, for what lady would not? If I may say so, we are a popular family, if only in the right company. (You will understand my meaning, I am sure.)  After all, many a time I have seen these farming curs casting lustful glances at my lovely wife.

A bark of laughter escaped Agnes. Her dimwitted cousin had no idea of his own inferiority to the Irish he demeaned. She resolved to continue the letter without laughing again, though sure it would be quite difficult to do so.

Janet, unfortunately, seems fond of our nearest neighbors, the McDerinns, but I can assure you that it is but childish misunderstanding, and she will no doubt come to tell you what curs she is forced to be near when our yearly visit rolls round. That visit, of course, will be in December, when this foul Irish soil and company becomes so detestable that we can stand it no longer, and I have always been of the opinion that the yuletide months are unsurpassed for producing marvelous weddings. That information I have gleaned from my wife, so I ask you not to contest it in your return message, as I cannot support it, but Mrs. Mason is such a favorite with the upper class that she surely knows these things.

Agnes’s laughter rang through the halls, and she felt the bad mood of before fade. Still smirking at Mason’s almost impudent hints at marriage to Charles, she made a note on scrap paper to be sure that servant with the letter was given a nice candied peach after the night’s meal.

Speaking of marriage, I fear we may need a return to English company in order to procure a marriage for Charles. We had a young Irish girl in mind, as it is necessary to marry into the culture in order to gain their land. While we are already taking fully advantage of this country’s almost feudal society (I am now addressed as “milord”) a portion of the nearby town would be a great addition to our growing hold in the area. The young lady in question, named Naiose, is currently the heiress to a tavern in the nearest town despite the inheritance laws, which, as you know, insist that any Catholic must split an inheritance with his or her siblings (or they must all forfeit to a Protestant heir). She has escaped this law, as she is the only child in a family that has been papist since the days of Saint Patrick. This family’s establishment is quite popular with the local drunkards, and her father, the owner, is quite wealthy. It was a particular wish of mine to have Charles marry this young Irish wench and thereby own her inheritance, which is being offered as dowry for the girl.

Unfortunately, she again and again rejected our son’s charms, for reasons Heaven alone knows. My wife and I were perplexed at her lack of interest in our Charles, and I must admit I studied the girl’s movements for near two months to try and discern her reasoning. For a few weeks, I even thought her mad.

Yes, she had pledged not to laugh, but the absurdity overcame her and she giggled madly. 

However, I have since discerned that she is indeed sane, at least in the medical sense of the word. For you see, my wife and I both happened to be at market the same day she was hunting for her family’s necessities. I was keeping an eye on my son’s potential bride while my wife bartered with some farmer’s daughter. (The girl was nearly impossible to understand – slurred her words with that infernal ‘brogue’ they all seem to have). I saw her, this Naiose woman, and she was attracting quite a few young men, being rather beautiful and possessed of a sweet smile. Charles approached her and spoke a few courteous words, telling her of how he had bested every man in the county during that year’s wrestling contest, and she seemed quite impressed. Then he mentioned how he and his friends had cornered our obnoxious neighbor, the oldest of the McDerinns – Carrig is his name, I believe, and broken his nose. I know you are opposed to violence, but the fool had the audacity to let his two youngest stroll over to our house and ask for Janet to join them in a game of blind man’s bluff. This Naiose woman obviously misunderstood the importance of our family integrity, because she scowled at him and, if you can believe the audacity, said that she had heard of the incident, though the Irishman had refused to tell her who beat him. She proudly talked of herself as the one who set the bones in his nose, and said she had been waiting to see what churl hurt him without reason. She concluded by insulting my son’s integrity and courage, and expressing a completely outlandish desire to never see his ‘pig’s face’ again.

Well, that should be enough to irk any man, but then our aforementioned neighbor actually appeared at the marketplace – and the look on her face! – it was enough to curdle my very blood. She seemed to see nothing else but that fool. She gently shoved Charles from her path and went to greet him. Oh, what a farce he lives! He smiled with irritating false timidity, and the two louts conversed for nearly an hour!  That simple farmer’s son cost Charles a fortune! The audacity! As if he knew nothing of the ordeal, he still greets me with that dim-witted smile – how I would love to wipe it from him!

And it would seem I have done just that. The simpleton has six younger siblings to provide for, and he barely scrapes by from the farming he does on their meager plot of land. It is a sad state of affairs if one sympathizes with him, I suppose. But I can hardly feel any sorrow at the misfortune of a man who causes me so much irritation. Your dear cousin Barnaby, a fine British soldier and extremely personable chap, was also furious with the man, for he too tried courting Miss Naiose and was similarly denied. So I simply had him tell the country simpleton that half his lands were forfeit under the Catholic property restrictions! I can see you laughing at such a jest as I write of this, cousin. All know that the property restrictions only limit the worth of such vanities as horses and dogs to 5£, not the price of one’s land. What a simpleton the man is! Their meager plot was worth barely ten £ as it was; now he owns but the filthy, useless soil their house stands on. We have achieved our vengeance – his land is now ours. Without his farming life, the papist devil can do nothing but…..in any matter, it will surely kill him.

Agnes dropped the letter, frowning. She did not know this McDerinn man, but she pitied him already. Everyone in England had heard of the Catholic property restrictions, forced through Ireland’s own Parliament by its small Protestant population. All Irish Catholics could not even own a dog worth more than 5£. But even the simplest chimney sweep knew that law did not apply to actual property – land property. She scowled furiously and bit one of the longer nails on her hand. Her cousins had proven themselves cruel and ruthless before, but the taking of a man’s life, and consequently the lives of his siblings, was too wicked for her to stomach. She stood, scowling at the scribbled boasting of her cousin. There had been victims of the Masons before, and Andrew had agreed to help them. She was sure he would help the Irishman, once he heard of the injustice done to him. And all over this Naiose woman. She must have been very pretty to warrant such a war. The Irish Helen of troy. Ah, yes, that was a lovely allusion to fit this woman. She had launched a thousand grudges against the unsuspecting victim of her affections.

Agnes walked towards the door to see if Andrew had returned home yet. Someone had to protect that poor Irish devil.

A/N: Sorry about the long time it took to update, but I gave up for Lent!