A/N: Yeah, another new one. Blame it on the stories I’ve been reading lately, they made me want to post this – which I actually started quite a while ago. But anyways, enough of this. Sorry if it isn’t exactly historically accurate. It’s set in about the 1840s, at the time of the Irish Potato Famine.

Note: The name Misha is pronounced Meesha.

Full summary, since the other one was really, really terrible: Kathleen Morrissey comes to England from her natal Ireland to be suitably married – according to her uncle anyways. Lord Adrian Bradshaw needs a wife in order to inherit the family earldom – not that he cares – and his curiosity is piqued when he hears about the Irish girl his cousin escorted to London. As he courts Kathleen’s cousin Alice, it is Kathleen, the woman he should be ignoring, and not Alice, the woman he should be wooing, who intrigues him.

Okay, enjoy. Don’t totally stomp on my pride if you review.

The Disgrace

One

A young woman stood at the rail of the ship near the stern, watching the frothing waves the vessel created, a dog sitting patiently by her feet. One hand rested on the rail; the other clutched a piece of paper, folded and refolded too many times to count, the paper itself stiff with sea salt from the Irish Sea and the English Channel. It was a letter, dated some four months back, and it was the words in the letter that ran through the young woman’s mind now.

My darling Kathleen,

How sorry your aunt and I were to hear of your parents’ deaths, as well as those of your siblings. Let me be the first to express, on behalf of your aunt, cousin and myself, deepest condolences.

Ha, she thought angrily. The first to express condolences? Hardly! The entire neighbourhood had converged to pay respects to Thomas, Dorothy, Bridget and Seamus Morrissey – as one of the most esteemed families in County Clare, people had taken time from what little farming they could do lately to see them off. Her uncle was rather one of the last to convey his consolations.

I trust you have been managing yourself quite well, but as any good citizen knows, an unmarried young woman such as yourself cannot be left to live all by her lonesome, and you will be no exception. Whether Irish or not, you remain my niece, and after a careful and lengthy discussion, your aunt and I have decided that it would be in your best interest to come live with us in England. This would allow us to see that you are safely married and provided with a suitable dowry.

In other words, she mused angrily, he wants to throw me into a marriage with one of his old, bald, wrinkly-faced friends. I can hardly wait.

The letter continued:

We have sent an acquaintance of ours, Jeremy Bradshaw, to collect you. Do be kind to him, if you will – his uncle, Neville Bradshaw, is the earl of Sherwood and highly influential, and his cousin is one of your cousin’s suitors, so you can see clearly see the importance of remaining in his good graces. I must ask you not to develop any fancies about Mister Bradshaw – he is above your rank and will court and marry someone of similar class.

Oh yes, Bradshaw had given her much reason to remain in his good graces: the man was arrogant, rude, and disdainful. Please.

Finally, mercifully, the letter concluded.

Best wishes. We shall see each other soon, and another letter is on the way with more details about when you shall be gathered from your home and escorted to Falconer House here in London.

Respectfully, your uncle,

Edward Barclay, Earl of Falconer.

Kathleen unfolded the paper and let her emerald green eyes scan the page. She had read and reread the letter so often that every word was seared in her memory – every bloody word. Try as she might, Kathleen had been unable to find anything akin to a clue of what she could expect for life in England. Her eyes scrolled over the words I must ask you not to develop any fancies about Mr Bradshaw, and she gave a contemptuous snort, folding the letter and putting it back in the little cloth pouch that hung at her side. Honestly, why on Earth did she keep reading the thing? It wasn’t going to provide a hint of how she was to survive in English society, and high society at that. Just standing near Bradshaw frightened her and made her acutely aware of her too-pale skin, her shabby dresses – though her uncle had remedied that by sending clothes with Bradshaw – and her soft, lilting Irish accent.

More than that, she secretly envied his distinct air of confidence. Where Kathleen had lowered her head and murmured apologies for getting in the way at the port back in Ireland, Jeremy Bradshaw had politely but firmly made sure he got what he wanted. Kathleen had not wanted to leave County Clare and Ireland, the only place she ever felt at home in. But when the children of the area had come running to her door and announced that the Englishman was indeed coming, she had hugged the children, gathered her few things, and reluctantly gone with Bradshaw, silent tears of anger and anguish streaming down her cheeks – just as they were now.

She touched her cheek and found it to be damp with a mixture of her tears and the spray from the water. Hopefully anyone who saw her would ignore it.

“Miss Morrissey!”

Startled by the yell, Kathleen whirled around. Jeremy Bradshaw himself – hooked nose, pasty skin and all – was striding towards her, his perpetual frown firmly in place.

“Bloody hell, what’s gotten him angry now?” she muttered to herself, a hand on her hip. A passing sailor she’d grown to know well over the trip heard her and grinned. Bradshaw had not been known for his courtesy on their journey. The small vessel they travelled on was composed of a mainly Irish crew, and Bradshaw’s contempt for both them and Kathleen had been evident. No one would miss his presence aboard the ship, that was for certain.

“Yes, Mr Bradshaw?”

“Where have you been? We’ll be docking soon and you have yet to eat.”

It was Kathleen’s turn to frown as she listened to his reprimanding tone. Honestly, how thick was this man? Giving him a dark glare, she replied brusquely, “You may be surprised to hear it, Mr Bradshaw, but it is possible to accomplish a task without necessitating your presence.”

His frown deepened. Kathleen sighed and explained, “I ate already, while you were in your cabin, fighting to keep down your breakfast and sleeping like a babe.”

His frown didn’t lift. “You might have woken me,” he scolded.

Kathleen shrugged, no longer interested in fighting with the Englishman. “Or you might have woken earlier,” she replied calmly, turning again to look back the way they’d come.

Bradshaw’s ever-present frown deepened and he made to reach for her, intending to remind the Irish wench how she ought to treat her superiors, but the dog that had been sitting placidly at her side immediately rose, hackles up and a deep guttural growling crackling in her throat as a warning. Bradshaw, eyebrows raised, quickly withdrew his hand. The black-and-white spaniel sat down again, giving a soft whine and licking its mistress’s hand.

Bradshaw wheeled and walked away after harshly reminding her to be ready for disembarkment in twenty minutes. Kathleen ignored him.

When Bradshaw had disappeared from view, Kathleen dropped into a crouch and caressed her dog’s floppy ears, smiling from ear to ear. “Good girl, good Misha,” she crooned in a ridiculously gooey voice. The dog’s eyes glazed over and her tail thumped against the deck; clearly, she was ecstatic.

“Tha’s a fine dog ye have there, miss.”

Kathleen glanced up. A boy of perhaps eleven or twelve stood before her. He was of the lower class, and obviously affected by the famine waging its filthy war on Ireland – his britches were too short, even for his short, stocky build, the shoes he wore were filthy and battered, and his skin was ruddy – the tough, weathered skin that came from working outside all your life. Coarse black curls fell every which way across the gaunt little face, and his emerald green eyes were fever-bright. But his hands twirled a well-worn tweed cap around and around with smooth, supple movements, and he appeared healthy enough, although at the moment he looked like he regretted saying anything at all and wished he could flee.

She smiled. “Thank you. Her name is Misha, and she’s quite friendly. Go on, pet her.” As the boy advanced she asked, “Have you any family on board with you?” and he gave a surprisingly bitter little laugh.

“No’m. What with the famine, they met a sort of miserable fate.” To illustrate his words he drew his index finger across his throat in a slicing motion. Normally Kathleen would have shuddered, but now, she merely nodded in understanding.

After all, had the famine not dealt the same fate to her parents and siblings?

XXX

The more Kathleen spoke with the boy, the more she learned about him; and the more she learned, the more she liked. His name was Patrick O’Donovan – Pat for short – and he hailed from County Antrim in Northern Ireland. Before the famine, he told Kathleen, his family had tenanted a small farm from an English landlord – naturally – who’d treated the family more poorly than could be imagined.

The boy’s features were arranged in a scowl as he worked up a gob of spit and proceeded to spit it over the rail and into the water.

“Where are you bound for now?” asked Kathleen, ever curious.

He shrugged his bony little shoulders, his bright green eyes – green as the hills of home, thought Kathleen wistfully – mournful. “Wher’ver I can, miss. I’m an orphan now, so I’ll work wher’ver I can with whoever’ll have me.”

Kathleen tilted her head to one side reflexively. “What if you came with me once we reach London?” she finally asked. “I could use the company, and Misha would love a playmate.”

Pat’s eyes immediately lit up. “Could I?” When Kathleen nodded, he seemed about to grin before his expression clouded over. “But yer aunt an’ uncle won’t want a poor little Irish boy such as meself in their house.”

Kathleen waved a hand impatiently. “They’re taking me in, are they not?”

Pat protested, “But ye speak so nicely!” and then promptly flushed.

Kathleen tactfully ignored the colour in his cheeks. “But I am still Irish, and for that, I may as well be dirt, fancy speech or not.”

Pat nodded in agreement. “I’ve seen yer company on ship – a great grumpy pig, tha’ one is.”

Kathleen giggled, them calmed herself as the aforementioned grumpy pig, namely a Mister Jeremy Bradshaw, strode into sight. With a warning flash of her eyes she alerted Pat of the man’s impending arrival.

“We’ve landed,” announced Bradshaw, as though they would not have noticed, upon reaching them. “So say farewell to your little companion and let us be on our way, Miss Morrissey.” No doubt fully expecting to be obeyed without hesitation, Bradshaw turned and began to walk away.

“Actually, Patrick will join us.”

Bradshaw froze in his tracks. Despite the fact that Kathleen’s voice had made it quite clear that this was not a topic to be debated and that her dog stood in front of her, slightly raised off its haunches and watching him fixedly, he tried all the same. “Very funny, Miss Morrissey. Now leave your little friend and let us be on our way.”

Kathleen did not move. “I will not leave without him.”

Bradshaw seemed about to protest again, but something stopped him. “Fine then,” he snapped. “Let your uncle deal with him. Come.”

And so, a cranky Englishman, an orphaned Irish boy, a fiercely proud young woman and dog made their way up the street and headed for Falconer House, the home of Edward and Mary Barclay, both of whom impatiently awaited their niece’s arrival.

For after all, the sooner she arrived, the sooner they could marry her off.

XXX

End of Chapter

XXX

A/N: Well, there it is. Review? Please? Just cause you love me?

- LL

PS. LLC update should be coming soon.