Redemption - Leon Uris [313]
General Brodhead noted that it was more efficient than eight horse teams dragging logs as they had had to do during the famine.
As though the executions in Dublin had not caused enough of an early chill, the news of the tumbling of Clonlicky Crossroad spread like the plague of the Dark Ages. Impact of the tumbling threw the Irish people right back into the potato famine of the last century.
General Brodhead had delivered a potent message that no further nonsense from the Irish would be brooked.
Dublin Castle, One Week Later—The Officers’ Ball
“My goodness, Erma, who is that gorgeous young officer behind Sir Llewelyn in the receiving line.”
“New staff man.”
“My daughter will be livid she didn’t come tonight.”
“He’s a frontiersman from the colonies. V.C. winner.”
“I hear he wears a glove over his right hand all the time. Isn’t that romantic?”
Rory sensed Caroline Hubble was close, and she was.
“Hello, handsome,” she said to him. “It looks like you’re the belle—or the beau—of the ball.”
“I can’t dance these things,” Rory said.
“Oh, that won’t matter. There’s a lovely balcony for chatting, outside.” Caroline fluttered her eyes in mock awe.
“While I’ve got you,” she said, “I’ve put you down for dances numbers, let’s see, ten and fifteen on my card,” she said.
Caroline moved on down the receiving line to where Sir Llewelyn stood ramrod and bemedaled, and Lady Beatrice stood wide. Caroline and Beatrice bussed cheeks.
“Ah, Caroline, good to see you about,” Brodhead said. “Do save me a dance before your card is filled.”
“Oh dear, Llewelyn,” Caroline said dismayed, “let me look. Look what I went and did. I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
“Has a general no rights here?” he mumbled.
“I’ll surrender one of my dances with Countess Hubble to you, General,” Rory said.
“Good lad! I told you this was a resourceful young man!” Brodhead beamed.
“Number ten is yours, sir,” Rory said.
“The gavotte, cropper!”
“Beatrice, I’ll catch up with you in a moment. I’ve yards and yards of news,” Caroline said.
The ballroom, used on the odd occasion as a Throne Room, had a jaunty air tonight. A note of victory prevailed. Marble, gilt, great Waterford chandeliers, and no lack of upholstered silk tapestry could almost make one feel one was not even in Ireland. Dublin, no matter how polished, was still provincial. It had been taken as far as it could go tonight, for a colony.
Caroline and Beatrice had their heads glued together like a pair of Siamese twins during the intermission. The General’s wife’s conversation, alas, matched her looks. As the music started up, Sir Llewelyn offered his wife his arm.
“Do this one with Caroline, dear,” she said. “I’ve trampled on the feet of every junior officer in the room and I’m pooped.”
“Caroline?” the General asked.
“You’re too kind, Beatrice,” Caroline demurred.
’Round and ’round in the oblong hall they waltzed until the ends of the room grew smaller as dancers retired and circled the dozen remaining couples, not in the center.
“You’ve been on my mind constantly,” he managed.
“Myself as well. I can’t tell you how lovely it feels to have a strong arm holding me. Let us lilt and fly and show these young puppies a thing or two.”
“I want to see you badly”—as they whirled.
“And I, you,” she said. “I’m holding a conference with some of my subcontractors from the south up in Belfast shortly. We’ll have lunch in my private dining room.”
“Yes,” he confirmed, and held her a tad closer to feel that bosom press against him.
“Llewelyn,” she said breathlessly, playing her fingers deftly over his neck.
Lady Caroline and the General modestly accepted the applause as the music stopped and they returned to Lady Beatrice.
“Lovely, lovely,” Beatrice said. “I used to dance that way once,” she said in her singsong voice.
Like hell you did, Brodhead thought.
A glowering light colonel demonstrated all teeth as he bowed to Caroline.
“Martin!” Caroline cried with joy. “I’ve been waiting for you. Best dancer in the Fusiliers.