"Two things remain irretrievable: time and a first impression." Cynthia Ozick
----
XIII.
"Lily!" Mr McCarthy practically barked just as soon as Lily entered the building in the first week of March. Had Lily not grown used to the varying tones of Mr McCarthy, she would have been affronted.
This was an excited bark.
Lily smiled at him, and he returned the sentiment. He looked so much younger when he had an expression of delight. Not that Mr McCarthy was a man of great age. Truthfully, Lily did not know his age, nor did she feel it appropriate to ask. But she surmised that he was in his late twenties. He looked almost to be a boy when he smiled.
Lily had been harbouring the belief that were she not his employee, then she would have found him rather good looking, especially when he was happy. As she was entering into the second month of his employ, it was getting harder and harder to keep that separation.
In fact, Lily found Mr McCarthy to be rather charming in a rugged, worldly way. He wasn't put together and polished. He didn't have all the right things to say. He wasn't suave and coiffed with a starched collar and a shiny pocket watch. He was an everyman, and Lily was growing remarkably fond of that sort of man.
"I bought a ship!" Mr McCarthy could hardly contain his delight as she heard his cousin's laughter from within the office.
Mr Maguire chuckled, "Shout it louder, would you? Your mammy can hear you."
"That's excellent news!" Lily enthused, sharing in Mr McCarthy's delight. She joined him without hesitation, wanting to be closer to him without even thinking. She looked up into his overjoyed green eyes with complete and sincere happiness for him. How she wanted to capture this joy in him. When she thought over the overstressed and overworked man she had first encountered in January, Lily wanted to show him how hard he had worked and how far he had come in such a short time.
Mr McCarthy seemed even happier as he received Lily's enthusiasm for him. His eyes warmed and he looked over her with what looked to be enchantment.
"He'll have to think of a name for it now," Mr Maguire appeared at Mr McCarthy's side then, inadvertently interrupting something that not even Lily could explain. "You've already got one called Emerald Eyes. My vote is for Muddy Brown Eyes. What do you think?"
Lily could not help but laugh at Mr Maguire's quick-witted suggestion, just as Mr McCarthy rolled his eyes.
"You're a hoot and a half, Fionn," Mr McCarthy quipped. "I've already got an idea anyway, you eejit."
"Go on then," encouraged Mr Maguire.
Lily listened curiously.
Mr McCarthy appeared almost bashful in that moment, and he quickly rebuffed them both. "Let me see the damn thing first before I christen her."
"Are you blushing, Callan?" Mr Maguire teased. "Look at him, Lily. He's blushing! The ship's going to be called 'Mammy's Eyes', you mark my words!" He let out a howl of laughter that earned him an elbow in the gut from Mr McCarthy. He then coughed and spluttered.
"Shut your mouth, you daft eejit," snapped Mr McCarthy with a roll of his eyes. "I'm not naming the damned ship after my mother." He then turned on his heel and returned to the office, shutting the door behind him and leaving Mr Maguire and Lily standing outside.
"Mark my words, Lily Bennett," Mr Maguire said again in a hushed voice. "He's naming that boat after his special lady."
***
Callan watched as Lily departed for the day at the same time she always did. He drifted to the window, as he had been doing for a few weeks, and watched as she walked down the street and around the corner.
It would be sixteen hours until she returned, and he got to see her again.
Because he liked hard workers, even if they had begun like an eejit, and that was why he looked forward to seeing her again.
She had been wearing a rather beautiful shade of green today. Was she wearing it for his benefit? Did she know that St Patrick's Day was approaching on the seventeenth of the month? It looked beautiful against the contrast of her dark hair and pale skin, and he had firmed in his opinion that green was his favourite colour on her.
Because he was Irish, and he enjoyed being a bleeding stereotype.
Not because he was remarkably attracted to his secretary.
Fionn abandoned him for the tavern not long after Lily had departed, which left Callan to his list of named for his new ship that he was brainstorming. He did not know why he was pretending to consider anything else other than what he had settled on.
It would not be Muddy Brown Eyes or Mammy's Eyes. Callan suddenly regretted not asking Lily's opinion. What might she have suggested? Would it have changed his mind?
Despite never having laid eyes on the vessel in person, Callan was firm in his belief that 'Ocean Eyes' she would be.
Because he liked the ocean, and not because the eyes of someone in his employ were as blue as the Irish Sea.
Callan's thoughts were interrupted by a brief, but firm, knock on his door. He left his desk and went to answer the door, where he was greeted but a messenger holding out an express addressed to him. Callan anxiously turned it over. The receipt of an express made him worry about his mother back home, but he was relieved when he saw that the letter was not from her, but from Francis Oliver, the owner of Norwood Mills.
What need would he have to send an express to Callan?
Callan shut the door and immediately broke the seal, imagining in hope that Mr Oliver was writing to request another shipment of Callan's cotton just as soon as it had arrived from the West Indies. That could be the only explanation.
But that was not the case.
What Callan read brought him to his knees, and he was promptly sick on the floor. His heart raced as he read and re-read the lines of the letter to make them change. His eyes had to be deceiving him.
Spoiled goods.
Fraudulent terms.
Legal action.
Immediate return of moneys paid.
Contract termination.
Callan read these words over and over. How? How was this possible? How was his cotton shipment spoiled? How was it possible that he was being accused of establishing a contact on fraudulent terms?
Return of the moneys paid.
Were Callan in front of a mirror, he was certain that he would have appeared as white as a ghost. His heart had begun to beat so erratically that it might have stopped altogether, and Callan was certain he was about to die of shock. And if he did not die of shock, then he would die for the shame.
Return the money? How could he? They money was gone! It was paying for a new voyage to the West Indies, his new ship, his loan repayments, everything!
His loan repayments ...
Callan shuddered as the tears began to fall down his cheeks freely. There was no one there to witness how truly pathetic of a failure he was. He was ruined. He was absolutely ruined.
His grandfather was right about him. And Callan had wanted to do everything but prove that aristocratic bastard right.
He felt such a pang of shame that pierced him right in the gut. He was glad his father was dead. Callan would not have been able to survive the look on his father's face when his son would be forced to face his grandfather and admit defeat. Admit his failure.
Callan was in such a state that he was not at all aware of his surroundings. He was curled up on the floor, his head between his knees, crying, when he heard the sound of someone clearing their throat.
If his heart had not stopped earlier, then it had certainly ceased to function then as Callan fell back on his rear in fright.
A man stood in the open doorway of Callan's office. He was a man who Callan had never seen before in his life, and the first thing that Callan noticed about him was the look of sympathy on his face.
It sickened Callan to have been seen in this state, and he felt a foul disposition wash over him as it covered his true despondent and hopeless emotions.
Callan scrambled to climb to his feet, and he brushed some of the dust off of his breeches that had been collected while he had wallowed on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Callan noticed the letter that he had abandoned a few feet away.
It was then that he properly looked over the intruder. His fair brown hair was groomed a well kempt style, and his eyes were a rich hazel. His age was betrayed by the lines at his eyes and mouth, and he looked as though he had spent a great deal of his life smiling. Callan guessed that the man would have been about his own father's age were he alive.
The word he had associated with the colour of the stranger's eyes was very poignant. Everything about him was rich. He might has well have worn a sign over his embroidered coat that read, 'My solid gold chamber pot could feed your family for a bleedin' year'. His coat, breeches, gloves, boots, hat (which he carried now that he was inside) positively screamed aristocrat, and with how Callan was feeling in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to go and slap the man across his face.
"Are you too high and mighty to knock before you enter a man's office?" Callan snapped, fully intending to sound as rude as he could for the embarrassment that he felt. He turned from the man briefly so that he could wipe his tear-filled eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.
"I did knock," the man replied. His voice was deep, refined, and just about as posh as an Englishman could get.
Did their fancy schools teach them to talk like that? In Callan's opinion, their pronunciation of common words made them all sound like eejits.
His thoughts went very quickly to Lily, as he had often thought that her accent was just as refined and posh. She was forgiven, he quickly decided, as he had already. Her voice suited her.
On everyone else, it was ridiculous.
"I beg your pardon on my intrusion. I knocked, and when I received no answer, I thought I heard the sound of someone in distress. I merely entered to offer my assistance."
Callan wanted to be sick again at the thought of his crying and spluttering being audible from the street. He then sucked in a tight breath when he realised that he had already been sick, and there was a lovely pile of it seeping into the floorboards between himself and the stranger.
Perhaps it would make him leave, Callan thought bitterly.
"I am only in distress because some haughty eejit thought it just fine to let himself into my office," Callan grumbled. "State your business and leave."
"Haughty eejit?" The stranger's eyebrows rose, and an expression of amusement crossed his face. "That is certainly not something I am used to being called. I don't think many would dare say such a thing to my face, now that I think about it."
"I'm sure your eight hundred servants all say it behind your back." Callan was fully aware he was being petulant. Wounded pride would do that to a man.
"Perhaps they do." The stranger chuckled quietly. "May I introduce myself?"
"You haven't seemed to care about asking my permission for anything else, so I don't know why you'd bother asking me that," snipped Callan.
The stranger merely smiled. He didn't react to Callan's foul mood. He simply stepped backwards across the threshold, the door still open, and he knocked again.
Callan crossed the room, suddenly standing eye to eye with the gentleman. He looked him in the eye, and Callan didn't know what he expected to see. Haughty certainly wasn't the word. But what sort of aristocrat smiled when an Irishman was insulting him?
He had to be a lunatic. There was no other conclusion to be made. "No one's home. Don't call again," Callan stated, before he went to slam the door in the man's face.
But before the door could latch, the man caught it with his hand, and he stopped it from slamming. "Five minutes of your time is all I ask. I believe you might like what I have to say."
"In my experience, an Englishman had never had anything to say to me that I have liked," Callan cursed under his breath. If the stranger heard him, he didn't react.
"I don't doubt that Mr McCarthy."
"How do you know who I am?"
"Your name is on the building," he returned seamlessly.
Callan felt stupid again. Would he be arrested if he shoved his foot into the stomach of this eejit and put him out on his arse?
"May I introduce myself?"
Callan didn't answer.
"My name is Adam Beresford. Have you heard of me?"
"Should I have? Are you a famous eejit then?"
Again, humour filled the man, Adam Beresford's, face. "No. But my family are a very old one. I thought you might have heard of the Beresfords, but apparently not. No matter. To be entirely transparent, I am the Duke of Ashwood."
Was Callan supposed to be impressed by a rich, fancy duke with a rich, moronic family? "I don't give a damn if you're the Duke of Eejit Town," he snapped.
"Do you know, I think you would get on quite well with my son-in-law," the duke mused.
"I don't trust anyone who calls themselves an aristocrat, so I'm likely to disagree with you there, Your Grace. State your business so that I can tell you to bugger off."
"You are really as Sir Richard described. You've a strong tongue on you. Believe it or not, I admire that backbone. There are not many men who would dare openly insult me."
Callan heard nothing except the name of the man he hated more than anyone. Perhaps his grandfather was equal to Sir Richard there, but the mention of that man's name when he had just received that letter made Callan see red.
Spoiled goods. Would he have? Could he have?
"You say that man's name again in my presence and I'll flatten you," Callan spat.
The duke held up a calming hand. "That man," he said firmly, "is the reason I am here. I heard him talking of you today at White's. It is a gentleman's club ... no matter. He described you as an ambitious man, a dedicated man, a threat. He bragged, after one too many whiskeys, he bragged of his plot to ruin you. I can only imagine that you have received word of this based on what I have witnessed here."
"My dealings are none of your business," spat Callan angrily. He felt the muscles in his neck stiffen as hard as rocks as he heard it confirmed. Sir Richard had tampered with his crop and had spoiled his deal. Sir Richard had caused his ruin.
"I intend to make them my business," the duke replied. "If you would hear my proposal, I would like to discuss an investment in your business."
Callan stared at the duke openly, and for an awkwardly long time. But the decision was made for Callan already. This man associated with Sir Richard. They were all as bad as each other. This one, this Duke of Eejit Town, seemed to think himself a saint. But aristocrats well all self-serving. There was no such thing as altruism in their class. And Callan was not about to be a victim again.
"I'd rather take a shite in my hands and clap then do business with one of you people," Callan sneered.
The duke's eyes widened, albeit briefly, but he nodded. "I won't argue with you. I can see that you need time to think over my offer." He produced a small card from the inside of his coat pocket and held it out to Callan. "My address in London. Please call. I would sincerely like to discuss this with you."
When Callan did not take the card, the duke leaned inside the building to set it down on the first surface available. He then placed his hat atop his head, tipped it, and wished Callan a good evening.
Callan had insulted that man nine ways to Sunday. What on earth was wrong with him that he had not stormed out of the office cursing him? Perhaps Callan was wrong. Perhaps all aristocrats were not the same.
That one was clearly a raving lunatic.
But Callan would still never trust him. He couldn't trust any of them. No aristocrat was good.
----
Hope you enjoyed it!
Oh .. Callan... sweetie ... um ... do you know who that was? Hmmm
Long time no see! I'm so sorry for the long wait.
It's been .... well, it's been.
I've been suffering from major burnout. It's nearly the end of the year and I am cooked. It's been one thing after another this year for me. Behind the scenes of my author's notes, 2023 has undoubtedly been the worst, if not, the hardest year of my life. A lot has happened, and it's crippled me on many, many occasions.
This week alone I got covid for the first time, and just when I kicked it and tested negative, I fell down the stairs.
I literally fell down the freakin' stairs. I was home alone, and had left my phone upstairs, and luckily had my watch on me so I could call for help. I was in so much pain and my ankle just went.
I'm in a moon boot at the moment and have an ultrasound to see what I've done to my tendons and ligaments.
It's just been a year. I've pissed off someone clearly as my karma is just not good. And I try so hard to be a good person :(
Anyway, it's been a time, and I'm excited for the end of it. Christmas is coming yay.
But I am very, very lucky to have bf by my side who has held my hand and wiped my tears and is unknowingly providing me with so much inspiration for romantic heroes.
I hope you all have a lovely weekend.
Vote and comment xxx