Free A Rose in Splendor by Laura Parker Page A

arranged in rows of duty and responsibility , the promise of a child lurks behind every plant , and the tiny annoyances of life are like cutworms among the leaves .
    “Not I,” she murmured. Lady Elva’s good intentions and her family’s tolerant indifference to her own desires would not deter her from her one goal in life: to return to Liscarrol Castle. She would do nothing that did not forward her return to her home.
    “So then, here ye are, lass.”
    Deirdre whirled about. “Brigid, have you nothing better to do than to sneak about spying on me?”
    For a moment, Brigid did not answer but let her gaze skim with loving pride over the lass she had raised. Nae, Deirdre was no longer a lass; she had grown into graceful womanhood, just like her mother before her. The strong features that once had overwhelmed her childish face were now proportioned and softened by the womanly fullness of her mouth and the open friendliness in her soft green eyes.
    She was not a great beauty, though few saw less than perfection when they experienced the swift charm of her smile. The quicksilver flash of her soul lit up any room she entered like lightning on a storm-dark night. It was that smile, her mother’s smile, that had beguiled Lord Fitzgerald into marriage a second time. When Deirdre found the man of her choice she would win him, even against his will, just as her mother had. Even so, there were dark times ahead for the lass. The predictions at her birth had promised glory or tragedy. Only Deirdre herself would determine which it would be. The time was coming; the signs were beginning to show themselves.
    “Why do you stare at me, Brigid? I’m not ill.”
    Brigid blinked in surprise. “Yer hair’s untidy and yer skirts are mussed. Ye should go in and change. Fancy what the foreigners would say to see ye so.”
    Deirdre smiled indulgently. Brigid never thought of herself as a foreigner, rather she regarded the French, whose land this was, as such. She reached up and gathered her hair in her hands. “Perhaps I should bend to fashion, after all, and use powder. Cousin Claude is too polite to mention my lack of formality, but just last week Honorace was kind enough to point out that a good clipping, pomatum, and powder would bring under control my willful horse’s mane.”
    Brigid snorted. “There’s nae a horse in all of Ireland that would not think itself lucky to sport as fine a mane as yers. As for clipping, I’d sooner see ye bald than fleeced like a sheep!”
    Deirdre laughed. “You do not understand the finer points of fashion, Brigid. ’Tis dreadfully gauche to have hair as long as one’s arm and as thick and unruly as sheep’s wool. ’Tis not even a fashionable color.”
    Brigid pursed her lips in annoyance. Deirdre’s hair was willful, that was true, but its waves were like spun gold crackling with captured sunlight.
    “Once ye were not so quick to scorn yer blessings.” A bemused smile crossed the nurse’s face. “‘A lass with twisted yellow hair and beautiful green eyes. Foxglove the color of her cheeks, and wine-red her lips. She will become a tall, beautiful, long-haired woman whom queens will envy.”’
    “Brigid! You’ve not repeated the story of ‘The Sons of Uisliu’ in many years. What calls it to mind today?”
    Brigid answered softly, “’Tis a scent in the air. Have ye thought what it must be like at Liscarrol? ’Tis midsummer. In swift cool streams the salmon are running, and the briars are full of slick-skinned blackberries. There’ll be herdsmen booleying in the mountains, and in the valleys foxglove is blooming.”
    Deirdre nodded. “Aye, I’ve thought of home. When I’m alone, I think of little else.” She looked at the older woman. “They’ve changed, you know. Conall and Darragh are not like me. They no longer talk of returning home.”
    “’Tis only for ye to be remembering, lass, and never forgetting. Ye were born of an ancient line, there’s O’Neill blood in yer