A Rose in Splendor by Laura Parker

toward and then away from Conall’s hair as she hid a smile behind her hand. Officers of the military did not wear formal wigs but shorter campaign periwigs. As Irishmen proud of their red heads, Conall and Darragh had always worn their own hair curled and tied back with a black ribbon. But tonight, for their family’s entertainment she suspected, her brothers appeared at the dinner table sporting enormous blond full-bottomed wigs. The hair rose in peaks on either side of a center part, then cascaded in a mass of curls and ringlets over their shoulders to the middle of their chests.
    “Do I see you smiling, Dee?” Darragh asked as he saw her amused gaze, which her hand did not hide.
    She lowered her head. “I? Nae; that is, I’m only thinking of a certain biblical tale.”
    Lord Fitzgerald exchanged glances with his daughter, his own blue eyes merry. “Could it be that yer brothers’ tales of derring-do have put ye in the mind of a great warrior? King David, perhaps?”
    Deirdre nodded. “I was thinking of a warrior. Samson!”
    Her parents joined in her laughter, as did Darragh and Conall. “Were you thinking, mayhaps, we should be shorn?” Conall questioned.
    “I’d say by the expensive look of the garments ye’re sporting that ye’ve already been fleeced by the Parisian merchants,” Lord Fitzgerald rejoined.
    As more laughter flowed around the dinner table, a warmth settled in Deirdre’s chest. Perhaps she had been wrong earlier. Perhaps things were not so different after all. She smiled at her father, glad to see that laughter had filled his cheeks with color and eased the pain-etched lines about his mouth.
    “’Tis only our poor attempt to show you what you miss by not traveling to Paris,” Conall offered when the amusement subsided. “Lady Elva could see the sights. And a visit to Versailles would do our country-mouse sister a bit o’ good. There’s nothing to compare with it in my travels of the world.” He leaned near Deirdre, who sat beside him. “Not even Ireland has gardens to compare with those of the French kings.”
    Deirdre shrugged, refusing to rise to the bait. “If Ireland does not have it, then, nae doubt, ’tis not overly worth possessing.”
    “Spoken like a true daughter of the old sod,” Lord Fitzgerald pronounced, lifting his wineglass. “Slainte!”
    “Slainte!” his family seconded and gladly drank the toast.
    “Here’s to a return of Ireland to the safe lawful keeping of her own,” Darragh offered when the first toast had been drunk.
    “There’ll be a din to wake Saint Patrick himself,” Conall replied. “The sound of pipes and drums and the sweetest music of the harp as was ever heard inside Tara’s walls.”
    “Aye, and soldiers the like of the mighty Fian of old. Then there’ll not be an Englishman left to tell the tale of their defeat!” Lord Fitzgerald joined in.
    “Soon! It should be soon!” Deirdre declared, as much carried away as her menfolk. “’Tis time for the Wild Geese to return and fight for their own!”
    “When will you be returning, Dee?” Conall questioned blandly as he set down his goblet.
    “Returning? To the convent?”
    Conall smiled. “Nae, cailin deas .” He winked at his father. “What I’d like to know is when will our fierce warrior sister be setting sail for Ireland?”
    Though she guessed what was coming, Deirdre’s cheeks flamed. Yet, she was not a Fitzgerald for nothing. “Were you thinking of accompanying me, Conall? ’Tis said the land is poorly in need of good stock. Another bull would not go amiss.”
    “Deirdre!” her father exclaimed, taken aback by his daughter’s pertness.
    “Do not scold her, Da,” Darragh said. “’Tis the influence of bad company that’s to blame. The poor lass has been cooped up for four years with the daughters of French aristocrats. ’Tis little wonder she thinks constantly of breeding. Have you not yet found a man for her to wed?”
    Lord Fitzgerald snorted. “None would