Rescuing Mr. Gracey by Eileen K. Barnes

absorbed most of the good land after William’s brilliant victory a century ago. Most of these English lords reside in England and leave the tending of properties to landlords who, seeking a hefty profit for their employers, lease the land to tenant farmers who must then make a profit for the owner and for themselves, and so they, in turn, divide the property and give the most worthless rock-filled, weed-infested field to the cottier.” Folding his arms, he leaned his tall, thin frame against a wall and narrowed his eyes at the prime minister. “Barley, oats, et cetera, et cetera, will never grow in those pathetic fields, but even if they could, those grains are exported to make money for the landowner and England alike.”
    “The landlords need to see to their own cottiers and tenants. We have interfered in this event too much,” Sir Russell said.
    Trevelyan added his opinion. “Sir, are you implying that the lords should feed the Catholic cottier with our export grains? Ireland’s entire economy will collapse.”
    The room vibrated, angry retorts flying back and forth. Count Strezelecki shouted above the din. “Mr. Gracey, in summary, the cottiers grow the potato because it is the only crop that will grow in intolerable fields, feed the native family, and give return to the absent landlord.” His voice rose to an outraged roar. “That is why the poor continue to plant a crop of fungus.”
    As if sensing a sympathetic shift, Roden snapped an authoritative rebuttal. “Gentlemen. Mr. Gracey assures us the potato is recovering and, therefore, is not of grave concern. As stated before, I did not bring this honored group together to discuss crop failures or government work relief policies. After a decade, such discussion lends no resolution.”
    He paused, his gaze touching each person with a possessive intimacy. When he continued, the low rhythm of his voice increased with threat. “The nation of Ireland is on the brink of civil war, and war is a risk to everything—our land, our allegiance, our freedom.” A low murmur of agreement traveled about the edges. His words slowed, stretched with purpose. “The landowner cannot be responsible for managing the sick, weak, and illiterate natives within their county. This action only drains all our resources and fails to improve the situation.” The earl’s piercing brown eyes narrowed, lingering on each man before coming to rest on Alec.
    All of a sudden, his eyes flared, his fist clenched, then rose above his head. “I say it again and again. We landowners will not use dwindling resources to feed and clothe the indigent populations, nor will they be allowed rebellion or talk of home rule. God help us all if the Irish native turns our beloved nation into a puppet for an Italian pope.” The teacups trembled. Alec shivered, recalling the priest’s speech from the evening before.
    “We landowners must not be distracted by a waning blight.” Thumping upon his desk, Roden pounded home his insistence. “Rather, we must refocus our attention and maintain that which belongs to us.”
    The room held its collective breath, waiting for the next emotional rush. The earl swept the room with long, manicured fingers. “I have an answer, gentlemen.” He inhaled, and his scowl melted. A charming, calm smile soothed any tension.
    Alec found himself leaning forward in anticipation. “The native problem will be resolved, likely this year or the next, either by death, immigration, or the end of the blight. In the meanwhile, Ireland’s landowners cannot feed the uneducated and lazy masses.”
    Roden paced toward the fireplace and relaxed against it, crossing one foot in front of the other. “I intend to lead by example. From this day forward, I intend to enforce the laws and instruct the residents of the rebellious village of Dolly’s Brae what happens to disobedient citizens.”
    Inspecting his perfect fingernails, Roden refused to look across the room to his opponents. “Thus, I