WHEN TWENTY-YEAR-OLD Colm Sullivan stepped off the boat from Ireland in June 1880, the sun glinted off his blond hair. Electric enthusiasm shown from his eyes, which were set in a strong, sun tanned face and white teeth behind full lips. All who saw him agreed that he was wonderful to behold. Tall at six-foot-four, he was blessed with such an abundance of physical beauty that when contemplated by himself or others, he became embarrassed. Men teased him by calling him "pretty boy" or the lad who was "easy on the eyes." His mellow temperament and integrity, supported by an innate and moderately educated intelligence, gave him a presence that others trusted instinctively. He was alone in the world and determined to make a life for himself in America, even if he had to begin with menial labor.

    Young as he was, his lower back ached from sitting in the flat bed of the carriage careening toward Larkin Village. Mr. Larkin, sitting up on the carriage's only seat with the driver, hired the four of them on the dock a few days ago in New York. Once on the road, Colm heard Mr. Larkin tell the carriage driver to go as fast as he could because he was eager to get home to his family. So the four of them were having their backsides pounded all across the terrains of New York, Massachusetts and now finally Maine. The closer they got to their destination, the more he looked forward to the relief of being on solid ground.

    The weather, sunny and warm with a salty breeze, was a blessing after being closeted in the ship's steerage from Ireland to New York. He turned to look at the passing scenery as they went deeper and deeper into the wilds of Eastern Maine. He suddenly wished they were still in Bangor, where they had stopped to rest and eat two days ago. Surely they were getting closer to their final destination now. How much farther could it be?

    "What are you thinking, pretty boy?" Seamus Flaherty asked, his head bobbing up and down from ruts in the road.

    He turned to look at the sturdy, red haired, freckled young man. Seamus was from Belfast, and hired by Mr. Larkin to be a grounds worker. "I'm thinking it's time we stopped. Me arse and back is killin' me."

    Seamus laughed. "Don't you know it. I don't think we have far to go, though."

    "How would you know?" demanded Barry O'Toole, an eighteen-year-old from Kerry.

    "Just a feeling. Mr. Larkin said it was two days or so from Bangor, and we've been riding for two days now."

    "I'm starved, and I need a good drink by God," said Patrick O'Connor, a tall, thin, Dublin native in his early twenties with russet hair and dark eyes.

    O'Toole nudged him. "Watch your blessed tongue. Larkin isn't deaf, man."

    O'Connor snorted. "If we can't even hear ourselves over the din of the horses, how can he?"

    "How come Larkin chose you to work in his new lighthouse?" Flaherty asked Colm.

    Colm shrugged. "I worked in one in Malahide."

    "It'll be a good deal for you, I'm thinking," Flaherty nodded.  "Larkin told me I'd be working on the estate grounds, as he calls them, but if I don't like it I can go into the village and get work at the forge. That's what I'm really good at, that's what I did in Belfast. Larkin said his father-in-law owns the forge in the village, but he's too old to run it now. I'll be seeing what happens, I guess."

    "I'm good with the land," O'Connor declared. "Me own Daddy had his farm outside Dublin, but he gave it to me older brother and I was sort of shoved out. I think we'll all do good in America."

    "Me, too," O'Toole agreed. "I'm good with livestock. My uncle has the biggest dairy farm in Kerry, but he had six sons and I was a bit in the way, I think. Besides, the Irish girls are all quiet-like and they don't give out. I'll bet the lasses in America give out, them being so liberated and all."

    "Don't count on dipping your wick into a Yankee candlestick," O'Connor snickered.  "I hear tell they're more snobbish than the limeys - that they put on airs here."

    "We'll see," O'Toole said. "I'd love to have an American wife someday."

    "I imagine we'll all marry Americans," Colm mused. "We're here now and we don't have much of a choice, unless we don't marry at all."

    Flaherty laughed. "You'll marry, pretty boy. Some lass will get a good look at you and go for your jugular. You'll have no problems with the ladies, I'm thinking."

    Colm flushed. "Can't help my looks, lads. I was born this way."

    They fell silent, gaping as the carriage approached the mansion. Mr. Larkin told them his house was big, but they were in no way prepared for the reality of it, not even in their wildest imaginations. The mansion was bigger than the Irish castles Colm had seen in his lifetime, even the ruined ones. The pines surrounding the house lent a dark, forbidding air to the estate as did the trailing ivy that snaked around the entire structure.

    "Good . . . .God . . . . Almighty." O'Connor's eyes were wide. "I have never seen the like in all of my life. It has to be bigger than the shagging Pope's house, don't you think? Jaysus! Are we all going to stay in this fortress?"

    "We're servants, man," Flaherty said patiently. "Why would the good Mr. Larkin put us up in his own home? I'm thinking our lot will be in the stable. Mark my words."

    "Not Sullivan. The lighthouse has its own cottage. I heard Larkin say so."

   Flaherty looked at Colm. "Is that true, then?"

    "So Mr. Larkin told me. But it wasn't my doing, you know. I asked for no special place. Honest. Besides, how big can the cottage be? I'm a servant, like the rest of you."

    "Your looks will take you far, Sullivan," Flaherty predicted. "And you ain't just like the rest of us. You'll be somebody with that face, there's no mistaking it. You may just be off the boat, and you may be poor like the rest of us, but with looks like yours, it will take you places. I'm doubting any lass, whether she's a peasant or a lady, could ignore the likes of you."

    The carriage slowed as it came closer to the mansion, giving Colm some relief from Flaherty's talk. Colm spied a massive awning over what appeared to be the double entry doors, but the carriage did not stop there. It veered left and went around the back of the mansion. O'Toole laughed harshly. "That's typical. We're being taken to the tradesmen's entrance. Not good enough to trip through the front door."

    "Shut yer yap!" Flaherty snapped. "Larkin can hear us now for sure."

    They were quiet as the carriage stopped at the rear of the house. They watched Larkin jump out of the carriage before it stopped. He looked up at the house and turned to face them, happy to be home. They did not guess he was in his fifty-first year because he showed little sign of his age. He stood tall and erect, with a mere dusting of silver at his temples. He motioned them out of the carriage. After they gathered their meager luggage, the driver moved the carriage off toward the stables.

    "This is my home," John stated flatly. "It is here you will live and work. Someday you may want to work in the village, but for now you will earn your wages on my estate. Except for Colm, all of you will be housed on the fourth floor of the house, which I built for those who work for me. You three will share a room, a very large room with a fireplace and a sitting room. Colm, as you all seem to know, will reside in the lighthouse keeper's cottage, as that will be in line with his job here."

    The men stood listening and watching him.

    "I'll give all of you a few days of rest. I'm sure you're all tired from your long journey and these days on the road. We're back in time so I can have tea with my family, whom you will meet shortly. Meanwhile, I'll leave you in the care of my cook in the kitchen, where he will give you tea and something to eat. After a short while, I'll return to collect you and introduce you to my family. It's important that you know who they are, because when I'm not here, you will answer to my son Roderick. He's a fair-minded and patient lad, and not in the least bit abusive."

    John paused, looking at his new servants, checking his mental agenda of things he wanted to say to them. "After meeting my family, a boy will see the three of you to your room on the fourth floor to clean up." He pointed to Flaherty, O'Connor and O'Toole.  "Please take baths. A supply of clean clothes will be provided for you while your own are washed. The servants eat in a room adjacent to the kitchen, and this is there you will be fed breakfast, lunch, tea and supper. Any other eating will be of your own wherewithal from supplies you can purchase in the village. My driver goes there once a week, on Saturdays, and you are welcome to go with him if you wish."

    John looked at Colm. "I'll take you to the keeper's cottage after you meet my family. After you've been to the village, you can prepare your own meals at the cottage, if you so desire. If you can't cook, you are certainly welcome to eat all your meals here at the mansion with the other staff."

    Colm nodded slightly. "Thank you, sir. I can cook some. I'll be all right on my own, once I get some supplies."

    "As you wish." John swept his gaze over them again. "I'll give all of you limited credit at the grocery in Larkin until you get on your feet, but you will be expected to pay me back."

    With one hearty nod for emphasis, he rubbed his palms together. "Let's get out of the sun and into the kitchen. I'm sure you're as famished and thirsty as I am." The relief on their faces was so transparent that he laughed aloud, a happy sound that made the men smile. Patrick O'Connor, particularly, looked so pleased at the prospect of food and drink that John decided to add one more thing.

    "I don't mind if you take a drink. There's a pub in Larkin called the Amber Whale that you might come to frequent soon enough. But know this: I will not tolerate drunkenness on the job. I will simply not abide it. I don't subscribe to the quaint notion that all Irishmen are drunkards and good-for-nothings. I have proven otherwise. If you are discovered drinking while working for me, you will be dismissed at once, and you can find your own way off my estate. What you do on your time is your own business, as long as you break no laws, nor hurt anyone else in my employ or in the village. My wife, Mrs. Larkin, is particularly moral and will not have indecent frolicking with any of the maids. Do I make myself clear?"

    John looked at each man individually until he received their nods of compliance, then he smiled. "Good! Good! Now let's go inside and relax. You've earned a good rest."

    They followed him inside, with Colm Sullivan taking the lead.

    THE KITCHEN WAS LARGE, spotless and looked like a place familiar with constant bustle. Outside light poured in from large windows, showing the work tables, a mammoth butcher's block, four wood-burning stoves, three ovens, cupboards and a huge icebox, which attested to the regular feeding of many mouths. Cupboard shelves were stocked with dry foods and spices, imparting a scent that made the men's stomachs rumble. Colm was told by the effervescent chef Claude Mondoux, who loved showing off his kitchen, that one door opened into the servant's dining hall, and another led to the main foyer of the mansion.

    After John left his new workers in Claude's hands so he could join his family for tea, Claude clucked around them happily. He insisted they sit at the large pine table next to his work area. "For today, you will eat here," he insisted. "The servant's hall is full at the moment. Most of them are English, and they do love their tea. Today you will sit here and eat. Tomorrow you can join the others in the common area."

    Leaving their luggage by the back door, the four men sat at the table in the kitchen, grateful for the quiet and lack of motion. Soon Claude had a young servant boy handing them bowls full of Irish lamb stew.

    "Little do they know," Claude said, pointing to the door which led to the foyer of the house, "that this is what I will serve them tonight for supper. I cook the same for everyone, all the time, but no one realizes it. Why bother cooking different food?"

    Claude liked the new servants. They were real men, and very tired men. Claude was naturally friendly, and it never occurred to him that his gestures and speech seemed effeminate. It was just his way. He was French and he enjoyed pleasing people by preparing exceptionally palatable food for them. He stood over a large pot at the stove as the men ate, maintaining a one-way conversation with them.

    "The maids are off limits here," Claude said cheerfully, ladling more stew into their bowls. "I should know - I've been here a long time. The best way to stay out of trouble is to work hard, and on your free day, go into Larkin Village and visit the Amber Whale. Wonderful tavern, that place. You will stay out of trouble there, I'm sure, as long as you don't like to fight. But you are all Irish, non? Perhaps it is in your blood to fight?"

    O'Connor slurped down his second cup of tea and belched.

    Claude chuckled. "My stew must be good today. Everyone belches once they have eaten it, which is good. That means it is superb. You must have more. Please, help yourselves. And have more tea."

    Colm watched the chef with amusement, finding him interesting. Claude caught his eye and grinned. "You are the beau garçon of the bunch, non? You will be noticed here, I can promise you that. I can just hear the ladies in the village. Mon dieu! You will break many hearts before you are through, won't you?"

    "That's what I keep telling him," Flaherty chortled.  "With a face like that, Sullivan will never have a cold bed, even in this isolated place."

    "Isolated, yes. Boring, non. You will see." Claude brought a loaf of warm bread on a wooden bread server to the table and sliced it for them. "Mr. Larkin is a very fair man," he continued as he buttered the slices. "But do not cross him, or you will find yourself booted out into the cold. I've seen it. A year ago, a stable hand drank too much at lunchtime and tried to go back to work. The Monsieur caught him, and fired him on the spot. The man had to walk the seven miles to the village. I think he works on a blueberry farm in Searsport now. Terrible mistake he made. This is a good place to work, and the living conditions are above par."

    "Where do you sleep?" O'Toole asked, biting into his second slice of bread. "All servants sleep on the fourth floor. I have my own room, but then I have been here longer than most. I came not long after the butler, Nigel. The longer you work here, the more privileges you receive. Nigel and his wife, the head maid Clea, also have their own room, and they have a baby daughter named Layla. Such a sweet, sweet, child. Other maids share rooms, sometimes five to a room. So you three won't have it so bad. The rooms are so big, the three of you won't mind to share. You, however," he turned to Colm, "have a whole cottage to yourself. I have seen it. The Monsieur had it built to look like his home in Ireland, or so he told me. It's not very big, but it is private and very clean. It is next to the lighthouse, and overlooks the beach. You will be happy there, I think, beauty of the bunch."

    Colm flushed.  "I just hope I'm up to the job of running the lighthouse. I don't want to disappoint Mr. Larkin, or have him lose his faith in me."

    "You won't," Claude assured him. "The Monsieur has an eye for people. How do I say it? He has a natural instinct about people, seeming to know what they can do even before they know themselves. You'll see. He is a good teacher, a good man, as long as you do not cross him."

    "I won't cross him," Colm said softly. "I have come a long way to be in America, and Mr. Larkin was kind enough to hire me, to give me a chance. I will not let him down."

    "Good. You will do well here, then. Now finish your meal, your tea." He clapped his hands lightly to hurry the men along. "The Monsieur does not take long at his tea, and he will be in here soon to show you his family. Then you will all be taken to your rooms."

    "Does Larkin introduce all the servants to his family?" Flaherty asked, pushing away his empty bowl.

    Claude nodded. "Oui. You need to know who is who here. He has all new servants meet his family. It is not unusual, I assure you."

    "Thank you for the wonderful stew," Colm said, pushing back from the table.  "I haven't felt this well fed since I left Malahide."

    "You are welcome," Claude said, pleased by the compliment.  "Someday you will tell me about yourself, non? From where you came and what brought you here?"

    "If you'd like," Colm answered, puzzled by his interest. "There's nothing extraordinary about my life, I promise you."

    Claude studied Colm for a moment, reflecting, and then he chuckled. "Perhaps you think so," he said mildly. "But you are here in America now. I predict your life will become extraordinaire very soon. I have a sense about these things, Beauty. You will be someone here."

    Colm shrugged, deciding Claude's words were simple melodrama. Right now he wanted rest, and to think about his future with John Larkin. Colm was so tired he was not even mildly curious if he would eventually become "someone" in the New World.

    Not then, but later.

    CLAUDE MONDOUX WAS A man of passion in work and leisure, and he easily recognized instant attraction between two people. It was a talent he possessed all of his life. He had seen many examples of high passion and intense love, and he was always moved by it because it was a rare and spectacular emotion. To be real, it had to be honest. But, in all his years, he had never seen a rolling passion ignite instantly as it did on that June day in his kitchen. He would tell of it for years. He could not have imagined that the daughter of the Monsieur would be so taken with an immigrant Irishman, even though later he knew he should have guessed because of Colm's bewitching physical beauty.

    When the Larkin family came into the kitchen, Claude offered them tea and zucchini loaf, but John saw the new servants and led his family over to the table where they still sat. The men stood to greet them, wiping their mouths self-consciously. Colm towered over the others, but was the same height as Claude, John and Roddy.

    Then Colm saw Molly, and their eyes locked. Suddenly there was electricity in the room that all felt, but only Claude identified.

    "Lads, meet my family," John said. "This is my wife, Anne; our son Roderick, whom we call Roddy, and my little lass Mary Margaret, who we call Molly." He looked at the men and began introducing his family to them. "This is Seamus Flaherty, Patrick O'Connor, Barry O'Toole, and the tall drink of water is Colm Sullivan. Colm is to be our new lighthouse keeper at Banshee Point."

    Molly would never doubt her father again. He was right. Colm Sullivan had been given his looks by the angels. She stood dumfounded, gazing at Colm, with a weakness in her knees she had never known. She could not speak - she could only stare.

    Colm gazed at Molly, stunned and bewildered. She, too, was perfection: so small, so slender, eyes as dark as her hair, her alabaster skin creamy and clear. They were connected by an invisible line of tension that only Claude saw, and he felt a tingling run along his spine. He felt sorry for them. For all the power of their attraction, it was doomed. She was high-born, and he a servant. Their eyes were consuming each other, curious, gentle, ferocious, amazed and hungry. They were suspended, unaware, in time. Without realizing he had been holding his breath, Claude exhaled loudly. John looked at him in surprise.

    "Are you tired, my frog?" John used his pet name for Claude. "Are you ill?"

    "Non, non," Claude assured him, pulling himself together. "I'm French, Monsieur. We express ourselves fully; we breathe loudly. Have you not noticed after all these years?"

    "I suppose I haven't," John smiled. "I only seem to notice your broken English, and how you put words backwards when you speak."

    Claude pretended a pout. "It is not I who has the accent, sir, but you, with your funny Irish way. You are the one to speak backward, not I. Not Claude."

    John laughed and took Anne's arm. "We will leave you to your domain. Please have the three men shown to their room upstairs, and I will take Colm to the keeper's cottage."

    "Oui," Claude wiped his hands on his apron. "My pleasure. They will be most happy here. I am sure of it."

    Molly found her voice, although the croak betrayed her tension as she turned to her father. "Would . . . would you like me to go to the cottage with you and the . . . new keeper?"

    "No, lass," he said absently. "I have some things I need to talk to Colm about that would only bore you. I'll be back in time for supper."

    Molly looked at Colm. He was regarding her, his eyes warm and smiling. He shrugged the smallest motion, as if to say that he was disappointed too. Molly blushed, and could not stop her mouth from forming a smile. There was no rush, she knew. He was there to stay, and somehow she would get to know him better. The thought settled her, and relieved her momentary tension.

    Colm, too, appeared to relax. As Anne, Roddy and Molly left the kitchen, he picked up his battered suitcase. "I'm ready whenever you are, Mr. Larkin."

    Claude watched them all leave, still captivated by what he had seen. It was over and he was alone again. How long before Molly Larkin found her way down to the cottage by herself?  He must watch. Or would Colm find Molly? Then sparks would fly. Passion would overcome, destroy, or come to full fruition. Certainly it could not be the latter, Claude was sure, because of their different stations in life. It was a damned pity, and there would be much pain.

    Claude went over to a corner cupboard and brought out a half-full bottle of white French wine, pulled out the cork and swigged straight from the bottle. It was unusual for him, but he needed a drink, and fast. "Tragedy," he thought as the wine warmed his belly. "That is all that will come of this attraction between the Monsieur's daughter and the beauty man from Ireland. Tragedy."