Betraying Season (6 page)

“ ‘The Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone, three goddesses and one,’ ” recited Patrick Sheehan as he wound his muffler around his neck. “My gran could have told us about the Triple Goddess.”

“Which one? The Maiden or the Mother? No, it must have been
the Crone,” said Quigley contemptuously. “Did they get together for cozy chats over tea?”

“Go easy, Fergus,” muttered O’Byrne as Sheehan turned a dull red.

“Gran got milk from her cows and eggs from her hens all winter when she asked the Goddess’s blessing on them at midsummer,” he said to Quigley. “When your husband is dead and you’ve got six mouths to feed, there’s not much better magic than that.”

“None better, indeed,” Dr. Carrighar echoed. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

Quigley left, his nose in the air. O’Byrne nodded briefly to Pen and followed him out. Sheehan finally finished with his muffler and turned to Pen.
“Failte,”
he said to her, then ducked his head and left.

Pen turned to Dr. Carrighar.

“It means ‘welcome,’ ” he said. “Well, one and a half out of four is not bad, for the first day. Sheehan is a good-hearted lad, and O’Byrne was mostly civil. I think they will all come around, eventually.”

“I hope so.” Pen sighed and slumped in her chair. Those two hours had felt more like six.

“Excuse me, sir, miss.” Norah stuck her head around the door. She looked excited. “There’s callers, if you please.”

“Callers?” Dr. Carrighar raised one eyebrow. “At the front door or the back?”

Norah opened her mouth and closed it, and held a small silver tray out to him. He leaned forward in his chair and took the cards it held.

“Lady Keating and Mr. Niall Keating,” he read aloud. “Front door, I assume, then.”

Pen looked down at her dress in dismay. She had worn her plainest, most severe gown of gray merino without even a touch of lace or ribbon, hoping that such a sober costume would make Dr. Carrighar’s students take her a little more seriously. Did she have time to run upstairs and change her dress, or at least fix her hair more becomingly? Or maybe a quick summoning spell to bring down a ribbon or her lace cuffs—

“Shall I bring in tea or such, sir?” Norah asked eagerly. “Mrs. Carrighar was in the parlor, so I took ’em in there to her.”

“The parlor?” Poor Ally was, as usual, resting by the fire in the drawing room, which had a coal heater in it. The scent of peat smoke from the other fireplaces in the house worsened her nausea. Pen knew she would be mortified to receive guests in her night robe. She shook out her petticoats and hurried down the hall to the front of the house. She’d have to see them as she was, looking most definitely like a bluestocking.

Lady Keating’s distinctive perfume announced her presence, even with the drawing room doors closed. Pen hoped Ally wasn’t finding it too overwhelming. It would kill her if she were to throw up in front of visitors.

“Ah, Miss Leland!” Lady Keating rose as she entered. “Since I am carrying you off to go shopping tomorrow, I thought that I ought to reassure your guardians that you will be well protected while under my care.” She turned her smile on Ally. “It is delightful to meet Mrs. Carrighar, though I am sorry to find her indisposed.”

“A passing infirmity, Lady Keating,” Ally murmured from her sofa. She seemed no paler than usual, and in her quilted satin dressing gown she reminded Pen of a medieval queen, receiving visitors from her bed. “Won’t you ask Norah to send in refreshments?”

“She’s on her way.” Taking a breath, Pen turned and curtsied to Niall Keating, who had stood silently during their conversation. “Mr. Keating.”

“Miss Leland.” He bowed, then gave her a long look. Pen remembered again her plain gown and scraped-back hair and wished she could hide behind Ally’s sofa. But his expression was clearly admiring.

“Penelope has just had her first tutorial with Dr. Carrighar’s students,” said Ally, nodding her into a chair near Niall’s. “A little unconventional for a young girl, I know, but it would be foolish not to take advantage of such an opportunity for learning.”

“Ah. We couldn’t help wondering who the young men were.” Lady Keating relaxed into her chair. Pen saw her exchange a glance with her son. “Did it go well, my dear?”

“As well as could be expected. They didn’t quite throw me out of the room, though it seemed a near thing at first. I am not sure if they were more put off by my being female or English,” Pen answered. An image of Doherty’s sneer rose in her mind’s eye.

“This is a very conservative country, I think you will find. And there are still strong feelings about the presence of the English on Irish soil. Old wounds—and some not so old—that have never fully healed.” Lady Keating sighed. “It is, however, to Dr. Carrighar’s credit that he recognizes your intellectual abilities. What are you studying with them?”

“Oh, er—” Pen floundered. “Dr. Carrighar was going to give me some readings, since I cannot go to the university library to study. Some aspects of ancient history . . . um, and metaphysical trends of thought—”

To her relief, Dr. Carrighar came in just then, followed by a
harassed-looking Norah bearing a tray of small wineglasses and biscuits. “My heather wine,” he said with a gracious smile. “It came out rather well last year, I thought, but you must be the judge. How are you, Lady Keating?”

Pen gratefully let him take over the conversation. She would have to concoct a believable cover story for her magical studies. And the sooner, the better, if she was going to start meeting people outside the household.

“Sitting through that tutorial can’t have been an easy thing to do,” Niall Keating said to her under Dr. Carrighar’s cheerful rumbling. “The greater number of my classmates at Oxford and Göttingen would never have admitted that most women would be as intelligent as they were, given the same education. It doesn’t sound as if students here are any different.”

“They weren’t. It bothers me that most of them weren’t even willing to give me a chance, though I really can’t have expected otherwise. I tried to look unfrivolous and academic, to make them feel more comfortable.” She gestured at her plain gray dress.

He gave her an appraising look. “That was sensible of you, but I’ll wager it didn’t work.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your plan backfired. True loveliness is at its best when unadorned. Only inferior jewels require showy settings.”

“Oh!” Pen nearly gasped at this blatant compliment. Did he really think her beautiful? But his tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were simply stating the obvious.

She must have reddened, for he suddenly looked contrite. “That was a little blunt, wasn’t it? Forgive me if I’ve embarrassed you,
Miss Leland. I’ve spent too much time in universities and not enough in drawing rooms.”

“No, it’s—” All at once, Pen couldn’t help laughing. “Now I can’t agree or disagree with you without sounding either vain or coy. I suppose a plain thank you won’t get me in too much trouble.”

He smiled with her. “Probably not. Unless I open my mouth and plant my foot in it sideways again. Hopefully you’d be kind enough to help me draw it back out without my losing too many toes. After a London season, I must be an interesting change.”

“Niall, my dear, we must let Mrs. Carrighar get back to her rest.”

Lady Keating’s voice startled Pen. She looked up and saw that Lady Keating stood by her, smiling.

“It was a pleasure to see you, ma’am,” said Dr. Carrighar as he rose.

“And you, sir. Mrs. Carrighar, perhaps you might permit me to send over a little herbal elixir I brew with my housekeeper’s help. It is a sovereign remedy for certain discomforts associated with . . .” She let her voice trail delicately. “A teaspoon mixed with water taken twice daily might prove soothing.”

“Thank you, Lady Keating. That is most kind of you. Penelope?” Ally nodded toward the door, then leaned back against the couch, looking vaguely greenish again.

Pen led them into the front hall. “I’m sorry you must leave so soon.”

“I am too, dear, but I think we wearied poor Mrs. Carrighar enough for one day. We shall see you tomorrow, don’t forget.” Lady Keating kissed her cheek, and a fresh wave of her scent wafted over Pen as Norah, stationed by the door, opened it.

“Good day, Miss Leland,” Niall said as she turned to him.

She looked up into his direct blue gaze and paused. “An interesting change after London, yes. And perhaps, one for the better,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

The brows over those blue eyes drew down for a moment as he considered her words. Then he laughed. “I’ll do my best to earn that opinion.” He clicked his heels, bowed again, and left.

Norah shut the door behind them and peered out one of the curtained sidelights. “Sure, and that’s a handsome man, miss,” she said, tucking a twig of hair back under her cap.

“Yes, he is, Norah.” Pen sighed and leaned against the wall. Had she been too forward, saying that to him?

“Though her ladyship’s a handful, I’m guessin’,” Norah continued, still peering out the window.

“You haven’t met
my
mother,” Pen murmured.

“No, that I haven’t. But I’m sure she’s a lady through an’ through.” Norah turned away from the door and looked at Pen. Her homely face took on the anxious expression Pen had noted before when she brought in the wine.

“I was wonderin’, miss, if I could ask your help with somethin’ that I don’t care to trouble the doctor with,” she said, twisting her hands in her apron. “You bein’ a
bean draoi,
an’ all.”

Ban dree? Then Pen remembered one of Dr. Carrighar’s lessons right after she had arrived and begun to study with him.
Bean draoi
was Gaelic for “magic woman.”

“Um, I’m happy to try,” she said cautiously. “What is it?”

Norah glanced past Pen toward the closed drawing room doors. “’Tis the clurichaun, miss. It’s troublin’ me somethin’ dreadful,” she whispered.

For a moment, Pen thought she was asking for medical advice. “The . . . ?”

“The clurichaun. In the cellar, miss. Just now when I was after gettin’ the heather wine, I thought it would frighten me into m’ own grave afore it’s dug. The doctor tells me to ignore the heathen creature, but when it leaps out at me with that ugly face leerin’ under its red hat, it’s more than I can do not to yell the house down.” Norah looked half ashamed, half terrified as she spoke.

One of the Little People! Pen had caught glimpses of fairy folk back home at Mage’s Tutterow, but Ally did not approve of them. “They don’t think as we do, and dealing with them can be difficult and even dangerous, if you don’t know how,” she’d always said. “I don’t recommend that you try to interact with them until you’re older. If ever.”

In Ireland they were said to be nearly everywhere. What had the doctor called them? “One of the
Sidhe,”
she said.

“That it is, miss. I don’t like to drive it away, for that’s said to be mortal bad luck for the household, and the doctor’s taken a fancy to the creature for some reason. But I shake in my boots whenever I’m asked to go down to the cellar. My gran always said that the
Sidhe
respect witch-women. I hoped as maybe you could go down an’—” She shrugged eloquently.

“And ask him not to trouble you anymore?”

“I would truly appreciate that, miss.” Norah looked relieved. “I’ve a lamp here all ready.” She hurried over to the small table that stood by the staircase down to the cellars, lit the lamp that stood on it, and handed it to Pen. “You’ll be wantin’ this too, just in case,” she added, and pulled a fork from her apron pocket.

“Do you want me to poke it?” Pen took the fork and examined it dubiously.

“It’s steel, miss,” Norah explained. “The
Sidhe
don’t care for the cold iron, see. If it gets to threatenin’ you, just show it this.”

“Oh.” Pen pocketed the fork as Norah opened the cellar door for her. Privately she might have preferred an iron knife, but perhaps a fork would be sufficient if wielded in a properly threatening manner.

“I’ll be standin’ right here if you need me.” Norah looked a little embarrassed as she spoke. “But I’m sure you’ll put the nasty creature to rights.”

“I hope I can do something helpful, Norah.” Pen turned up the flame on the lamp and started down the steep stairs, clutching the rope banister. This had been quite a day—first the tutorial, then the Keatings, and now an errant fairy in the wine cellar. She would have to start a letter to Persy tonight.

The stone walls of the cellar were cool and dry. No musty or damp odors were evident, and the floors were well swept and tidy. It was the least eerie cellar she’d ever seen, hardly an appropriate haunt for a supernatural creature. But she was grateful not to have to face cobwebs and spiders as well as a clurichaun.

At the bottom of the stairs was a small chamber, with doors leading forward and back. “Which way, Norah?” Pen called up to the square of light at the cellar door.

“Back behind, miss. That’s where the wine and beer are kept. Have at the wicked thing for me!” Norah’s voice sounded much braver now.

“What do you want me to do? Truss it up like a turkey?” Pen muttered to herself. She turned, set the lamp down on a stair, and called a protective circle around her. If it wouldn’t stop much, it might at least give her warning if an enraged fairy were about to attack her. Then, straightening her shoulders, she picked up the
lamp once again and opened the heavy wooden door that led to the wine cellar.

Wooden racks of bottles and a few casks on stands, as well as a small table and chair, met her eyes as she peered into the dark space. She pushed into the room, hardly breathing, feeling around her with her mind as she walked to the table and set her lamp down on it. But there was no presence anywhere that she could sense, apart from a fruity, wheaty smell left from years of wine and beer being stored here. Was Norah letting her imagination get away with her?

Pen approached one wide rack of bottles. Dr. Carrighar was rather a connoisseur of port and Madeira, and these bottles were the right size and shape for those wines. She pulled one gently from its rack and saw “1819” written neatly on a paper label affixed to it. The year she and Persy had been born. She pushed it back into place with a smile and pulled out another, labeled “1797.” Though the label was brown and spotted, the cork was smooth and intact, and there was not a speck of dust on it. Or anywhere else in the cellar, for that matter.