Betraying Season (8 page)

But back to my shopping trip. Lady Keating directed her driver to go very slowly, so that she could point out the houses of her acquaintances (usually with devastating character sketches that made me giggle most indecorously). She was not what Ally would call charitable, but it was so amusing, and of course I would never repeat a word of what she said. I think perhaps I found it all the funnier just because I have been so serious lately, so immersed in my studying that I was like a naughty schoolgirl, playing truant. Really, I haven’t had such fun since I left you.

Pen tapped her nose with the end of her pen and stared at the words she had just written. Her last sentence was a bit of a white lie—Persy had been fun during their time together at Galiswood, but her being married couldn’t help changing things between them, no matter how subtly. Even when they were alone together, Pen could sense Lochinvar’s presence in Persy’s thoughts.

Lady Keating’s modiste was refreshingly un-French (oh, shall I ever forget Madame Gendreau “mon Dieu!”-ing all over the place during our many fittings last year?) and promised my cloak, of a very fine dark blue wool lined with heavy lighter-blue satin, would be ready next week. And as a treat to myself for being so studious of late, I ordered another in green shot silk, lined with black, for warmer weather. They are quite handsome and distinctive, being fuller than the cloaks at home, with graceful pleats set into a broad collar and with a large hood as well. If you would like, I shall have one made for you too as a birthday present.

After that we returned to Lady Keating’s house for a long and cozy tea. Doireann Keating, Lady K.’s daughter, was in bed with a feverish cold and did not come down, but Niall Keating was there. I wish you could meet him and tell me what you think of him. He does not precisely flirt with me, but says outrageously complimentary things in a very matter-of-fact way, as if he were discussing the cycles of the moon or some other incontrovertible fact. I do not quite know what to make of it, but cannot say that I dislike it. Lady Keating said that he was quite put out the other day when they paid us a visit just as Dr. Carrighar’s scholars were leaving, and examined them keenly in order to size up “the field.” Utter nonsense, of course, as the doctor’s students are
barely willing to even acknowledge my presence in the room, much less vie for my attentions. True, Lady Keating might have made up the whole scene. But that would mean that she—oh, never mind. I’m making mountains out of molehills, I’m sure. But I couldn’t help feeling a little bucked up by this episode, real or not.

Poor Ally continues under the weather—

Again, Pen stopped writing and stared up at the cheerful yellow curtains at the window before her desk. In all likelihood, Persy was going to find herself expecting a baby soon, if she wasn’t already. Would it be kind to tell her horror stories of Ally’s morning sickness?

—but we hope her symptoms will ease soon. Lady Keating very kindly gave me an herbal concoction for Ally to try, and it did seem to offer some relief.

Was relief the right word? Oblivion might be closer to the truth. Ally had had a particularly bad day today. She was barely able to keep down half a slice of toast at midday. When Pen brought the little flask of yellowish green syrup after she returned from tea and shopping, Ally had shuddered at the unpleasant color. But the elixir’s scent had been sweet and refreshing. Pen mixed the teaspoon Lady Keating had directed in cool water, and after a first tentative sip, Ally had drained the tumbler. When Pen looked in on her after going upstairs to wash, she was fast asleep, and a faint color had returned to her pale lips. She did not show any signs of waking at dinnertime, so Michael had carried her upstairs and put her to bed. Well, perhaps some sleep untroubled by nausea would help her.

Well, dearest sister, I must start on the essay Dr. Carrighar has set me, lest I disgrace myself before his students and prove to them that females are not worthy students of magic. Please write soon and forward any of Charles’s letters, since the dear Chucklehead can’t seem to find it in him to manage letters to both of his sisters. My humble duties to Mama and Papa and Lord Northgalis and love to Lochinvar and yourself—with the most of it to yourself, of course.

Your devoted sister,

Pen                         

Pen sanded her letter and set it to one side of the desk. She paused to picture Persy in her cozy blue-painted morning room at Galiswood in a week or two, reading it. Would she laugh and shake her head at the passages about Niall Keating? A pity he had gone to Oxford, or Lochinvar might know him.

Enough thinking about Niall. She squared a fresh piece of paper on her blotter. Rain began to spatter against the window as she picked up her pen once more.

The Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone are the three aspects of the Great Goddess, her three incarnations, worshipped throughout Europe in the distant past. She symbolizes the wheel of the year, from spring awakening to summer bounty to winter fading, and also the moon that goes from waxing to fullness to
waning. Both are eternal cycles, without beginning and end, and the Triple Goddess also has no beginning or end. Here in Ireland, she is given the names Dana for the Maiden, Brigid for the Mother, and Badb for the Crone, though the names Dana or Danu and Brigid also are used for her collectively. Remember that this is not a strict scientific classification, and names and functions of the gods vary across distance and time.

Each aspect has its own attributes. The Maiden represents rebirth, the vigor of spring, the freshly awakened energy of new growth, and any other beginning. Her color is white. The Mother is fullness, bounty, fruition, birth, and the giving of life. Her color is the red of blood shed in women’s cycles and childbirth. The Crone signifies endings and completions—not just the inevitability of death, but also the wisdom and knowledge gained with age and, eventually, rebirth as the Maiden. The Crone is generally regarded as the most powerful of the Three, because of her acquired wisdom, though each aspect has her own strengths related to her nature.

As a female figure, the Triple Goddess is the mother of magic. Her cauldron, round like the moon, is—

Her hand was cramping. She set down her pen and stretched her aching fingers while rereading what she had written. Would Dr. Carrighar’s students be able to endure references to such delicate female
subjects as menstruation? So much for men being the stronger of the sexes. She’d love to see that self-righteous Eamon Doherty have to put up with the pain and mess of monthly courses, something that women everywhere endured silently and without complaint.

Not to mention childbearing. Persy had told her about the talk Mama had with her before her wedding, and Pen was happy that she didn’t have to worry about such matters quite yet. Funny to think that this time last year she was the one who looked forward to being married. Then again, she hadn’t found her own Lochinvar the way Persy had.

“I’ll follow the Maiden’s path for now, thank you very much,” she said aloud as she covered her inkwell, the hideous orange glass one that Charles had given her for Christmas last year. The Maiden, goddess of new beginnings. Wasn’t that what she was doing, here in Ireland? Finally beginning to take up her magical heritage?

With a yawn, she snuffed her candles and climbed into bed, stretching her feet down toward the flannel-wrapped hot brick Norah’s cousin Maire, who was “obliging” for both Pen and Ally, had tucked under the covers a little while ago. Pen rather regretted that Ally’s sister Lorrie had stayed on with Persy as her lady’s maid. Lorrie had far more flair for clothes than Maire, who was scandalized by Pen’s passion for embroidered fancywork stockings.

But socks aside, there was nothing cozier than snuggling into a warm bed and listening to rain falling outside. Pen closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

Rain still hissed down beyond the entrance of the cave, but within, it was surprisingly warm and dry. Pen held her candle before her as she picked her way downward, deeper into the earth, following the voices that whispered her name.

“Where are you?” she called.

“Heeeerrrre.” The soft liquid vowel seemed to touch her face like a breeze. “Dooowwn heeere. Cooooome.”

“I’m coming,” she replied, peering into the dark beyond the little circle of light cast by her candle. “But it’s hard to see where I’m going.”

“Huurrryyyyyy.” The word floated insistently up to her. And as if the voices
had
been a wind, her candle abruptly went out.

Pen gasped out loud and stopped dead. The gray light from outside the cave had long since faded, and there was not a particle of light anywhere. The darkness of the cave surrounded her like a tangible object, wrapping her up in itself like a pall of black velvet, swallowing her whole the way a python did its prey. She began to shiver, though the cave was still warm.

“Come,” the voices said again, quiet but authoritative.

“I can’t,” Pen forced out from her dry mouth. “I can’t see where to go.”

“You don’t need to see to find us. Come.”

At first her feet would not respond.

“Do not fear us. Know us.”

She took one jerky, hesitant step forward, and another.

“Yes.” It was a soft sound in her head. “Yessss.”

Another step and another. Pen held her hands out before her, trying to feel, but there was nothing to feel.

“Knowledge, not fear, is where the power is. Power. Strength. Life.” The words washed over her, through her. Pen took another step, then two more. She dropped her hands and walked faster, then broke into a run.

Light bloomed around her, like warm golden lightning. It came from the three candles being held by two women who were
suddenly there in front of her, bouncing and reflecting off the thousands of tiny golden crystals that lined the cave.

One of the women was tall and robust, with shining reddish brown hair and a wide, happy smile on her handsome face. She wore a robe of red silk that clung to her full breasts and ample hips, and she had something white draped over one arm and held a red candle in her other hand.

The other woman had once been as tall as the first, but a slight hunch to her shoulders made her appear shorter. Her white hair glittered in the light of the candles, her lined face was calm and dignified, and she wore a black woolen robe. In her hands she held two candles, one black, one white.

“We have been waiting for you,” the first woman said, her voice deep and resonant.

“I knew you would arrive,” said the second, in a thinner, more silvery voice, like a bell. “You followed the path. Now you know us.”

“Here,” the first woman said, and offered the white object she held out to Pen. It was a shift made of white linen. Pen obediently slipped it over her head.

The second woman nodded her approval. “Take this, child, and we will be complete.” She held out the white candle.

Pen stretched her hand out to take it. As her fingertips touched its smooth whiteness, she felt a sense of fulfillment, of wholeness.

“Remember,” said the silver-haired woman to her. “Always remember who you are, and who you will be, and who you were. Changing and unchanging. Different and the same. Knowledge, not fear.”

The cave, and the women in it, faded, and Pen drifted into a deeper, dreamless sleep.

Before she went in to breakfast, Pen peeked into the drawing room. She had heard Michael helping Ally down the stairs with murmured words of encouragement, heard Ally’s clipped, monosyllabic replies. Her heart sank a little. Evidently Lady Keating’s elixir hadn’t helped after all.

“’Scuse me, miss,” said Norah from behind her. She carried a tray with a small covered china basin and a pot of tea on it.

Pen sidled in after her as Norah set the tray down on the low table by Ally’s couch. Michael Carrighar looked up at her from where he knelt on the carpet, holding Ally’s hand. A patch of morning sunlight from the front windows made his odd bicolored eyes even more obvious.

“’Tis a grand milk puddin’ Cook’s made,” Norah coaxed. “Won’t ye but sample it, Mrs. Carrighar?”

“If you won’t try it, I might,” Michael said. He lifted the lid off the pudding basin and sniffed. “I used to look forward to getting a quinsy in the throat when I was small so Cook would make me one of these. They go down very easily.”

“Do they come back up as easily?” Ally asked, sounding peevish.

“Did you sleep well, Ally?” Pen thought it would be a good time to interrupt.

“Good morning, Penelope. Yes, I did, thank you.” Ally smiled faintly. “I don’t know what was in Lady Keating’s concoction, but I slept all through the night without feeling ill.”

“That’s wonderful! In that case, why don’t you try eating a little and having more of her remedy? Maybe it will help you keep it down,” Pen suggested.

Michael glanced up at her again with a grateful smile.

“You go have your own breakfast,” Pen said to him. “I know you need to get to the university. I’ll have some tea with Ally while she tries a little of Cook’s masterpiece, and then we’ll see if Lady Keating’s remedy helps again.”