Under the Desert Sky (22 page)

People began to mill around the table looking for their names, Phoebe and Christian were following Mary Kathleen when a young woman came toward them.

“Mr. De Wet? I believe you're sitting beside me. I'll bet you don't remember me, but I certainly remember you. I'm Helen Hay.” She extended her hand to Christian.

Christian shook his head. “I'm sorry, but I don't recall having met you.”

“Oh, but you remember meeting with my father, John Milton Hay, do you not?”

“The ambassador, of course, and now I understand he's McKinley's secretary of state.”

The young woman flashed a big smile. “Yes, he is,” she replied proudly. “I knew you had to be the same handsome man I met long ago. Come. Shall we be seated?”

The ambassador's daughter pointed to a place on the table where her and Christian's name cards were side by side.

“Excuse me”—Christian plucked up the place card that had his name—“I believe this is a mistake. I'll be sitting beside Miss Sloan.”

“Oh, but . . . that's not how Mrs. Calhoun had it planned.”

Christian smiled a most disarming smile. “Perhaps not, but it is how
I
have it planned. I'll make my apologies to her and perhaps we can speak later in the evening.” He put his hand on Phoebe's waist and turned her in the direction Mary Kathleen had gone.

When they found Phoebe's place, the gentleman who'd remarked about the jack-o'-lanterns' being orange was waiting for her.

“I believe I'm to be yours tonight, my dear.” He stood and almost tipped over the chair.

“It's Harry, is it not?” Christian asked.

“Yes. Everybody knows old Harry. Harry Hastings.”

“There's been a mistake, sir. I believe Harry Hastings is to be sitting by Helen Hay. It's alphabetical, you know.”

“Oh, and where is she?”

“That is she on the other side of the table—the one in the yellow dress.”

“Thank ye kindly, and, ma'am, I'm sorry you don't get to sit beside me. You would've liked my company.”

Phoebe laughed. “I'm sure I would have.”

When they were seated, Christian took Phoebe's hand in his. He gave it a squeeze. That simple gesture meant more to Phoebe than she could say, and her eyes began to glisten as she held back her emotions.

Phoebe picked up the hand-printed menu by her place setting and read it over. The first item was Welsh rarebit, and she recalled her introduction to the dish when she was working as a maid for the Sloans. She had shared those domestic duties with a cook named Crecy.

Mrs. Sloan had asked Crecy to prepare the cheese sauce for an after-theater repast to which several dignitaries were invited, including the governor and his wife. It had been a disaster from the very beginning. Frank and Myra had gotten into an argument about something, and Juliet tried to cover for her son's behavior. Crecy had prepared the rarebit to be served at the precise moment Juliet had asked, but when the course was delayed because of the tiff between Frank and Myra, the sauce curdled, the toast burned, and Crecy could do nothing except serve the disastrous meal. Juliet had come to the kitchen, and both Phoebe and Crecy had been hauled over the coals for embarrassing her.

The evening had turned into a complete fiasco. Frank drank much more than he should have, and for the first time in her life Phoebe was confronted by a drunken man. She had no idea what would've happened had W.F. not intervened.

Hindsight told her she should've left the Sloan household that very night, but she'd just arrived in Phoenix, and she was afraid.

“I'm not all that sure you would have ‘enjoyed' Mr. Hastings's company,” Christian said, his words bringing Phoebe back to the present. He nodded toward Hastings and Helen Hay, who was obviously being made uncomfortable by the inebriated man.

Phoebe smiled. “Don't you feel guilty now for rearranging the seating chart?”

“Not at all. Do you?”

Phoebe's smile grew broader, and she reached over to put her hand on Christian's arm. “Not in the least.”

The meal continued with an orange aspic filled with an oyster timbale that was nestled on a bed of lettuce. Phoebe realized the inordinate amount of time it must've taken someone to form the face of a jack-o'-lantern in the bottom of the mold before the gelatin set. She couldn't decipher what had been used to form the features, but it looked like little black beads. Whatever it was, it had a fishlike taste that she liked.

When she came out of her reverie, she was aware she hadn't been a very engaging dinner companion, but Christian didn't seem to mind. He was speaking with two men sitting across the table while their companions were concentrating on their own food.

Phoebe listened to see if she could interject something intelligent into the conversation, but she soon went back to her own thoughts. She thought it strange to be discussing such sober topics as whether the US military would have to stay on in Cuba, or if the Chinese and the French would reach a peace accord, or how much wealth could be taken out of the Philippines in gold or wood, or if the future for the islands would be in rubber. All of this while women were waltzing around the room dressed as witches and carrying brooms.

Then Bridgett called out to the diners, “Now for the moment you've been waiting for: Let the Oiche Shamhna begin!”

“
Oiche Shamhna shona daoibh! 
” many of the diners called out as they lifted their glasses.

Christian turned to Phoebe, lifting his eyebrows by way of questioning what was happening.

Mary Margaret explained, “
Samhain
means ‘summer's end,' and they have just wished a happy summer's end. It's like saying, ‘Happy Halloween.' ”

“Oh.” Phoebe flashed a smile at Mary Margaret, who was dressed as a witch as well. “Thank you.”

Margaret Calhoun came out carrying a large tray that contained what looked like a fruitcake. She placed it in the center of the table.

Bridgett withdrew a knife from her witch's costume. “As I prepare to cut the barmbrack, 'tis an Irish toast I have for you. May yer neighbors respect you, may trouble neglect you, the angels protect you, and heaven accept you. Sure, now, 'n' may this be the year Renny O'Shea gets the ring.”

“Didn't she get the shimble, shimble . . .”

“Here now, Harry, 'n' has demon rum muddled your tongue?” someone called.

The others laughed.

“Thimble,” Harry Hastings said triumphantly, finding the word. “Tha's what she got last year, ishn't it? That means she'll be single for life.”

“And how many times have you gotten the button, Harry?” another diner asked.

“But I keep coming back. My luck has changed. Look at me now. Am I”—Harry hiccuped—“am I not sitting by the prettiest woman in the room?” He leaned over to try to kiss Helen Hay, but she adroitly maneuvered away from him.

“I believe the ambassador's daughter won't be too happy with you when you two get together later,” Phoebe whispered to Christian.

“And why would we be getting together later? Besides, if old Harry hadn't been by her, may I remind you he would've been sitting in my place.”

“Yes, but then he would've said I was the prettiest woman in the room.”

“That's what I'm supposed to say.” Christian kissed her on the nose.

“Here, now.” Mary Margaret shook her finger at Christian. “There will be none o' that until the future be told.”

At first Phoebe thought the woman was serious, but then she saw that Mary Margaret was trying to contain her giggles.

“May 1900 be the year the barmbrack tells the future good and true.” Bridgett lowered her knife and with a thump it split the cake. “There be trinkets in this dish, 'n' for any of ye who have no knowledge o' the meaning of the trinkets, I'll be for explaining them to ye now. If ye get a coin, then that means riches will come to you; but a rag means poverty. A button for a man”—she looked toward Harry—“means unlucky in love. A thimble means single for life. But”—she held up her finger—“the luck o' the Irish will fall upon one here, for if it be yer fortune to bite into a ring in yer barmbrack, sure 'n' that means 'tis romance for you. What think you, Mary Kathleen? Is there romance in the air tonight?”

“Aye”—Mary Kathleen looked directly toward Phoebe and Christian—“for 'tis somethin' I can feel.”

Mary Margaret and Mary Kathleen passed the pieces of the barmbrack around, and everyone began eating as people commented to one another, hoping it'd be their luck to find a trinket.

Renny was the first to call out. “Oh, no!”

“What is it? What did you get?” Bridgett asked.

“I got a . . . piece of cloth.” The disappointment in Renny's voice was obvious.

Bridgett smiled. “You're already a rich woman, Renny, so ye can laugh at the cloth. Besides, don't ye have all yer good friends, especially Mr. Whitney, who we are missing for the Samhain, but we'll forgive him this year, because he and Andrew have promised to bring Saratoga back to its glory. 'N' when that happens, yer horses will once again run at the front on the nine-furlong track. Sure 'n' the wee bit o' rag means not a thing to Renny O'Shea.”

“ 'Tis fine for you to say, but what about Nora McMullen?” Renny asked.

Bridgett laughed. “And who got the ring last year? Andrew Mellon, that's who. 'N' who did he marry? Sure 'n' 'twas Nora McMullen herself. Don't tell me the barmbrack doesn't tell the future true.”

“Ha! It's money for me!” one of the men said as he held up a penny. “I got the coin.”

“I got the ring!” Helen Hay said happily, holding the ring aloft for all to see.

“Good for you!” Bridgett said. “And for sure there'll be wedding bells before a year has passed.”

“I certainly hope so.” Helen flashed a flirtatious smile in Christian's direction.

“Oh, my, Miss Hay not only has her cap set for you, it would appear she now has the ‘luck o' the Irish' as well,” Phoebe said, needling Christian with a coquettish smile of her own.

“Surely there must be some spell that can ward her off,” Christian replied.

“Ladies, you'll be needing a covering,” Margaret Calhoun said as she began passing black shawls to each of the women. “Tonight's the night for sprites and fairies, and lest you be covered, they'll carry you away.”

“There you go, Christian. All I have to do is jerk the covering from Miss Hay's head, and the sprites and fairies will whisk her away,” Phoebe said with a little laugh.

Phoebe and Christian moved with the others outside. All gathered around a big bonfire blazing in a rock cave near the lowest of the three pools of water that came from the springs. A black iron cauldron was suspended over the fire, and just as Mary Margaret, Mary Kathleen, and Bridgett came out of the shadows, a loud boom sounded. The noise startled Phoebe, and, reacting to her quick movement, Christian put his arm around her waist, briefly drawing her close to him.

Without an explanation, Bridgett began in a shrill voice, “Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed.”

“Thrice and once, the hedgepig whined,” Mary Kathleen answered.

“Harpier cries, ‘ 'Tis time! 'Tis time!' ” Mary Margaret added, her voice, like those of Mary Kathleen and Bridgett, high and screeching.

“Round about the caldron go; in the poison'd entrails throw.” Bridgett threw something into the pot. “Toad, that under cold stone, days and nights has thirty-one; swelter'd venom sleeping got, boil thou first in the charmed pot!”

Then all three joined as one voice: “Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn, and caldron bubble.”

“The perfect setting for
Macbeth
!” someone said.

The three women continued Shakespeare's incantation until Bridgett recited the final line: “The charm is firm and good.” When they finished, the three witches bowed as everyone applauded.

“With the spirits awakened, 'tis time for the real divining to begin. I'll be for asking now all the ladies who be not wed to come and sit by m' fire,” Bridgett said.

Renny O'Shea, Helen Hay, and two other women moved forward and took a seat on stone benches.

“ 'Tis one lass that is holding back,” Bridgett called. “Sure 'n' I can feel it in m' bones.” She reached under her cape and withdrew a string of bones and began to rattle them, then threw them into the pot, where they landed with a splash.

“I think she means you.” Christian nudged Phoebe forward.

“I'm not sure I want to do this.”

“She called for any woman who isn't married. If you don't go, everyone will think you're either my wife or you're a married woman here for an assignation.”

“Christian!” Phoebe laughed as she hit his arm. “Don't say that.”

“Then you'd better go take your seat by the fire. After all, she can ‘feel it in her bones.' ”

When Phoebe was seated, Mary Kathleen gave each of the women two new-crop pecans with instructions that they name the nuts for themselves and their lovers. “If brightly it burns, 'tis for sure married ye shall be before another year has passed. If they sputter and roll away, ye will soon be forgotten.”

“Bridgett, do you really believe such nonsense?” one of the men asked.

“Aye, for didn't Cullen O'Donnell 'n' I have our own marriage predicted this selfsame way?”

“Did Cullen know you worked your spell on him?” someone else asked.

The others laughed.

“Bridgett, I'll name one for me, but I'll not be for sayin' the name of the one I want to marry out loud, for 'tis my own secret,” Renny said.

“Very well, none among ye need say the name. The fairies will know all the same.”

Phoebe looked back toward Christian, who pointed at her, then pointed at himself. She couldn't help but laugh at his antics.