Uncertain Magic

by Laura Kinsale

  She smiled up at him coyly. “Not even a hug, my only son? But no, you would ruin my hair, and Tilly worked for an hour—two hours—to dress it.” She looked at Roddy. “What do you think? Too much height, I told her. Make it au naturel, I said. Like yours, my dear. How pretty and unusual you are. But no, my Tilly says, it’s not for you, ma’am. I must have height, she says. Well, so it will be. What is your name, my dear?”

  Roddy kept her eyes downcast. “Roderica,” she said hesitantly.

  “I knew a Roderica once. No, I did not. That was the name of Clara Walters’ great-aunt. Or was it her spaniel? My lamentable recollection. Have we met? I declare, I cannot recall your surname, child.”

  “Savigar,” Faelan said in a still voice. “The Countess of Iveragh.”

  “The Countess of Iveragh.” She turned toward her son. “You must be married, then. My congratulations. My warmest regards.” She turned back to Roddy and gave her a perfunctory embrace. “When did this happy event take place? I see that I’ve rusticated far too long. And Adam must be told, of course. He’ll be delighted, I assure you. But why did you forget us, you naughty boy? Do ring to have my room prepared. I must have a nap.”

  “Your room is ready, m’lady.” Minshall appeared in the doorway, not showing a hint of the haste with which he had rushed to the drawing room when he heard his mistress had arrived.

  “You are a treasure, Minshall. I shall retire directly. Send Tilly up. Has the fog been so horrid all week? I declare, it wants to hang in the very drawing room. I shall not stay above a fortnight, I dare swear; I won’t be able to abide it. But you don’t think she’s a trifle young for you, Faelan? I suppose it’s all the crack just now—child brides…”

  She left the room still talking. Roddy could hear her voice echoing as it drifted away up the stairs.

  Silence hung in the study, thick as the dowager countess’ fog. Faelan had a strange look—too neutral; his dark features set in unnatural calm.

  “Allow me to present my mother,” he said at length. “I’m sure she’s honored to meet you.”

  Roddy stood in silence. She could think of nothing to say. Above her the dowager countess’ presence whirled, a giddy torrent of nonsense, unsettling in its very banality. It was as if the marriage of her son and the drafts in the house occupied equal importance in her mind, and neither of them very much.

  After a long moment, Roddy managed to say, “She seems an excellent person.”

  His mouth drew taut in a humorless smile. “Do you think so indeed?”

  They sat at opposite ends of the polished table, Faelan and his mother, with Roddy at a place in between. The huge room sent back every little chink of silver in echo and made the few words spoken sound hollow and strange.

  The dowager countess ate with the same jerky restlessness with which she moved. Roddy had begun to see a pattern. The older woman was either talking or silent. She never conversed. Just now, she was silent, her mind a babble. The dowager countess’ thoughts darted up one path and then another, meeting blank walls and doubling back, twisting down narrow strands of logic, ballooning into volumes of nothing, chasing some thought about the initials on the silver and then envisioning the whole room washed in a metallic gleam with a focus so powerful that Roddy saw the room that way herself for an instant. She attempted to ignore the chaos, careful never to meet the other woman’s eyes, concentrating instead on the flavor of the food in her mouth and the way the candles reflected in the crystal and on the shining wood.

  Her control was flawed, for if Lady Iveragh’s glance happened to light on the same image, Roddy’s hard-fought barriers were no match for the intensity of the doubled vision and she found herself dizzy and sick with the peculiar sensation of seeing the epergne on the table from two sides at once. It was a problem that she had not experienced since childhood, before she had learned the rudiments of control over her talent.

  “Where will you live?” the dowager countess asked suddenly. “You won’t take her to Iveragh. I’ll speak to Adam about a house in town. It will have to be leased, of course. Perhaps he can raise your allowance. You’re a sad wastrel, my dear, but I’m sure I can convince him—”

  “You needn’t convince him of anything.” It was the first time Roddy had heard Faelan interrupt the countess. “Adam is no longer my trustee.”

  Lady Iveragh picked up her wineglass and set it down again. Twice. “I suppose you mean that silly agreement you insisted upon. Really, my dear, you know Adam only went along because it seemed to mean so much to you. It can’t possibly change anything.”

  “Yes.” Faelan smiled bitterly. “A sop to my pride, there’s no doubt. But the fact remains that Adam relinquished part of the trust. Iveragh is fully mine now. Debt and all.”

  “Exactly my point. Adam tells me there’s not a bit of income to be squeezed out of the place. Not without mounds of money to be invested first.”

  Faelan ran his forefinger over the intricate pattern on a sterling-silver knife. He said slowly, “Nevertheless, that was the bargain I chose. You and Adam keep the money, and I hold Iveragh.”

  “‘Keep the money.’ Really, Faelan, what a vulgar way to talk. I’m sure Adam—”

  “Adam will do well to stay out of my sight,” he said, in a tone so soft it chilled Roddy down to her toes.

  The countess waved a vague hand. “How dark it is in here. Ring for an extra candelabrum, Faelan. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean about Adam, my love. Have you and Adam had a disagreement? I won’t have quarreling between my two favorite men, you know. My brother does his best for you. Think of the years he’s spent looking after your interests. All those trips to that godforsaken place since your father—”

  “Don’t.”

  The word hung in the air. Roddy stopped in the motion of lifting her fork. She stared at her plate, afraid to look right or left. In spite of her efforts, the soaring agitation in the countess’ mind leaked through Roddy’s weakened barriers, muddier than ever in its increased turmoil.

  Very quietly, Faelan said, “You won’t speak of my father again.”

  “Faelan, I can’t imagine what’s troubling you this evening. Not speak of your father—why ever shouldn’t I? I’m sure he was a fine man. An excellent man. I’ve missed him sorely.” She glanced at Roddy without ceasing the quick movements of slicing a cube of cheese into tiny pieces. “This Stilton is a trifle dry, don’t you agree? I pray you never know the agony of raising a son alone, my dear. Particularly a boy like Faelan, wild as he always was. After his father was killed, he—”

  They both looked up at the violent scrape of Faelan’s chair. He stood at the head of the table. “That’s enough.”

  The countess gave him a pleased look, as if she had just noticed him standing there. “Have you seen Lord Geoffrey, dear? Minshall told me he had been here. What a charmer that boy is.” She smiled at Roddy. “I declare, I fell in love with him when he was ten years old. Has Faelan dared to introduce you? He’ll not be anxious to do so, I imagine.”

  “Lord Cashel is an old friend of my family, ma’am,” Roddy said, keeping her eyes from where Faelan stood at the head of the table.

  “Oh—then you’ll be as much in love with him as all the other girls. He’s a slyboots, is my Lord Cashel. I do believe he’s stolen the heart of every young lady my poor Faelan ever cared for. But you’re the exception, aren’t you? I can’t tell you how very grateful I am that a girl has finally seen my son’s true worth. You’ll hear rumors, my dear, but don’t give them a thought.” She smiled up at Faelan. “We’ve survived those vile stories for years, haven’t we, darling boy? We don’t pay them the least mind.”

  Roddy said, “Of course not, ma’am,” in a thin effort to neutralize the dowager countess’ tactlessness. His mother might be unaware of the tension in Faelan’s still figure, but Roddy was acutely conscious of it. She caught a swift thought out of the jumble in Lady Iveragh’s mind and pursued the topic. “Tell me about the house in Keswick, ma’am, if you please
. I’ve never been to the Lakes.”

  “Call me mamá, my dear—do.” The countess gave Roddy a charming smile. “Keswick is fabulous. The most adorable little town right on the lakeshore. My house—it’s naught but a cottage, I assure you. I shan’t be able to keep more than a half-dozen domestics when I’m in residence. But that’s the fun of it, dear. One is so intrepid and isolated…”

  She rambled on, and after a few moments, Faelan looked at the plates and glasses before him. He sat down. His hand curved around his wine goblet and he emptied it. A footman was there to refill the glass twice before Lady Iveragh had said everything she had to say about the “cottage” in Keswick.

  “I’m sure we can find you something just like it,” the countess said. “I shall set an agent on it immediately. We can all go back together, though I shan’t have room at my house for you both, I fear. There’s a delightful inn where you could stay while you look over the available properties.” She squeezed her hands together. “Oh, ’twill be such fun. The lakes, the mountains—I tell you, there’s nothing to compare with it.”

  Faelan said, “Iveragh surpasses it. A thousand times.”

  His mother laughed. “Nonsense. Iveragh is a wilderness. You won’t take poor Roderica there—I shan’t allow it.” She turned to Roddy. “Stay here, my dear, if you don’t care to come with me. I shall be back before Whitsuntide, and then we will have such a season! We’ll soon remedy this awful boy’s oversights.” She shook her head and put out her hand toward Roddy. “Not even an engagement ball, my poor darling child! He should be whipped, for marrying you in this slipshod fashion. Why—where were you wed? I wouldn’t put it past him to have carried you off to Gretna Green!”

  Faelan looked toward her with an arrested expression. He set his goblet down and said, “We were married in the Delamores’ church in Helmsley. The records are in perfect order. You may be sure that I’ll make certain everyone is aware of that.”

  The dowager countess sighed. “I’m vastly relieved. I hadn’t wanted to say anything, you know.”

  Though his mother did not speak of them again, the rumors about Faelan seemed to be troubling the dowager countess far more than she admitted. Amid the agitated tumble of her mind, seduction whirled around with thoughts of blackmail notes and dueling pistols. Ellen Webster, she thought, and her brother, and suddenly there was a quick vision of a killing—whose, Roddy could not tell.

  But there was no fear in the countess’ mind for Faelan.

  “I’ll be leaving town tomorrow,” Faelan said, with a slight nod to the footman who stood behind Lady Iveragh with a dish of bonbons and crystallized fruit. The servant offered the dish to the countess.

  Roddy looked up at her husband in startlement. He smiled at her, and added, “For a few days only.”

  She opened her mouth, about to offer to accompany him, but before she could speak she received another shake of his head, as faint as the one he had given the footman. Roddy bit her lip and looked down at her plate.

  “For several days, Faelan?” Lady Iveragh’s mind flooded with relief, but none of it showed on her face. Ellen Webster, she thought again and again in wild, tangled threads of reason. Time. Speak to her. Brother…brother. Money. Dead. “And where are you going, love? Will you be back by the fourteenth? You needn’t hurry, I’m sure; Roderica and I will spend the entire time shopping. And don’t worry over the cost one instant. I know you haven’t a feather to fly with, but I shall pay for everything. Everything.” She glanced at Roddy. “It will be a pleasure, my dear Roderica. A pleasure. When did you say you would be back, Faelan?”

  “In four days, perhaps. Not before.”

  The dowager countess gave a nervous little clap with her hands. “Excellent. We shall have such fun. Some jewels for Roderica, I think, now that you’re married. And hats—I have the most marvelous milliner. We won’t miss you at all, Faelan, I assure you. I suppose you’re going into the country to look at cows, or some such thing.”

  “Yes,” he said evenly. “I am.”

  Lady Iveragh began to laugh, a sound that started with a giggle and ended in mad hilarity. “Cows,” she sputtered. “Oh, my son. My poor, poor boy. Cows!”

  He tapped slowly at the crystal globe of the wineglass as his hand rested against the stem. “I don’t wish for Roddy to wear jewelry not of my choosing,” he said, lifting the glass to his lips.

  The dowager countess smirked at Roddy. “He wishes to be a bully. But you shan’t be browbeaten, my child. As soon as he’s well and out of sight, we may do just as we please.”

  “It might please you to spend your time packing,” Faelan said, without lifting his eyes from contemplation of his glass. “Roddy and I shall leave for Ireland as soon as I return.”

  Roddy woke in the midst of a nightmare. She came to confused sense with a cry of fear in her throat, a scream that emerged a choked whimper, and then Faelan’s voice murmured and his arms wrapped around her, soothing, warm and solid and real in the darkness.

  She turned into him, pressing herself against his bare chest, breathing in hard gasps. Her heart seemed to have sunk deep in her belly with the jolt and dive of transition to consciousness. It wasn’t real, she thought in relief. It wasn’t real.

  Faelan smoothed her hair. “All right?” he asked softly.

  She drew a breath and pressed closer, nodding beneath his hand.

  His arm tightened around her shoulders as she shivered and clung to him. “Silly child.” He spread his fingers through her hair and his lips grazed her temple. “I’m here.”

  Roddy voiced her agreement in a tiny, heartfelt sound of gladness. It was too dark to see him, but she heard the bedclothes rustle and felt his body shift as he turned on his back and drew her against his shoulder. She buried her face in the hollow of his neck and stayed there, breathing his deep scent and feeling the smooth warmth of his skin against her cheek. Her heart was still beating savagely. She could not hear his, but she could feel his steady pulse beneath her fingertips.

  In the darkness, he traced the bones of her hand with his forefinger. “What frightened you?” he whispered. “Does the devil walk in your dreams, little girl?”

  She raised her fingers and found his, lacing their hands together. “I don’t know. I dreamed…” She frowned, searching for the images, but there was only an echo, a sense of monstrous horror and fear and loss that was vanishing by the moment under the light caress of his thumb against her palm. “I don’t know. It’s gone now.”

  He moved again, drawing his arm from beneath her head and rising on his elbow. In the dark, his slow search for her lips encompassed her cheeks and forehead and eyes. “Roddy,” he breathed. She felt his arousal grow hot and hard against her thigh.

  She reached for him, sinking gladly beneath his weight as he moved across her. The devil, she thought, and knew that she did not care if he haunted her dreams. Not as long as he fired her body and heart and held her safe in his arms.

  Faelan went away, but the nightmares remained. Over and over Roddy woke to the sound of her own sobbing whimpers during the first night he was gone. But the dream-demons always slipped away the moment she came awake, leaving no clear memory, nothing but the sleeping city like a great weight around her.

  She missed him desperately. With Faelan she could sleep in oblivion, cradled in his dark, silent peace. In his absence she found herself defenseless. She lay wide awake in the shadows and thought of him: how he had looked on his blood-bay mount; how the horse blew frost and pranced in the dawn chill; how Faelan had smiled at her as she stood forlornly at the top of the front steps. “Four days,” he had promised.

  Forever.

  She sat up in the bed and reached for her robe, finding no refuge in sleep this night. Bad dreams she’d had often in her life, sometimes her own and sometimes others’. She knew already that these dreams that plagued her now were not her own.

  Her slippers were cold and stiff as she thrust her feet inside. She hardly knew what she intended, but it seemed i
mpossible to lie back down among the bedclothes and give herself up to the dreams. Awake, her talent focused and controlled, she felt only a faint whisper of the troubled mind that raked nightmares through her sleep.

  She slipped out the door, into a hall black with shadows, feeling her way with her hands and her memory. Her feet scuffed softly on the marble floor, the only sound in the sleeping house. Down one hall, turn right, down another, while the source of dreams drew stronger and closer.

  She stopped outside a bedroom door. Since the night before, Roddy had been certain of the identity of the tormented dreamer. Her gift only confirmed what logic alone made an easy guess. The dreams had come with Faelan’s mother.

  Roddy glanced around the dark hall, and found one point of reference in the blackness. At the far end of the corridor, a huge, round window showed the cold glow of the night sky beyond, silhouetting the spidery network of mullions that rayed outward from the center. Using the pattern for a mental anchor and clutching at her barriers like a soldier’s shield, Roddy carefully and slowly opened her talent to the dreams.

  It was like leaning out over the edge of a cliff. The depths of fear dragged at her, pulling her down into someone else’s horror. She hung on to the double vision, the image of the window that glittered in starlight, while the dowager countess’ demons twisted and flowed and reached out from the depths with murderous fingers. They had faces, those monsters, they had eyes like blue coals. They wanted her with them, far down in the dark; they howled with frustration and madness. One came up, reaching, growing larger and stronger, wrapping hands of iron around her wrists and filling the night with a screaming curse as it fell back and dragged her down…

  With a wrenching effort, Roddy focused on the window and pushed the vision away.

  The hall seemed to ring with silence as the dream-voices vanished behind her mental wall. She stood there, breathing hard, and a moment later heard whimpers and a low cry from beyond the closed door. A nearby consciousness sprang suddenly to wakefulness at the sound—the maid, Tilly, who had been wrapped in deep, insensible sleep on a cot in the same room.