by Kari Edgren
He kept his eyes firmly locked on mine, and not until I started to sweat did I notice a fire crackling in the fireplace to my far right. I had begun to wonder if we were to pass the entire evening engaged in a staring contest when he pushed himself up and slowly walked over to where we stood. He stopped at my side opposite Cate, his feet planted wide as he studied my profile. I stood still, my muscles tense, unsure what to expect.
“So, here eez zee interloper,” he said, abruptly breaking the silence.
I continued to stare straight ahead, a little surprised by his thick German accent. It was common knowledge that King George II had been born and raised in Hanover, not coming to England until he was over thirty years of age when his father ascended to the throne in 1714. Still, even with this knowledge, I had expected the King of England to sound more like an Englishman.
“A beggar from zee Colonies, who has tricked my nephew into sinking he loves her.”
My face burned with anger. I may have coerced Henry into a sham marriage, but his love was his own doing.
And I was no beggar.
Since the king hadn’t yet asked a question or granted permission to speak, I fumed in silence, offering no defense to his insults.
“Or maybe,” he said, “my enemies have put you up to zis trouble. Zee betrothal between zee princess and Lord Fitzalan makes zem nervous. Some of my enemies vould like to see Lord Fitzalan connected to zee Irish instead of to me. Vat do you say to zee charges, Miss Kilbrid? Can you deny zem?”
Taking a deep breath, I kept my eyes straight ahead. “With all due respect, your majesty, the charges lack merit.” I spoke with relative calm despite my anger. “Henry and I planned to marry before I knew his true identity. At the time, I thought I had fallen in love with an indentured servant, not a noble lord.”
I could practically feel his eyes boring a hole in my cheek. His breath quickened, filling my nose with the scent of sour wine. “You can never make him happy. You vill ruin his life. Your father vas a traitor, and you are zee same.”
My temper flared and I turned to face the king before there was time to reconsider. “No, he wasn’t! William of Orange stole our land and had my father falsely accused to cover his crime.” The words spilled out before I could stop them, and I hurriedly added a humble, “your majesty,” in an attempt to soften my outburst.
The king eyes widened, bulging even more than before. From his thunderous look, I had obviously crossed a line and would soon be paying the consequences. On my other side, I sensed movement, followed by the sound of rustling silk.
“Please forgive her, your majesty,” Cate said. “She is a young girl, ruled more by passion than common sense.” While she spoke, she placed a hand on the king’s arm. He didn’t pull back, but accepted her touch as he continued to stare at me.
A few tense seconds passed before the simmering heat began to fade from the king’s eyes. Soon, his expression also relaxed and he turned to smile at Cate. “You are right. Zee young have no manners nowadays. And my nephew eez zee worst of all. He eez determined to marry zis little upstart, no matter zee cost to his family’s name.”
His words made me wince, but I held my tongue, subdued by my earlier foolishness.
“I could fix zee whole mess by sending her to zee West Indies. I hear demand is high for indentures on zee sugar plantations.”
My back stiffened at his suggestion. “You could do that, your majesty,” Cate said, “but I fear Lord Fitzalan would follow Miss Kilbrid to the ends of the earth. As you already know, he was at my home today, and I’ve never seen a man so deeply in love.”
The king frowned. Then he lifted his hand and traced a slow line along my cheek, making me flinch. “I vill make her my own mistress,” he said, stubbornly. “Lord Fitzalan eez not a man to accept another man’s scraps, eh?”
Did this man have no shame? I was a law-abiding subject of the crown, yet in two breaths he had threatened to either sell me into servitude or turn me into his personal whore. My nostrils flared as I stared at his insolent face, my hand itching to deliver a smart slap just before I stormed from the room.
Fortunately, Cate was not so easily offended nor deterred. “A bold move, your majesty,” she said, her hand still resting on his arm, “and sure to earn the animosity of the Fitzalans, as well as the princess. You’ve already a dispute with your eldest son. Why do something that would also estrange your daughter?”
He dropped his hand from my face and sighed. “I do all zis for my daughter,” he said. “Ven Henry petitioned to break zee betrothal, I was outraged by zee insult. How dare he refuse my daughter for zees girl?” He pointed at me for emphasis, his finger an inch from my nose. “But zen I sink it is not for zee best to force a loveless match. It happened to my parents and zey hated each other. I vas ready to send Lord Fitzalan my consent ven my daughter comes to me crying, begging me to reconsider.”
“Amelia insisted on keeping the betrothal?” Cate asked, her eyebrows rising in surprise.
The king nodded. “For her I have refused. And until she says otherwise, I shall demand zat Lord Fitzalan honor zee agreement.”
There was a knock on the door and one of the guards entered.
“Vat is it?” the king demanded.
“Sir Witmer, your majesty,” the man said. “He brings urgent news from lower London.”
The king reached down and took hold of Cate’s hand. Bringing it to his mouth, he placed a long kiss on the back of her satin glove while keeping his eyes locked on hers. “You must leave me now, my lady,” he said. “Come back another time and we shall speak of more pleasant sings.”
Smiling coyly, Cate withdrew her hand and curtseyed. “As you wish, your majesty.”
I curtseyed as well, and then followed her from the room.
Sir Witmer brushed shoulders with us in his haste to speak with the king.
Ready to be one my way, I tried to take another step when Cate stopped me, holding a finger up to her mouth. The other guard watched us, but said nothing.
“Vat news have you,” the king asked, his voice drifting out through the partially open door.
“Not good, your majesty, not good at all. A score more deaths have been reported today from the smallpox alone, though the real death toll, I am sure, is two or three times higher than this figure. If the numbers keep rising, we could have a full epidemic on our hands by Christmas...”
The other guard stepped from the room and pulled the door closed, cutting off the rest of the conversation.
Cate took my arm, her expression grim. “This way, Selah,” she said. “We’ve done all we can for tonight.”
Chapter Five
Blood of My Blood
I sat at the dressing table the next morning, studying my reflection in the large oval mirror. Beth had already been in to help me dress and to fix my hair in a new style that she had seen on a fashionable lady yesterday afternoon while out running errands with the other maids. Most of my dark locks were pinned up, except for the few thick curls she had left to trail down my back. I moved my head from side-to-side, delighted with the results and no longer concerned by her ineptitude with an iron. This one skill, as it turned out, was unnecessary since Cate had already sent her laundress to fetch my gowns, leaving me to pick another from what Henry had ordered. This morning I had chosen a brocaded pale blue silk, equally tight in the bosom as the first. The color seemed made for my complexion, and I was very excited for Henry to see how well he had chosen.
Dabbing my nose with powder, I felt almost giddy from the prospect of seeing him. Other than relaying my gratitude for the new wardrobe, I had a list of things to share, so many in fact that I hardly knew where to start once he arrived. Last night, instead of visiting as planned, he sent a note begging my forgiveness when it became evident that the princess and her mother, Queen Caroline, had no intention of losing his co
mpany until well after midnight. With his regrets, he described the torment caused by my absence, and his ultimate decision to forgo his own happiness so that I may get a good night’s sleep.
Now fully rested, I was anxious to share the details of my meeting with the king, most importantly that the betrothal with Amelia remained in place at her request. The king’s bluster to send me into service or make me his personal whore had to be withheld, as it would only serve to rile Henry’s anger. Besides, these threats had been rendered harmless by Cate’s intervention, an intervention that involved a welcomed hand on his arm and a promise to return another time to speak of more pleasant things.
Then there was Mr. Chubais. Henry needed to know about my last night in the Colonies, how I had been attacked and nearly killed by the unnatural creature. That was, of course, if James hadn’t already shared the sordid details as he had promised.
Though the only witness to the attack, James’s version would be greatly lacking as he had failed to see that the albino and the beast were two forms of the same being. Nor did he know about the terrible cold that had somehow subdued the summer’s heat, leaving me to shiver in the darkness.
I frowned at the memory of a more recent chill and the red welt that continued to mar the underside of my forearm. My recollections of the young wretch were hazy at best, and faced with the impossibility of frostbite, I began to second-guess my initial impression from our brief interchange at the docks. To be sure, I would have gladly forgotten the episode altogether, except that the mark had shown no signs of improvement this morning, and if anything, appeared to have spread during the night. The subtle sting persisted as well whenever my sleeve brushed against the damaged skin. A salve may have helped, but my last jar went to the Callisto’s cook who had spilled a kettle of scalding water down his front a few days before we arrived in London. I scanned the various jars and bottles Beth had placed on the tabletop, hoping to find something of use for the wound.
A soft knock skimmed the door, and I glanced into the mirror as Cate came into the room. “Good morning, Selah,” she said, walking over to the dressing table. “That shade of blue is most stunning against your skin. It’s a pity I won’t be here to witness Henry’s expression when he sees you. Then again, maybe it’s best since I spoiled his surprise. Men can be so particular about those things.”
“I’m sure he’ll understand,” I said, flattered by her compliment. “Are you going out?”
“Yes, and I shall not be home until late this evening. If you need anything, ring for Sophie. She will take good care of you in my absence.”
While she spoke, I uncorked a glass pot and began to rub some cream on my arm.
Cate took a hold of my wrist, lifting it up slightly. “What is that?” she asked. “It looks like you’ve been burned.”
“I don’t know. A young girl grabbed my arm yesterday and left me with this mark. All I can guess is that she was either carrying something hot or had a substance on her hands that caused a different sort of burn.” Both explanations settled poorly in my stomach, but wild horses could not have dragged the word frostbite from my lips, regardless of how precariously it perched itself on my tongue.
Cate studied the mark for a moment longer, then released my arm. “I’ll have one of the maids bring you a salve,” she said, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “It will help more than that cream.”
“Thank you. I usually have some on hand, but my last jar went to the ship’s cook. After the voyage we had, I’m lucky to have anything left to even bind it.” Pulling a linen strip from the drawer, I started to tie it loosely around my arm.
“Blessed saints,” Cate said, so quietly I almost missed the words.
I lifted my eyes just in time to see her pick up Brigid’s blade, which Beth had left on the dressing table amongst the pots and jars when she unpacked my trunk yesterday afternoon.
“What an interesting knife.” She turned it over in her hand. “Brigid Burdach, is that Gaelic?”
“I believe so,” I said with just a touch of uncertainty. “It translates to something like Brigid victorious.”
She moved her attention from the blade to the bone handle. “It looks very old. How did you come to possess it?”
“My grandparents brought it to the Colonies when they emigrated from Ireland. I’m not exactly sure when it came into my family.” Smooth as silk, I delivered another half-truth.
“Such a beautiful blade,” she said. “I came across something similar years ago in a small shop in Copenhagen. I intended to buy it when a gentleman bribed the purveyor to sell it to him before I returned with the necessary funds. A most unfortunate loss.”
My brows rose up in surprise, eliciting a smile from Cate. “I am a collector of antiquities,” she explained, “and a devoted student of history. If you don’t mind I would like to bring your knife into a blacksmith to get a better idea when it was forged.”
I hesitated, not entirely sure what to say. Brigid’s knife was much more than a family heirloom, and I didn’t care to let it out of my possession, even for a day.
“We can go together,” Cate suggested. “Since the knife belonged to your grandparents, you’re probably just as curious as I am about its origins.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, relieved by the invitation. If nothing else, a trip to the blacksmith would be diverting.
She turned the knife over once more, ran a finger along the flat side of the blade.
“Be careful, the edge is sharp as the dickens.”
“I warrant you’re right,” Cate said softly, speaking more to herself than to me.
There was another knock on the door, and Beth came into the room, her face flushed pink. “Pardon, miss, one the footmen sent me to fetch ye.” She wore a shy grin that made me wonder what else the footman had said to her.
“Any particular reason,” I prompted after a short lapse.
She nodded, clearly distracted by other thoughts. “He says that some lord has called and is waiting in the drawing room for ye to come down.”
I leapt to my feet, knowing but one lord in London. “Please excuse me. Henry is downstairs.”
Cate continued to stare at the knife. “Yes, yes,” she said distractedly. “Do not keep him waiting.”
Rushing past Beth, I left the room for the front staircase, hoping to have some time alone with Henry. Nora and her mother were on a walk to Saint James Palace, and with Cate going out, the townhouse would be empty except for the servants.
A young footman stood to one side of the French doors that led into the drawing room, and I smiled at the heightened color in his cheeks. Seeing me approach, he opened one of the doors. I hurried past and he clicked it shut behind me.
“Henry,” I said, then came to a sudden stop, surprised by an unfamiliar gentleman who stood not ten paces from me. “Please, excuse me, sir, I must have come into the wrong room.”
I turned to leave when he walked forward, closing the distance between us. “No, please don’t go, Miss Kilbrid. It is I who must beg your pardon for calling this morning, but I had to see you. I called yesterday evening once I heard you were in town, and was told you had already gone out.”
He spoke as though we knew each other and I studied his appearance, trying to recall if we had ever met. He was a handsome young man, no more than a hand taller than me, with a slender build and olive complexion. His dark hair was tied back, revealing equally dark eyes and features so fine they could almost be considered feminine, in a masculine sort of way. I stared at him, unable to draw a connection.
“You must forgive me,” I finally said, embarrassed by my poor memory. “Have we met before?”
He bowed. “Not in person. I am Lord Stroud, a friend of both Lady Dinley and Lord Fitzalan. And, I believe we share another close acquaintance.”
His choice of words was bewildering. “Is there some othe
r way we have met if not in person?” I asked. “And, pray tell, who else do we both know?”
He looked at me, his dark eyes fixed on my own. “This has been a treacherous season for sea travel,” he said, his voice growing very serious. “I feared for your safety, but I should have known better. Sheol tú faoi bhrat Bhríghde.”
My mouth fell open. Though my Gaelic fell short of fluent, there was no mistaking his words—that I had sailed under Brigid’s mantle.
A thousand questions shot through my head, all colliding together into an incoherent mess. I tried to speak, to say something in reply, but the surprise left me gaping like a fish out of water. My breath thinned beyond even the restrictions of the extra-tight stays, and I wobbled precariously in my new heels. The gentleman’s hand found my elbow, and the next thing I knew he was leading me to one of the sofas. He helped me to sit before lowering himself down next to me as I worked to control my breathing.
“This must be quite a shock,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t know how else to tell you that we are the same.”
I stared at him, my mind still an incoherent jumble.
We are the same.
Brigid spoke of her children in the Old World, but I was so used to being alone that I never dreamed of meeting another of her descendants in this lifetime. It seemed a sort of dream to be staring at a man who claimed the same ancestry.
A minute passed before my breath slowed enough to allow for rational thought. With all my heart I wanted to believe him, and I would just as soon as he had been put to the test. Though Brigid’s mantle was a sacred symbol for my kind, I thought of another way to test his lineage.
I set my chin and looked right into his eyes. “Brigid Buadach,” I said, speaking slowly and keeping my voice low in case the footman had an ear pressed to the door. “Buaid na fine, Siur Rig nime, Nar in duine, Eslind luige, Lethan breo.”
Brigid Victorious, Glory of Kindred, Heaven-King’s sister, Noble Person, Perilous oath, Far-flung flame. It was the first half of the words I recited before crossing into the Otherworld. Only one correct response existed.
