Snow Comes to Hawk's Folly
by J. Kathleen Cheney
Copyright 2011 J. Kathleen Cheney
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Table of Contents
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
About the Author
SNOW COMES TO HAWK'S FOLLY
PART 1
"No, let go." Imogen wrestled the feed bills out of Patrick's chubby hand and fixed him with her sternest look. "These are Mama's papers. Not toys."
He reached for her cream-colored braid instead, and it began to unravel under his touch. Only a moment before, he'd been contentedly stacking wooden blocks in the corner of her office. Now they lay strewn across the rug. Imogen set the bills on the far side of her desk, picked Patrick up, and carried him in the direction of the kitchen. "Let's go see Miss Mary, all right?"
As she walked along the farmhouse's white-painted hallway, Patrick tugged at the sleeve of her cambric blouse. "Where Papa?"
"Papa's out with the horses," Imogen said, trying to untangle his chestnut hair with her free hand. "If you're good for Miss Mary, I'll take you out there after your nap."
Patrick wrinkled his nose, much as she'd expected him to. "Papa, now!"
"Later," she said firmly, "after your nap." Her husband Guaire served as the trainer for the farm's racing stables, something for which he was eminently suited--as he'd been a racehorse for nearly a decade before arriving at Hawk's Folly Farm. A puca, one of the Lesser Folk, he had the ability to take on horse form. A family out of Ireland had kept him bound in horse form, racing on iron-shod feet. It was a painful thing for anyone with fairy blood to contemplate. Iron burned.
But Fate had, Guaire maintained, brought him to the perfect place in the end. Hawk's Folly had a history of collecting unusual people.
Imogen swung open the door to the kitchen, a cheery room that always smelled of bread, cakes, and soap. She found Mary there, reviewing a menu with the cook. "Mary, I hate to ask, but can you keep track of him for a bit, just until I can get the checks written out?"
Mary Sanders came around the table with a broad smile. The fresh-faced girl actually enjoyed wrangling a difficult two-year-old, partially a preparation for dealing with her own child, due in a month or so. She tucked a dark strand of hair behind one ear, then lifted the toddler from Imogen's arms and carried him off down the hallway.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Dougherty," Imogen said while she braided her hair once more. "I'm simply not getting any work done. I need to find another nursemaid, and soon."
The cook laughed. "One that will stay more than a week? Good luck, missus. That boy is a terror."
And they all knew it. Patrick had a gift of unbinding—not a surprise when both of his parents did as well. It was part of his puca heritage. Things came apart under his touch, and unfortunately he hadn't yet learned to be judicious about the things he unbound. He broke things, undid them, split them, and unraveled them. Fortunately, his gift didn't affect living things, so Imogen had no worry that he would hurt Mary or the baby.
Imogen sighed and headed back toward her office, stopping to gently press her heel on a squeaking floorboard. She tugged back her full skirts to gaze down at the offending spot. Patrick couldn't work nails out of the wood. He couldn't affect anything made of steel or iron. But he could loosen the boards around them. She would have to get one of the stable hands to put a nail in that board after the next race. The Victorian farmhouse--built back in the late 1880s by her first husband--wasn't even twenty-five years old yet, and she certainly didn't want it falling apart before Patrick reached adulthood.
She'd nearly made it to her office when a brisk knock sounded on the front door. Imogen paused in the hallway and heard the downstairs maid's feet pattering in that direction. She leaned to one side so she could see, but couldn't make out who their visitor was.
After a moment, the young maid darted back along the hall to find her, her apron twisted in restless hands. "There's a gentleman calling to see you, missus."
Imogen wondered what gentleman would call on her, not her husband. "Did he give you a name, Beryl?"
"Mr. Finnegan," the girl said, her cornflower eyes wide. "He sounds Irish, too, like Mr. O'Donnell."
Imogen didn't recognize the name. She walked down to the foyer, young Beryl at her side. A tall gentleman waited in her front sitting room, his back to her as he surveyed the collection of photographs on her mantel. He was well-dressed, wearing a finely-made tweed suit and holding a bowler in his hand. His hair looked almost white, not gray--as creamy as Imogen's own coarse locks. He turned toward them then with a smile on his handsome face.
His features seemed too perfect for Imogen's taste, an unearthly beauty. Under her suspicious gaze that appearance wavered, briefly showing her the face underneath. Dark eyes gazed back at her, but she couldn't keep the rest of the illusion at bay.
"Beryl," she said softly, "go find Mr. O'Donnell and tell him I need him."
The girl gazed at Mr. Finnegan raptly, her mouth hanging open.
Imogen pinched the girl's elbow. The maid squeaked in surprise and looked up at her, so she repeated her request. After one more sidelong glance at their visitor, Beryl dashed down the hallway toward the back door--the fastest way to get out to the practice track.
Imogen turned back to her guest. "Mr. Finnegan," she began, "may I ask why you're here?"
Her visitor smiled though the layers of illusion. Imogen blinked, trying to get a clearer view of him. She couldn't make a good guess of his age. He looked no older than her, perhaps thirty or so, but she suspected that wasn't an accurate estimate. For his glamour to baffle her so, he surely must be one of the Fair Folk, and could be quite old.
"I'm new to Saratoga Springs," he said, with a lilting Irish accent. "I've purchased one of the neighboring farms and wanted to make myself known to my neighbors."
Imogen didn't cross the threshold into the sitting room. "How kind of you. It's wise to be on good terms with one's neighbors."
"Tell me, Mrs. Hawkes," he said, with a languid gesture toward the mantel, "are any of these photographs of your mother?"
Imogen pressed her lips together, trying to decide how to answer that. He'd called her Mrs. Hawkes--which indicated he believed her to be married to Henry Hawkes still. But Henry had passed away in the spring of 1901, seven years past. That lapse also indicated that her visitor didn't know about her new husband. Now Imogen wished she hadn't sent Beryl off to find him.
"Mrs. Hawkes?" her guest prompted.
"No," she answered. "My mother preferred not to have a likeness made." The fourth daughter of an English earl, Eugenia Villiers 'Smith' had held strong opinions about everything, including the frivolity of portraits.
Mr. Finnegan remained standing next to the green-striped sofa, apparently aware that it would be impolite to sit down until she did so. "She was English, I hear, although your accent is quite American. Have you lived here your entire life?"
"Yes, I've lived on this farm my entire life." Where was this interrogation going? Safest to answer, though, since she didn't want to offend one of the Fair Folk. She didn't need that sort of bad luck attaching itself to her.
The very fact that he stood there in her sitting room worried her. For one of them to have crosse
d the ocean to come to America would have been extremely difficult. That fact had always, supposedly, kept them in Ireland and the nearby lands. Evidently, the creature in front of her had circumvented the obstacle the ocean presented.
"And you married the owner of this property?" he asked then.
He wanted to understand who owned this land. Who controlled it. That she could grasp, as the Fair Folk were affected by territorial boundaries. "Yes, the land passed into my hands when he died."
The dark brows rose. "You husband is dead? I hadn't heard that."
Imogen decided she'd better spit out the truth. "I remarried a few years ago. My current husband is alive. Perhaps whoever discussed my affairs with you confused the two men."
"And may I ask how I should address you, then?" He folded his hands and waited.
"Mrs. O'Donnell. My husband should be here in a few minutes."
"He's old enough to be your father," Finnegan said in a vexed tone.
And that revealed he knew more about Guaire than he should. Guaire had been twenty by the time she'd been born--old enough, although one would never know it to look at him. Whoever this man was, he'd clearly been prying into her affairs. Imogen felt her temper rising. "That needn't concern you, Mr. Finn…"
And then she realized exactly who he was.
Finn was his name--or at least the name by which her mother had known him. His hair wasn't pale with age, not any more than hers. The man standing before her had sired her.
Her hands had clenched into fists at her sides. She had numerous reasons to be angry with him, but Beryl had invited him in, so she was hesitant to give him the discourtesy he deserved. "Why don't you drop the glamour? It does nothing more than confuse my eyes."
The illusions wrapped around him faded away like mist, leaving a man who looked near her own age, had her warm brown eyes, cream-colored hair and dark brows--a striking combination. He was still handsome, but his perfection had faded, leaving more rugged features. "How did you know?"
"I can see through glamours, for the most part." Her half-puca blood had some advantages, although she couldn't actually take horse form. But his glamour shouldn't have been able to fool her at all. That was why she'd assumed him to be one of the Fair Folk--a true fairy. Being of the Lesser Folk, though, her father shouldn't have the ability to baffle her. That served as a warning to her that Finn had more power than she expected, or perhaps greater skill. She would have to be wary. She leaned back and peered down the hallway, hoping to intercept Guaire before he came in. Her father might recognize him. "What do you want, here, sir?"
"I came for my daughter." Finn smiled. "You are my child, aren't you?"
As if he had some right to her. Imogen raised her chin and gave him a hard look. "I am my mother's child."
"You cannot deny that I'm your father," he said, opening his arms wide.
"You sired me, no more. Paddy O'Donnell is more of a father to me than you ever were."
His nostrils flared. "So you married him?"
Imogen bit back the urge to laugh in his face. She understood his earlier questions now. He'd assumed she had married Patrick O'Donnell, a retainer of her mother's family who'd escorted the 'widow' and her infant child to America. Paddy had decided to stay in Saratoga Springs and had been hired on at the farm as a trainer by Henry's mother. Throughout Imogen's lonely childhood, Paddy had been there, a surrogate father.
"I married Paddy's nephew," she explained.
That actually seemed to take him by surprise, as if his own interpretation of the facts couldn't possibly be wrong. "I wasn't aware O'Donnell had family here."
In truth, he didn't. When Guaire first came to Hawk's Folly, his Irish accent had made it simplest to explain him away as a 'nephew' visiting Paddy from the old country, even though no such relationship existed. Imogen just hoped that Beryl hadn't found that supposed nephew. She glanced back down the hallway and was gratified not to see him there.
And then the front door of the house opened. Guaire stepped into the foyer, his customary wide grin lighting his face. Like her father, his rugged features didn't show his age. He had the same warm brown eyes, combined with the unruly chestnut locks his son had inherited. He wore work clothes suitable for the stables, a collarless shirt with a tweed vest, and trousers that had seen more than their share of wear. He dropped his cap on the table in the entryway. "Ginny, I hear we have a guest."
Imogen froze, waiting for an explosion.
"I'm amazed you're even alive, boy," her father said.
Guaire slowly turned toward the sitting room. His eyes settled on the man therein and a rare anger burned in them. Imogen laid one hand on his arm, eager to forestall chaos. "Don't let him provoke you. Beryl invited him in."
"Then invite him out," Guaire said in a cool voice.
She understood his fury. Long ago, Guaire had come to her mother's aid, helping Eugenia Villiers flee from Finn and return to her family. He had paid for that interference. Finn had come after him seeking revenge, and Guaire had spent nearly two decades in hiding. When Finn found him, he'd bound Guaire in horse form and sold him to a racing stable--an imprisonment which would last another decade.
"How did you find my child?" Finn asked Guaire in an amused tone. "And get her to marry you? I am quite impressed, boy."
Imogen set a hand on Guaire's stiff arm. They both had reasons to despise the creature who stood before them, but they needed to handle him carefully. "Mr. Finnegan, I think you've been here long enough. You should go now."
Finn's jaw clenched, but he clearly recognized the power of her ownership of the land. He couldn't stay if she didn't want him. He settled the bowler on his head and took a step toward the door. Unfortunately, just then a banshee-like yowl filled the air, followed by the patter of bare feet.
"Papa!" A naked two-year-old came barreling down the hallway and slammed into Guaire's legs. He clung like a monkey, bouncing in excitement.
"Where are your clothes this time?" Guaire asked in an exasperated tone.
"Miss Mary," the boy said, and held up his hands.
Imogen eyed her father, who watched the child with something resembling avarice. She cast Guaire a pleading look. With one last distrustful glance in her father's direction, he picked up the boy and marched toward the back of the house, out of her father's sight.
She blew out a pent breath, relieved that the two hadn't lost their tempers. On the rare occasions when Guaire did get angry, he had the potential to make the house fall apart--and he was only three-fourths puca. Her father came from purer stock and could likely do far worse if roused.
"You have a child," her father observed. "I didn't know."
Imogen crossed her arms over her chest. "Your informant was clearly behind the times. What do you want here?"
His eyes narrowed. "A question for a question? How did Guaire find you?"
He was offering a bargain, and her fairy blood would hold her to it. But answering his question would force him to tell the truth in turn, which was all she wanted.
"He didn't find me. I purchased him. From a dispersal sale, sight unseen, at auction." There was no harm in admitting that. Her father could tell the whole countryside that she'd bought her husband in horse form. No one would believe him. "What do you want?"
"I'd lost track of him after Boston," her father said. "I did have some concern that he ended up in the slaughterhouse."
The most damning of her father's crimes, in Imogen's mind. Unlike a full-blooded puca, Guaire didn't have the ability to speak while in horse form. Trapped so, Guaire might easily have been slaughtered, unable to explain that he wasn't a horse, no matter how he might appear. "What do you want?" Imogen repeated stiffly. "A question for a question."
Finn removed his hat again and ran fingers through that cream-colored hair. "Your mother cheated me of the chance of ever knowing you. That's all I came for."
Imogen considered his statement, and then asked, "How did you find me?"
"A question for a questi
on?" When she nodded, he said, "I met one of the Villiers' old servants who was pensioned off and lived in Ireland. He told me that your mother hadn't actually married some Mr. Smith as her family put about, but that he'd been fabricated to explain her pregnancy. So I hired an investigator in New York, who tracked down your mother's address and also found your marriage lines."
Her mother hadn't lived secretly, but she'd always believed that the fictitious Mr. Smith would protect their names from scandal. Unfortunately, old servants did gossip at times. Imogen suspected that her mother's two-month long disappearance in Ireland--and subsequent return and pregnancy--had been the most interesting thing to happen in that family in decades. The servants must have found the gossip irresistible.
"What is my grandson's name?" Finn asked.
Imogen weighed the question, wondering how complete her answer had to be. She didn't want to give him the boy's true name, or it would give her father power over her son.
"I only ask his given name," Finn said. "Not his true name."
"Patrick." Imogen wrapped her arms more tightly about herself, and added, "I'm not comfortable with you here."
He inclined his head. "I think I understand, but I will swear by my own blood that I mean no harm to you, your son, or any in your household."
It was a vast promise, Imogen knew. "And Guaire?"
"He is a part of your household, is he not? I mean no harm to him. I never intended for what I did to him to carry on so long, but once I'd given him over to the Boyle family, I found I couldn't easily get him back."
"I have trouble believing that," Imogen said. She had never nursed anger toward her father for his questionable treatment of her mother or for his absence from her own life. He'd always been a distant and almost mythical figure in her mind. But what he'd done to Guaire--that filled her with fury.
"I could have tried harder," Finn admitted with an elegant shrug, "but he proved to be a valuable racer, and they didn't want to lose him. I hadn't realized he was fast."
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