by Laura Parker
The trailing thought made Fey grin. There was little to stimulate an active child in this household. Since Lord Fitzgerald had fallen seriously ill, baiting Brigid had been her only release from tedium. “Which gown did ye want?”
“The black velvet,” Deirdre answered. “And hurry!”
With Fey’s aid Deirdre had dressed herself in gown and stockings and shoes before Brigid’s footsteps were heard on the hall. With a resigned sigh, she lowered herself into the chair by the fire. When the door opened she sat with her trembling hands folded in her lap. “Good morning, Brigid, or is it night? I’ve not yet peeked through the draperies.”
“Miss Deirdre!” Brigid exclaimed, all but dropping the tray she carried. “Ye’re up and dressed! How did ye—?” Her gaze went to Fey, who stood defiantly by Deirdre’s side, and her face flushed with anger. “Ye’re the cause o’ this. I should have known better than to trust the likes of ye!”
“Ye old bag!” Fey answered. “’Tis a miracle the lady lives at all, what with ye pouring yer foul medicines into her!”
“Fey! Brigid!” Deirdre called, her voice softening on her nurse’s name. “I am well, but very hungry. I would like soup, bread, and tea. And, Brigid, please inform Lady Elva that I would speak with her on a very important matter.” She smiled beguilingly at her nurse. “Now, that is settled.”
Brigid stared at her charge. Deirdre was too pale and too thin but the light of determination shone in her eyes, and Brigid was too glad to see her awake to scold her just now. “I’ll prepare the soup meself. Cook’s good for naught when it comes to preparing a proper broth. Ye must return to bed in the meanwhile.”
Deirdre shook her head. “I will sit here a little longer. One thing more, is it morning or night?”
Brigid pursed her lips in disapproval of her patient’s contrariness, then said, “’Tis mid-morning, and the snow is melting.”
Satisfied, Deirdre leaned her back against the chair and closed her eyes.
*
Deirdre sat watching the porcelain clock ticking away the seconds of the morning as she waited in her father’s library. Lady Elva was late.
A week had passed since Deirdre’s defiant recovery. Unfortunately, her body had not been as sympathetic to her needs as Fey had been. The soup and tea had been rejected by her sensitive stomach within moments of consumption and she had been ignobly returned to bed by a frantic Brigid. For three days she was not allowed to raise her head from the pillow. Yesterday she had been allowed to rise and dress for the first time. If not for the visit from her father’s solicitor the evening before, she doubted that Brigid would have consented to her coming down stairs even yet.
The sound of the door latch sent her out of her seat and to her feet.
“Deirdre, my love,” Lady Elva said as she entered the room.
“Lady Elva,” Deirdre responded, curtsying as she had when she was a child.
Lady Elva’s progress across the room was slow and the reason for it struck Deirdre with amazement. Though her bodice was tight-fitted under her breasts, the waistline had been altered, raised, to accommodate the filling figure. “You’re with child!”
Lady Elva smiled as she lowered a hand to her swollen middle. “Aye. ’Tis a son I hope for before Easter.”
“I—I didn’t realize,” Deirdre replied, wondering at her ability to be so blind. “With Da ailing and—Did Da know?”
“Aye,” Lady Elva answered softly, her eyes filling with unshed tears. “’Twas a great consolation to him, you see. He had hopes of rearing the boy himself.”
Deirdre came forward to embrace her stepmother. “If Da wanted a son, then he will have one.”
Lady Elva framed Deirdre’s face with her hands. “’Tis not for you to be sad that he wanted a son, Dee. He often said that in you he had everything a father could want in a daughter.”
“Whereas Conall and Darragh leave much to be desired,” Deirdre finished smartly. “Aye, I’m grateful to hear that Da was pleased with me,” she continued, retreating from the treacherous precipice of tears. “Come and sit. We’ve much to discuss.”
When they were seated, Lady Elva said, “I know that your grief is as bitter as mine. But my future is planned, you see,” and she patted her middle. “My confinement draws near and then the babe will require all my attention.” She blushed suddenly and reached for Deirdre’s hand. “That is not to say that I will not have time for you, my dear. ’Tis only that—”
“I understand,” Deirdre answered. “You are right. Your future is settled and mine is not. ’Tis why I’ve wished to speak with you.”
“I can guess your concerns,” Lady Elva said. “You are young and eager that your marriage not be delayed. Very well. I’ve good news that should ease your anxiety.” She offered Deirdre the parchment she carried. “The solicitor who came last evening informed me of your father’s wishes for the dispersement of his estate. This is for you.”
Deirdre took the paper and began to read. Her eyes swept over the writing twice before she raised her head “But this is a bill of sale for Liscarrol!”
“Aye, the castle and the surrounding lands as well,” Lady Elva answered, quite pleased by the look of surprise on her stepdaughter’s face. “I’ve been assured that the funds received from the sale will be more than enough to provide a generous dowry. That which is left can be used to purchase your trousseau.”
Deirdre scarcely heard the last of her stepmother’s remarks. She stared at the paper in her hand, rereading each line. “It is not signed,” she said at last.
“Nae. That must be done by you. Liscarrol has been deeded to you. ’Twas done years ago, at the time of your birth. Had your father not informed you? Well, perhaps not, since there was no need until now. Liscarrol was part of the wedding gifts your father gave your mother. She, in turn, deeded the land to you. Of course, as long as your father was alive the land was his. Now you are a landowner, Deirdre. How does it feel?”
Deirdre slowly shook her head. She did not know what she felt, besides enormous relief. Without looking up she asked, “To whom did my father wish to sell Liscarrol?”
“To your cousin, the one who has had the caretaker’s duty of it these last eleven years.”
Studying the sum offered, Deirdre said, “Cousin Neil must have fared well these years. The price named here is not a stingy one.”
“Aye, your father was quite pleased with the offer. He had hoped to sell the land himself and present you with the gold. Had he lived, he would have—” She paused on a sob but she waved away Deirdre’s touch of comfort. “Nae. Your father would not like me to weep so. I promised him I would not. ’Tis not good for the bairn.”
She wiped delicately at the spilled tears and sniffed back the rest. “Where were we? Ah yes. While your wedding cannot be the grand affair we had hoped for, it can take place, say, within six months’ time.”
Deirdre looked at her stepmother. “I will not wed.”
“Not right away,” Lady Elva agreed. “But after six months of mourning, and if we’re discreet…”
“I will not wed.”
Lady Elva’s smooth brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “There’s no reason for you to wait the full year, unless, of course, ’tis your desire.”
“I have no wish to wed Cousin Claude, now or ever.”
Lady Elva made a small gasp. “My dear, your father would not wish you to grieve in loneliness forever.” Her stepdaughter had done a very foolish and dangerous thing in going out into the snow to visit her father’s grave. It was a sign that the girl was overwrought. “Let’s save this talk of weddings for another time. Aye, I think that’s what we should do.”
She rose. “There’s no hurry to sign the paper. The solicitor informed me that he will remain in Nantes for the next two weeks. He would prefer to take the papers with him when he sails for London, but if you are not yet ready…” Her thought trailed off as she received no response from Deirdre. She had reached the doorway when Deirdre finally spoke.
“I will not sell Liscarrol. If it is really and truly mine, then I shall go home, to Liscarrol.”
Lady Elva put a trembling hand to her lips. “I knew I should have waited,” she murmured to herself. “’Twas too soon to burden the girl with her good fortune.” To Deirdre she said, “We will discuss this again when you are feeling stronger.”
When she was gone, Deirdre carefully read the paper once more and then with tears in her eyes she began to smile. It was an answer to her prayer. She would go back to Ireland, send for her father’s remains, and bury him in Liscarrol’s family plot, where he belonged.
She stood up. Now to find Brigid and tell her the news. They would have to wait until spring before making the journey, but they could make plans.
She crumbled the paper in her hand. She had no intention of selling even an acre of Liscarrol land.
*
“’Tis nae a great amount,” Fey commented. She picked up a bracelet and tested the gold with her teeth. “Sure’n ’tis gold, but the jewels is deeshy.”
Deirdre eyed the small pile of jewelry with equal disgust. “’Tis all I have. Unmarried ladies are not showered with valuable trinkets.”
“Lady Elva’s a married lady,” Fey offered hopefully, her eyes on the small but fiery ruby in the ring she had slipped on her finger. “She’d nae know were ye to borrow a brooch or two.”
“No thievery,” Deirdre answered. Theft was the one constant battle the Fitzgerald household fought with Fey during those first months. The girl’s tendency to be light-fingered had alarmed the entire family. Something had vanished from everyone, servant and master alike, before Brigid, suspicious as always, found the girl’s horde in a loose floorboard under her cot. Only a closed-door interview with Lord Fitzgerald himself had broken her of the habit, for the most part. None knew what had been said between them, but Fey had remained by his side the last days of his life and even wept when she thought no one saw her.
Fey shrugged. “This lot will nae bring me what ye need.” She waved a hand about the bedroom. “We could sell your clothes. Nae. What about yer horse?”
“I own no horse. I have the pick of the stable but none is mine.”
Fey plopped belly-down on the bed. “Ask that Comte de Quentin for the money. He’ll give it to ye. I’ve seen him mooning about these last months when he thought to get under yer skirts. Offer him a quick feel in exchange for what ye need.”
Deirdre was too depressed to be properly shocked. “The Comte de Quentin will not be visiting here again. We are no longer engaged.”
Fey braced her chin in her palms. “Truly? ’Tis a wondrous fool ye are!”
Deirdre looked across at the girl. Her hair had grown long enough to curl and pin up, making her appear the young lady of thirteen that she was; but the mutinous look in her eyes was still that of an eight-year-old ruffian. “What would you sell, if you were desperate for money?”
Fey considered this in all its possible variations. “Ye will nae let me steal. ’Tis only one thing left. I’d sell meself had I nae made a certain promise.”
This time Deirdre’s face registered surprise. “Sell yourself? To whom? Oh!” She blushed furiously. “I should say you will not sell yourself! Did Da extract that promise from you?”
Fey looked away suddenly, her lovely face marred by fury. “MacShane asked it of me. Only, he’s nae come back.” She looked back at Deirdre. “’Tis yer fault!”
The reminder of MacShane made Deirdre blush. She had not forgotten him—how could she—but she had been too busy these past days to give any consideration to the sinkhole of loneliness that lurked within her. “I do not suppose you know where he is.”
Fey’s expression shuttered over. “What if I did?”
Hope leaped shamelessly to life within Deirdre. “You know where he’s to be found?”
Fey did not answer, would not even look up at her.
“If I knew where he was, I would write to him and ask him to come to see us,” Deirdre said cunningly.
“He knows where ye are,” Fey answered sourly. “Were he interested, he’d come back on his own.”
Deirdre’s smile dissolved. “You believe that he stays away because of me.”
“Aye, because of what ye done and what ye did nae do.”
“Why do you say that? We were quite—friendly before he left.”
“And so ye were, lifting yer skirts and rutting on the floor like some tart.” Deirdre’s startled look made Fey grin. “Aye, I saw the pair of ye coupling in that cottage back of the garden.”
Deirdre stared at the girl in shock. In all her worst fears, it had never occurred to her that another soul knew what had passed between them. The thought made her feel ill. Anger and shame rushed the blood into her face. “You little sneak! You’re a spy and an eavesdropper! Have you no shame, no respect for another’s feelings! Go away! Go away!”
Fey backed off the bed, surprised that her revelation had so wounded Deirdre. “Had MacShane been me lover, I’d nae be shedding tears over the matter,” she ventured boldly. “I’d nae be ashamed of it.”
“I’m not ashamed.” Deirdre blinked back the threatening tears. “I’m not ashamed.”
“But ye’d have married that Frenchy comte,” Fey answered scornfully. “MacShane must have known ye’d nae be faithful.”
Deirdre shook her head, but the truth of Fey’s words could not be completely dismissed. “I wouldn’t have married the comte to please myself, but to please my father. He was so ill, and the thought of my marrying gave him peace of mind. ’Tis why I accepted the betrothal.”
“’Tis one and the same,” Fey maintained. “Married is married.”
The truth of the statement appalled Deirdre. She had never imagined herself wed to Claude Goubert, only engaged. She had come very close to removing herself from MacShane’s life forever. “Do you know why MacShane left?”
Fey chewed her lip. She did not want to answer. MacShane had been angry and protective of Lady Deirdre and the thought stirred Fey’s jealousy. “Ye gave yerself to him and being a man he took what was offered. It did nae mean he wanted to be shackled with ye forever.”
Deirdre said nothing.
“If I was to tell ye where to find MacShane, I’d have to go along.”
Deirdre looked up at Fey’s words. “You know where to find him?”
Fey hesitated. MacShane had probably forgotten that he had told her she could seek out employment in Paris with the Duchesse de Luneville. MacShane might not be in Paris but the duchesse might know how to contact him. “I know a place, but I’d have to see it to be certain ’tis the right one.”
“Where is it?”
Fey had learned from experience never to give anything away. She looked down at the ruby glittering on her broken-nailed finger. “What’s it worth to ye?”
Deirdre swallowed her agitation. “I will not buy the information from you. The ring is yours.” So saying, she scooped up the remainder of her meager jewels to carry them back to the open box on the dresser.
Fey watched her in disbelief. No one gave away something for nothing. “He’s in Paris. Only, I forgot the place exactly.”
Deirdre nodded as she carefully placed her trinkets in the box. “Then we must go to Paris,” she said softly.
“With nae money?” Fey scoffed.
“We must find some,” Deirdre answered.
*
The dream place was familiar, the stable yard of Liscarrol. Was it dusk or dawn? Pewter-lined clouds had shouldered their way across the sky, lending to the day an eerie twilight. Beneath the smoky sky, the green hills lay like frozen waves among the mist, stony-crested and green-sloped. Nearby, the last of the Liscarrol oaks groaned under the assault of the wind.
Deirdre lifted her face to the wind, gasping in the bog-scented air. This time the air raked her face with new intensity. The rain that stung her cheeks was colder than before.
The horse and rider appeared out of the mist, the rider’s black cape whipped h
igh over the horse’s rump. There was determination in their flight but not panic. She could not help but admire the rider’s skill as he rode down the long slope into the valley where she stood.
It was familiar, all of it, achingly familiar and yet new. There was joy as well as dread in his coming. When he reined in near her, she could not turn away or deny him. She ran toward him, her arms lifted in welcome.
As she expected, knew he would, he lifted an arm to warn her off. “Stay away!” he cried, his words clipped short by the wind. “Stay away in fear of your life, mo cuishle!”
This time panic did not jerk her into wakefulness. She ran after him; even as he turned and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks she cried out, “Do not go! Wait! Wait for me. Killian! Killian!”
* * *
Brigid shook Deirdre until she awakened.
For a moment, her gray-green eyes were misted by the vision, then gradually they cleared and a smile softened Deirdre’s mouth. “I remember! I remember the dream, the one I thought I’d forgotten. ’Tis about him, Brigid! ’Tis about MacShane. He came to Liscarrol the first day I dreamed it! And later, aboard the ship bound for France, I dreamed it again! He was in trouble, terrible trouble, and he was afraid to let me help him!”
Brigid drew the younger woman against her bosom. “Aye, ye dreamed, ye’ve dreamed that dream every night of your life.”
Brigid reached into her neckline and pulled free the stone on the string. “Do ye see this, lass? ’Tis a witch-stone. I’ve put it under yer pillow these many years to keep the vision from driving ye mad, but the time has come when ye must face yer fate.”
She picked up a cloth bundle that she had brought to the bedside. “I’ve been waiting this last fortnight for the dream to come full-blown to ye. Once last summer, I thought the time had come, but when MacShane went away, the dream faded. Now that you’ve remembered it, I will give ye this.”
She carefully unwrapped the cloth to reveal an ancient skean, a dagger of Celtic design. In the candlelight, its keen blade gleamed blue-white but for the dull brown streak along one edge. The hilt was decorated in gold, enamel, bronze, and rock crystal with a huge amethyst stone at its center.
