by Laura Parker
“Bald arrogance!” her father cried. “Musha! I hate ingratitude more than stubbornness!”
Anger mottled her father’s face as he lurched unsteadily to his feet. Aisleen trembled as she spied the silver flask on the table by his chair. He had been drinking again. Had she suspected that, she would have bitten her tongue before speaking. “I beg your pardon,” she said, the words sounding stiff and clumsy in her ears.
“Aye, that ye’ll be doing before I’ve finished with ye,” he answered.
Anxiety pricked her as he reached to unbuckle his thick leather belt. She clenched her fists. She was not afraid of him. No one lived long under Quenton Fitzgerald’s domination without suffering his temper in one form or another. He often threatened, but he had never used his belt. She could stand the slap or two he usually doled out.
It was her mother who concerned her. Timid, frail of health, and heavy with her third child in five years, Kathleen Fitzgerald spent most of her time in bed in the hopes that she would not lose or give birth to yet another stillborn son. If she heard them arguing, she would try to intervene; and when Quenton had drink in him, there was no guessing what he would do.
Quenton took a deep, calming breath. A beating was not what he had in mind when he sent for Aisleen. The idea had come to him as he rode home from Dublin. Over the years he had seen the sudden wariness in her eyes when he came upon his daughter in solitude. He did not know why it had not occurred to him before. She withheld some secret from him. If there was the slightest chance Aisleen possessed the Fitzgerald “gift,” then he must not allow anger to prevent him from benefiting from it.
He brought all the force of his gaze to bear on her even as he lowered his voice to its most charming and persuasive best. “These last three hundred years and more, we Irish have flourished despite the English. We’ve dodged their laws when we could, defied them when possible. Ye know the reason why the Fitzgeralds survived with more than most. Ye’ve heard the stories.
“Yer family triumphed over their enemies because they had the blood of the Daoine sidhe in their veins. Meghan was the first to bear the mark of the rose. Then there was Deirdre, yer ancestor who fought to bring Liscarrol back to the Fitzgeralds. She, too, had the mark.
“Now there’s ye. The proof is there on yer hip, lass, the mark that proclaims ye to be the guardian of the ‘gift’.”
He leaned in close to her, excitement animating his expression. “The English devils are hard upon us. They’ve squeezed ’til there’s nothing left. The taxes come due next month, and they’ll be taking Liscarrol if there’s nae money to give them. Ye must help us, daughter. Ye must use yer power, the power of the Sidhe, to save yer da from debtors’ prison and Liscarrol from the English!”
As he gazed at her expectantly, Aisleen began to quake. From the moment she was old enough to understand, she had known the legend behind the rose-shaped birthmark on her right hip. The legend had been treated lightly by her mother, the birthmark seen as a good-luck charm rather than as an omen of absolute belief in ancient ways. Oh, she had pretended with bouchal that she was someone special, but there was never any proof.
Tears of helplessness filled her eyes as her father stood before her, watching and waiting. She had no magic at her disposal. Would he believe her? “I’ve no magic power, Da. I cannot help you.”
“Cannot or will not?” Quenton countered. He struck the chairback with his fist, and the blow made Aisleen recoil a step “Aye, so ye fear something, do ye?”
He withdrew a sheaf of papers from his pocket “The days of Fitzgerald ownership of Liscarrol will come to an end when I’ve affixed me name to these. The damned English demand taxes only a leprechaun’s pot o’ gold could pay! But then, ye’d nae be knowing of such things, would ye?”
He tossed the papers on the carpet. “If ye will nae willingly help me, then I must make another use of ye. Aye, and with the Gilliams’ help.”
“Ye hate the Gilliams!” Aisleen answered, forgetting the danger in which she stood.
“Aye, they’re English landlords and Protestant into the bargain, but they’ve one thing I’ve a fondness for, and that’s gold, lass.” He nodded. “Aye, they’re willing to pay well for Liscarrol.”
“You’d not sell our heritage to the English for a few coins?” Aisleen asked in disbelief. Liscarrol had been a Fitzgerald stronghold since the days of the Normans. The loss of it was unthinkable.
Quenton saw the horror in her face, and his resolve momentarily weakened. “Ye’ll nae blame me for what’s to come! The mark and the burden of the rose is on ye! It came down from yer mother’s ancestors to protect Liscarrol, but, for hatred of yer own father, ye’ll nae use it! If Liscarrol is lost to the Fitzgeralds, forever after the blame will be yers!”
Aisleen opened her mouth to protest, but her father’s hand slashed the air only inches from her face, and the violent gesture silenced her. “Nor will ye sit and gloat while yer da is driven from his rightful inheritance. The Gilliams have a daughter they’ve a mind to send to England for schooling. She’ll be needing a maid and companion. Yer mother’s put a bit o’ reading and writing into ye, so the Gilliams are willing to take ye.”
“No!” Aisleen whispered in horror. “Ye…ye cannae mean to send me away”
“I can and will,” Quenton replied. “Ye’re to be packed and ready in a week’s time, I say!”
“Pl-please…” Aisleen swallowed and nearly choked on her anxiety. “Please, I’ll do anything, only do not send me away.”
Quenton’s eyes glowed strangely. “Then work yer magic, lass! Save Liscarrol!”
“But I cannot…” Aisleen’s voice trailed off into nothingness as rage distorted her father’s face.
“What of the fairy I’ve heard ye speaking to when ye thought no one knew? Ah!” he cried as her face paled. “Why would ye not be asking the fairies for aid?”
“Th-there’s no fairy,” Aisleen answered, so frightened she shuddered. “You will nae allow me to play with the village children, so I sometimes pretend to—to have a friend. ’Tis not ma-magic!”
“Useless bitch!” he roared, frustration and disappointment merging. “No man has ever had so stubborn and useless a daughter! Ye do it to spite me! Ye’re like all the others who think yer ma did wrong to marry the likes of Quenton McCarthy. Ye think I’m nae good enough to be the owner of Fitzgerald land. Well, if I cannae have it, neither will ye!”
Only just in time did Aisleen raise her arms to shield her head as he freed his belt with a snap. She told herself that she must not cry out, but as he brought the thick leather belt down across her arms and back again and again, she buried her face tightly in the crook of one arm to muffle her cries of pain.
Quenton had not set out to beat his daughter, but she had provoked him beyond all reason. Life had cheated him of every pleasure. He had deliberately set out to marry into Irish nobility in hopes of becoming a gentleman of leisure. Instead, he was the impoverished recipient of a castle ruin and a wife who repeatedly lost his sons but had given birth to this strange daughter whose only purpose in life seemed to be to defy him. He must have his revenge, and he would.
Reason slowly reasserted itself, scoring through the whiskey fumes of his mind. If he injured or crippled her, he would lose the opportunity for revenge against her. The Gilliams expected a quiet, modest lass as their daughter’s companion. What they would get was Aisleen. It was a fitting curse on them. They would come to rue the day Aisleen Fitzgerald came into their lives as much as he did the day she was born to him.
His arm fell heavily to his side, and the belt slipped from his grip. “Get out! Get out of me sight, lass, before I kill ye!”
Aisleen rose from her knees, onto which the blows had forced her, and brought her hands tightly over her mouth. For a long moment, a rage to match her father’s pumped blood heatedly through her abused body. Something seemed to catch fire within her soul, to burn and blacken and shrivel as she fought against the consuming pain of his hatred. He hated
her and she…she hated him.
The thought so frightened Aisleen that she turned and ran out of the room.
When she was gone, Quenton Fitzgerald sank heavily back into his chair and reached again for the silver flask. Seeing his daughter’s fearful, tear-blurred face had not given him the satisfaction he thought it should have. There had been something else in her expression, and it had quite astonished him. In the golden brown depths of her eyes, he had seen strength and courage, a determination more powerful than his own. He had not bested her; he had only made her hate him.
A shadow passed before the sun, casting the Great Half in shadow, and Quenton shuddered. Someone had stepped on his grave.
Quickly he tipped the silver flask to his lips and drained it.
*
“If the twelve Apostles in heaven came down asking me to say a single kindly word about Himself, I could nae give them satisfaction!” Nuala muttered as she bathed the long red welts on Aisleen’s exposed back. “The devil knows what’s to become of us! Skelping bairns with a great ugly belt ’til they bleed! May the devil choke him!”
Aisleen lowered her head onto her crossed arms on the table, tears running down her face. Her arms and back stung horribly, but she did not whimper as Nuala applied a cool lard and laurel-leaf poultice to her skin. The effects of the beating would heal, she told herself. Yet the wounds caused by her father’s words gaped wider with every heartbeat. If Liscarrol was lost, forever and ever future generations of Fitzgeralds would remember the name of Aisleen Fitzgerald with a mutter and a curse.
She squeezed her eyes shut to prevent more tears. Was there nothing she could do to change that? She was not the son her father desired. She was not the obedient daughter he demanded. Worst of all, she was not the magical creature he needed. Because of her lack, was she doomed to dishonor and shame? “Do you believe in magic, Nuala?”
Nuala’s brow rose halfway up her forehead. “Now why would ye be asking such a question?”
“Da believes,” she said very softly.
Nuala exchanged enlightened glances with Alvy. “Poteen’s addled him, that’s what!” she said. “Ye’re to keep shy of yer da these next days. Alvy and me will be making a place for ye at our cottage. Aye, that’ll serve.”
Aisleen lifted her head. “I cannot. I’m going away.”
“Of course ye are,” Nuala agreed, “and never soon enough, I’m thinking. Meanwhile I’ll be having a word with yer ma about ye stopping with us.” She winked. “On account of ye come down with the ague and her so great with child.”
Aisleen shook her head. “Da’s sending me away. To England.”
Nuala’s hearth-reddened complexion blanched. “Away? To great bloody England? The man’s that mad!”
Aisleen’s dark-honey eyes shone with tears, but her voice was calm. “You’re not to tell Ma. He might hurt her if she pleaded for me.”
Nuala balked. “I’d like to see Himself raise a hand to the lady of the house!” Instantly, she realized what she was saying, and her eyes slipped from Aisleen’s. “Oh, the Lord save us!”
“Can I go now?” Aisleen asked as she pulled up the shoulders of her gown.
“And where would ye be going?” Nuala asked suspiciously.
“Down to the river,” Aisleen answered. “I like dangling my feet in the coolness.”
“Stay away from the castle!” Nuala called as the girl slipped out the door. “’Tis a queer business, that,” she said to Alvy. “And Himself as drunk as any lord before the sun’s good and proper in the sky. Magic, is it, he’s thinking about? Himself should steer clear of the doings of the Sidhe. If ’tis true and the lass is one of their own, they won’t take kindly to the morning’s business. Mark me words, Alvy, dark times ahead! And nae just the bairn will suffer!”
*
A week later, Aisleen lay in the tall grasses which shielded her from view and chewed a spearmint leaf she had plucked from the herb garden by the kitchen door. The sharp tang of it tickled her tongue as she lazily dragged her toes in the bracing water. She did not think about the fact that she was crushing the new velvet gown her father had bought especially for her journey to the Gilliams. She did not think about the grass stains that were seeping into the white silk stockings she had cast aside. Nor did she care that her new dress shoes, black and hard as iron pots, were soaking up the damp. She thought only of the moment, with no past and no future, only the deep resonant hum of insects and the incessant bickering of birds.
Colleen? The question was tentative, as if the poser doubted her reply.
Aisleen closed her eyes. “Go away! I did not call ye!”
Aye! Ye did, and ye know it.
Aisleen rolled over onto her stomach. It was true. Without realizing it, she had allowed herself to drift into thoughts of bouchal for the first time in a week.
Colleen?
“Aye,” she answered reluctantly.
There was a moment’s pause. ’Tis been so great a time since ye called me I thought ye was terrible sick or hurt. But then, I always feel that, ye know?
Aisleen did know. He knew things about her not another living soul knew. That was why she had deliberately closed him off. If he knew what had happened, that Liscarrol had been lost forever and, that it was her fault, then he might curse her name, and she could not bear that.
His voice was strangely hesitant as he said, There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell ye.
Aisleen sat up. “What is it?”
I’m going away.
The words came matter-of-factly from him, yet Aisleen shivered as though the sun had suddenly slipped behind the shoulder of a rain cloud. “Going away? Why?”
Come with me.
She felt his presence surrounding her, as warm and enveloping as a summer breeze. He smelled of sweet grass, sea air, and—Aisleen wrinkled her nose—fish.
Ye hate it here. Ye’re paining and ’tis yer da’s fault. Do nae lie. I know he beats ye. Ye’ve called out to me though ye did nae know it. I could nae take the pain away, but now I can free ye. Come away! We’ll have grand adventures, ye and me. Say ye’ll come!
Aisleen sat perfectly still. It had never before occurred to her that she could escape her father’s plans for her by running away. Da was sending her away, but that was different from running away. Besides, there was her mother. Her father might not ever want to see her again, but her mother would write to her, perhaps be allowed to come and see her. If she ran away…
Come along! he pleaded with a hint of impatience. Are ye afraid, then?
Was she? For years she and bouchal had plotted and planned and dreamed of the things they might do if only they could. But it was only make-believe. It was not real. It was impossible. “You’re not real!”
She had not meant to say that, had not even meant to think it, but it was out. “No! I did not mean it!”
It was too late. She felt bouchal withdrawing from her. “Don’t you see, there’s no magic. It was me who made you and…and—”
And if you don’t believe, then I don’t exist, he finished in a sad, weak voice that trailed back toward her like a distant echo.
“Go then!” she cried in frustration. “See if I care!”
Appalled, she clamped both hands over her mouth. He was gone. Would he ever speak to her again? The fear that he might not overrode the suspense of what lay ahead of her. Would it not be better to run away, even with a phantom friend, than to be carted off to a strange place to live among strange people?
“Wait! Bouchal? I’ve changed my mind! Take me with you!”
For a long moment, there was silence.
Before she could cry out to him a second time, the reeds parted and Alvy appeared. “Ye best be coming quick! Himself is calling for ye.” She looked at Aisleen’s rumpled gown and muddied stockings and water-logged shoes and shook her head, glad that the master was not waiting for her.
Aisleen gathered her stockings and shoes with a heavy heart. The moment was gone, gone forever, and with i
t bouchal.
“I did not mean it!” she whispered fervently as she cast a last look at the place where bouchal had been beside her. “Even if ye never answer me, I did not mean it when I said that you’re not real. I believe you’re real! Please take me with you! Please!”
Only the breeze sighed in answer, and she knew in that moment that she had lost everything, her home, her family, and bouchal.
The sad, the lonely, the insatiable,
To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell…
—The Rose of Battle
W. B. Yeats
Chapter Two
Somerset, England: 1844
Miss Emilia Burke regarded her two new pupils with dispassionate interest. Ella Gilliam, the elder of the girls, was plump, with a weak but pleasant face that bespoke the personality of a spaniel, eager to please and simply directed. Miss Burke always summed her girls up by attributing to them the character of an animal. It made it much easier to remember how to deal with each. The pugnacious bulldog must be dealt with differently from the stubborn mule or the skittish colt.
She reached out and rubbed one of the girl’s golden curls between her fingers. The hair was of good quality, the cheeks rosy, the mouth small and pink. “Show your teeth, miss,” she directed and nodded in satisfaction to see a full set on display.
As she walked slowly around the girl who stood ramrod straight in the middle of the office, Miss Burke took note of each and every detail of her clothing, frowning when she detected the frayed edge of her collar. Really, it was too much to expect her to perform miracles on an Irish-reared English lady. She smiled a tight self-satisfied smile. That was why the Gilliams had paid handsomely for the girl’s entrance. They hoped for a miracle that only she could work.
At fourteen, Ella Gilliam was late in coming under her tutelage. Every effort must be made to further her quickly, for the parents expected much more of Miss Burke’s Academy for Young Ladies than simple schooling in deportment, art, and music. Girls who finished her course were meant to set a standard, to become a divining rod between what was acceptable in polite society and what was not.
