Betraying Season

by Marissa Doyle

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your plan backfired. True loveliness is at its best when unadorned. Only inferior jewels require showy settings.”

  “Oh!” Pen nearly gasped at this blatant compliment. Did he really think her beautiful? But his tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were simply stating the obvious.

  She must have reddened, for he suddenly looked contrite. “That was a little blunt, wasn’t it? Forgive me if I’ve embarrassed you, Miss Leland. I’ve spent too much time in universities and not enough in drawing rooms.”

  “No, it’s—” All at once, Pen couldn’t help laughing. “Now I can’t agree or disagree with you without sounding either vain or coy. I suppose a plain thank you won’t get me in too much trouble.”

  He smiled with her. “Probably not. Unless I open my mouth and plant my foot in it sideways again. Hopefully you’d be kind enough to help me draw it back out without my losing too many toes. After a London season, I must be an interesting change.”

  “Niall, my dear, we must let Mrs. Carrighar get back to her rest.”

  Lady Keating’s voice startled Pen. She looked up and saw that Lady Keating stood by her, smiling.

  “It was a pleasure to see you, ma’am,” said Dr. Carrighar as he rose.

  “And you, sir. Mrs. Carrighar, perhaps you might permit me to send over a little herbal elixir I brew with my housekeeper’s help. It is a sovereign remedy for certain discomforts associated with . . .” She let her voice trail delicately. “A teaspoon mixed with water taken twice daily might prove soothing.”

  “Thank you, Lady Keating. That is most kind of you. Penelope?” Ally nodded toward the door, then leaned back against the couch, looking vaguely greenish again.

  Pen led them into the front hall. “I’m sorry you must leave so soon.”

  “I am too, dear, but I think we wearied poor Mrs. Carrighar enough for one day. We shall see you tomorrow, don’t forget.” Lady Keating kissed her cheek, and a fresh wave of her scent wafted over Pen as Norah, stationed by the door, opened it.

  “Good day, Miss Leland,” Niall said as she turned to him.

  She looked up into his direct blue gaze and paused. “An interesting change after London, yes. And perhaps, one for the better,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

  The brows over those blue eyes drew down for a moment as he considered her words. Then he laughed. “I’ll do my best to earn that opinion.” He clicked his heels, bowed again, and left.

  Norah shut the door behind them and peered out one of the curtained sidelights. “Sure, and that’s a handsome man, miss,” she said, tucking a twig of hair back under her cap.

  “Yes, he is, Norah.” Pen sighed and leaned against the wall. Had she been too forward, saying that to him?

  “Though her ladyship’s a handful, I’m guessin’,” Norah continued, still peering out the window.

  “You haven’t met my mother,” Pen murmured.

  “No, that I haven’t. But I’m sure she’s a lady through an’ through.” Norah turned away from the door and looked at Pen. Her homely face took on the anxious expression Pen had noted before when she brought in the wine.

  “I was wonderin’, miss, if I could ask your help with somethin’ that I don’t care to trouble the doctor with,” she said, twisting her hands in her apron. “You bein’ a bean draoi, an’ all.”

  Ban dree? Then Pen remembered one of Dr. Carrighar’s lessons right after she had arrived and begun to study with him. Bean draoi was Gaelic for “magic woman.”

  “Um, I’m happy to try,” she said cautiously. “What is it?”

  Norah glanced past Pen toward the closed drawing room doors. “’Tis the clurichaun, miss. It’s troublin’ me somethin’ dreadful,” she whispered.

  For a moment, Pen thought she was asking for medical advice. “The . . . ?”

  “The clurichaun. In the cellar, miss. Just now when I was after gettin’ the heather wine, I thought it would frighten me into m’ own grave afore it’s dug. The doctor tells me to ignore the heathen creature, but when it leaps out at me with that ugly face leerin’ under its red hat, it’s more than I can do not to yell the house down.” Norah looked half ashamed, half terrified as she spoke.

  One of the Little People! Pen had caught glimpses of fairy folk back home at Mage’s Tutterow, but Ally did not approve of them. “They don’t think as we do, and dealing with them can be difficult and even dangerous, if you don’t know how,” she’d always said. “I don’t recommend that you try to interact with them until you’re older. If ever.”

  In Ireland they were said to be nearly everywhere. What had the doctor called them? “One of the Sidhe,” she said.

  “That it is, miss. I don’t like to drive it away, for that’s said to be mortal bad luck for the household, and the doctor’s taken a fancy to the creature for some reason. But I shake in my boots whenever I’m asked to go down to the cellar. My gran always said that the Sidhe respect witch-women. I hoped as maybe you could go down an’—” She shrugged eloquently.

  “And ask him not to trouble you anymore?”

  “I would truly appreciate that, miss.” Norah looked relieved. “I’ve a lamp here all ready.” She hurried over to the small table that stood by the staircase down to the cellars, lit the lamp that stood on it, and handed it to Pen. “You’ll be wantin’ this too, just in case,” she added, and pulled a fork from her apron pocket.

  “Do you want me to poke it?” Pen took the fork and examined it dubiously.

  “It’s steel, miss,” Norah explained. “The Sidhe don’t care for the cold iron, see. If it gets to threatenin’ you, just show it this.”

  “Oh.” Pen pocketed the fork as Norah opened the cellar door for her. Privately she might have preferred an iron knife, but perhaps a fork would be sufficient if wielded in a properly threatening manner.

  “I’ll be standin’ right here if you need me.” Norah looked a little embarrassed as she spoke. “But I’m sure you’ll put the nasty creature to rights.”

  “I hope I can do something helpful, Norah.” Pen turned up the flame on the lamp and started down the steep stairs, clutching the rope banister. This had been quite a day—first the tutorial, then the Keatings, and now an errant fairy in the wine cellar. She would have to start a letter to Persy tonight.

  The stone walls of the cellar were cool and dry. No musty or damp odors were evident, and the floors were well swept and tidy. It was the least eerie cellar she’d ever seen, hardly an appropriate haunt for a supernatural creature. But she was grateful not to have to face cobwebs and spiders as well as a clurichaun.

  At the bottom of the stairs was a small chamber, with doors leading forward and back. “Which way, Norah?” Pen called up to the square of light at the cellar door.

  “Back behind, miss. That’s where the wine and beer are kept. Have at the wicked thing for me!” Norah’s voice sounded much braver now.

  “What do you want me to do? Truss it up like a turkey?” Pen muttered to herself. She turned, set the lamp down on a stair, and called a protective circle around her. If it wouldn’t stop much, it might at least give her warning if an enraged fairy were about to attack her. Then, straightening her shoulders, she picked up the lamp once again and opened the heavy wooden door that led to the wine cellar.

  Wooden racks of bottles and a few casks on stands, as well as a small table and chair, met her eyes as she peered into the dark space. She pushed into the room, hardly breathing, feeling around her with her mind as she walked to the table and set her lamp down on it. But there was no presence anywhere that she could sense, apart from a fruity, wheaty smell left from years of wine and beer being stored here. Was Norah letting her imagination get away with her?

  Pen approached one wide rack of bottles. Dr. Carrighar was rather a connoisseur of port and Madeira, and these bottles were the right size and shape for those wines. She pulled one gently from its rack and saw “1819” written neatly on a paper label affixed to it. The year she and
Persy had been born. She pushed it back into place with a smile and pulled out another, labeled “1797.” Though the label was brown and spotted, the cork was smooth and intact, and there was not a speck of dust on it. Or anywhere else in the cellar, for that matter.

  “Of course there isn’t. What do you think I’m here for? Be careful with that bottle, missy. It’s one o’ Draiodoir Carrighar’s finest. He’s saving it for when his granddaughter is born, come the seventh of October,” said a creaky, slightly slurred voice from somewhere near her knees.

  Pen managed not to scream and drop the bottle, though it was a near thing. She did let out a squeak.

  The voice chuckled. “There, I nearly made you drop it anyway. ’Twould have been a shame, for ’tis a grand one. I’ve drunk its counterpart in An Saol Eile often enough, haven’t I?”

  Pen took a deep breath and turned toward the voice. There was nothing there.

  “And why should I be showing meself to ye, if you’re not showing yerself to me?” the voice asked reasonably.

  What? Pen remembered the protective circle she’d cast around her. It must make her invisible to fairy folk. “Then how do you know I’m here?” she asked, not moving.

  “Well, it’s not every day lamps come floating into me cellar on their own. Even if I can’t see you, I know you’re there, bean draoi. You would have noticed me too, if ye were after knowing how to look.”

  “How do you know I’m a witch?”

  “Oh, for Dagda’s sake, who else would be casting circles o’ guard round themselves? Are ye daft, cailin? Now that the formalities are over, maybe you’d like to be telling me what I might do for ye?”

  Pen decided to take a chance. She gripped the fork in her pocket and said, “It’s disconcerting to talk to a disembodied voice. If I put off my circle, will you show yourself to me?”

  “Hmmm,” said the voice. “How do I know you’re not a hideous hag, come to frighten me to death in me own cellar, the only home I’ve got in me declining years?”

  But Pen caught the note of jesting. “You don’t sound like you’re in any danger of imminent demise,” she replied. Imminent hangover was another issue. “Nor do you know if I’m the queen of witches, fair as the dawn, come to ask you to grace my court with your wit and wisdom.”

  “Ho ho!” the voice chortled. “Is that how it is? Very well, Your Majesty. I’m ready an’ waiting.”

  “No,” Pen replied firmly. “We both have to reveal ourselves at the same time.”

  The voice was silent for a moment. “All right, then,” it finally said. “On the count of three. Then you’ll have to tell me what you want.”

  “Done.” Pen gathered the circle around her like a cloak and prepared to toss it aside.

  “A haon, a do, a tri,” counted the voice, “now!”

  Pen threw off her protective spell and looked down to where she had heard the voice. There was nothing there.

  “That’s not fair—” she protested, when suddenly there was a loud pop!

  Standing next to her, his head about level with her kneecaps, was a tiny figure. Bright eyes twinkled in a swarthy face that was seamed and wrinkled like a very old man’s. When he saw her indignant expression, he chortled again and leapt into the air, twirling and giggling, though his landing was a little precarious.

  “Hee hee! You should see your face! Well, I had to make sure you weren’t something you oughtn’t to be, come to persecute a poor old clurichaun.” He swept the red hat off his head and executed a courtly bow, holding his hand over his heart—or where his heart would have been, were he human—and nearly brushing the ground with his long red nose. As he rose again, he staggered and grabbed hold of Pen’s skirt to steady himself.

  “Whoops!” he cried. “That wasn’t a good idea, me mannikin. Best keep yer head up where it ought to be.” He jammed his hat tightly back on his head, as if to keep it from rolling off, and then dusted off the sleeve of his old-fashioned long coat, which fastened with shiny brass buttons barely half an inch across. Maybe Dr. Carrighar liked him because they had a similar fashion sense.

  “I was just after sampling the clarets over there, to make sure they hadn’t gone,” he explained, swaying slightly. “It’s hard an’ thirsty work, being a clurichaun is. When ye’ve got rebonspilisity—rebonsipility—responsibility for a cellar as fine as this one, it keeps a body busy. Dusting an’ sweeping and turning the bottles so the corks don’t perish o’ the dry rot—ye’ve no idea. And that clod-footed, snaggletoothed maid up there’s no help at all to a poor, hardworking elf.” He fetched a deep sigh.

  Pen smiled. “What’s your name?” she asked him.

  A crafty expression crept across the little man’s face. “Oh, no ye don’t, missy. Ye won’t have my name out o’ me anytime in a month of Sundays. Next thing you’ll be telling it to that turnip-faced harridan up there, an’ she’ll be after me poor hide to make her bootlaces with.”

  Pen remembered that to have a fairy’s true name could give power over that creature. “I mean, what shall I call you?” she amended.

  “Now, that’s more like. Let’s see . . . hmmm. Corkwobble would do, to be going on.” He peered sideways at her from narrowed eyes.

  To her surprise, Pen kept a straight face. “Corkwobble would do very well, I should think. And Norah’s not turnip-faced, nor a harridan. You just frightened her badly, that’s all.”

  “Well, she was after moithering me something awful, too. It works both ways, ye know,” the clurichaun said with an air of wounded dignity that didn’t seem completely feigned.

  “Do you think it would be possible to call a truce between you? I’m sure she appreciates how nice you keep it down here,” Pen wheedled.

  Corkwobble snorted. “Hmmph. Be nice if she’d show her appreciation in some other way than frightening a body half senseless, lurching about and praying at the top of her voice just to find a bottle o’ heather wine. A dish o’ new milk or a bit o’ toasted bread with honey mightn’t go down too badly now and again,” he said, then looked down at the large buckles on his shoes as he scuffed his toes on the ground. “’Specially if you was to bring it. You’re some easier on the eyes than she is. And I misdoubt you’d be hail-Marying all over the place, neither.”

  Pen laughed, but she couldn’t help feeling touched. “I’d be happy to, Corkwobble, so long as you behave yourself.”

  “Oh, I will all of that, ma’am,” he said, his creased face sober. “It doesn’t do for the likes o’ me to be trifling with a bean draoi. I could get away with it on Mistress Lard-bucket up there, but not with you.”

  “Miss Leland? Are ye all right?” called Norah’s voice from the top of the stairs.

  “A anail bo!” cried Corkwobble, and vanished.

  Pen blinked and waited a few seconds, but he didn’t reappear. “That didn’t sound very complimentary to poor Norah,” she said to the air.

  “It weren’t meant to be,” Corkwobble’s creaky voice said, from somewhere behind an ale cask, “’less ye consider ‘cow breath’ a dainty bit o’ flattery.”

  “Miss Leland!”

  “I’m fine, Norah!” Pen called back. “I’ll bring you some milk this evening,” she said softly into the room. “And I’ll come back for a visit in a day or two and bring you your bread and honey.”

  She picked up her lamp and left the wine chamber. As she was about to set foot on the first step, a small voice wafted from the door behind her.

  “Lots o’ honey on the bread, if ye please.”

  Pen stood in the front hall of the Carrighar house, buttoning her gloves and peering out one of the narrow windows that flanked the front door. Lady Keating had said she would come at three, and it was only twenty minutes till. But Pen had an idea that Lady Keating would not cheerfully tolerate lateness, unless it were her own.

  Behind her the drawing room door opened. Pen turned and saw Dr. Carrighar peering out at her.

  “Ah, good. You’ve not gone yet. Might we have a quick word?” he asked.
>
  Pen glanced again at the door and hesitated. But surely she’d hear if Lady Keating’s carriage pulled up to the house. “Certainly,” she said.

  Ally lay on her couch. She looked up at Pen and motioned her to a nearby chair.

  “Is everything all right?” Pen asked. Ally’s face was haggard, and her fine brows were drawn in an expression of concern. “Is there something I can get you while I’m out?”

  “Aside from a new stomach?” Ally smiled for a moment, but her troubled expression returned, and she sighed. Pen caught the sharp, sour note on her breath that the doctor said was due to her not being able to keep down enough fluids, as were her sunken eyes and papery skin. A pang of guilt lanced through her; here she was, off to shop and socialize, while poor Ally lay here feeling wretched.

  “I am not entirely comfortable with this sudden friendship of Lady Keating’s,” Ally said, without preamble.

  “Oh.” Pen blinked. This was not what she had expected. “Why not? I thought Dr. Carrighar said she was respectable enough? She certainly seems to be well-off, too.”

  “I thought I taught you better than to take wealth as a sign of virtue,” Ally chided, sounding a little more like her old self. “But I am not concerned about her respectability. Oh, why couldn’t this . . . this process be easier, so that I could take better care of you?” She gestured down at her body with a fretful, impatient wave.

  “Um, then what bothers you about Lady Keating?” Pen asked. Ally couldn’t be jealous that she was becoming friendly with another woman, could she?

  Ally and Dr. Carrighar exchanged uneasy looks, and Pen guessed they had been talking at length on this topic.

  “I can’t say anything specific,” Dr. Carrighar said, removing his spectacles and polishing them on his scratchy tweed vest. No wonder they looked as if they were made of frosted glass. “But Nuala Keating is not known for her general sociability or friendliness, even with people she supposedly knows well. It seems somewhat strange to me that she should have taken such a liking to you for no particular reason. . . . Or rather, I worry that there is some particular reason that she is pursuing this acquaintance with you.”