Betraying Season

by Marissa Doyle

  Pen sat, but couldn’t help asking, “Er . . . may I ask . . . I don’t recall meeting you before, ma’am. . . .”

  “No, I generally keep to myself. Too much fuss with people makes me bad-tempered.” The odd eyes twinkled again. “I’m Mary Margaret Carrighar, and you’re Penelope Leland. It’s my grandson who’s been teaching you, hasn’t he?”

  Her grandson . . . that had to be Michael, of course. Good heavens, that made her Dr. Carrighar’s mother! Somehow it was hard to picture Dr. Carrighar as being someone who had once been young. How odd that neither Dr. Carrighar nor Michael had mentioned that she lived here too. Why, she must be well into her eighties, if not older. If she never came downstairs—and she hadn’t in the almost two weeks Pen had been there—she wouldn’t know that Dr. Carrighar had taken over her tutoring from Michael. Well, this was a large house, and Pen hadn’t thought it polite to poke about uninvited. Good thing she hadn’t. This elder Mrs. Carrighar had more than a touch of vinegar about her, and probably wouldn’t have taken kindly to intrusion. Not that it had stopped her from walking into the room just now—

  “You needed someone to talk to, ’tis plain as plain. Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered you. Now, why such tears? Come on, out with it.” The lady whisked out a tiny handkerchief tucked into a loop at her waist and handed it to Pen. A whiff of camphor and gillyflower rose from it, old-fashioned scents that matched its owner perfectly. Pen smiled and dabbed at the already-drying tears on her cheeks.

  “It’s nothing, really. I don’t want to trouble you, ma’am—”

  “No, it isn’t nothing, and I want to be troubled, and you will please to address me as Mary Margaret. It is appropriate for equals, and equals we are—or shortly will be, Goddess willing. With a little more work, I can see that you’ll be a fine witch someday, if you don’t get distracted.” She nodded solemnly.

  Pen blinked. “You’re a . . . ?”

  Mary Margaret drew herself up. “And what else would I be?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve just been so used to being secretive about magic all my life. I ought to have known that you were a witch.” What else would Michael’s grandmother be? “And I’m trying my best to learn and study, but the other students don’t want me to share their studies because I’m English and female.”

  “Now, the English part—you can’t blame them, in light of history—but I’m sure it’s more to do with your sex.” She sighed. “In my day, magic was mostly the province of women. We followed the Goddess, bless her name. Only men with a very strong calling to it followed the old path. Most of the others with just a little of the magic in them set it aside in their hearts and joined the church instead. It was a more sure way of getting ahead in the world.”

  “Well, that would explain the speeches I’ve been hearing about men taking back magic from the hedge-witches and grannies—”

  Mary Margaret snorted. “Not that Druid nonsense again? Child, don’t listen to them. They fear the Goddess and the power we women magic users wield, and would take it for their own. So they’ve created a false past to justify their actions. Don’t let them stop you.”

  “I won’t, but it’s frightfully hard to concentrate when you can feel their anger hovering over you like a storm cloud. . . . And if they’re not angry, they’re convinced that my sensibilities are too delicate to study the . . . er, earthier aspects of magic.”

  The dainty old lady snorted again, in a most undainty fashion. “Why doesn’t that surprise me in the least? If that lot could see what went on in the tall grass at a good old-fashioned Beltane celebration, their squinty little eyes would fall right out of their heads. When I was a girl, we didn’t wrap ourselves in false modesty and call it—” She peered into Pen’s face, which felt as if it were fourteen different shades of crimson. “Well,” she went on in quieter tones, “times have changed, I suppose. Still, they would do well to remember that magic is male and female, just as all of the earth is. For all that we served the Goddess, we honored her consort too. But never forget that it is the female side that bears fruit. And speaking of bearing fruit,” she sniffed slightly, “I wish we could find you a female teacher now that Michael’s wife is ill with her megrims.”

  “Oh, it’s not a sham illness. Poor Ally couldn’t even keep a glass of water down,” Pen protested. “And I won’t let the other students keep me from learning.”

  “There are matters in magic that are best passed from female to female. Especially when you’re talking about the Triple Goddess.” Mary Margaret stood up and straightened her fichu. “I shall have to think about this. And you should have a rest, I think. Women are the stronger sex, but it doesn’t do to overtax oneself. Come along, lie down.”

  She looked so accustomed to being obeyed that Pen didn’t protest that she wasn’t tired, but stretched out on her bed. The lady nodded her approval.

  “Very good. I shall come visit you again soon,” she murmured, gliding to the door.

  It wasn’t until a gentle knock awoke her that Pen realized she’d dozed off. “Yes?” she called, her voice hoarse.

  “Yer lunch, miss. The doctor thought as how ye might like it up here.” Norah came backing into the room with a tray, followed by Maire with two jugs of water for washing.

  “One hot an’ one cold, as ye like it.” Norah set the tray down on her desk and bent to peer into her face. “Ye might try a cold towel on the eyes fer a minute or two. ’Twould make ye feel better.” She nodded at Maire, who wet a linen towel with water from one of the jugs and brought it to Pen.

  “Thank you, both of you.” Pen took the cold cloth and pressed it to her eyelids. “Oh, that feels good. Why do some men have to be such—such—”

  “Imbeciles?” Maire supplied brightly.

  Norah snorted. “That’s bein’ kind. Don’t let the doctor’s half-baked scholars get ye down, miss. They’re not worth the powder to blast ’em all to hell.”

  “Norah!” Maire nearly dropped the jug of water.

  “’Tis true! Ah, now, see? She’s smiling again. A wash and lunch, and you’ll be fine, Miss Pen. Come on, Maire, and don’t be such an old lady before yer time.” Norah gave Pen a conspiratorial wink and propelled Maire toward the door.

  “What if Father Kelley should hear ye usin’ such language?” Maire protested as the door closed behind them.

  “He won’t unless he’s told, will he?”

  “But ’tis yer immortal soul I’m worried about!”

  “Aye, and if the good lord can’t countenance a bit o’ plain speakin’ about the sillier half o’ his creation, then I don’t . . .” Norah’s words faded as the two women descended the stairs.

  Still smiling, Pen took Norah’s advice and washed her face. An enticing, savory smell drew her attention back to the tray Norah had left her, but as she crossed the room, a small, crumpled object on the floor caught her notice. She bent to retrieve it and smoothed out the slightly yellowed square of linen, edged with lace like enchanted cobwebs. Mary Margaret Carrighar’s handkerchief. She’d meant to ask Norah about Mary Margaret. Well, she’d do it later.

  Pen had finished her lunch and was reading one of Dr. Carrighar’s books when Norah knocked once more, then entered, looking pleased.

  “Miss, there’s a caller for you.” She held out a card.

  Pen took it and saw THE HON. NIALL KEATING engraved on it. A little curl of pleasure rose in her throat. “Thank you, Norah. Where is he?”

  “I offered to show him to the parlor, but he said he’d wait in the hall. Said he didn’t want to disturb Mrs. Carrighar.”

  “How is she, anyway?”

  “Still sleepin’ when I peeked in at one. Dr. Carrighar said we should let her be, if sleepin’ meant she’d suffer less.”

  “I see.” This would be the first time she and Niall would be alone together, without Lady Keating or anyone else interrupting their conversation. So tempting . . . but it would hardly be proper to invite him to stay and take tea without a chaperone.

  “I c
ould show him into the library,” Norah suggested eagerly. “Or Mr. Michael’s study. Or even the dining room, if ye’d like. Table’s been cleared an’ all. Cook could have tea ready in a minute.”

  Pen hid a smile. Norah wasn’t going to let a possible suitor for her get away if she could help it. “It’s all right, Norah.” She hurried downstairs, wishing she’d taken a moment to check that her eyes were clear.

  Niall Keating stood at the bottom of the stairs, hat in hand, grinning up at her as she descended. His cheeks were pink and his hair tousled; evidently he had walked there.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Leland,” he said with a bow. “I believe in her note of invitation my mother said she’d send a boy around this afternoon for your answer.”

  “And you’re the boy?” Pen paused on the last step and smiled back at his impish expression.

  “I volunteered for the job,” he explained. “Little Sean has a cold, and I thought to spare him going out. And after all, I am a boy, am I not?”

  “Are you, Mr. Keating?” Pen asked demurely.

  “Don’t tell anyone, but I feel like one just now. Won’t you come and play truant with me, Miss Leland? It’s a beautiful sunny day, and we don’t always have many of those this time of year. Can you pry yourself away from your Greek or whatever it is you’re studying and come for a walk?”

  Pen didn’t let herself stop to think. “I’d love to, if you’ll give me a moment to get ready.”

  “I’ll be generous and give you two, but no more than that or I’ll start to pine.” He pulled a long face.

  Pen resisted the urge to reach down and ruffle his hair. “Yes, Master Boy.” She sketched a curtsey and turned to hurry back up the stairs.

  She took five, but Niall was in no mood to complain. When she did appear in her new cloak, which made her eyes even more intensely blue, and slipped a gloved hand over the arm he offered her, all his banter fled, and he felt like a tongue-tied boy of sixteen.

  Mother’s directives notwithstanding, this Penelope Leland intrigued him. How was it, in three years of travel in the most cosmopolitan countries on earth, that he’d never met anyone like her?

  Most of the pretty girls he’d met were as empty-headed as they were attractive—or at least their interest in European politics was severely circumscribed. He supposed he couldn’t blame them—sometimes his interest in it was severely circumscribed as well. But just imagine, this Miss Leland was voluntarily missing the London season in favor of studying. He wondered what it was she was studying so diligently.

  She was a heady mix of straightforward enthusiasm and girlish reticence and intellectual gravity, all rolled into one charming package. And yes, she was quite charming. But Niall could see that she had yet to reach her full beauty; she was like a fruit that needed a touch of frost to fully ripen. When she was thirty-five, she would be magnificent. How he would love to see her then.

  He wrenched his mind away from that train of thought. “Shall we walk along the river? The wind is on holiday today, and you won’t be blown to Blarney.”

  “Ah, but if it does blow, I’m prepared.” She spread a fold of her new cloak and waved it at him. “And anyway, that might not be such a bad thing. Isn’t kissing the stone at Blarney supposed to confer eloquence of speech? I could have used some of that in my tutorial this morning.”

  “Bad day?” But he scarcely needed to ask. Her irritation with Dr. Carrighar’s students was obvious in the sudden stiffness of her back and features. Mother needn’t have worried that they’d interfere with his wooing of her. If anything, they’d show him up in a better light. He’d have to reassure her on that point.

  “Did you have a disagreement?” he continued. “Sometimes intellectual battles are even more virulent than personal ones.”

  “I suppose so. But when they’re both intellectual and personal, they reach a whole new level of unpleasantness. Doherty spent class today staring at me as if he hoped I’d suddenly burst into flame and disappear. It was positively horripilatious.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh.” She colored prettily. “Horripilatious. My little brother says that all the time, and it’s infected the rest of the family as well.”

  “You’re close to your family.”

  “It’s hard not to be when you’ve got a twin. But yes, we are all close. I miss them a great deal,” she said softly.

  He resisted the impulse to squeeze her arm. “What topic has Dr. Carrighar set you that’s roused such fervor?”

  “It’s . . . it’s a little hard to explain. Oh, is that spire over there St. Anne’s Shandon? It seems as though it’s been shrouded in mist ever since I got here. How nice to actually be able to see it.”

  Niall could hear the forced enthusiasm in her voice as she peered up at the cathedral’s tower, with its distinctive red and white stone faces. This was the second time she’d evaded discussing her studies, which seemed odd. Surely academics would be a safe, easy topic of conversation. Perhaps she was afraid of appearing to be too much the bluestocking.

  “It’s a pity Dr. Carrighar’s scholars haven’t been more welcoming than they might have,” he said quietly. “Half of a university experience is the talk, among students as well as from the masters. But if they’re too busy resenting you because you’re female, or English, or some other silly reason, it can’t be very pleasant for you.”

  She bowed her head so that he couldn’t see her face set back in the frame of her bonnet. “It’s lonely. I’ve always had my sister to study with. But now—”

  That time he did squeeze her arm, very gently.

  “You don’t know how grateful I am to Lady Keating for being so very civil to me,” she said in a rush. “I enjoy Dr. Carrighar’s conversation very much, but he’s not Persy. And with Ally ill and wrapped up in—in her condition . . .” She peeked at him sideways, blushing. “With Ally ill, I don’t have anybody. It’s so kind of your mother to make the effort to befriend me.”

  “It’s no effort at all. And Mother doesn’t do anything that she doesn’t want to.” Niall smiled wryly to himself. That was bloody well true. “She wants to be your friend. We all do.” He let his voice drop and soften till it sounded like a caress. “I do.”

  He heard her sudden soft intake of breath and felt her hand tighten involuntarily on his arm. A twinge of guilt lanced through him. Had he gone too far? Could Mother be mistaken about her experience?

  But devil take it, he was just following orders. If he ever wanted to get anywhere, he would have to go along with Mother’s plans for this girl, whatever they were. If he was supposed to make her fall for him, then he might as well get down to business.

  “That is . . . most kind of her,” Miss Leland said, sounding a little breathless. “I—I value her friendship highly. Isn’t it remarkable how one can feel so drawn to new friends after just a short acquaintance, Mr. Keating?”

  He smiled down at her averted face. Was she flirting back? “I had noticed that very same thing, Miss Leland,” he said. “Quite drawn.”

  “Oh!” she breathed, so quietly that he barely heard it.

  It made him smile again, but with less pleasure. If she had been flirting with him, she should have given him a sidelong look and a faint smile just then, not that half-shocked, half-pleased monosyllable.

  Mother was wrong. This girl may have had a London season, but she was no experienced coquette. Blast. She was going to get hurt if he kept going down this path. A mental picture of her beautiful blue eyes, raised to his in pain and anguish, struck him so forcibly that he nearly stopped dead in the street.

  “Are you all right?” Miss Leland looked at him as he stumbled slightly.

  “I’m fine. Stone in my shoe, that’s all.” He patted her hand, smiled, and tried to ignore the small voice in the back of his mind jeering “Liar!”

  For dining at the Keatings’, Dr. Carrighar made a concession to fashion and wore clothes of more modern cut than his usual long, loose coat and breeches. Tonight, Pen thought wi
th amusement as she surveyed him seated across from her in the gig, he at least looked nineteenth century. Beau Brummel or the Prince Regent might have worn a similar coat once.

  She smiled down at her hands, encased in delicate lace mitts. Persy had sent them to her, along with a length of pale gold organdy for a gown and an enthusiastic request that Pen indeed send her an Irish cloak. Pen would be glad to; it would give her an excuse for another outing with Lady Keating to her modiste, and perhaps time with Niall. . . .

  There she went again. How many times did she need to be reminded to keep her mind where it belonged—on her studies?

  But even Pen’s interior scold was starting to sound halfhearted, at least on the subject of Niall Keating. Snippets of his conversation on their walk last Saturday kept sounding in her mind—not so much his words as the tone and timbre of his voice. It made her feel slightly warm and breathless, as if her corset were too tight.

  It also left her hungry for more. She hadn’t seen him since that day, though she had gone driving once with Lady Keating. Would he have more to say to her tonight?

  “I am sorry Melusine did not feel up to coming with us.” Dr. Carrighar’s baritone rumble broke into her thoughts. “It would have been a good opportunity for her to get to know more of Cork society.”

  Pen shushed Niall’s voice in her mind. “At least she’s feeling better than she was.” She then asked, “Do you think it’s proper for her to be sleeping so much? I mean, is it healthy?”

  Over the last few days, Ally had spent twenty out of each twenty-four hours asleep. She was actually eating now—toast and soft-boiled eggs or Cook’s milk puddings, mostly—and keeping down what she ate. As soon as she finished breakfast, she eagerly drank a glass of water with Lady Keating’s elixir and drifted off to sleep until late afternoon. Then, after a light supper, another dose sent her back to sleep until morning. Her color was better and her face less wasted, but still . . . it seemed strange to see the energetic Ally so indolent.

  Dr. Carrighar sighed. “I don’t know, Penelope. This stage of gestation is a prodigious labor for women, and most tend to be somnolent. And at least when she is asleep she’s not uncomfortable. The one day we tried to go without Lady Keating’s remedy, poor Melusine reverted to her old distressed state. I don’t see that the sleep is harmful, but I understand your unease. It’s not like her, is it? Remind me this evening to ask Lady Keating what is in her elixir, won’t you? I am sure it is entirely harmless, whatever it is. Yet . . .”