The Absinthe Earl

by Sharon Lynn Fisher

  The proximity of thoughts of my bed to the thoughts of Miss Quicksilver triggered a quake in the clay of my being. Perhaps my determination to keep her close had nothing to do with what was best for her.

  Now we’re getting to the heart of it, Meath.

  INSIDE A FAIRY MOUND

  Ada

  Lord Meath was late, and I feared he’d changed his mind. But at a quarter past the hour, he arrived.

  “My apologies for the delay,” he said to me after Mrs. Maguire let him in. “Fear not, we shall get you to your tram in time.”

  He had joined in my subterfuge, I assumed, to protect me from the disapproval of my landlady, and I recalled how when we’d first met he’d asked me whether I was embarking on an elopement. That was exactly what this felt like, and the thought evoked an uncharacteristic giddiness in me—unimportant orphan girl that I was, running off to marry a handsome Irish earl.

  But I’m not, I reminded myself, because I couldn’t tolerate such foolishness, not even inside my own head.

  His carriage driver came to the door for my luggage, and Mrs. Maguire handed me a parcel neatly wrapped in brown paper. “In case you have trouble finding a meal on the road, love,” she explained.

  I thanked her and felt a genuine pang on parting with her. I suppose I was always feeling the loss of my mother, but a matron who showed some interest in my welfare did tend to make me feel it more keenly.

  I took the parcel and gave the promise she asked for: that if I decided to spend more time in Dublin, I would consider returning to her. “Should you be still in need of lodging,” she’d added, with a glance at Lord Meath. A world of meaning passed in that glance. I’m fairly certain it went something like “I wish the two of you well, but should it turn out that you are not the gentleman you appear to be, I’ll not keep silent about what I know.”

  For a moment, it seemed to have rattled him. But he recovered quickly enough, offering his thanks for her hospitality.

  A fine carriage was waiting outside, and I guessed that it belonged to the earl’s household. When he offered his hand to lift me inside, I felt my first true misgiving. While eating my solitary supper the evening before, I’d overheard Mrs. Maguire talking to Cook, and there were words about young noblemen and their carelessness in their dealings with young women of lower rank. I knew very well that I was meant to overhear those words and that her intentions were kind. At the time, I only smiled to myself and went on with my supper.

  But planning such a thing and actually going through with it were entirely different matters. I imagined explaining this excursion to my academic advisor, and my cheeks flamed.

  The earl noticed my hesitation. “Have you changed your mind, Miss Q?” He stepped closer, and I shivered at the sudden proximity. “Please don’t be afraid to tell me if you have,” he continued in a lower voice. “Or feel in any way obligated because of the things I’ve told you.”

  I took a steadying breath, and I smiled. Reaching for the hand he still held out, I replied, “Not at all, my lord. I only wondered whether I’d left my hairbrush on the dresser upstairs.”

  Smiling, he squeezed my fingers slightly, causing another shiver. It was a peculiar sensation—warm instead of cold.

  “Shall I retrieve it for you?” he asked. I read in his eyes that he hadn’t bought this fib, but he would go on the pointless errand to give me time if I wanted it.

  I shook my head. “I’ve remembered. It’s in my trunk.”

  Gripping his hand, I stepped up into the carriage. When I had taken my seat and adjusted my skirts, he followed, sitting opposite me. The driver removed the step and closed the door, and we got under way.

  “I’ve made alterations to our arrangements, which I want to discuss with you,” said the earl before awkward silence could descend.

  “All right,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light.

  He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a folded paper that turned out to be a map. “I’ve sent a rider ahead to my tenant at Newgrange,” he said, “and his family will host you in their home this evening. Their cottage is cozy, but you’ll be welcome to all they have. I’ll lodge in the camp with the archaeologists and workers.”

  I frowned, wondering why he would inconvenience himself so. “You’ve decided against Drogheda?”

  He nodded, then bent forward to show me the map. “With these arrangements, we can rise early so you can finish your inspection of the site, and then we’ll continue by private coach to Trim. That village boasts an impressive castle ruin, which we can view in the late afternoon. In the morning, we’ll take a train to Westport, then on to Newport. From there, we can travel by boat to Kildamhnait Tower.” The tip of his finger circled Achill Island. “One of Grace O’Malley’s old strongholds.”

  “And will we find pirates there?” I asked.

  He gave a conspiratorial grin. “If we’re lucky. With more good luck, and favorable weather, we’ll arrive by Christmas Eve.” He glanced up at me, eyes alight with boyish enthusiasm. “What do you think? Will it be too much for you?”

  I shook my head. “I hardly know what to say, my lord.”

  “Your honest reaction to all this, please. I don’t want to drive you like a sheep.”

  I smiled, hoping to reassure him. I believed that his case of nerves rivaled even my own. “It’s all beyond everything I imagined when I made my plans to come here. You quite overwhelm me with your kindness, sir.” The real fondness I was beginning to feel for the earl came through in my tone, and I wondered what he would make of it.

  “Well,” he replied, refolding the map and tucking it back in his pocket, “it’s really you who have been kind to me. Agreeing to the trip to Newgrange and not taking fright at my wild schemes.” His gaze was downcast, and I knew that my gratitude had made him uncomfortable, but a little smile still quirked his lips. “You’re made of sturdier stuff than most young women of my acquaintance. But I suppose that comes of not spending all your time in drawing rooms.”

  “Don’t give me too much credit,” I said with a laugh. “Drawing rooms were never offered. Had they been, who knows what sort of woman I’d have turned out to be.”

  “The sort that would be followed about by every young lord in the county, I’d wager. It appears that may be your fate anyway, despite the lack of drawing rooms.”

  This was said in such a mirthful tone, there was simply no reason for the coy way I directed my gaze down at my folded hands.

  “Forgive me, Miss Q,” said the earl quietly. “If my behavior seems overly familiar, I hope you’ll set it down to how comfortable I feel in your company. I meant no offense.”

  “And I took none, my lord,” I assured him. “It’s only that I’m unused to such compliments. But it does not necessarily follow that I don’t enjoy them just as much as your drawing room–variety female.”

  He laughed heartily at this, dispelling the sudden specter of my landlady and her less-than-subtle warning. Our discourse continued in this lighthearted vein until we reached the Dublin–Drogheda tramway station. I was pleased to find that the melancholy that seemed always to half-possess his mood was not detectable this afternoon.

  I had never experienced our next mode of conveyance before that day. The tram had a steam-powered locomotive—very like that of a train, but smaller—that pulled a double-deck passenger car. Lord Meath explained that the trams, not being considered entirely safe, were allowed to operate only in the suburbs of Dublin. Then he hastened to assure me we had nothing to fear. So fascinated was I by the mechanics of the thing, the reassurance was unnecessary. I was eager for my maiden voyage.

  The passenger car was clean and simple, and though it was covered, its windows were open to the elements. Having seats on the upper deck, we had some view of the surrounding hills. But the locomotive produced a great lot of noise, steam, and vibration, such that our conversation was scant during the m
ore than two-hour journey.

  The driver had been paid to let us off just short of Drogheda, where a small private coach was waiting to take us to Newgrange. As we switched from tram to coach, the clouds suddenly parted, and the sinking sun spilled golden light over the emerald hills and squares of pasture with their low stone walls.

  I paused outside the coach, turning my face to catch the sun’s warmth. Inwardly, I was warmed by eager anticipation of the journey to come.

  Edward

  Her hood had slipped back, sunlight transforming her hair into molten silver and raising the natural rosiness in her complexion. I felt a piercing sensation in my chest and knew that I’d taken a fairy dart there.

  “How lovely,” she murmured.

  I cleared my throat to relieve the sudden tightness. “Indeed.”

  She opened her eyes, and the warmth of the smile she turned on me rivaled the sun.

  “Are you warm enough, Miss Q?” I asked. The ground was damp and lent a bite to the air, but she had a good winter cloak with a fur-trimmed hood.

  “I am, my lord.”

  “Shall we enter the coach?”

  She allowed me to help her inside, and I offered her the blanket for her lap. She accepted, and I helped spread it over her.

  “I fear we’re in for a bumpy ride,” I warned her. “The weather takes its toll on these country roads, but we should reach our destination in less than an hour.”

  “I shan’t break,” she assured me.

  She turned her face to the coach window, watching the passing scenery while I gave up my feeble struggle not to watch her.

  She appeared oblivious to the effect she had on me and on those around her. On the tram, we’d sat together but preserved a polite physical distance that likely made it clear to others we were not man and wife. Before we left the outskirts of Dublin, a wealthy-looking tradesman had boarded our car and stopped before us as if expecting me to make room for him between us. Instead, I had scooted closer to her, leaving room on the other side. I don’t believe she even noticed this gentlemanly skirmish. Perhaps she was so used to being stared at for her irregularity, she’d simply learned to ignore it.

  She turned from the window then, perhaps feeling my eyes on her now, and asked, “Have you heard stories connected with the fairy mound at Brú na Bóinne, my lord?”

  Having watched her, entranced, for perhaps a quarter of an hour while pretending to gaze out her window, I struggled to recover my dozing faculties. Finally, I replied, “One of the reasons I thought it might interest you is that over the course of my lifetime, I have heard various reports of fairy activity on and about the mound.”

  She adjusted her position to give me her full attention. “Much has been said of it in the lore. May I ask what type of activity?”

  Her scholarly inquiries these past days had started me reflecting on my boyhood and the stories I’d heard from servants on my father’s estate, as well as from my grandmother.

  “The usual variety,” I replied. “Revelries and processions. Sometimes, ghostly figures have been seen atop the mound and walking the surrounding countryside.”

  “The reports distinguish between fairies and ghosts?”

  I was not sure of the answer and said so, but added, “My sense is that in the minds of my countrymen, all inexplicable events are connected to fairies. My grandmother believed—or professed to believe—that those who die of wasting illnesses wake in Faery, their bodies whole again.”

  Excitement gave her a feverish look. “I have read firsthand accounts of this belief,” she said. “They are said to wake in Knock Ma, the palace of the fairy king, Finvara. If I am not mistaken in my geography, we will be traveling quite close to the ruins at Knock Ma, will we not?”

  I smiled. How could I help it? It was pleasing to give her such pleasure. “Indeed,” I replied. “We shall make a visit there after Christmas, if you like.”

  “You are too good to me, my lord,” she said, laughing. She then reached into the satchel she always carried and drew out a notebook and pencil. “May I take down notes of our conversation?”

  “Of course, Miss Q.”

  “I cannot express how grateful I am for these personal accounts, Lord Meath. I assure you they will be put to good use.”

  “To the contrary,” I replied, “you have expressed it quite graciously. And I am very happy to be able to help you in return for your agreeing to accompany me on this uncomfortable journey. Now, tell me, Miss Q, what you have learned about Brú na Bóinne.”

  She took a moment to jot down a few words—an impressive feat given the movement of the carriage over the bumpy road—before replying, “I know mostly what can be found in books, which is why I have made this journey to Ireland. I know that the mound has a strong link to the Tuatha De Danaan. There is said to be an underground kingdom ruled by Angus, who is associated with love and poetry, and his queen, Caer, who could change into a swan. I know that Angus was the foster father of Diarmuid, a legendary Danaan warrior. Diarmuid spent his boyhood at Brú na Bóinne and was eventually buried there.”

  “I have never understood why Diarmuid is viewed as a romantic figure,” I remarked, “having been most famous for stealing the fiancée of his chief and friend, Finn.”

  She laughed. “The lore has not been kind to his paramour, either. Most stories say that Gráinne enchanted and lured Diarmuid away, and after Finn allowed Diarmuid to be killed by a boar, she went back to him.”

  “We are agreed, then,” I replied, laughing with her. “It has more the character of tragedy than of romance.”

  She sobered a moment, touching her pencil to her chin, and replied, “In scholarly circles, the story is viewed more symbolically, though there is little agreement on what it symbolizes. There is a sort of parallel to the story of Adam and Eve, and it is likely the original story evolved under the influence of the church.”

  “Ah. Perhaps it was never intended to be a love story.”

  She smiled. “Perhaps not.”

  After that, she made a few more notes in her book, and when she lifted her gaze again, she pursued a new line of questioning. “In my studies, there has always been a distinction between the ‘big folk’ of Faery—such as the Danaan and their enemies, the Fomorians—and the diminutive fairies that Irishmen often refer to as the ‘gentlefolk.’ Do you find that to be true in your experience, and do you know how to account for it?”

  Again I was forced to recall memories from long ago, when my grandmother was still living. I had not thought about her stories for many years, and I confess they turned my thoughts to the cousin I’d grown up with and made me nostalgic for simpler times. I remembered tramping across meadows and tumbling down hills in our searches for gentlefolk and fighting with wooden swords we’d made by taking apart old fences. I always pretended to be one of the ancient heroes—Oíson or even Diarmuid—while she pretended to be the warrior queen Maeve or the Morrigan, the dread goddess of war.

  “My grandmother told us stories of both varieties,” I replied. “And in them, the gentlefolk were not always small. Here I believe your own learning probably exceeds my own, but I think she viewed the gentlefolk as descendants of the Danaan.”

  She nodded. “I have read of this belief. Other sources refer to the gentlefolk as faded versions of the ancient heroes.”

  She grew quiet and focused as she fell again to the task of scribbling. Much as I was tempted to keep her talking—something I sensed would not be difficult, as she was warm to this topic—I left her to her work and fell into nostalgic reverie while watching the scenery pass outside the window.

  After much jostling on the muddy road—and a stop to free a mired wheel—we arrived at Newgrange. The sun was setting as we alighted from the coach, so rather than stopping at the farmhouse, we made straight for the ruin.

  The workmen’s equipment had left muddy ruts in the field, an
d their tents huddled together on one side of the fairy hill. Miss Q raised the hem of her dress and approached the dark opening in the hillside as calmly as if she were entering a church. There had been some clearing away of turf and stone since the photographs were taken, and the opening was now large enough to walk through. The workmen had also reconstructed the stone frame of the door, supporting it with timbers.

  “Come away from there, miss,” someone called.

  The man strode toward her, and I walked over to intercept him.

  “Good day, sir,” I said. He turned to look at me. “I’m Edward Donoghue, Earl of Meath. I believe you had word of my coming? This is Miss Quicksilver. We’re here by order of the queen to inspect the ruin and the work that’s going on here.”

  I extended my hand, and the man took it. “Honor to meet you, my lord,” he replied stiffly. “I’m Tom Deane, the architect in charge.”

  “Is it unsafe to go inside?” I asked him.

  Deane’s gaze shifted to the opening in the hillside. “By our accounting, it’s stood at least two thousand years. It’s not likely to cave in now. The entryway was in a risky state, but we’ve shored that up.” His gaze returned to my companion. “It’s safe enough, but I’d prefer nothing was disturbed until the archaeologists finish their work.”