Chapter 8
I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for landlords, who, as they have already devoured most of the parents, seem to have the best title to the children.
—Jonathan Swift, A Modest Proposal
“There she is.” My eyes fluttered open to the sound of a rustle, and before the realization that I was in my borrowed bed took purchase, Lady Catherine’s concerned face hovered over mine. “Poor thing. I fear I overtaxed you on your first day.”
The press of a damp cloth moistened my forehead, and I frowned.
“I was going to call for Dr. Brady, but it seemed you were simply sleeping.” Lady Catherine said, voice soft and gentle as she retracted the cloth.
I raised myself onto my elbows and glanced around.
We were alone—thank God. I didn’t wish for an audience.
She perched on the edge of the bed. “It appeared you were having a nightmare.”
Nightmare? I pursed my lips. No. Not a nightmare, but a vivid memory that had played out in dreamscape.
A sweet memory at that. Every breath, every touch, every detail, immaculate—as though not just a memory, but I was there, transported through time.
Even the injury sustained from Lucy smarted something fierce, and I glanced at my arm. Naught amiss.
“Will you please be quiet!” Lady Catherine snapped the command into the empty space to my left, and I whipped around … but there was no one there, sending my heart into a skitter.
“M-mama?” I stuttered, slowly turning around to face her.
Brows furrowed into eyelids, lips downturned, she stared at the shadowed corner next to my bed while clutching the charm at her throat.
“Mama?” I attempted again, this time clearly.
Her glare slid to meet wide-eyed fear, and like match to candle, she smiled, transforming all distress into kind benevolence once more.
“Take some time to rest,” she cooed, reaching out to smooth the hair at my temple. “If you wish me to call Dr. Brady, I’ll do so gladly.”
“No, thank you.” It took everything in me to stay still, to not recoil at her touch.
“Nightmares are windows into our souls,” she said, pulling back of her own accord before pushing to her feet. “It’s best to face them. Lean into all those feelings, else we shan’t heal from our hurts.”
“Yes, Mama.” What did this woman know of hurts?
“I know more than you think.”
I froze. “Pardon?” I hadn’t said that aloud, surely?
“About dreams and nightmares, dear,” she replied, smoothing her skirts. “Rest now. I’ll have Aggie fetch you a tray to avoid any more fainting spells.”
But as she swept from the room, I could swear a woman’s voice whispered from the shadows with which Lady Catherine had conversed.
Feed me, it said. Set me free. Help me.
But I could barely help myself, and I had to stay the course.
Three months later
I took breakfast in my room, morning tea in the library, lunch in the dining room, afternoon tea in his lordship’s drawing room, and supper on the terrace with Lady Catherine—when the elements allowed.
Desolate couldn’t quite begin to describe the weather.
There was something otherworldly and wrong about the way the rain fell here, as if God above thought the Burren might sprout grass if He sent enough water to drown the rocks.
An hourly flood to wash away the crags so life might spring from their depths.
Wind howled constantly, screeching through cracks in the windowsills, enough to require a blanket over the shoulders, and a chair close to the fire.
Most days, when I was done practicing Wilhelmina’s flowing script or reviewing her old schoolroom vocabulary cards—doing my best to mimic the stiff-upper-lipped clip of the Anglo aristocracy—I spent time between the library and rummaging through the old records in his lordship’s study, mesmerized by the view beyond the window, where the violent Atlantic met Irish soil.
The ocean, naught but a stone’s throw from the road, running parallel with the estate boundary, was wild, a dark, roiling mass of seaweed that thundered upon the shore in a froth of seafoam.
An army on the attack, its onslaught constant and terrifying.
I oft wondered how the long curraghs thrashing through wave and wind ever made it back to moor unscathed.
Yet they did. I watched them leave every morning from the window overlooking the shale-covered coastline, and as they came ashore, their teams of two worked to secure the crafts farther up the beach.
I hoped it was worth the trip, wherever they were, and whatever it was they did.
When the dreary gray of wintery spring’s constant downpour gave way to the watery sun of almost-summer, I could spy clear across the bay to the land beyond.
Galway Bay, Lady Catherine had informed me, and the trio of islands in the distance—stepping stones into the Atlantic Ocean—were the Aran Isles.
Today was no different as I stared out that study window, a leather-bound journal marked “1832” nestled in my hands, three months past my arrival.
I smoothed the bodice of the borrowed, pale blue day dress, and marveled at how quickly I’d improved my health.
Lady Catherine had spared no expense to ensure my recovery.
It was a kindness I’d never forget, and tucked away from the destruction beyond, it was easy to believe that the eradication of my poor countrymen wasn’t happening.
That these last three years of famine and disease might have all been but a dream.
Easier still when the staff ate well and none complained of hardship in the village. It drew to mind a divine barrier, one affixed around Browne House and Gortacarnaun beyond. That those therein were blessed with ignorance.
God forgive me, but I was glad.
I glanced out the window to gaze at the rocky beach. Two curraghs bobbed to shore, and I watched the men aboard unload their haul afore upending the long, slim crafts to berth them.
Figures awaited in the rocky bluffs near the roadside, baskets propped on hips, ready to barter for whatever it was the men had hunted. Fish, maybe. Or crab.
With a sigh, I turned my attention to the journal.
Thus far, I’d only found rent and accounting records on the shelves of his lordship’s lavishly adorned study.
Unlike the library—where the shelves created walkways and aisles—bookshelves lined the burgundy-papered walls, and a grand, dark polished desk sat proudly in the center.
No wooden floors here, however. His lordship seemed to have had a preference for black marble.
Burgundy and black striped velvet curtains framed the large window, where I now sat, settled into the black leather Chippendale, perfectly placed to enjoy the view.
As I thumbed through my new find—tucked away on the lower shelf of the bookcase farthest from the door—a smile teased the corners of my lips.
At last, an account devoid of eye-crossing mathematics.
If I were to be Wilhelmina in truth, acquainting myself with her deceased father was paramount.
What child would know nothing of her da?
June 12th 1832
The walls whisper her name, over and over, and I fear the worst. Cut off as I am from the world at large, I fear none have heeded my call. Isolation, it appears, has erased my very existence from the memory of those I once relied upon.
June 13th 1832
I have taken to sleeping in the drawing room, lest she appear in the night.
Yet Cate has absconded to the girl’s chamber.
I cannot understand how she bears it, for I cannot unsee the horror of four nights since.
Those round blue eyes, unseeing. Cate has forsaken me, and I have forsaken myself, for my mind wanders.
As I read, my brow furrowed, and Lady Catherine’s flippant comment regarding a supposed haunting flitted through my mind. Had his lordship believed the stories too?
“Another soft day, Miss.”
My heart leapt against the confines of my bodice as I whirled, journal slipping through my fingers, dropping to the floor with a thud.
“Christ, Beth. I didn’t even hear you.”
“Arra, ye were away with the faeries again, Miss.” The young, quiet serving girl who’d lit the fire in my room on the day of my arrival—Beth—smiled, and my eyes slid to the tray she carried.
“I figured you’d take your tea here, so I gathered it afore Mistress Lynch could say aught about your contrariness. ”
“Mistress Lynch would do well to keep her opinions to herself.” I arched my brows, doing my best Lady Catherine impression, and Beth chuckled.
“She’s nary so bad,” Beth noted, setting the tray atop the end table, perched next to the Chippendale, before pouring a dish of tea.
“No, indeed. Aggie’s been kind to me.” I turned my attention back to the shore. “Will you take a cup with me, Beth?”
“Oh no, Miss.” Glancing out the window, Beth bit her lower lip. “I must bring in flowers from the garden for drying. You know her ladyship insists on keeping the incense lit morning and night.”
I smiled and took a sip of the scalding-hot tea.
I’d long since thought the incense might have brought about the fainting spell that first day—at least that particular blend.
Lady Catherine had refrained from adding the “healing herbs” she claimed required some level of getting used to, and I’d had no such incident since.
“I’m surprised there’s a flower to be found in the garden with all the incense she burns. ”
Beth’s breath hitched, and she gripped the sideboard.
I followed her gaze. “What is it?”
“Naught.”
I glanced at her and noted the flush creeping across her cheeks. “Well, it’s not nothing.”
Turning, I squinted through the window. The crowd on the shore were dispersing, but then I noticed the horse-drawn cart rumbling along the road. I couldn’t see much from our vantage point, but it certainly appeared to be full of goods.
“Friend of yours?” I asked, my lips curling.
With a shake of her head, Beth took a step backward. “I should see about the flower drying.”