Chapter 13
To whatever part of the world the Englishman goes, the condition of Ireland is thrown in his face … by every worthless prig of a philosopher … by every stupid bigot of a priest.
“Remove it immediately!” I commanded, drawing upon all my lessons to truly personify a dowager countess, to become Lady Wilhelmina. “It’s bad enough that I must endure the stench when about my studies. But there is something in it, Mistress Lynch. Something that causes these restless nights.”
Upon waking in a crumpled heap on the floor, below the window, I’d barely righted myself to standing before Aggie and Beth had entered the bedchamber to go about their duties.
But between Michael’s appearance last night, the strange words of the woman in white, and replaying those memories, an unease I’d not experienced in years bloomed dark and heavy in the deepest recess of my gut.
“Calmly, m’Lady,” Aggie soothed, as Beth stood, wide-eyed, scrubber and flint in hand. “Ye suffered a nightmare?”
“A nightmare?” I scoffed before rolling my eyes and storming toward the bedside table. “There is something in this incense, Mistress Lynch, and I will not tolerate its presence in this room any longer.”
Plucking the heavy dish from the table, I held it aloft for Aggie to take, but she stood firm, lips pursed.
“Be about yer business, Beth,” she ordered, eyes never leaving mine. Beth nodded and hurried to breathe life into the embers still smoldering in the hearth. “Now, m’Lady. I’ll inform her ladyship of yer request, but ye must get yerself ready for the day. If it’s tired ye are—”
“What’s all this fuss?”
Aggie’s eyes widened as Lady Catherine’s voice boomed from the open doorway, and the retort standing ready at the tip of my tongue slipped down my throat.
Lady Catherine stepped into the room, arms burdened with a long, ribbon-wrapped box, bringing with her a breeze cold enough to pucker my skin with gooseflesh.
Aggie turned and bobbed a curtsy. “I’m afeared Lady Wilhelmina passed a rough night, m’Lady, and wishes the incense be removed from her room.”
Lady Catherine pursed her lips and glanced from Aggie, to me, to the incense burner, and finally to the box in her hands.
“What, exactly, is in it, Mama? The incense?” I asked, steeling myself as that dark gaze of hers met mine across the room.
For the first time since stepping foot in Browne House, I was truly afraid.
Lady Catherine’s mercurial personality did naught to frighten me, for I could handle a difficult master.
Spirits? Absolutely not. But what, exactly, did “you’re not the first to step in Wilhelmina’s shoes” mean?
Did the woman in white mean I was not Wilhelmina … or something far more sinister?
“Why, jasmine, lemongrass, and some herbs Dr. Brady recommended, my dear.” Lady Catherine pursed her lips, brows settling into bewildered worry.
“What herbs?” Something in the mixture brought on these vivid dreams. I was sure of it.
“Mistress Lynch,” Lady Catherine snapped, sending Aggie’s shoulders back as she straightened. “Wilhelmina will catch her death of cold standing there in her night things. Have her dressed at once, and remove the burner as she desires.”
“Yes, m’Lady.”
“What herbs, Mama?” I would not let her leave this room until—
“I came to gift this treasure to you,” Lady Catherine interrupted, stepping forward to lay the box on the bed, a wisp of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Perhaps I miscalculated the timing.”
She straightened and addressed Aggie. “Be sure she dresses in this. I’d like to see it.”
“Yes, m’Lady.” Aggie bobbed.
“Mama, please. What are these miscellaneous herbs—”
But Lady Catherine whirled on her heel, and before I could finish my thought, she swept from the room.
I could not let this go. As much as I wished for naught but to do what I was tasked, receive my bounty, and leave, I was not one to ignore a warning. Not anymore. Especially not one made with great effort from the other side.
Perhaps it was the dream that strengthened my resolve. Reliving those fateful events so clearly, I could scarce believe how na?ve and stupid I once was. I had ignored the warning signs then, but I would do so no longer.
“Ye look like a painting,” Beth cooed, hands clasped together, eyes alight with pleasure. But I couldn’t bring myself to admire the veritable fortune adorning my body.
The ensemble itself—unlike Lady Catherine’s chosen outfits—comprised a singular outer dress, high-collared, with three-quarter-length sleeves edged in lace.
A boned bodice with mother-of-pearl buttons woven down the center, ending in a point from which panels of silk looped to the floor.
The main skirt was fitted beneath, atop a polisón—a type of frame that rested above my backside, protruding mayhap a foot and a half from my body—where layers of bustle waves were laced atop the skirt.
If I’d had my wits about me, I might have felt very fine, especially with the addition of white laced gloves, ringlets framing my face, and the little triangular bonnet fastened to the crest of my head.
Instead, I swept from my bedchamber—without a word of thanks to Aggie or Beth—and began my descent to the main foyer, all while praying.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven …” I recited the Lord’s Prayer, knuckles blanched as I gripped the railing, palms scraping against polished wood as I made my way to the third-floor landing, then the second.
I thought I had changed for the better, from an inquisitive girl who saw the good in everything and everyone, to a woman who asked no questions, numb to the world, with the ability to get on with it.
And yet I had no control over the rapid, shallow breaths that set my pulse on fire.
Nor the tremor that knocked my knees together with each step I took.
It was fear, not dread. Danger, not fancy.
“… And lead us not into temptation. But deliver us from Evil.” I murmured, then tacked on a blessing.
“Lord, keep and protect the souls of the dead. Michael shouldn’t be here, ’tis wrong.
May he find peace beneath your watchful gaze.
The woman in white also. Worry most dreadful must have driven both to gather such strength to communicate between our worlds, so hold them in Your heart, and guide them into Your kingdom so they might find peace. Amen.”
I stepped onto the checkered entrance foyer—a sea of black-and-white marbled tiles stretching right, toward her ladyship’s parlor and the dining room. Ahead, to the heavy double doors. Left, toward the library, and behind to the kitchen.
I could leave. Right now. Stride across the vast entrance and set the golden chandelier above my head a-swinging in my wake.
Old Maggie might have. New Maggie would have. But I was no longer either in that moment.
I was Wilhelmina, and Wilhelmina needed to confront her mother.
With a pivot, I strode for the double doors of the library and pushed with the confidence of a child born to greatness. The sole heir to Lady Catherine’s and my dearly departed earl of a husband’s estates.
“Mama?” I called, sure to keep my back straight, my chin held high, heels clicking. Clasping my hands before my waist—as I’d oft seen Lady Grace do—I turned the corner of the thoroughfare between the bookshelves and—
“Mama!” I exclaimed. There, sitting on the cold wooden floor before the great desk, sobbing into her silk skirts, a white-knuckled grip on the charm around her neck, was Lady Catherine.
My eyes widened, and without a thought I ran forward and promptly joined her, leaving all decorum—and trace of Wilhelmina—at the door.
“Arra, what’s wrong? What’s happened? Are ye hurt? What is it?”
With all the care of an elder sister used to comforting siblings, I gathered Lady Catherine into my arms and held her.
Shoulders heaving, she melted into my embrace, and for the first time since meeting this seemingly strong, confident woman, I realized just how small she truly was. How light of frame. How weary.
“I n-need t-to h-help th-them,” she stuttered, pulling back slightly to swipe a sleeve over her eyes. Lips pursed, I glanced at her—eyes puffed and red-rimmed, spider-like blood vessels webbing their whites, tears glistening on cheeks, pooling beneath her nose, dripping to her lips.
“Who do ye need to help?” I asked, but she shook her head.
“I-I’m t-tired. I j-just w-wished to h-help m-my people.”
“Come now. Let’s get ye off this cold floor and freshen ye up.” I rose and, with a gentle hand, helped her to her feet. “That’s it. Let’s get ye in yer chair and—”
“You hate me,” she whispered, leaning heavily on my arm as I helped her circumvent the desk.
“That’s not true.” Wary of her, yes. But hate? Nay.
“Ye hate that I must help my people,” she continued, dropping the facade of the Anglo-born noblewoman and slipping into a native Irishwoman speaking Hiberno-English. She heaved a sigh as I navigated her into the chair. “That everyone else must suffer because I wished to keep them safe.”
What in God’s name was she talking about? My brows drew together. Tea. A warm cup with plenty of sugar would do the trick.
“I’ll call for tea,” I said, but as I turned on my heel, Lady Catherine grabbed hold of my sleeve.
“I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, Maggie,” she hissed, bloodshot eyes wild with fear.
The sight sent a tremor straight to the marrow of my bones.
I swallowed. Hard. “She warned me, but I didn’t listen.
I didn’t believe her, not even about the necklace.
We need to end it. Before the new moon.”
“Hush now,” I soothed, pulling my arm back. “I’ll return shortly. Let me find Aggie.”
I took a step back, and another, when Lady Catherine suddenly screamed: “I’m doing my best!”
But the words were not directed toward me.
She’d twisted her neck to speak into the shadows at her back—to the nothingness she always spoke to.
Taking a breath, I turned on my heel and hurried from the library without glancing back, hopping into a decidedly unladylike trot as I crossed the foyer toward the kitchen.
I could have rung the bellpull, but God above, I needed to be away from whatever fit had overcome her ladyship.
Comfort would only distract from my purpose, and mayhap that was the intent.
I shook my head. Surely not. A tear or two to throw me off my inquest, mayhap.
But the display within the library? It seemed genuine. An honest-to-goodness episode.
“Aggie!” I called, pushing in the door of the kitchen.
Within the darkened room, a cook, three assistants, and a spit lad froze mid-work—illuminated only by the light of the raging fire—and glanced up the steps leading downward.
At me. I hadn’t stepped foot in the kitchen since the night of my arrival, and I’d never been introduced to its staff, but it was very clear—eyes staring with curious surprise—that my intrusion was not altogether unwelcome.
“Apologies, but where is Mistress Lynch?” I asked, comporting myself as Wilhelmina once more as I descended the stairs. I needed a cup of tea myself—or something stronger.
A throat cleared. “Setting things to rights upstairs.” The cook, an older woman sporting the clean, beige uniform that told all her status, stepped forward. “Was there something ye were needin’, m’Lady?”
“Tea, please. Plenty of sugar, and piping hot. Mama has taken a turn in the library.”
The assistants—all women ranging from their forties to sixties—hovering near the cook glanced at each other, and the lilt of whispered Gaeilge met my ears.
Is she back to herself now?
I hope so.
His lordship did always say her ladyship made a deal with the Devil.
Aye, and when you deal with the Devil, the Devil always collects.
It’s not the Devil she dealt with.
Heart racing, I pursed my lips, and in the clearest voice I could muster, I addressed the kitchen in Irish. “Who made a deal with the Devil?”
The chatter ceased abruptly, and a deadly silence settled heavy as the cook boxed each assistant ’round the ears before turning toward me.
“Please forgive them, m’Lady. ’Tis only a sign of how well ye’ve adapted to yer role that they forgot themselves.
No one made a deal with the Devil.” The cook waved the spit boy over, and the little lad—no more than nine or ten years old—hopped forward.
“I’ll send Eoin here to fetch Mistress Lynch, and we’ll have the tea brought.
Maybe a sup for yerself as well? Yer looking a bit pale. ”
“Yes. Thank you.” I nodded, storing away this new piece of information for later. Deal with the Devil, his lordship—Lord Browne.
Placing my palms against the vast preparation table before me, I closed my eyes as the sounds of the kitchen sprang to life.
The spit lad dashing up the stairs to find Aggie.
An assistant, hurrying toward the fire, ladling water from the ever-boiling cast-iron cauldron.
Another continuing their chopping. Another putting a tray together.
It soothed, the normalcy, and I breathed in tandem with the bustle. Slowly in, two, three … and out, two, three.
“Ye had a fright?” The cook’s gentle question stirred me back to reality, and I opened my eyes.
She stood still, eyes trained on me, forehead crinkled with worry.
“I’m very sorry,” I said, clearing my throat before straightening. “It was so very rude of me to barge in.”
“Not at all.” With a chuckle, the cook’s bright gaze met mine, and she smiled. “Yer welcome down here any time ye need a moment to yerself.”
“I thank you.” Glancing from her, I watched as an assistant poured the boiling water into a porcelain teapot, over the well of tightly packed tea leaves.
What was I to do? Surely Lady Catherine would be of no mind to discuss the incense after such an episode.
Aggie would likely administer a sleeping draught, and—my eyes widened. “Do you know if Mr. O’Dea is to home?”
Cook shook her head. “He’s abroad in the village, dealing with Mr. Hogan.”
“Can someone direct me toward Dr. Brady’s practice? I fear we’ll need to fetch him.”
Cook’s eyes widened. “Aye, m’Lady. I’m sure Beth will oblige ye.”
“Make it so,” I ordered.
How had I overlooked such an opportunity? With Lady Catherine indisposed, a loving daughter would naturally call a physician to discover what ailed her.
And that meant an opportunity to hear about these “herbs” directly from the man himself. I would go straight to the source.
But as I turned to leave the kitchen and find Beth, the disembodied voice of the woman in white whispered in my ear.
Dr. Brady can’t help you, child. To do that, you must remember.
And my arms broke out in gooseflesh.