Chapter 16
While, scourg’d by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms—a garden and a grave.
—Oliver Goldsmith, The Deserted Village
A young man led Cormac, Beth, and me into the parlor of a neat, two-story home, situated on the outskirts of the village, overlooking the bluff.
The parlor itself lacked a woman’s touch, with its clean lines and bare walls, but the brown leather armchairs were of fine quality, and the fire roared within its hearth.
“He’ll be right down.” The young man fiddled with his suspenders, hopping from foot to foot as he glanced my way. He was perhaps my own age, either the doctor’s son or an apprentice. “P-p-please sit. I-I’ll have Mary bring some tea, Miss. Er, I mean … m-m-m’Lady.”
“No need,” I assured him, spying a portrait above the mantel. A stern gentleman stared down at us, steely eyes penetrating mine as I paced from right to left. Always watching, so coldly. “We’ll be leaving shortly, I’m afraid … Tell me. Who is that?”
“P-pardon?”
I turned on my heel to find the young man’s mouth agape.
Beth grabbed hold of my arm, and I glanced at her. “Not a great likeness, is it, m’Lady? Sure, ’tis nary a bit like yer dearly departed father, may he rest in peace.”
My heart leapt in my chest, and I quickly laughed to cover such a stupid mistake. Pivoting, I turned to scrutinize the portrait once more. “Silly me. Now that you say it, Papa’s fierce stare is captured perfectly.”
So this was the infamous Lord Browne. Rather unfashionable in his powdered queue and turn-of-the-last-century frothed cravat, if you asked me.
But what gave me pause was the stern set of his jaw—not at all what I was expecting of the kind of aristocrat who would raise up an Irish woman through marriage.
“I’m here, m’Lady!”
Glancing over my shoulder, I spied Dr. Brady stumbling into the parlor, stuffing himself into a fine swallowtail coat en route.
Disheveled, I thought. A two-day growth evident on his chin, muttonchops dangerously close to becoming a full beard.
His hair also required a cut. Older than Lady Catherine, for certain.
“Please leave us,” I ordered, gesturing toward the door.
As Beth, Cormac, and the young man made haste from the parlor, Dr. Brady’s eyes widened, and he placed a palm against his chest.
“Please, sit, Dr. Brady.” I swept toward the nearest chair and descended as though this were my parlor and he the guest. The audacity of it tugged deep in my gut, but I had to be Wilhelmina in this moment.
Scurrying, the good doctor took the chair opposite.
“Tea, m’Lady?” he asked, eyes widening as he spied the lack of refreshments.
“No, no. I fear this is not a social call, sir. Mama has taken ill, and I’d be greatly obliged if you could call on her.” I watched his light blue eyes darken and the way his knuckles blanched as he gripped the arms of the chair.
“What has happened?” The question bumbled forth in a rush, a breathy panic that told me naught but a physician’s concern for his most illustrious patient.
“I happened upon her in the library in a melancholic state, sir,” I replied. It was time. “I believe it is an ailment of the heart and mind, and I would advise you to bring along the wonderful mixture that Mama has been using to calm my own nerves.”
As his brows drew together, my pulse raced.
“You know the one, sir? The herbs that Mama blends with her florals? The incense?”
“Ah!” His face suddenly brightened. “Yes, yes, of course. Chamomile and lavender, with a dash of sage. I believe she adds jasmine from your own garden?”
“And lemongrass,” I prompted. I pursed my lips. “Nothing else, sir? I had thought to try and put the ingredients together myself, but I fear I wasn’t sure of its contents.”
“That’s it,” he confirmed. “All aid with melancholia and help with relaxation.”
“What of deep sleep? Strange dreams, perhaps?” I leaned forward. “I fear the incense affected me so, and I do not wish Mama to experience the same.”
The doctor’s brows drew inward. “The lavender induces deep sleep, which could cause strange dreams. If you wish, I can omit it.”
“Is there anything in the mixture that could cause harm?”
Dr. Brady shook his head. “No, m’Lady. It is quite safe, I assure you.”
Blood drained from my face as I nodded. How could I have gotten it so wrong? Pushing to a stand, I prompted Dr. Brady to hop to his own feet.
“Very well, sir. We should be on our way. Bring along whatever you think might suit.”
With a grimace, I swept from the parlor, skirts gripped in sweat-slick palms.
Cormac was absolutely correct. I needed a reprieve, lest I lose my own sanity.
The rain held off for now, and thank goodness for it. Cormac and Dr. Brady had made their way to the house, but Beth and I lingered in the village.
Naught. There was naught in the incense save common herbs and florals, and my accusation had sent Lady Catherine into that state.
God forgive me, ungrateful wretch that I was.
Perhaps this—the céilí and all its trappings—was the best medicine.
A reminder that there was a world beyond the walls of Browne House.
A reminder of the life I was determined to one day live.
After fetching cups of cordial for herself and me, Beth had found stools for us to sit on, and we were now settled outside the parish hall as the atmosphere built before us, painted on the air with a brushstroke of excitement.
Someone had whipped out a fiddle, and the people of Gortacarnaun promptly formed six sets—four circles of six couples—in the square.
The jig flew high on the wind, and my feet itched beneath the layers of my dress as I instantly recognized the step-formation of the Caledonian set.
The sets closed the circle by clasping hands, then launched into action.
In, and two, and a-one, two, three. Back, and two, and a-one, two, three.
In, and two, and a-one, two, three. Back, and two, and a-one, two, three.
As the music climbed, I closed my eyes and smiled, fighting the urge to add a “whoop” to the beat. Seated on the stool to my right, Beth let out a “heeyup,” and I opened my eyes.
The sets broke the circle, then turned to their partners to dance at home, before the top two couples of each set whirled around each other.
Children giggled and clapped on the sidelines as adults kept time with their feet, joining with “heeyups” of their own, and I was transported home—my father’s arms around me as we twirled around the Kilrush parish hall, giving it hell-for-leather as we danced “around the house” before relinquishing his spot to my siblings.
Aoife and Síofra both had two left feet, and neither could dance the man, so I’d had to learn how.
Now that I thought of it, neither could Michael, for that matter. He always danced the woman’s role.
I glanced out over the crowd and smiled when I saw no fewer than three men dancing the woman’s role. Michael would’ve loved this. His keenest pleasure had always been these kinds of gatherings.
Tears stung my eyes, and I quickly dabbed them with the lace of my gloved hand.
“Ye all right?”
I whipped around, only to find Cormac, returned from his task, on my right.
“You’re back,” I stated.
With a nod, he took the stool to my right-hand side and stared straight ahead with his arms crossed, shoes tapping the beaten earth at our feet.
“Like ye said, ’twas a bout of melancholy,” he replied. “I brought the carriage. Don’t tell me yer that moved by the dancin’. Are ye crying?”
I nodded. “Naught but memories.”
“They have a way of doing that. The memories. Just creep up on ye when ye least expect them.” As all couples joined in dancing “around the house,” he let out a bellow of a “heeyup,” and I laughed. “Ah, she laughs. Yer only jealous ’cause ye know ye want to dance.”
“I do. It’s just in the blood, I think.”
“Do ye dance the set?” he asked, dragging his gaze away from the dancing.
I nodded. “But not today, methinks.”
“Arra. There’s nothing to stop ye. Sure, couldn’t we say ye’ve been learning?”
“I’d rather not. Besides—” I jerked my chin at the sky. “I don’t think it’ll hold off for much longer.”
Cormac smiled, then untangled his arms to clap his hands together. “All we’re missing is a seanchaí. Nothing beats a bit of bad weather when there’s stories to be tellin’.”
“You enjoy spooky stories?”
“Ye don’t?”
Chuckling, I offered a shrug. “I’ve found the last three years far more frightening than tales of Daoine Uaisle tormenting the human world.”
“Can’t argue with ye there. I often feel like we’re guests in their world, though. The Daoine Uaisle, that is.”
“As I’ve never run into one, I’ll take your word for it.”
His eyes widened. “Never? Not once? Not even a cool breeze where there shouldn’t be one?”
“No, not them at least. But spirits? Those I’ve met a-plenty. And God knows there are many restless spirits roaming the land right now.” I ended with a sigh, just as the third formation of the set began.
Cormac was silent a moment, and the earnest reprieve settled warm and snug against my chest. It’d been a long time since I’d had someone to talk to—really talk to.
Not just in general, but about anything other than where the next meal would come from, and I wondered if mayhap I could ask his opinion on matters at Browne House.
“How many have ye lost?” he asked at last, his voice a whisper as I closed my eyes.
Their faces flashed through my mind one by one, and I sighed. “My mam, Da, all nine of my siblings, and—” I clamped my lips shut and stared down at my lap.
“’Tis all right,” he soothed, straightening on his stool. “They likely haunt ye from morning ’til night. Ye don’t need me reminding ye.”
“My … my son.” Once the words were spoken, a weight lifted from my shoulders, and I shuddered. I don’t know what tempted me to divulge, but it felt fine. To speak of him aloud … at last. “My babe. They told me he was stillborn, and I never got to see his sweet face.”