Chapter 19
I want to make England feel her weakness if she refuses to give the justice we the Irish require—the restoration of our domestic parliament.
“How is Mama?”
Dressed and ready for the day—this time in a simple, powder-blue day dress—I walked with Aggie as we descended the staircase leading from the fourth floor to the third.
Yesterday’s storm had lifted, and the sun shone bright through each window—a lit brazier that burned through sorrow and pain, darkness and shadow.
More’s the shame, for good weather was scarce, and I should take advantage of the respite.
“Aye, she’ll be grand,” said Aggie. “Ye did a fine job fetching Dr. Brady, m’Lady.”
“The least I could do after causing such an episode,” I replied, stepping onto the third-floor landing and rounding the banister to descend to my destination—his lordship’s study. “Will she be fit for visitors today?”
“Visitors, m’Lady?” Without turning, I could just tell Aggie’s brows had flown up her forehead.
“Me, Aggie. I’d like to see her.”
“Ah. Well. Maybe. We’ll have to see how she is.”
I halted on the stair, causing her to stop short, skirts pressing into mine.
“Tell me, Aggie.” Glancing over my shoulder, I found her in silhouette against the light from the landing window, a faceless shadow looming above. I shivered. “Does Mama experience such episodes often? Are they brought on by grief?”
“Stress,” she snapped, stepping around me to continue her descent. “’Tis a great undertaking, what she’s doing here. And yer own part will be over soon. Can ye not just carry on without causing a commotion?”
Pressing my lips together, I followed her.
“What, exactly, is my part?” I asked.
“Exactly what ye were told. Become Wilhelmina and fool the solicitors.” Aggie reached the second-floor landing and placed both hands on her hips.
“What if I’ve changed my mind?”
Aggie whirled on her heel, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed so low her nose wrinkled. “Ye cannot do that. If ye knew what it cost us to live under her protection, ye’d—”
Clamping her lips together, Aggie glanced up at the ceiling, chest heaving.
I paused on the stair. “What do you mean by cost? Surely you earn a salary here at the Big House and have no rent?”
“Never ye mind,” Aggie snapped, glaring up at me. “And do as yer told. It’ll all be over soon.”
My heart raced in my chest. That’s exactly what I feared. When I didn’t move or speak, she rolled her eyes and huffed.
“It was a long night for me, sitting by her ladyship’s side. I’m that sorry I lost my temper with ye,” she offered, by way of apology. “Let’s hurry now, else your breakfast will turn cold.”
“I’ll take breakfast in the study,” I replied.
Her eyes widened.
“The least I can do after yesterday is throw myself into education. You said yourself that I cannot abscond from my agreement, and it is my understanding there are lives on the line.”
Perhaps even mine.
Without another word, I swept down the remaining stairs and brushed past Aggie, rounding to my left, toward Lord Browne’s study.
Seated at Lord Browne’s desk, I eyed the stack of journals before me.
There were accounts for each year, beginning with “1803,” and my head ached at the thought of reading through twenty-nine years of this man’s life.
But a quick scan of “1803” told me enough to rule out anything interesting in that year—he’d turned twenty-two, his father had passed away, and our Lord Browne had taken over the running of the estate.
“1804” through “1823” bore similar fruit—noting births and marriages of friends and family, accounts of affairs that drew heat to my cheeks, trips to London and the Continent, details of other homes owned, gambling debts owed, race horses purchased.
But there was one very interesting fact.
Mr. Hogan and Dr. Brady were once part of Lord Browne’s inner circle.
That accounted for his lordship’s portrait displayed proudly in Dr. Brady’s parlor.
Stifling a yawn, I stood and stretched before noting the time on the fine, mahogany longcase clock—ten past two.
With a sigh, I gathered the journals I’d already pored over and began re-shelving them to the left of the door, brow furrowed.
By my calculations, Lord Browne had turned forty-three in 1823—still unwed, with nary an intention to marry at all.
I’d even found an entry claiming he would leave the title, and all estates and land, to a nephew of his in London.
Striding back to the desk, I plucked “1824” from the dwindling pile, and thumbed through, settling on an entry a few pages in.
February 17th 1824
Low I spied her again today, hair wild and dark, skirts gathered up as she waded in the shallows, gathering the periwinkles so many tenants cherish.
Foul, slimy snails—it baffles the mind how one could lower themselves to consume them.
And yet I couldn’t tear my eyes from her.
Hogan and Brady completed our party, and when I enquired her name, Hogan had it. Cate. Recently come from East Clare.
Eyes widening, I took a seat in the winged Queen Anne chair before the desk. Cate? As in, Lady Catherine? I turned the page. Nothing more. Another. Nothing. Scanning through, I stopped when the word “Cate” jumped out once more.
August 15th 1824
I cannot for the life of me understand this change of heart.
Truth be told, I am a victim of an enchantress, and that enchantress is to become my wife.
She has acquiesced most joyfully, and I am torn so fervently.
This woman brings neither family nor wealth, nor breeding.
And yet I would give her the world if only she asked.
My brother thinks I’ve run mad, but Cate consumes my every waking thought, and I must have her.
It would be a small thing to elevate her to Browne House staff and have her squirreled nightly to my chamber.
And yet I cannot. It’s as though my voice and body are no longer mine own, but hers, and I act with only her interests in mind.
October 2nd 1824
We have returned from a honeymoon most sweet, where Cate charmed the aristo set so thoroughly that none might guess the dung heap from whence she sprang—save for the barbaric butchering of the King’s.
My brother is most foul in his correspondence, demanding a copy of my last will and testament, lest I leave everything to a possible heir.
He needn’t fear. At nine and twenty, Cate will have trouble conceiving, and I highly doubt our union will bear fruit.
For now, we take pleasure in each other’s company.
I predict her charm will outstay its welcome shortly, and we shall live comfortably as lord and nursemaid as I creep toward old age.
I rolled my eyes. Twenty-nine was hardly old enough to be set out to pasture—my own mam was proof of that. Didn’t she give birth to my youngest brother at the grand age of forty-one?
I picked up “1825,” then “1826,” but it seemed Lord Browne had lost interest in his newly married status—beyond a few tiffs and a surprise pregnancy—until “1827.”
March 1st 1827
The grief in my chest swells to such dimension that I can feel naught for the arrival of the child.
Something is amiss. Cate and I quarreled over the will a week before the accident.
How could such a thing occur? My brother, his wife, and their son—my heir—all gone.
A broken axel and a steep decline through Hardknott Pass in Cumbria has left no survivors.
How am I to celebrate the birth of our child when her first words to me upon my entering the birthing chamber were, “There are no obstacles now. You’ll name her your heir. ”
But I had learned of the tragedy that very morning, and she in the throes of labor.
No one had told her.
July 14th 1827
I demanded Cate produce the key to the attic, for I must know what occurs beneath my roof.
It has been brought to my attention that she is a Connors of Faha, which makes her some relation to Biddy Early.
Every mechanism of this ill-fated relationship is finally falling into place—my falling for her in the first place, wedding despite my better judgment, a child produced in a barren womb, my heir’s demise.
I will not name Wilhelmina my heir, and no amount of sorcery will compel my hand.
Reports of strange lights crossing the rocky planes nearby have alerted the Lahinch constabulary, lest they be a band of those troublesome Repealers attempting to spread their nonsense to my tenants.
Curse Daniel O’Connell and all his ilk. Praised as some sort of “liberator” in his efforts to dismantle the Act of Union and emancipating the Catholic Irish.
I feared Canning would entertain O’Connell’s nonsense, but Canning’s benevolence extends only to Catholic aristos of England, thank God.
December 24th 1827
I have made Wilhelmina my heir. Cate brought the faerie lights to Gortacarnaun, and with them came a disease affecting my livestock and failure of my crops.
We are ruined, and she delights, speaking of her “mistress” and all her “mistress” can do.
I have no choice now but to acquiesce to her every whim, lest Cate convenes with this Devil and sees to my own demise.
I fear I’ll not last to see the New Year, and I refuse to hold the child.
April 20th 1828
The faerie lights still abound, and misfortune most foul continues. Hogan has made enquiries further afield as to their origins, but fear has gripped the tenantry, and all speak of a “hungry grass.” Ruination of the land at the hands of beings from the realm of faeries.
Dr. Brady visits weekly to test the food stores—I fear she might poison it to be rid of me.
June 7th 1828
I held Wilhelmina at last, and for the first moment since Cate entered my life, a great sense of peace washed over me.
Whether this is another magic of Cate’s at work or simply parental fondness, I care not a fig.
To have the babe’s arms squeeze so trustingly around my neck, to feel the softness of her straw-colored curls brush my cheek.
She is a ray of sunshine I did not suspect I needed.
Hogan returned with tales of a being with the power to control the “hungry grass.” I told him it’s not a “being” I wanted, but the name of whatever Devil Cate has made a pact with.
Brady continues his weekly visits.
October 20th 1828
The harvest was good. The curse has lifted. Cate has been pleased with me since embracing Wilhelmina in my heart.
I no longer fear death, for we have reconciled.
January 5th 1829
Cailleach. K-eye-lock. Cailleach, Cailleach, Cailleach. The being is the Cailleach.
April 6th 1829
Don’t go in the attic. That’s her domain. Cate had warned me, but with the atmosphere now at ease, it had slipped my mind.
Dr. Brady came to set my leg. Cate told him it was a fall, but something pushed me down those attic stairs.
The staff whisper about ghosts, but there was nary a specter in this house before Cate and her sorcery. I think it’s her.
June 19th 1830
I found the accounting record Cate had hidden away in the library she’s made her own, but can’t make heads nor tails of it.
The key to everything is within, I am sure of it.
The gardener informed me that new tenants all dealt with Cate, and that each had paid a price for “protection.” What protection?
I know in my heart it is intertwined with her, the Cailleach. I have long since determined it best to allow Cate to practice her craft, but I wish to know the extent of it all. If not for my sake, for the child’s.
Dr. Brady has prescribed an herbal mixture to be burned daily, to calm my nerves.
June 30th 1830
Cate found the accounting record in my possession, promptly retrieved it, and locked me in my study. No food, no water, for two days.
She came in the night, the Cailleach. Unhappy, methinks. Cate’s hold over her grows stronger. She spoke of drawing power, and symbiosis, but I knew not what she meant.
Hogan reports the weather turned on the day Cate confined me. He feared the worst for the crops, but it turned again when I was released.
I believe the Cailleach talked sense into her, and for that I am grateful.