Betraying Season (10 page)

“Oh, I did it, sir. It’s just—” He glanced at Pen and cleared his throat again. “It’s just that I don’t think discussion of the Triple Goddess’s, er, attributes are suitable for discussion in a group such as this.”

Pen’s heart sank.

Dr. Carrighar appeared perplexed. “In what way?”

Sheehan gave him an agonized look.

“He means,” drawled Doherty, “that it’s all utter bollocks, sir.”

Sheehan grew red in the face. “No, that’s not what I meant, if you please, Eamon. And don’t talk that way in front of Miss Leland.”

“Why not? If she’s good enough to work with us, then she has to
get used to our ways. I’m not going to change how I speak just because she’s here.”

“Uh, excuse me.” Pen rather surprised herself by speaking.

“That’s the problem with you, Eamon. Everything always revolves around you, doesn’t it—”

“Excuse me,” Pen spoke a little louder.

“No, it doesn’t. I’m just tired of the damned English coming over here and thinking they can—”

“Excuse me!” Pen stood up and nearly shouted. “Mr. Sheehan, I thank you for your concern for my feminine sensibilities. But I shall promise not to be embarrassed by any speech or subject matter in these tutorials if you will do the same. Please just forget my sex and regard me as a scholar. Mr. Doherty, I can’t change my nationality any more than I can change my sex. But can you temporarily suspend your own dislikes while we are here, for the sake of learning?”

Everyone—the four students and Dr. Carrighar—stared at her as she stood there, breathing hard. Fergus Quigley let out a soft, nervous giggle.

Doherty narrowed his eyes. “Very well, Miss Leland. For, as you say, the sake of learning. Then I’ll repeat my previous statement. This reading on the Triple Goddess was utter tripe. Ignorant peasant superstition. Three goddesses in one—it’s nonsense.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Dr. Carrighar leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling with a meditative air. “Now, what major religion have I heard of that is based on a similar doctrine?”

Doherty flushed. “It’s not the same thing! And furthermore, it has no relevance to magic. It’s how the biddies kept their families in line, invoking some dread crone if they didn’t do as they were told. What does it have to do with the ancient bardic knowledge and
rituals of the Druids that are the true magic? Which was, I might add, the exclusive province of men.”

“Reverence for the Goddess predates the Druids,” O’Byrne commented thoughtfully. “Before them, there was the Great Mother—this Triple Goddess—and her horned consort, the Lord of the Greenwood. Why do you suppose—”

Doherty interrupted him with a rude noise. “Yes, and sprites and pixies in every mud puddle and blade of grass. It was superstition and nature worship. Not the basis of real magic.”

“Mr. Doherty.” Dr. Carrighar sat up very straight in his armchair, a bad sign. “I was not aware that personal opinion and belief had come to take the place of intellectual discussion in my tutorials. Perhaps I ought to invite Father Kelley from the rectory and let him debate the existence of magic with you. Miss Leland, I feel I must apologize for my class today. I had expected better of them.”

Pen shriveled in her seat. Oh, why had he addressed such a comment to her? All it did was separate her from the others. “It’s not—that is, I don’t want—” she began.

“There, see? We’ve upset her.” Sheehan leaned toward her with an apologetic, hangdog expression. “I hope you’re proud of yourself, Eamon.”

“Stop it, all of you!” Without thinking, Pen leapt out of her seat again and fled upstairs to her room.

This wasn’t going to work. She threw herself onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling. Dr. Carrighar’s students would never be able to accept her among them. Studying with her sister under Ally had shielded her from the reality of masculine attitudes toward female learning, from Doherty’s outright contempt to Sheehan’s well-meaning but misguided urge to censor in the name of protecting
her “feminine sensibilities.” In the end, both attitudes were equally repugnant. Would she have to go back to studying alone with Dr. Carrighar? Would he have time to tutor her alone, or would he even want to?

Oh, why did Ally have to be so ill and wretched? But Pen couldn’t burden her with her upset over today’s scene. She rolled over, clutched her pillow, and let out the tears that burned the back of her throat.

“Now, child. Crying about it won’t help,” a quiet, creaky voice chided gently.

Pen stiffened. Who’d said that? She hastily rolled over and pushed herself up on one hand.

A very small, very dainty old lady stood next to her bed, watching her with a faintly disapproving frown. She wore an old-fashioned white mobcap on her wispy gray curls and a white fichu collar over an equally old-fashioned sprig-print beige gown. Above a small pair of spectacles perched on her nose, her eyes twinkled with quiet sympathy and humor. They were also odd—the right one blue, the other brown. Pen blinked. They were just like Michael Carrighar’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, scrambling off the bed and smoothing down her dress.

“I know you didn’t. It’s all right, girl. As I said, crying won’t help, but sometimes it just feels better when you do.” The little lady nodded and perched herself on the edge of Pen’s bed. She patted the counterpane next to her. “Sit and tell me what happened.”

Pen sat, but couldn’t help asking, “Er . . . may I ask . . . I don’t recall meeting you before, ma’am. . . .”

“No, I generally keep to myself. Too much fuss with people makes me bad-tempered.” The odd eyes twinkled again. “I’m Mary
Margaret Carrighar, and you’re Penelope Leland. It’s my grandson who’s been teaching you, hasn’t he?”

Her grandson . . . that had to be Michael, of course. Good heavens, that made her Dr. Carrighar’s mother! Somehow it was hard to picture Dr. Carrighar as being someone who had once been young. How odd that neither Dr. Carrighar nor Michael had mentioned that she lived here too. Why, she must be well into her eighties, if not older. If she never came downstairs—and she hadn’t in the almost two weeks Pen had been there—she wouldn’t know that Dr. Carrighar had taken over her tutoring from Michael. Well, this was a large house, and Pen hadn’t thought it polite to poke about uninvited. Good thing she hadn’t. This elder Mrs. Carrighar had more than a touch of vinegar about her, and probably wouldn’t have taken kindly to intrusion. Not that it had stopped her from walking into the room just now—

“You needed someone to talk to, ’tis plain as plain. Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered you. Now, why such tears? Come on, out with it.” The lady whisked out a tiny handkerchief tucked into a loop at her waist and handed it to Pen. A whiff of camphor and gillyflower rose from it, old-fashioned scents that matched its owner perfectly. Pen smiled and dabbed at the already-drying tears on her cheeks.

“It’s nothing, really. I don’t want to trouble you, ma’am—”

“No, it isn’t nothing, and I want to be troubled, and you will please to address me as Mary Margaret. It is appropriate for equals, and equals we are—or shortly will be, Goddess willing. With a little more work, I can see that you’ll be a fine witch someday, if you don’t get distracted.” She nodded solemnly.

Pen blinked. “You’re a . . . ?”

Mary Margaret drew herself up. “And what else would I be?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve just been so used to being secretive about magic all my life. I ought to have known that you were a witch.” What else would Michael’s grandmother be? “And I’m trying my best to learn and study, but the other students don’t want me to share their studies because I’m English and female.”

“Now, the English part—you can’t blame them, in light of history—but I’m sure it’s more to do with your sex.” She sighed. “In my day, magic was mostly the province of women. We followed the Goddess, bless her name. Only men with a very strong calling to it followed the old path. Most of the others with just a little of the magic in them set it aside in their hearts and joined the church instead. It was a more sure way of getting ahead in the world.”

“Well, that would explain the speeches I’ve been hearing about men taking back magic from the hedge-witches and grannies—”

Mary Margaret snorted. “Not that Druid nonsense again? Child, don’t listen to them. They fear the Goddess and the power we women magic users wield, and would take it for their own. So they’ve created a false past to justify their actions. Don’t let them stop you.”

“I won’t, but it’s frightfully hard to concentrate when you can feel their anger hovering over you like a storm cloud. . . . And if they’re not angry, they’re convinced that my sensibilities are too delicate to study the . . . er, earthier aspects of magic.”

The dainty old lady snorted again, in a most undainty fashion. “Why doesn’t
that
surprise me in the least? If that lot could see what went on in the tall grass at a good old-fashioned Beltane celebration, their squinty little eyes would fall right out of their heads. When I was a girl, we didn’t wrap ourselves in false modesty and call it—” She peered into Pen’s face, which felt as if it were fourteen different shades of crimson. “Well,” she went on in quieter tones,
“times have changed, I suppose. Still, they would do well to remember that magic is male and female, just as all of the earth is. For all that we served the Goddess, we honored her consort too. But never forget that it is the female side that bears fruit. And speaking of bearing fruit,” she sniffed slightly, “I wish we could find you a female teacher now that Michael’s wife is ill with her megrims.”

“Oh, it’s not a sham illness. Poor Ally couldn’t even keep a glass of water down,” Pen protested. “And I won’t let the other students keep me from learning.”

“There are matters in magic that are best passed from female to female. Especially when you’re talking about the Triple Goddess.” Mary Margaret stood up and straightened her fichu. “I shall have to think about this. And you should have a rest, I think. Women are the stronger sex, but it doesn’t do to overtax oneself. Come along, lie down.”

She looked so accustomed to being obeyed that Pen didn’t protest that she wasn’t tired, but stretched out on her bed. The lady nodded her approval.

“Very good. I shall come visit you again soon,” she murmured, gliding to the door.

It wasn’t until a gentle knock awoke her that Pen realized she’d dozed off. “Yes?” she called, her voice hoarse.

“Yer lunch, miss. The doctor thought as how ye might like it up here.” Norah came backing into the room with a tray, followed by Maire with two jugs of water for washing.

“One hot an’ one cold, as ye like it.” Norah set the tray down on her desk and bent to peer into her face. “Ye might try a cold towel on the eyes fer a minute or two. ’Twould make ye feel better.” She
nodded at Maire, who wet a linen towel with water from one of the jugs and brought it to Pen.

“Thank you, both of you.” Pen took the cold cloth and pressed it to her eyelids. “Oh, that feels good. Why do some men have to be such—such—”

“Imbeciles?” Maire supplied brightly.

Norah snorted. “That’s bein’ kind. Don’t let the doctor’s half-baked scholars get ye down, miss. They’re not worth the powder to blast ’em all to hell.”

“Norah!” Maire nearly dropped the jug of water.

“’Tis true! Ah, now, see? She’s smiling again. A wash and lunch, and you’ll be fine, Miss Pen. Come on, Maire, and don’t be such an old lady before yer time.” Norah gave Pen a conspiratorial wink and propelled Maire toward the door.

“What if Father Kelley should hear ye usin’ such language?” Maire protested as the door closed behind them.

“He won’t unless he’s told, will he?”

“But ’tis yer immortal soul I’m worried about!”

“Aye, and if the good lord can’t countenance a bit o’ plain speakin’ about the sillier half o’ his creation, then I don’t . . .” Norah’s words faded as the two women descended the stairs.

Still smiling, Pen took Norah’s advice and washed her face. An enticing, savory smell drew her attention back to the tray Norah had left her, but as she crossed the room, a small, crumpled object on the floor caught her notice. She bent to retrieve it and smoothed out the slightly yellowed square of linen, edged with lace like enchanted cobwebs. Mary Margaret Carrighar’s handkerchief. She’d meant to ask Norah about Mary Margaret. Well, she’d do it later.

Pen had finished her lunch and was reading one of Dr. Carrighar’s books when Norah knocked once more, then entered, looking pleased.

“Miss, there’s a caller for you.” She held out a card.

Pen took it and saw
THE HON. NIALL KEATING
engraved on it. A little curl of pleasure rose in her throat. “Thank you, Norah. Where is he?”

“I offered to show him to the parlor, but he said he’d wait in the hall. Said he didn’t want to disturb Mrs. Carrighar.”

“How is she, anyway?”

“Still sleepin’ when I peeked in at one. Dr. Carrighar said we should let her be, if sleepin’ meant she’d suffer less.”

“I see.” This would be the first time she and Niall would be alone together, without Lady Keating or anyone else interrupting their conversation. So tempting . . . but it would hardly be proper to invite him to stay and take tea without a chaperone.

“I could show him into the library,” Norah suggested eagerly. “Or Mr. Michael’s study. Or even the dining room, if ye’d like. Table’s been cleared an’ all. Cook could have tea ready in a minute.”

Pen hid a smile. Norah wasn’t going to let a possible suitor for her get away if she could help it. “It’s all right, Norah.” She hurried downstairs, wishing she’d taken a moment to check that her eyes were clear.

Niall Keating stood at the bottom of the stairs, hat in hand, grinning up at her as she descended. His cheeks were pink and his hair tousled; evidently he had walked there.

“Good afternoon, Miss Leland,” he said with a bow. “I believe in her note of invitation my mother said she’d send a boy around this afternoon for your answer.”

“And you’re the boy?” Pen paused on the last step and smiled back at his impish expression.

“I volunteered for the job,” he explained. “Little Sean has a cold, and I thought to spare him going out. And after all, I am a boy, am I not?”