Betraying Season (25 page)

He advanced a few steps into the room. Pen saw that he carried a flask. Oh, dear, he wasn’t going to try to dose her the way he had Ally, was he? Ally had made his remedies sound worse than the illness they were supposed to cure.

“Where did who go?” he asked. “I thought I heard you speaking to someone just before I knocked.”

“Mary Margaret, of course. She was sitting right here just a second ago—” She stopped, because Dr. Carrighar’s round face had taken on a peculiar expression.

“Mary Margaret? Is that what you said?” he asked, carefully setting the flask on her nightstand.

She realized that his peculiar expression was one of shock. Was he upset because she called the venerable old lady by her first name? “Er, I mean, Mrs. Carrighar. That’s what she told me to call her, sir.”

He stumbled around the edge of her bed and fell into the chair Mary Margaret had just been sitting on, then pulled out a large handkerchief and mopped his brow.

“Is there anything wrong?” This was getting alarming.

“No—that is, quite the contrary.” Dr. Carrighar straightened in his chair and called out in a loud voice, “Gran!”

“Ye don’t have to shout, Seamus. I’m not deaf, ye know.” Suddenly Mary Margaret was there, perched on the end of Pen’s bed.

“How—” Pen felt her jaw drop.

Dr. Carrighar’s face broke into a broad grin. “Gran, what are you doing, slinking about without telling anyone? Have you been around all this time? Why didn’t you visit me?”

“It’s good to see you, too, grandson.” Mary Margaret sniffed. “Ye never did have a gift for social niceties, though, did you? And those clothes! At least I have an excuse for not following the latest mode. That’s what they were wearing about the time I died, young man. Haven’t ye noticed that fashions have changed in fifty years?”

“About the time you
died
?” Pen nearly choked.

“Gran, you didn’t tell her.” Dr. Carrighar looked reproachfully at Mary Margaret, who suddenly appeared to be uncomfortable.

“I didn’t see as how it mattered much. I just wanted to talk to the girl. She’s the most interesting thing that’s happened in this house for a good thirty years—her and the babe that’s coming, though young Michael’s wife is being vaporish about the whole thing, a pity, because I would have liked to talk with her as well.”

“You’re a ghost!” Pen felt foolish blurting that out, but she couldn’t help it. Mary Margaret Carrighar, for all her daintiness, looked about as ghostly and insubstantial as the wardrobe in the corner.

“Ye don’t have to take that tone with me, young lady.” Mary Margaret frowned, but her hunched shoulders looked defensive. “So what if I’m dead? It doesn’t mean I’ve lost interest in things, though interesting isn’t how I’d be describing this household till you arrived. I’d just about given up and was planning to retire for good when ye moved in, and I thought to meself, ‘Well, she’ll stir things up for a
change,’ and decided to stay put. And if ye were wanting to have a word with me, Seamus, ye might have said so.”

Dr. Carrighar shook his head, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. “I’d forgotten what an outspoken old battle-ax you were, Gran, and if it weren’t impossible I’d come over there and give you an almighty hug.”

“Hmmph. Sentimental boy. You may have gone soft with age, but I certainly haven’t.” But Mary Margaret looked pleased. “Now, about our Penelope here. What have ye been teaching the girl? Books are fine up to a point, but they’re no substitute for life. Unless I’m mistaken—and I rarely am—”

Dr. Carrighar cleared his throat.

She paused and gave him a hard look. “Wipe that doubting expression off your face, Seamus, and stop interrupting me. Now, if I’m not mistaken, the Goddess has business with her, and it’s not going to get done if she’s always got her nose buried in books. That may be fine for your other students—most of them should be librarians, not wizards—but it won’t do for this girl. Why, when I was her age—”

“When you were her age, Queen Anne was on the throne,” Dr. Carrighar interrupted.

Pen gulped. Queen Anne had died in 1714.

“And has magic changed since then? Do ye think the Goddess has even noticed that the time has passed?” Mary Margaret crossed her arms.

“What makes you so sure she’s the Goddess’s, Gran?”

“What makes ye so sure she isn’t? Who taught you about the Goddess all these long years ago? Why else is her magic thriving here, when over the water in England it didn’t? Ye may like to take credit for that, Seamus, but you’d be wrong. Has she come to ye in dreams yet,
child? Hmm? And what about this invitation to Bandry Court? She’s circling you, ever closer. Ye must be ready to meet her.”

Pen opened her mouth, but Dr. Carrighar was quicker. “What invitation to Bandry Court? And what does it have to do with the Goddess?”

“Lady Keating invited me last night. I was going to ask you today if it would be all right for me to go with her.” Pen strategically did not mention Niall’s name.

The old lady shook her head. “Of course she can go, Seamus. This is Penelope’s path we’re discussing, and it’s not up to us to interfere. You should go, young woman. Be watchful, but don’t be fearful. Ye may be tested—that’s just her way. Be who ye are. The Goddess already knows ye anyway, but she likes to see what choices we make before she decides.”

“Decides what?” Pen’s head was starting to ache as much as her stomach. This morning was getting to be too strange.

“Penelope’s needing her rest.” Mary Margaret ignored her question and rose, shooing Dr. Carrighar toward the door. It opened obediently. “Let’s leave her be. Now
you,
ye great stick-in-the-mud. What have ye been doing with yourself since Katherine died? Nothing, as far as I can see. And ye wonder why I’ve had nothing to say—” The door closed behind them.

Pen lay back against her pillows. Mary Margaret, the
late
Mary Margaret, had given her a great deal to think about. Was what she’d said true? Was the Goddess really watching her? What did she have to do with Bandry Court?

Well, at least she’d gotten permission—more or less—to go to Bandry Court with the Keatings. And Niall.

It was going to be wonderful.

The morning after the Whelans’ party, Niall went to post the letters to his father and to Lord Atherston as soon as he was decently shaved and dressed. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to splurge on an express; it was some relief to his feelings to have
something
happen quickly.

Then he waited in a fever of impatience to see Pen that afternoon. But she sent a note shortly after breakfast claiming an indisposition, and another the day after that. Two days, during which his imagination swung between worrying that she’d changed her mind about him and thinking about what he would do with her when she got over her ailment and came back to the house. He tried to relieve his feelings by walking past the Carrighars’ house twice a day, but he never caught a glimpse of her—only their maid Norah, shaking out dusting cloths in the area.

Pen finally came on the third day, and what was more, came unexpectedly early. This was an unhoped-for turn of events, for Mother was not at home; indeed, she and Doireann had gone out on a round of errands and had planned on stopping at the Carrighars’ for Pen when they were through. As Healy showed her into the library, Niall realized that they could probably expect to be undisturbed for at least an hour and a half. A tremor of excitement mixed with indecision ran through him. If he was going to “save” Pen, now would be the time. He rose from his chair by the window and tugged slightly at his cravat, which had grown uncomfortably snug for some reason, as Healy bowed himself out.

“I’ve missed you,” he said as soon as the door had closed behind the butler. Pen looked pale, and though she smiled at him as she
took off her bonnet and gloves, there was a hint—no, more than a hint—of agitation in her attitude and face.

“I’ve missed you too. I . . . it’s . . .” she trailed into silence and looked down, blinking.

“Pen?” he said, approaching her and holding out one hand. “Is there something wrong?”

“No. Everything’s fine. I’m quite well, thank you,” she said brightly, then looked away and sniffed.

He bent and tried to look into her face. She dodged him and turned away, but not before he caught a glimpse of her eyes, bright with tears. “All right, Pen. You’re quite well. You’re also terrible at lying. What is it?”

She sniffed again. “I’d rather not say. It’s over and it won’t happen again if I can help it.”

For a second, Niall was alarmed. She wasn’t talking about the other night, was she? When he’d kissed her at the Whelans’ ball?

“Pen?” he said, more quietly, and reached for her hand. She didn’t snatch it away, so he drew her to the sofa by the fire and sat, pulling her down next to him. “What happened? What has upset you so? Was it”—he swallowed—“was it something I’ve done or said? You’ve stayed away two days, and I was worried that—”

“No!” She looked up at him then. “It’s nothing to do with you. I haven’t come for—for personal reasons. And I shouldn’t have come today until I was better able to control myself. It’s just . . . I needed to see someone that I . . . that I could trust. I’m sorry, Niall. I’ll be better in a few minutes, now that I’m here with you.”

Someone she could trust. He tried to ignore the irony in that. “Whom can’t you trust, sweetheart? Has someone tried to hurt you?”

“No, not really. . . .”

“Not really?” Righteous anger suddenly flared up, making his throat tight. “Who is it? What happened? Did Edward Enniskean come bothering you again?”

She laughed, but it half sounded like a sob. “No.”

“Then who was it, damn it?”

“Niall—”

He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her toward him, so that her head rested on his shoulder. “Tell me.”

“It—it was Eamon Doherty,” she whispered.

“Doherty?”

“One of Dr. Carrighar’s students, the one we rescued that day in the street. He—he just tried to—to
kiss
me.”

For a moment, Niall was sure he’d choke on his anger. Someone had dared to touch Pen—his Pen. And not just touch her. “Tell me what happened, so I know just how hard I’ll have to hit him next time I see him.”

Miraculously, she laughed. “I already took care of that. I stomped on his foot so hard that I’m sure I broke something. Oh!” She shuddered. “How can I face him again after what he said . . . after what he tried to do? After the horrid way he’s behaved toward me, insulting my intelligence and ability in practically every class. I should have turned him into an ant and stepped on him!”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Believe me, I wanted to.” She nestled closer, as if she’d been doing it for years. “It was after our tutorial with Dr. Carrighar just now. Mr. Doherty left as soon as it was over, before the rest of us could even rise from our chairs. I left the room last and was about to
go upstairs when I heard someone call my name. He had hidden himself in the drawing room. He asked if he could speak with me. I assumed it was about the other day—you know, when he was hurt during that political rally?”

“I remember. Go on.”

“Well,” she paused and moved slightly against him, as if she were suddenly uncomfortable. “I asked you to leave us that day because I wanted to use magic to conceal him and get him back to the Carrighars’. I did so, and then I healed him. I began to get a hint that maybe you were right about him . . . about him maybe not hating me . . . but I had no idea. . . . I went into the drawing room, and he closed the doors. He had a strange look on his face, as if he weren’t sure whether to be pleased or angry. He started to thank me for saving him that day, and I brushed it off because I’d . . . well, I’d been a little rude to him after I healed him—”

“I’m willing to wager he was rude first.”

“He was.” She laughed again, then sighed. “He was very stilted and obviously hated having to say what he was saying, but something didn’t feel right. And then he began to speak of one of Dr. Carrighar’s recent lectures on perceiving the purpose behind any given piece of magic, and that he thought he knew why I had helped him. I wasn’t really paying attention because I was trying to think of a polite way to end the conversation and leave, and had turned toward the doors again, and then he . . .” She swallowed. “He caught at my hand. I tried to yank it away, but he wouldn’t let go, and then he started spouting the most horrendous nonsense—how he’d tried to fight his feelings because he’d considered me unworthy of him, and even though he’d had to admit that he was wrong, he still
fought his feelings, but couldn’t overcome them. It was like a ghastly parody of Darcy and Elizabeth in
Pride and Prejudice.
And then he grabbed my waist and tried to kiss me.”

Niall felt like baring his teeth and growling as he pictured it. “What did you do?”

“Stomped on his foot—fortunately with my heel, so it had some effect—and gave him a shove. And then I ran. It would have been so satisfying to give him a thorough dressing-down, but all I wanted to do was escape. I ran upstairs and locked myself in my room, but I could not calm myself. I couldn’t face eating dinner with Dr. Carrighar and pretending nothing had happened, so I left a note for Norah and came here. It was quite dreadful, worrying that he might be lying in wait around every corner.” She shivered. “It sounds a little comical, now that I tell it, but it was anything but at the time. He looked so angry and desperate, and so determined, that I was quite frightened.”