Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One

by Jessica Spotswood

  I can’t fathom it. The only life I’ve known is here in Chatham. I’ve never been out of Maine. Never farther than the seaside. “Taverns? I don’t imagine the Brothers approve of that.”

  Paul chuckles. “They shut them down as fast as they open. There are signs up everywhere, warning us against drink and gambling.” He stretches his arms over his head, and I can’t help noticing how well his suit fits. “They regulate the gentlemen’s clubs with iron fists, Jones says, but he took me with him to his, and you wouldn’t believe the—”

  “Paul. I’m sure Miss Cahill doesn’t want to hear your scandalous tales.” Mrs. McLeod settles her feet on the hot-water bottle on the carriage floor. “Are you quite certain you aren’t cold, dear?”

  I would love to hear scandalous tales, but I can’t very well say that. Instead, Paul and I both assure her that we are comfortable. I take in a deep lungful of air as we pass an orchard, the trees tangled with ripe red apples. On the other side of the lane, the trees are bare, already picked. The sweet air smells like home, like autumn. I wonder what New London smells like—smoke from all those factories? Sewage from all the people and horses?

  “And now you’re back for good?” I ask Paul.

  “We’ll see. I’ve missed the place.” His green eyes linger on mine until I find myself flushing again.

  “It hasn’t been the same without Paul, has it, Mrs. McLeod?” I say lightly, deflecting the attention. She’s only too glad to enumerate the many ways in which she’s missed her son, how silent and dull the house has been without him, how she’s been planning a dinner party to celebrate his return.

  “And you’ll come, of course, won’t you? You and Maura and your father,” Paul suggests.

  “Of course.” It’s one invitation I can accept with ease. The McLeods are our nearest neighbors. As a child, I was in and out of their house almost as much as my own. I grin, remembering the time Paul dared me to tightrope-walk the wall around the McLeods’ pigpen. I fell and sprained my ankle, then swooned from the pain and fright. Paul carried me home, terrified he’d murdered me. Once he was assured I was all right, he teased me mercilessly about being such a girl. He went about for months falling down in a mock faint.

  I must have been about ten at the time. Mother was recovering from the third stillbirth—Edward Aaron. Mrs. O’Hare insisted on cleaning me up and bandaging my ankle before I was allowed into Mother’s rooms. I remember her pale, drawn face and the purple shadows under her swollen eyes. She told me I had to start behaving like a lady soon, and I stuck out my tongue at her, and she laughed.

  The barouche pulls up before our house, and Paul jumps out. “I’ll be back directly, Mother,” he says, helping me down, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow.

  He stops just outside our front door, fixing me with an earnest expression. “Cate, I was so sorry to hear about your mother. She was a great lady,” he says.

  “Thank you.” I stare at the plot of black-eyed Susans beside the porch. “We appreciated your note of condolence.”

  “It wasn’t enough. I wanted to come home, but it was the beginning of the term—”

  Yes, the timing was inconvenient. My mother’s death wasn’t reason enough to miss a few classes. Never mind that Mother used to sneak him sweets that his mother forbade. When she was well enough to come outside, he used to turn cartwheels through the garden to cheer her, and when she wasn’t, he’d make hideous faces at her through the window. He was my best friend, and he grew up with her, too, and he couldn’t be bothered to come home for even a week.

  “You couldn’t have gotten back in time for the service. I know. It’s quite all right.” But I don’t meet his eyes, and my reassurance sounds hollow. Will he notice?

  “It’s not. I wanted to be here for your family—for you—but—” I look up as he falters, and he leans in close. He smells spicy, like pine needles. “I couldn’t come home. Financially, I mean. I was too proud to write it at the time, and my mother would murder me for telling you now. Money’s been scarce.”

  “Oh,” I say, stupidly. I’ve never had to worry about money, not for a minute. I’ve always taken it for granted that our good name is all the currency I need.

  “You must have wondered why I never came home at holidays.” He gives me a funny little smile, as though he hopes I did wonder.

  “Your mother told everyone you were with your cousins in Providence.” I’d assumed he’d made fine new friends in the city and forgotten me.

  “We couldn’t afford even that. I would have been sunk if Jones hadn’t offered me lodging. I owe him a great debt.”

  Oh. I feel guilty now, for all my uncharitable thoughts. “You should have told me. You could have written.”

  “I wanted to.” Paul smiles. “I wanted to tell you everything. But to have your father reading it all first—that made it less appealing.”

  “As if I couldn’t get around Father,” I huff, affronted.

  Paul chuckles and steps closer—far closer than is appropriate. There are only inches separating us; I can feel the warmth of his body almost touching mine. “I’ve missed you.”

  I’ve missed him, too. But it was inevitable that our friendship would change as we got older, and perhaps the forcible separation was for the best. After Mother died, when Maura ran wild, keeping the magic a secret was hard. Keeping it from Paul would have been nearly impossible.

  “Can you forgive me? I know you must have been angry.”

  I duck my head. “No, I—”

  “I know you better than that. Come now. Mad as a hornet?”

  I grin, sheepish. “A whole nest of them. It—hurt. A bit. That you weren’t here.”

  Paul takes my hand. The smile fades from my face. “I’m sorry for it. Truly,” he says.

  “Paul!” Mrs. McLeod’s querulous voice calls. “Let Miss Cahill go inside before she catches a chill!”

  “Indeed, Miss Cahill, we know what a delicate flower you are,” Paul teases.

  I roll my eyes and give a very unladylike snort. “Indeed.”

  “So you forgive me, then?” His hand grips mine, burning warm even through the kid gloves that separate our skin.

  “Of course.”

  Paul’s eyes search mine. “May I call on you tomorrow afternoon?”

  My heart beats faster. As an old friend? Or as a potential suitor?

  When I asked whether he was back to stay, and he saidwe’ll see—what did that mean? Does he intend to court me in earnest? The sense of panic that’s been battering at me for the last few months eases just a little.

  I’m suddenly very aware that he is still holding my hand.

  “Yes. Only”—I wrinkle my nose—“the house may be in a bit of an uproar. Our new governess is arriving in the morning.”

  “Governess?” Paul’s eyes go wide. “Lord help her. How many have you gone through?”

  “This is the first, thank you. Father’s been tutoring us, but he’s going to be away most of the fall. And how do you know we haven’t become exceedingly polite young ladies while you were gone?”

  Paul brings my hand to his lips, turns it over, and presses a kiss to the bare bit of skin at my wrist. He’s held my hand dozens of times over the years, boosted me up onto horses and into trees. This is entirely different. It leaves me gaping at him, mouth open like a ninny.

  He winks at me and doffs his hat. “Because I knowyou. See you tomorrow, Cate.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “SHE’S HERE!” TESS CALLS. “SHE’S here!”

  She and Maura scamper out the front door before I can stop them. Father and I follow, with more decorum but just as much curiosity. Our carriage is rattling slowly up the potholed drive with the new governess inside. I’m not optimistic. After all, Mrs. Corbett recommended her, didn’t she? I’d wager she’s some sheltered convent girl, brought up by the Sisters to earn her livelihood teaching dull, demure young ladies to become dull, demure wives. I’m expecting a prim miss given to sprouting platitudes.


  So I’m quite surprised when the carriage door is flung open and Sister Elena hops out without even waiting for John to hand her down. She swishes up to the porch, taffeta petticoats rustling, moving as though she owns the place.

  Maura was right. Sister Elena is pretty—no, beautiful—with smooth brown skin and black ringlets peeking out from beneath her hood. And she’s fashionable—as fashionable as the Brothers’ strictures will allow. Her dress has a wide bell skirt in a soft pink that reminds me of Mother’s peonies. A pleated black silk cummerbund draws attention to her small waist, and black velvet slippers adorn her feet.

  “Sister Elena, welcome,” Father says, stepping forward. “We’re glad to have you. These are my daughters, Catherine, Maura, and Teresa.”

  “Cate, please,” I correct.

  “And Tess.” Tess is half hiding behind me, her blond head resting against my shoulder.

  “Certainly. If we’re to dispense with the formalities, you must call me Elena. I’m so glad to meet you all.” Elena smiles, her chocolate eyes tilting up at the corners. “I’m certain we’ll get along famously. I’ve always been fast friends with my pupils.”

  Father looks relieved, but I bristle at her boldness. She doesn’t know a thing about us, and Regina Corbett’s bosom friendship hardly recommends her tome. Father inquires after her journey, whether the inn she stayed at last night was satisfactory, whether she might like to see her room and freshen up before they discuss our curriculum, while my temper commences a slow boil.

  Elena can’t be more than a few years older than me. She’s a member of the Sisters, which means she spends much of her time walled up in their cloisters in New London. What can she teach us about the world or about catching a husband?

  I remember Paul’s words from yesterday—Lord help her—and grin.

  “Cate?” Father says, and I startle, the mad smile slipping from my face. “Would you show Sister Elena to her room?”

  “I’ll do it,” Maura volunteers, grabbing Elena’s leather valise and leaving John to bring her trunk. “You’ll be in the room directly across from mine. It’s got a beautiful view of the gardens.”

  “Ah, yes. Mrs. Corbett mentioned you’ve got the magic touch with flowers, Miss Cate.”

  Her tongue trips over the word lightly, but I look at Elena hard. She’s giving me a bland smile. Perhaps it’s just a figure of speech, albeit a dangerous one.

  “Thank you,” I say uncertainly. “I do enjoy being outdoors.”

  “My late wife—” Father begins, then coughs. “She spent a great deal of time in the gardens. Cate inherited her mother’s talent for growing things.”

  I give Father a startled look. I wasn’t aware he thought I had any talent; this is the first I’ve heard of it. Maura leads Elena inside, pointing out the sitting room, Father’s study, and the dining room before leading her upstairs. Maura bounces like a child, whereas Elena walks sedately, back straight, trailing a gloved hand along the curved wooden balustrade like a queen. I scurry after them.

  “You’ve a lovely home,” Elena says, pausing at the top of the stairs to admire the painting of Great-Grandmother. She was a petite woman with pale blond curls like Tess’s. She wasn’t pretty, though—she had a cadaverous face, with a complexion like old milk. But she was strong. She raised four children, buried two, and kept the farm running even after a fever took her husband.

  Maura tosses her hair. “It’s falling apart. It was my great-grandparents’ originally—this is Great-Grandmother. Sour looking, isn’t she? I’d love to move into town proper, but Father won’t hear of it. It’s frightfully dull out here in the country. It must seem horrid to you after all the excitement of New London.”

  Good Lord. “We’re hardly in the country,” I object. “It’s only two miles to town. And Father will never move, not with the cemetery here.”

  Elena takes Maura’s frankness in stride. “I’m very sorry about your mother. You must be tired of hearing that, I know. I lost both my parents when I was eleven. People never know what to say, do they? Mrs. Corbett told me you were in full mourning for a year. That you’ve put off coming out into society. Of course, with your father away so much, with no mother to introduce you, how could you? But it must be rather lonely.”

  “Yes,” Maura says emphatically, just as I say, “We manage.”

  Moving away from the stairs, we pass Father’s room, the closed door to Mother’s bedroom and sitting room, my bedroom and Tess’s, and finally come to Elena’s. It’s right across the hall from Maura’s. “It’s not very grand,” Maura says apologetically, even though Mrs. O’Hare and Lily spent all day yesterday airing it out and dusting the heavy mahogany furniture until it gleamed.

  Elena crosses to the window and pushes back the heavy green draperies. Beyond the garden, the fields stretch out for acres and acres, the ripe golden wheat undulating in the breeze. “It’s a lovely view. What a pretty garden.”

  Maura puts Elena’s valise on the bed and jumps up beside it, ducking beneath the rose-colored canopy. “But we’ll have to spruce up the house a bit, won’t we?” she persists, eager for an ally. “If we’re to have callers, I mean. Cate’s got to find a husband soon.”

  “Maura!” I hiss, mortified. She can’t wait five minutes to bring that up?

  Elena smiles, even white teeth flashing against her dark skin. “When’s your birthday, Cate?”

  “March fourteenth,” I murmur. I’m surprised Mrs. Corbett hasn’t told her that, too. It seems the old bat’s been quite chatty.

  “She’s got a suitor,” Maura confides, and I fight the urge to throttle her.

  “Your intention ceremony’s coming up,” Elena says. “Don’t worry about a thing, Cate. Leave it all to me.”

  I stare at the dusky pink rug, resentment swelling up again. I’m hardly the type to leave the worrying to anyone else, to start with. And how can I leave my future to a complete stranger?

  Maura thinks it’s all very straightforward: I’ll marry Paul. But he didn’t say whether he was back in Chatham for good, or only for a visit. And the way he spoke of New London, with such fervor—I can tell he likes it there. What if he asks me to marry him but move away?

  How did Mother expect me to keep my promise when I came of age? She knew I wouldn’t be able to stay home forever.

  I’ve got to find her diary. Soon.

  An hour later, I’m kneeling on the hardwood floor of Mother’s sitting room, surrounded by the contents of her writing desk. Nibs and sealing wax and parchment are scattered helter-skelter on the floor. A neat stack of correspondence, bound with a blue velvet ribbon, sits next to me. I’ve already read through it—twice. There are no mentions of any Zuzannahs or Zinnias anywhere. Who is this mysterious Z. R.?

  I know Mother kept a diary during that last year; I interrupted her scribbling in it whenever I came into her rooms. I’ve never been able to find it. But I’ve never been as determined as I am now. I need her guidance. Not just about magic, but about my future. What did she want me to do?

  I feel along the drawers, looking for a spring or a latch that might reveal a false bottom. There’s nothing. I throw things back into the drawers, slide them into place, and rock back on my heels, frustrated. Elena’s very presence here pinches at me like too-tight slippers. I’ve put off thinking about myself, concentrated instead on Tess and Maura and my promise. But I can’t ignore the reality any longer. Father didn’t hire Elena to teach us French and flower arrangements; he hired her to make sure that Maura and I find husbands.

  The Brothers are afraid the witches will rise up again someday, Mother said, so they loathe the idea of powerful women. We are not permitted to study and go to university as men do, or to take up professions. There are a few notable exceptions: the town midwife, Mrs. Carruthers; the dressmaker, Ella Kosmoski; and Marianne Belastra—but Mrs. Belastra took over the running of the bookshop only after her husband’s death. Women are not normally granted permits to run businesses.

  The Sisterhood is held u
p as an alternative to marriage, and an honorable one. They do the charitable work of the Brotherhood: serving as governesses and nurses, visiting the sick and dying, and feeding the poor. But no one in Chatham has actually joined them in years. The notion of spending my life studying scriptures or teaching orphan girls is odious. I’m fairly certain I’d murder my pupils. Furthermore, living in a cloister with dozens of other women sounds suffocating. Trying to keep my magic a secret would be too risky.

  No. The Sisterhood is not an option.

  I crawl beneath the desk, running a hand along the underside. The diary can’t have disappeared into thin air. But there’s nothing here. I wince as my slipper catches on a nail in the floorboard, then pull off my shoe, frowning at the run in my stockings. Mrs. O’Hare is sure to scold me again about how I go through them faster than Maura and Tess together, and—

  Wait.

  I inch backward. The floorboard nearest the wall tilts beneath my palm. I pull at the nail that sticks up; it comes free. I lift the board. Underneath, there’s a hollow space. I thrust my arm in to the elbow, hoping I won’t disturb anything crawling. My hand searches over dusty wood. It touches something small and smooth and round. I pull it out—only a gray button. It must have fallen in here by accident. I remember the dress it belonged to: high necked, with each of its gray flounces edged in black lace, and a row of these buttons up the back.

  I tuck it into a drawer and keep searching.

  There’s nothing else.

  “Acclaro?”I try, hopefully, and power sizzles through me. I shove my arm in again, and the illusion of emptiness is broken as my fingertips brush against a book.

  The familiar blue cloth cover is grimy, but I hug it to my chest because it’s a piece of her. Whatever secrets it contains, for a few minutes, she’ll be with me again. Mother will be able to tell me what to do. She always knew what to do.