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

by Jessica Spotswood

  Next to Mother’s tomb are five little headstones all in a row. Three brothers who died before they took a single breath. One who lived for two glorious months, months when Mother sang around the house. Then there’s the last little grave: Danielle. The one the midwife urged Mother against for the sake of her own health. The one who killed her in the end.

  She was only another girl anyway.

  I can’t help wondering why we weren’t enough—why Mother was so determined to give Father a son. A son could have guaranteed that the house and the business would stay in the family instead of passing to our cousinAlec. A brother could have provided a handsome dowry to ensure that we married well. But none of that is a substitute for a mother’s guidance.

  “Cate? Are you all right?” Paul’s peering down at me.

  I force a smile. “Oh, I was daydreaming, wasn’t I?”

  He grins, obviously jumping to the conclusion that it’s his proposal I’ve been thinking about.

  “That’s all right. I ought to be going. You know how Mother hates to let me out of her sight,” he jokes, checking his pocket watch. It was his father’s; he got it right before he left. I remember how proud he was, showing it off to everyone. Mother told him every gentleman should have one. “That would be a benefit to moving to New London, you know. If we stayed here, Mother would insist we live with them. She means well, but she’d drive you mad with all her fussing. And she keeps the house hot as Hades.”

  I laugh, but only because it’s expected. I wouldn’t relish being Agnes McLeod’s daughter-in-law, with her constantly peering over my shoulder, communicating disapproval in her language of sighs. But I’d do it. If Paul weren’t so determined to move to New London, I could marry him and live right next door.

  Now it seems impossible. Unless Mother’s diary releases me from my promise, I’ll have to say no, and Paul won’t understand why. It will ruin everything, and I’ll have to find someone else to marry me, and quickly, too, before the Brothers feel the need to involve themselves.

  Unless—no. I shake the thought off as quickly as it comes. I won’t compel him. Bad enough that I’d have to keep secrets from him. I won’t have a marriage based on treachery.

  I frown at my reflection in the pond, wishing with every fiber of my being that I weren’t a witch.

  CHAPTER 5

  I’M ABOUT TO SCURRYUPSTAIRS when Elena pops out of the sitting room like a frighteningly cheery jack-in-the-box. Has she been lurking there, waiting for me to come in? I hope she doesn’t expect me to confide in her about Paul’s visit.

  “May I have a word, Miss Cate?”

  “I—yes, of course.”

  She leads me back to the sitting room and gestures at the sofa. As though it’s her house, not mine. She sits in the high-backed blue brocade chair Paul recently vacated, but where he slouched, legs long, she perches delicately, her back ramrod straight, her petal-pink skirts pooling around her feet.

  “You don’t seem like the type for prevarication, so I’ll be blunt,” she says, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “You’re the eldest. Your sisters look up to you.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but she waves away my words. “They do, whether they want to admit it or not. If my time here is to be a success, we’ll have to get along. I don’t imagine you wanted some stranger coming and traipsing around your home. But it’s obvious that your father is worried about you girls growing up without a woman’s influence, and I suppose a governess is better than a stepmama, is it not?”

  Lord, but people are taking me by surprise today.

  “I don’t intend to boss or mother you. I’m barely eighteen,” she confides. “It would be nonsense to pretend that I’m so very much wiser. But if we can come to a mutual understanding, I think my time here can be beneficial for both of us.”

  I lean forward, curious. “How so?”

  “It seems you’ve been isolated since your mother’s death. Maura feels the lack of companionship. I can be a friend to her. Let’s be honest, shall we? My job here is less about teaching you French—I understand Tess is already quite fluent—and more about teaching you how to make conversation with dull people you don’t care for. Whatever your reasons for keeping apart”—she fixes me with a look that’s more than a little unnerving—“you’re clearly beginning to attract attention. Mrs. Corbett says you’ve developed a reputation as bluestockings.

  “The Brotherhood is quite firm about women’s roles. We are to be seen and not heard. Men want wives who are meek and agreeable, not clever and opinionated. You must learn to be more pleasing, Cate. For your own safety. I can help you do that.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Become a pretty little doll, you mean?”

  “Become a woman who knows when to keep her mouth shut.” Elena’s voice is like a whip, and I flinch as though she’s struck me. “Has it occurred to you that not all women who refuse to flout convention are mindless? Perhaps it means that they’re clever enough to remain inconspicuous.”

  Is she implying that our reputation is my fault? That I’ve mishandled things because I’m notcleverenough? I’ve kept my sisters out of Harwood, away from the Brotherhood and their snooping informants. Whatever the old cows in town might say about us, I consider that a success.

  “Is that what you did with Regina Corbett? Taught her to be less threatening?” I smirk.

  Elena doesn’t rise to the bait. “Regina has no brains to speak of. Her mother paid me handsomely to ensure that she married suitably. She had no other options. You and your sisters are a different case. You could do very well for yourselves.”

  “What does that mean? To do well?” I’m curious. Her frank assessment of Regina—it almost makes me like her.

  “You could marry, too, if that’s what you want.”Like Regina,her tone seems to say dismissively.Like every other empty-headed nitwit.“It seems you have a suitor. Or. There’s the Sisterhood. The three of you are scholarly, are you not?”

  “Tess and Maura are.” My face burns, remembering Father’s impatience with me. I struggled to keep all the old gods and goddesses and their exploits straight, I faltered over which declension to use, I butchered my pronunciations. I can add and subtract and multiply numbers in my head faster than he can, but what good is that besides keeping the household ledgers? Women aren’t allowed to have their own money.

  “Well.” Elena’s mouth purses, and I find myself unhappy to have disappointed her. “The Sisters would allow you to continue your education. Their libraries in New London are marvelous. The gardens, too. And they appreciate learned women.”

  “We are not a very pious family,” I point out.

  She shrugs one enormous puffed sleeve. “There are ways around that. They took me in when I was orphaned. Gave me a home and an education. If you’re interested, I’m certain I could get them to grant you an interview. Or Maura. Even Tess—girls start at the convent school at ten.”

  The way Elena describes the Sisterhood, it doesn’t sound so impossible. The three of us could stay together, at least, and look out for one another. But wouldn’t we have to take orders swearing to uphold the Brotherhood’s teachings? Study scriptures and pray all day, surrounded by dozens of other religious girls—girls who would surely condemn us if they learned what we are?

  “You’ve been here only a few hours. I think deciding the course of our future is a bit premature.”

  “I disagree. It’s vital for girls your age to consider your options. Lord knows there aren’t many.” Elena rolls her eyes, her exasperation obvious. It makes me wonder how she fits in with the Sisters. Aren’t they meant to be models of womanhood? She hardly seems the meek and subservient sort. “You could be happy in New London; I feel certain of it.”

  “You barely know me,” I point out, bristling. “How do you know what I’d like?”

  “Well, you don’t seem very happy here,” she says bluntly, and I wince. It’s not Chatham that’s the problem; I love my garden and our house and the rolling farmland that surrounds it
. It’s the Brothers and the looming deadline for my intention that plague me. “Just think about it, Cate. Don’t jump to conclusions before you gather all the facts. It is possible for other people to have clever ideas, you know.”

  I open my mouth to argue—to rail at her for her impertinence—but Elena just smiles and sweeps out of the room.

  I don’t know much about the Sisters. Mother studied at their convent school when she was a girl, but she seldom spoke of it. She met Father when she was sixteen and left the school a month later to marry him. It happened so fast; I used to think it was all very romantic. Now, knowing how little she trusted him with the things that really mattered, I wonder whether she had other reasons for wanting to leave the Sisterhood.

  I’m just outside my room, eager to get back to Mother’s diary, when Maura charges up the stairs behind me, grabs my wrist, and drags me into her room. “What?” I ask, annoyed.

  “What do you think?” she whisper-shrieks, closing the door.

  I bounce onto her bed, rumpling the coverlet. Lily must have been in already; Maura never makes her bed. “Of what?”

  She curls up in her window seat. “Of Elena, goose.”

  “Oh.” I can tell by the excitement in her voice that she likes her. “Too soon to say. I wouldn’t go telling her any of our secrets yet.”

  “So I shouldn’t have let her read my diary then?” Maura asks, wide eyed with alarm.

  I shoot to my feet, not realizing the joke until she giggles. “You don’t really keep a diary, do you?” I sigh.

  “Not really,” she clarifies. “Lord, you’re jumpy as a cat. Sit down.”

  I sit, grabbing one of her pillows, turning it over in my hands.Familyis embroidered in wobbly pink letters across the front, surrounded with hearts and flowers. I have a matching one in blue. “I don’t like having a stranger around.”

  “Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear. She seems nice, though, doesn’t she? Not at all what I expected. I remembered she was pretty, but her dresses! I helped her unpack her things and they’re all like that. All fancy brocades and those taffeta petticoats and silks. She even has”—Maura lowers her voice, flushing—“silk underthings. And she has the dearest kid gloves for church, and the prettiest green velvet slippers with little embroidered pink roses! I told her we don’t have anything new, and she said she’d talk to Father about it, that perhaps we could get something made up quick in time for Mrs. Ishida’s tea, if he’s willing to pay a bit extra.”

  “We don’t need all that,” I argue.

  “We do, too. Just because you’re content to tramp around the gardens like some—wait. How did your visit with Paul go? He was flirting with you, wasn’t he? Where did he learn that, I wonder?”

  I think of what Paul said about going wild in New London. I don’t like the idea of him flirting with other girls, escorting them home from services. Not one bit. But he came back for me, didn’t he? I think of his voice in my ear, his breath tickling my neck, and hug Maura’s pillow to my chest. I wonder what it would be like to have a proper kiss. Or improper, depending.

  I giggle. “It was good to see Paul. I missed him.”

  “He makes you smile,” Maura observes. “You ought to flirt back. Did he give you any hints? You know—about marrying you?”

  “He said we’d have plenty of time to get reacquainted before December.”

  “Cate!” Maura shrieks, leaping on me, knocking me over sideways, puppylike in her excitement. “Why didn’t you come tell me straightaway?”

  “Because he didn’t ask me officially, not yet. He hasn’t even spoken to Father. And because I can’t—I don’t know if I can say yes.”

  My sister stares at me, her face two inches from mine, sapphire eyes wide with puzzlement. There’s a tiny scar on her chin from when she had the chickenpox. “Why not?”

  “Because he’s going back to New London. The man he was apprenticing under offered him a position in his firm.”

  Maura sits up, brushing her hair out of her face. “Lucky thing. I’d give my right arm to live in New London. You didn’t—oh, Cate, you didn’t refuse him, did you, just because of that? I know you wouldn’t relish the idea of living in a little flat somewhere with no trees and no garden. But there are parks in the city, aren’t there? And eventually he’ll make enough money to buy you a proper house and—”

  “He said we could rent a house. It’s not that.” I stare at the coverlet, at Mother’s neat, even stitches. “I can’t just leave you and Tess.”

  Maura kicks me. “Yes, you could. We’d come visit you, silly.”

  “But it’s so far. It’s not just in town, or the next town over; it’s two whole days away. I’d never forgive myself if something happened.”

  There’s a silence, and then Maura shoves me with both hands. I roll off the bed and stumble awkwardly to my feet. “Don’t you dare!” she hisses. “Don’t you dare use us as an excuse not to marry him, Cate. We can take care of ourselves.”

  I wrap my arms around myself, miserable. Can they really? I wish I knew.

  “Perhaps we needed you a bit—right after Mother died—”

  A bit? I stiffen, thinking of the nights the three of us slept in one bed, curled together like kittens. When Maura grew pale and thin and hardly left her room, I coaxed Mrs. O’Hare to make all her favorites. After she cleaned her plate, as a reward, I’d take her out to practice magic in the gardens. When Tess had scarlet fever, I refused to leave her side. I read to her during her convalescence until my own throat was raw. I tried to make up for Mother’s absence. I never quite managed, I know—no one could—but I tried so very hard.

  “I don’t care what you promised Mother,” Maura continues, frowning at me fiercely. “You are not responsible for us, do you understand me? If you want to marry Paul, you had better say yes when he asks you. There’s no guarantee he’ll ask twice.”

  Dinner is a strange affair. Mrs. Corbett is here, prattling on about Regina’s advantageous marriage. She’s in absolute raptures over how lovely Regina’s estate is and to what great effect Regina’s decorated the rooms. She eyes our own dining room with clear distaste. The heavy red damask paper on the walls hasn’t been replaced since Father was a boy, and the flowered carpets are starting to show signs of wear. The mahogany table and chairs have curved backs decorated with scrollwork and dragons, in the old Oriental style instead of the new Arabian fashion. All the houses in town have gaslights now, but we still rely on candles. Father insists on it.

  I hear the hum and buzz of conversation but barely take in the words; I find myself watching Elena instead. I wish I could read people the way Tess can. She’s the observant one, brilliant at seeing motives and desires written out on people’s faces, in the pauses between their words. All I notice about Elena is her impeccable table manners and her sycophantic flattery of Mrs. Corbett.

  The soup is salty but serviceable; the boiled codfish is decent if dull. But when Lily brings out the main course, I wince at the platter of gray, overcooked roast. I can’t bring myself to complain to Mrs. O’Hare, but it’s rather mortifying to serve our guests meat that’s tough as shoe leather.

  Except when I bite into it—it’s not. I ladle a bit of the thin, watery onion gravy: it’s seasoned to perfection. After I capture a forkful of mashed potatoes, only to have them melt buttery in my mouth, I’m afraid to try anything else. The limp string beans, the historically dreadful stewed squash— I’m certain it’s all delicious.

  I stare at Grandmother’s pale blue china in horror. Tess promised me! Improving dinner for Father’s pleasure is one thing—still dangerous, but it’s unlikely that he would notice the discrepancy. But to risk it in front of guests—

  I glare at her, but she shakes her head, eyes wide. We both swivel to Maura. She’s listening to whatever Mrs. Corbett and Elena are saying, purposely not meeting our eyes.

  I concentrate on my dinner, pushing against the glamour until it gives way. The next bite requires a goodly amount of chewing, so I
let the glamour slip back over me.

  No one in her right mind wouldchooseto taste this food.

  I glance around the table again. Father is scooping up his potatoes; Mrs. Corbett is dabbing her greasy lips with her napkin. Even Elena is taking delicate bites of the squash. It was a ridiculous gamble, but it doesn’t seem any harm was done. This time.

  As soon as we’ve eaten Tess’s fruit compote and apple tart, I make my excuses, pleading a headache. Maura, who knows my constitution is quite strong, offers to keep me company. I refuse. I need to read Mother’s diary in private. My heart hums, hopeful, in my chest. Whoever my mysterious correspondent is, she wouldn’t have told me to look for the diary unless it contained something that would help. There have been times I have resented Mother for leaving me with so much responsibility and so little guidance. But she must have always intended me to find it. I feel silly for not looking sooner. Perhaps I could have saved myself a great deal of worry.

  Mrs. O’Hare has started a fire in my room to ward off the chill. I kick off my slippers and grab the quilt from the foot of my bed. Mother sewed it especially for me, embroidering it with the blue daylilies that were my favorite flower when I was little.

  I fling myself onto the faded violet settee with Mother’s diary in hand. I took a few things from her sitting room when she died—this settee, the rose-patterned rug next to my bed, her little watercolor painting of the garden. If I bury my face in the arm of the settee and breathe in deep, sometimes I think I can still catch the scent of the rose water she always wore.

  The September wind whistles at the windowpanes and the candle dances on my table, throwing eerie shadows against the walls. If I believed in ghosts, tonight would be a perfect night for an apparition.