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

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Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One Page 10

by Jessica Spotswood


  CHAPTER 7

  I FEEL LIKE A TRUSSED-UP TURKEY.

  Maura and I went back to Mrs. Kosmoski’s this morning for last-minute alterations. Angeline, red eyed and bereft at the loss of Gabrielle—who was sent away without trial, like her sister before her—tucked and pinched while her mother stuck us with pins. Now our new dresses fit beautifully. We are perfectly fashionable—and I feel perfectly ridiculous, a silly wedding cake of a girl in my violent violet dress with the enormous puffed sleeves. The tiered skirts—four yards of brocade—flare into a bell; the rear is padded and ruffled like the underside of an umbrella. Elena’s laced my corset so tight, I can barely breathe, much less protest.

  My hand, encased in an elbow-length gray kid glove, rests daintily on John’s outstretched arm. He smiles as he hands me down—or perhaps he’s laughing at me behind his whiskers. I’m none too steady in my new heeled boots, picked up yesterday from the cobbler’s.

  Maura sails ahead of me, hips swaying in her voluminous cornflower-blue dress. She’s all graceful curves and poise. She looks beautiful: chin held high and confident, cheeks flushed with excitement. Her dress has black lace trim and a matching black buckled belt, unlike my peacock-blue monstrosity of a cummerbund.

  The Ishidas’ maid directs us into the sitting room. A dozen ladies are sipping tea from china cups painted with pink cherry blossoms—a nod to the Ishidas’ Japanese heritage. When the Daughters of Persephone established the colonies, they abolished slavery and promised religious freedom. Witches from all over the world flocked to New England. Two centuries later, there are faces of every color on the street, and a dozen families of Japanese origin in town. There was some ugliness during the war with Indo-China, but that was twenty years ago: now the Ishidas are one of the most respected families in Chatham. Still, Mrs. Ishida is always careful to stress that their ancestry can be traced back toJapan,lest the neighbors confuse one Oriental face with another.

  “Miss Cahill, Miss Maura, good afternoon! Don’t you both look lovely?” Mrs. Ishida coos.

  I force a smile and make an appropriately insipid response. The room is already full of the Brothers’ wives and daughters. Mrs. Ishida directs us through the pocket doors to the dining room, where Sachi and Rory are pouring tea and chocolate at a long table laden with dahlias.

  “Miss Cahill, Miss Maura, we’re so glad you could come,” Sachi says. Her delicate doll’s face is dominated by striking, almond-shaped eyes set off by thick black lashes. “Miss Cahill, that’s such a lovely shade of purple! Why, your eyes look almost violet in this light!”

  “Thank you,” I murmur. “It was very kind of your mother to invite us.”

  Rory tosses Sachi an arch look across the table, and Sachi laughs. “Oh, that was my doing; Mama would never think of it. I just saw you at church the other day and thought, why, it’s silly we don’t know each other better. We’re all of the same age, and you don’t live so very far away, and my father thinks very highly of yours. We ought to be friends. Are those new dresses you’re wearing?”

  “Our governess convinced Papa we needed a new wardrobe,” Maura says. I raise my eyebrows. We haven’t called him Papa since we were very young.

  “Lucky ducks.” Sachi pouts. “My papa says I have far too many dresses as it is and lectures me about greed when I ask for more.”

  “Your dress is magnificent,” Maura gushes. It’s garish, actually—an orange taffeta with tiny pink polka dots, and Sachi’s got a ridiculous pink feather tucked in her hair. But she’s so beautiful that she manages to make it look tasteful rather than ostentatious.

  “Milk or sugar?” Rory asks. She has the same dark, lustrous hair as Sachi, but otherwise they couldn’t be more different. Where Sachi is tiny and petite, Rory is tall, with an ample hourglass figure that she takes pains to show off. Today she’s dressed in a red satin frock with a heart-shaped neckline that’s far too low cut for a day dress.

  “No, thank you, I take my tea plain.”

  Sachi hands Maura a cup of hot chocolate. “You’ve got a new governess, haven’t you? Is she very dreadful? Mine’s always yammering on about French. As though I’ll ever go to France! I’ll be lucky to get a wedding trip to the seashore.”

  “Should we be expecting news of your betrothal?” Maura asks, choosing a gingersnap from the plate on the table.

  “Oh, not for a few months yet, I expect,” Sachi says airily. “I’m going to marry my cousin Renjiro, you know. Father’s been planning it since I was a little girl. His family lives in Guilford. We’re going to visit in November, on the way to Papa’s National Council meeting in New London. I imagine Renjiro will propose then.”

  Maura gives me a sly look. “If my sister plays her cards right, she’ll be living in New London soon.”

  I shoot her a murderous glare, but it’s too late. “Is that so?” Rory drawls.

  “Have you had a proposal? I saw Mr. McLeod escorted you home from services on Sunday,” Sachi says.

  “We were only getting reacquainted. We were fast friends as children.” I turn away, trying to discourage the conversation, inhaling the spicy scent of the pink dahlias. They’re just the color of the polka dots on Sachi’s dress. I wonder if she did that on purpose.

  “Well, you’re not children anymore. Mr. McLeod’s gotten awfully handsome. Yum,” Rory says, popping a whole gingersnap into her mouth. She’s got an overbite that gives her the slightest rabbity look.

  Sachi laughs and swats at her. “You needn’t be coy, Miss Cahill, you can tell us. We’re really not the blabbermouths everyone thinks.”

  “Cate’s being modest. He came back from New London especially to court her,” Maura brags. “He’s mad about her. I expect he’ll propose any day now.”

  Sachi looks at me, her dark eyes impenetrable. “Will you say yes?”

  I’m saved by the arrival of Cristina Winfield. She saunters in, kissing Rory on the cheek in greeting, and then they’re busy inquiring abouther newly announced betrothal.

  “Did Matthew kiss you when you said yes?” Rory asks.

  Maura and I drift out of the way, choosing little cakes to accompany our tea.

  “Don’t think you’ll get off so easily, Miss Cahill; we’re not finished with you yet!” Sachi warns me.

  I wander into the sitting room. Why did Sachi invite us, and why is she suddenly so curious about my prospects? We’ve barely spoken a dozen words to each other our whole lives. She and Rory are inseparable, the kind of close that doesn’t allow room for anyone else, and she has all the other girls in town vying to be her friend—proper town girls who don’t need a governess to tell them how to dress and how to behave.

  Maura takes a chair next to Rose and is drawn into an animated discussion about Mrs. Kosmoski’s newest shipment of silks. I’m left to perch on the green-and-gold-striped sofa between Mrs. Ishida and Mrs. Malcolm. The latter has dark circles under her eyes, but she’s full of cheery talk about her new son. Mrs. Ralston, another of the young wives, boasts about her latest goddaughter.

  The word strikes a chord with me. I had a godmother once, and I’m in a room with the biggest gossips in town.

  I put a hand to my temple, a brave smile on my lips. I’m the picture of one of the swooning, consumptive heroines in Maura’s novels.

  “I wishIhad a godmother,” I sigh. The sadness in my voice isn’t entirely feigned. “It would be such a help, now that Maura and I are older. With Mother gone . . .”

  Mrs. Ishida’s feathery eyebrows fly up to perch on her hairline. “But you do. Or—well. You did.”

  “I did? I don’t remember her.” I scan the room, puzzled, as if expecting her to pop out from behind the gold damask curtains.

  Mrs. Winfield’s ash-blond hair is pulled back so tightly, it gives her a pinched look—unless that’s just the natural shape of her face. “I believe she moved away,” she says. “When you were still very young.”

  “Oh. That’s a pity, that she didn’t take the responsibility more seriously. I know tha
t tosomepeople, it means a great deal.” If I know these women at all, they won’t be able to resist. The Brothers’ wives each have half a dozen namesakes scattered throughout Chatham. Parents hope that it will provide some measure of safety for their baby daughters, when they grow up to be suspect young women. It doesn’t actually work that way, but it remains a point of pride for the Brothers’ wives. They all flock to visit newborns, vying to be the first to call at a house with a new baby.

  Mrs. Ishida takes the bait. “Your dear mother, Lord rest her soul, was just lovely. So sweet, and so devoted to family matters. I can’t see how she was friends with that woman.”

  “And to entrust her with the spiritual guidance of her firstborn! I wonder that she didn’t choose someone else. Someone more respected in the community,” Mrs. Winfield huffs, pursing her lips. Someone like her, she means. “Zara Roth was a scandalous creature. You’re better off not knowing her. I fear what kind of influence she would have been on you poor, impressionable, motherless girls!”

  “Miss Roth did seem harmless at first,” Mrs. Ishida allows. “A bit—intellectual. A governess, you know, from the Sisters.”

  My godmother was a Sisteranda witch? I clasp my hands together docilely, but inside I’m wishing I could grab these women by the shoulders and shake them until the whole story spills out.

  “She was a bluestocking,” Mrs. Winfield adds. She pronounces the word as if it’s something shameful—almost the way people saywitch.She lowers her voice, and Mrs. Malcolm and Mrs. Ralston lean in closer to hear. “I loathe being the bearer of bad news, but I daresay you’re old enough to know the truth. Miss Roth—your godmother—was tried and convicted of witchery.”

  They watch me with eager eyes, thrilled that the conversation has taken such a shocking turn. My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh, how dreadful! I can’t believe Mother was taken in by that sort of woman!”

  Mrs. Ishida pats my arm comfortingly. “I’m afraid so, my dear. When they raided Miss Roth’s room, they found a number of heretical books hidden away beneath her floorboards and in cupboards and things. All about”—she mouths the word as though it’s a curse—“magic.”

  I wishIhad those books. Mother taught Maura and me very basic spells: namely, how to create and reverse glamours. I know witches are capable of other magic. Mother always said she’d teach us more. Later. But now it is later, and she isn’t here.

  “What happened to Miss Roth?” I ask, trying to sit still. My starched taffeta underskirts announce every shift of my body against the sofa.

  “She was sent to Harwood.” Mrs. Winfield wags her head, the jeweled comb in her hair catching the light from the chandelier. “I’m sure your dear mother would never have associated with her if she’d known. They were old school chums. Studied together in the Sisters’ convent. I’m sure she thought Miss Roth was a good, upstanding, religious woman. She was a Sister, after all! It was quite shocking. They cast her out after her arrest, of course.”

  “Of course. Is she still there in the asylum?” I ask, shuddering.

  “I imagine so. She could hardly be allowed out in polite society,” Mrs. Winfield says, waving her green silk fan to disperse the heat of the crowded room.

  “You must let us know if you need anything, Cate. I may call you Cate, may I not? You poor girls. It’s not an easy thing, coming of age without a mother’s guidance,” Mrs. Ishida sighs sympathetically, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “My mama died giving birth to my youngest brother, and my father never remarried. I understand full well how difficult it can be.”

  Somehow I doubt that. She didn’t have to worry about getting arrested for being a witch, did she? But Mrs. Ishida carries on, reminiscing about her own dear departed mama, and the conversation drifts away from Zara Roth. The message is clear: women who are too opinionated or too educated, too odd or too curious, are punished. They deserve whatever fate they get. Women like Zara.

  Women like us.

  We stay the requisite half hour. The rest of the conversation is dull as dishwater: Cristina’s engagement to Matthew Collier, Mrs. Winfield’s suspicion that her maid stole her jade earrings, everyone’s advice to Mrs. Malcolm for her son’s teething. When we rise to leave, Mrs. Ishida thanks us for coming and declares us welcome every other Wednesday. “Your mother would be so proud of what lovely girls you’ve turned out to be,” she declares, touching her pressed-flower cheek to mine.

  I smile even as my rebellious heart trips over her presumption.

  Across the room, her daughter smirks at me unnervingly.

  Mrs. Ralston and Mrs. Malcolm make us promise to call on them during their at-home afternoons. After the briefest hesitation, Cristina and Rose

  follow their lead, asking when our afternoon is, and Maura glibly declares that we’ll host two Tuesdays hence.

  In the carriage, my sister grins at me. “Everything went well, didn’t it?”

  “I suppose.” Aside from learning that my godmother was a member of the Sisterhood, a witch—and a convict to boot. “Oh, hush. I think we were a smashing success!”

  “Lovely,” I mock. “Everything was justlovely!”

  Maura laughs—not the polite titter she uses in company, but her sweet, full-out laughter, like a stream bubbling over rocks. It’s my favorite sound

  in the world.

  “I was tempted to start counting how many times Mrs. Ishida said it,” she admits, kicking off her pointy new shoes and massaging her pinched

  toes. “What a limited vocabulary that woman has.”

  “I doubt she’s allowed to read anything but scriptures, if that. The last thing Brother Ishida wants is a wife who can challenge him.” “I imagine he just practices sermons over supper anyway.” Maura mimics his oily voice.“What good is teaching a woman to read? Really, girls,

  you should try not to think at all if you can help it. It might hurt your pretty little heads. Lord forbid, it might make you question us. You mustn’t

  everquestion your betters, and remember: even the stupidest of men knowbetter than you!”

  I laugh. “Poor Sachi. I can’t imagine growing up in that house, with a father like him.”

  “Me either. Father’s not much use, but at least he’s not a tyrant.”

  There’s a little catch in her voice, and I sober. “I’m sorry he won’t take you with him.”

  “It’s all right. Someday I’ll get away.” Maura stretches her legs out so her stockinged feet rest in my lap. “I’ll marry an old man who’s rich as Midas

  and loves to travel, and I’ll make him take me everywhere. Perhaps he’ll be an emissary from the Brothers to one of the European courts.” “You wouldn’t marry someone who worked for the Brothers.”

  “I might, if he’d take me to Dubai. Maybe I could do away with him and stay there forever. A widow in Dubai—imagine! I’d get to wear trousers

  and read whatever I please!” Maura laughs at the shock on my face. “I don’t think I’ll marry for love. I’ll have to be pragmatic.” “You?” I scoff. She’s always been the romantic one, the impulsive one, prone to tantrums and tears. “You’ve got a year and a half. That’s plenty of

  time to find a man to suit even your high expectations.”

  “I don’t think so.” She wiggles her toes at me. “What about you? Do you love Paul?”

  I glare at her. “Why on earth did you tell Sachi and Rory that he means to propose? I told you I don’t know if I can accept.” “And I toldyouthat’s nonsense,” Maura returns, pulling the pins from her hair. “Besides, I couldn’t think of anything else to say. You weren’t much

  help at making conversation.”

  “Now they’ll be gossiping about us all over town.” The carriage pauses as John exchanges pleasantries with Mrs. Corbett’s coachman, just

  coming out of her lane. Besides the McLeods, she’s our nearest neighbor. She rents a small, square house with gray shingles, barely visible

  through the orchards surrounding it. I can’t help think
ing she ought to live in some Gothic mansion, replete with cobwebs and headless statues. It

  would suit her better than an innocent-looking little cottage.

  “At least it’s the normal sort of gossip. Isn’t that what we want?” Maura asks.

  I fall quiet. She’s right. Marrying Paul, going to tea with the Brothers’ wives, gossiping with Sachi Ishida about my betrothal—those are all things a

  normal girl would do. But what willIdo?

  “You will marry Paul, won’t you?” Maura asks, her forehead wrinkled with concern. The carriage jolts forward, the horses’ hooves clopping against

  the hard-packed dirt road. Clouds of dust rise up, and I sneeze, leaning away from the window.

  “I don’t know, Maura. He hasn’t asked me yet.”

  Maura sits up and puts her feet back on the wooden floorboards. “He will. And you mustn’t let some misguided notion of duty toward Tess and

  me stop you from saying yes. It would be a wasted sacrifice. If you don’t choose for yourself, the Brothers will choose for you. What good would it do

  any of us to have you miserable? Your husband could still take you away anywhere he wanted. You’ll be happier with Paul.” I bite my lip. How can I explain my doubts without telling her about Mother’s diary or the prophecy?

  “You really think I’d be happy with Paul?” I ask.

  She smiles, pleased that I’m asking for her advice. “I do. He wouldn’t suit me, but possibly he’s perfect for you.”

  Lord, but she’s full of backhanded compliments today. “You don’t think he’s handsome?”

  Maura twirls one red curl around her finger. “I suppose. Rory thought so. What doyouthink? You’re the one who’d have to share his bed.” “Maura!” I bury my face in my hands, mortified.

  “Well, you would. Come, Cate, we’re sisters. Do you find him handsome?”

  I nod, remembering his lips against my wrist. “Yes.”

  “It would be a good match. None of the McLeods have ever been in any trouble, and he’s got excellent prospects. He could probably have any girl

 

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