“I could use a cat. There are always mice around a henhouse. I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”
The kitten, which had been dozing in the sunshine, sprang to its feet. Its yellow eyes narrowed to slits. Its bony spine arched, and it hissed at Meegan as if she had tried to pinch it.
Meegan started and leaned back, away from the angry little creature. “Ho! There’s a cat that knows its own mind.”
“It’s a strange one, isn’t it?”
Meegan laughed and turned away. “That’s the way it is with cats sometimes. Well, I’m off to my own work. See you soon.”
Nanette nodded and waved and turned to rearrange the depleted assortment of cheeses. She smiled to herself, feeling as if the sun had grown brighter, the breeze more gentle, even the voices around her sweeter.
She surveyed the housewives strolling past. She willed them to turn to her, to buy, to take the rest of her produce so she could harness up the pony and start home along the cliff road. She could hardly wait to carry her good news to Orchard Farm.
3
The success of Nanette’s spell energized all the sisters. Anne-Marie created a new batch of soaps, scented with lavender, and the entire stock sold in one day. Fleurette concocted some simples for influenza, and after Nanette mentioned them to Meegan, four of their neighbors rode up in their wagons to buy them against the illnesses of the coming winter, and not one of them haggled over the price. Isabelle saw a missing trowel in a dream, and Florence found it right where she’d said it would be, though Florence told Paul she’d found it by chance.
They were careful to hide their rites from the men, but it was difficult not to be excited. The mood around the kitchen table grew hopeful. Even the farmhouse itself seemed less gloomy, as if the lamps burned more brightly. Claude and Paul and Jean gave the sisters suspicious looks, but Louisette quelled them with her own dismissive ones.
Isabelle, the morning after the last market day of the season, followed Nanette to the byre when she went to do the milking. Nanette glanced over her shoulder, and waited when she saw her sister on the path through the garden. “I thought you were going to make bread.”
“I need to tell you something.”
Isabelle was the smallest of all six of the Orchiére sisters. She had the dark eyes and thick black curls they all did, but there was something fragile about her. Though Nanette was a decade younger, she often felt an urge to shield her from the things that frightened her. She said now, with the milk pail banging against her knee, “Why not talk to me while I milk the goats?”
“D’accord.”
The nannies waited at the half door to the byre, their breath misting in the icy November air. Nanette opened the door, and they brushed past her in an eager crowd of warm bodies and cheerful bleating. The gray kitten, grown leggy now, skittered out of their way, then followed at Nanette’s heels as she forked hay into the manger and opened the stanchion.
Nanette pulled a stool close to the first she-goat and positioned the bucket. Isabelle stood on the other side, one hand on the ridge of the goat’s spine. “I had a dream about you.”
Nanette’s forehead was braced against the nanny’s flank, but something in her sister’s tone made her lift her head. “One of your true dreams?”
“It’s always hard to tell, but I think so. It seemed real.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good and bad.”
Nanette chuckled. “Best tell me, Isabelle. So I can be prepared.”
Isabelle looked away, gazing up into the dusty hayloft. “It’s a man,” she whispered. “A beautiful man. And he’s coming here.”
His name was Michael.
He was what the Cornishmen called Black Irish, with straight dark hair falling past his chin and vivid blue eyes set in a thicket of black lashes. He appeared at Orchard Farm the day after the Sabbat of Ostara.
The sisters had observed the vernal equinox the night before, and Nanette was heavy eyed and sleepy. His wagon, fitted out with a portable forge and racks of tools and horseshoes, rattled up the cliff road with Michael seated high on the bench, a king on his throne, a flat workman’s cap for his crown. Nanette’s fatigue evaporated the moment she saw him.
He was a farrier, a man who spent his life roaming the countryside in search of farms with horses. The Orchiéres never shod their beasts, but they had six ponies in the paddock, and trimming and cleaning their hooves made them look better for the horse sales. It was Louisette who first spied the wagon bumping along their lane, with a thin mare in the traces. She called to Nanette to go out and speak to him in whatever language he preferred.
Louisette didn’t know about Isabelle’s dream. Nanette had made her swear to tell no one, but when they celebrated in the temple—Yule, then Imbolc, then Ostara—Nanette held the promise of her sister’s dream in her mind. She whispered a private prayer when no one could hear, begging the Mother of All to make Isabelle’s dream a true one. She was just eighteen, and she longed for someone to love her.
She knew, despite Isabelle’s prophecy, how unlikely it was. The villagers in Marazion were happy to buy the Orchiéres’ produce and ponies and soaps. They might tolerate Nanette’s place at the market, even her friendship with Meegan. They would never ride out along the cliff road to Orchard Farm to pay her a visit. They would never invite Nanette to their weddings or christenings or funerals.
And they would never, ever consider her a suitable bride for one of their sons.
When she pulled back the curtain of the kitchen window and saw Michael climbing down from his wagon, his hair rippling in the spring breeze, wonder stopped her breath. For long seconds she stared, and her belly began to ache as it always did in the presence of magic.
“Nanette, don’t just stand there! Go see how much he wants to do the ponies,” Louisette commanded. “Hurry, before he decides no one is home.”
Nanette let the curtain drop and put her hands to her hair. She had been churning butter in the pantry with her hair tied up in a threadbare kerchief. Her apron was splashed with buttermilk. “Louisette,” she began, “I can’t go out like—”
“What does it matter how you look? He’s just a farrier, and we can use his services. If he doesn’t charge too much, that is. Hurry! He doesn’t look Cornish. Probably speaks English.”
Nanette took one more peek past the curtain. The man looped the mare’s reins over the front panel of his wagon, then brushed dust and leaves from his trousers. He was young, with narrow hips, and the thick arms of a man who worked with iron.
Isabelle left off peeling potatoes over the stone sink and came to stand beside her. When she leaned forward to see what Nanette saw, she sucked in one sharp breath, then clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Nanette!” Louisette snapped.
“I’m going,” Nanette said. She avoided looking at Isabelle as she turned toward the kitchen door, pausing before opening it to pull off her apron. She undid the kerchief so her hair spilled over her shoulders, and then, conscious of Louisette’s impatient frown, went out to meet the man Isabelle had prophesied.
He touched the brim of his flat cap as she came out through the gate. “Now here’s a nice surprise,” he said. His smile was all white teeth and deep dimples. “They told me this farm was full of old women and even older men. Sure, and I never expected a cailín just out of the schoolroom!”
Nanette tossed her head and said as tartly as she could, “Schoolroom? Hardly.”
“Well,” he said, snatching off his cap and making a slight bow. “Michael Kilduff, at your service, miss. Might you be needing a farrier? They told me in Marazion that Orchard Farm keeps ponies.”
“We do.” Nanette nodded toward his horse. “Your mare could use some water, I expect, sir.”
“Michael, please, miss. And yes, my Pansy would be grateful for a drink.”
Nanette cast a swift glance over her shoulder. Louisette was peering out from behind the curtain. Nanette gave her a shake of the head before she turned back to Mi
chael Kilduff. “Can you turn your wagon, and move it down to the byre? The trough is just inside the paddock.”
It was no simple matter, in the narrow lane, to back and turn the heavy wagon, but the farrier managed it without much fuss. In moments he was leading Pansy by a drop rope under her chin. Nanette walked beside him. The gray cat trotted happily behind them.
“You haven’t told me your name,” he said. “So we can be properly introduced.”
“Nanette is my name,” she said. “Nanette Orchiére.”
“Nanette,” he repeated. His voice was sweet, with a lilt to it that promised music and laughter. Her heartbeat sped so she felt it pulsing in her throat, and she felt a betraying heat in her cheeks. “Nanette. That, Miss Orchiére, is the prettiest name I’ve ever heard.”
They reached the paddock, and the ponies, clustered at the far end, threw up their heads with interest at the sight of the mare. Michael freed Pansy from the shafts of the wagon, and she put her head over the stone fence and began to drink from the trough. Nanette stroked her smooth shoulder. “She’s a gentle soul,” she said to Michael.
“Aye. More gentle than any of your lot, I think. Ponies can be contrary when they’ve a mind for it.”
Nanette smiled up at him. “That’s why none of us wants to trim their hooves.”
He grinned at her across Pansy’s bent neck. “You have work for me, then.”
“If it doesn’t come too dear, we do.”
“Miss Orchiére, with the charming name of Nanette, I will let you set the price.” His impossibly blue eyes twinkled at her. When Pansy had drunk her fill, he backed her up and settled her in the shade of the byre. “Shall I fetch your rascals, or will they come when you call?”
“They’ll come when I shake the oats bucket,” she said. “But my sisters will want to know the charge first, Mr. Kilduff. For all I know, you could demand an entire guinea!”
“Come now,” he said, dimpling at her. “Am I a lord, to be talking about guineas? Not at all, not at all. And please. Mr. Kilduff is my da. I’m Michael.”
Nanette smiled back at him. “Bon. Michael it is.”
He winked and released Pansy’s lead so she could crop the moor grass sprouting at the foot of the wall. “Will you be wanting shoes for that lot, then?”
“No. Cleaned and trimmed is what we need. We don’t shoe moor ponies.”
“Right. Let’s say a shilling for the lot, then. And a cup of tea when I’ve finished.” His dimples flashed again. Nanette’s heart fluttered unevenly beneath her breastbone.
“Fair enough, but I’ll have to bring the tea to you,” Nanette said regretfully. “My sisters—the family—they don’t meet people. They couldn’t speak with you in any case.”
He had turned to his wagon, and was unloading a wooden box of tools with a wide leather strap. He slung it over his shoulder and turned to her, his thick eyebrows arching. “Whyever not, then?”
“They only speak French.”
“Ah, French. That explains your charming accent, Miss Nanette.”
“Just Nanette.” She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. “An ordinary farm girl.”
Halfway through the paddock gate, he paused to look back at her. “There’s nothing ordinary about you, Nanette Orchiére. Nothing in all the wide world, I tell you sure. While I’m dealing with these little beasts, I’ll be dreaming of taking tea beside you.”
Nanette ducked her head as she went to fetch the oats bucket. Isabelle had dreamed true. He was beautiful. He was perfect. She thanked the Goddess in her heart.
Michael was deft with the ponies, and patient with their antics. Nanette stayed close, helping him to tie up a hoof when it was needed, passing him a tool when he asked. While he clipped and picked and filed, she watched his broad back bent over the work, the ripple of muscle along his thighs where he braced the ponies’ feet. When he reached the last one, she left him to it, and went up through the garden to the farmhouse. By the time she returned with a tray laden with cups, a small plate, and the teapot under a knitted cozy, he had finished. The ponies were munching a flake of hay he had tossed down for them, and he was packing up his gear.
Pansy had a feed of hay, too. Michael pointed to it and said, “I thought you wouldn’t mind if Pansy had a bite.”
Nanette set the tray down and turned the cups over in their saucers. “Of course not,” she said. “And there’s a pasty for yourself, Michael. Your shilling is under the plate.”
“No pasty for you?” He straddled the milking stool she set for him, and picked up the teapot to pour for them both.
“It’s almost time for souper. Supper, that is.”
Michael took a huge bite of the pasty and spoke around it as he chewed. “How many languages do you speak, lassie? You seem to shift back and forth with no trouble.”
“Only three,” she said, reaching for one of the brimming teacups. “French, bien sûr. English, as you’ve heard. Some Cornish, though most don’t use it anymore.” She sipped and regarded him over the edge of the cup. “And you, Michael? What languages do you speak?”
“English, after a fashion.” They both grinned. “Irish. Welsh. A bit of Cornish, as a traveling man must, but it’s hard, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I learned it when I was small.”
“You can take my word, then, lass.” He picked up his own teacup. “Hard as the rocks on the tor. That old gray cat never lets you out of his sight, does he?”
“He’s not so old, actually. He just looks that way.”
“He’s not pretty, but he looks wise.”
“He was wise enough to find me when he was abandoned, at least.”
“Does he have a name?”
Nanette laughed. “I keep meaning to think of one. For now he’s just the cat.”
They chatted on while the sun settled into the horizon and the sea beyond the cliff darkened. The wind rose and ruffled Pansy’s fluff of mane where she stood, head down, drowsing in the twilight. Through the byre’s small window, Nanette saw the window of the kitchen begin to glow as the lamp was lighted. A few minutes later someone struck the gong beside the kitchen door, calling the clan to their evening meal.
“I’ll have to go in, Michael,” Nanette said ruefully. She rose and arranged the cups and plate so she could balance the tray. “I’m sorry we can’t offer you a bed inside, but you can sleep in the hayloft if you like.”
He jumped to his feet. “I’ll carry that up the path.”
She shook her head. “No, they’ll be watching. I can manage.”
“But will I see you, Nanette?”
She paused, the tray balanced against her hip, and looked up into his eyes. She felt a tug between them, as if they were tethered together, the rope pulling tighter and tighter with each breath. The feeling of ease she had enjoyed faded, and was replaced by something more intense, far less comfortable, utterly irresistible. Nanette said, through a mouth gone suddenly dry, “Are you going to sleep here, in the byre?”
“If I can put Pansy in that loose box,” he said, indicating it with his chin. His eyes didn’t leave hers, and though he didn’t touch her, she felt as if he caressed her somehow, drew her to him with some mysterious force.
The Goddess, she thought. The Goddess had sent him to her. It would be wrong to turn down Her gift, no matter the consequences. In any case, she couldn’t bear to do it.
She whispered, “Yes.”
“Yes to what?” He dimpled, and her bones tingled.
“Pansy,” she said. “The loose box.”
He chuckled and bent close to murmur in her ear. “Come back after your souper, lassie. When your French-speaking family have gone to their beds.”
She gazed at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth, for a long, considering moment. She knew what he meant. She knew what her family would have thought, but she didn’t care. At this moment nothing mattered but the masculine, miraculous presence of Michael Kilduff.
She breathed. “Oui. D’accord.�
��
The night Nanette spent with Michael was dense with magic, a magic she had never known existed. The cold stars shone through the hayloft’s unglazed window to sparkle on his ebony hair and in his wonderful eyes. His skin, smooth and pale where it was untouched by the sun, gleamed in the starlight, and the touch of his hands caused her to shudder with delight and desire. Her belly ached no longer with blood and mystery, but with longing. She felt, when she opened her arms, that she could encompass the world in her embrace. When Michael held her she trembled like a bird, knowing she could fly away at any moment, wanting only to remain where she was forever.
As she wept beneath him, sobbing with the intensity of the magic, Nanette felt as if she were truly alive for the first time. They clung together as the stars wheeled above the cliff, breathing in synchrony, listening to the distant wash of the sea, and Nanette thought that if the world could stop now, right at this moment, she would be content.
When the stars began to dim over Orchard Farm, she stirred against Michael’s shoulder. The cat, who had perched near the window of the loft all night, was on his feet. His yellow eyes burned through the gloom, and his ragged tail switched back and forth.
“I must go,” Nanette whispered.
Michael’s strong arm pulled her closer to him, and he nuzzled her neck. “I will remember you, Nanette Orchiére.” He didn’t ask her to go with him. He didn’t promise to return.
The meaning of those omissions chilled her as surely as the wintry air biting at her bare skin. She made no answer, but wriggled free of his grasp. She adjusted her clothes, did her best to brush the straw from her skirt and her hair. She avoided his gaze until she was ready, and then she took one last look at his beautiful face in the dawn shadows. She said, hurriedly, before her tightening throat betrayed her, “Au revoir, Michel.”
Before he could respond she whirled away from him, climbed as fast as she dared down the ladder into the byre, and scampered up through the garden to the farmhouse, her skirts in her hands. The slow dawn was breaking as she tiptoed to her bedroom. She heard her sisters and their husbands beginning to stir, and the clank of ewer against basin as the twins washed.
A Secret History of Witches Page 4