“Perhaps, sir,” Irène said smoothly, “you should look to your own house before you criticize mine.”
Hughes’s face reddened, and angry sweat beaded his forehead. “Only for your mother’s sake,” he hissed, “will I let these insults pass. She has been hardworking and faithful, and I respect her for it. Now get back to your work. I don’t want to see you at the Grange again.”
“That,” Irène said with confidence as she shrugged into her coat, “is something you won’t have to worry about.”
She didn’t have to wait long for the next act in her drama. Sally was at the door of the cottage early the next morning, clearly in a state of excitement. Ursule had just collected her gloves and her basket, and was on the point of starting out to dig potatoes. Irène had dressed again in her embroidered shirtwaist and serge skirt, in the expectation of some development. She had heard the fox yipping in the night, conveying his assurance that her magic was at work.
Sally said, “Ursula! Irene is wanted at the Grange!”
Ursule frowned and dropped her work gloves into the basket. “What’s she done?”
“I don’t know, but that lord who bought the horse—you know, the horse Miss Blodwyn didn’t like—that Lord Llewelyn is back! He traveled as far as Carmarthen, but left his horsemaster there and returned early this morning. He wants to see Irene!”
Irène had not bothered to tell her mother that Master Hughes had forbidden her to come to the Grange again, and she didn’t bother now. Obviously Lord Llewelyn’s commands overrode all others. She smoothed her skirt and said, “I’ll just get my gloves and hat, Sally.”
Her mother followed her into the bedroom, and as she stood before her tiny mirror, pinning her hat into place, Ursule said, “Tell me what’s happening.”
Irène looked at her mother’s tired reflection. “My life is happening, Mother.”
“What does that mean?”
Irène picked up her lace gloves and smoothed them on. “It means my chance has come.”
“Because of this Llewelyn?”
Irène, aware of Sally listening from the kitchen, switched to French. “Maman, I’m going to tell you, because you taught me, and it’s only fair. I made the philter.”
“What philter?”
“The potion, from the grimoire. You didn’t want me to do it, and I’m sorry, but it obviously worked, or Lord Llewelyn would not have come back for me.”
Ursule paled and staggered a step back to sit on the edge of Irène’s bed. “You didn’t,” she whispered. “Tell me you didn’t, Daughter.”
Irène put her back to the mirror and faced her mother with her hands on her hips. “I did,” she said. “I can’t think why you haven’t done it yourself.”
“It’s not real, Irène. It’s … It’s artificial. It’s dangerous. I should have torn out the page!”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“It’s not like scrying, you know. Or making simples for pain or sickness. This sort of magic—it forces people. Manipulates them!”
“If I have the power, why should I not use it, Maman? Why do you try to stand in my way?
“You can’t make someone love you, no matter how powerful you are.”
“I don’t need him to love me.”
“What do you need, then?”
“I’ve told you. I don’t want to live the life you have. Is that so hard to understand?”
“But, Irène … think about what he’ll want with you. A farm girl!”
“Maman, I’m no longer a farm girl.” Irène held up her hands, as white and soft as those of Miss Blodwyn. “You see? All I needed was a chance, and this is it.”
“You will pay a terrible price, I fear.”
Irène faced the mirror again and adjusted the collar of her shirtwaist. “There is always a price, isn’t there?” she said coolly. “You have paid a steep one yourself. Endless work. Loneliness. Poverty.” Irène started for the door.
Ursule said softly, “I’ve had true love in my life. I don’t regret a moment.”
“No?” Irène glanced over her shoulder at her mother, slumped on the edge of the bed in a posture of defeat. “Well, then. You’re willing to settle for less than I am.”
With a grunt Ursule pushed herself up. “I don’t think of myself as having settled. I think of myself as having survived.”
Impatiently Irène said, “I have to go, Maman. Can’t you wish me good luck?”
“I do wish you good luck. That’s why I hope you’ll be back here in an hour. Perhaps you’ll be a bit wiser than when you left.”
Sally cast Irène a dozen curious glances as they walked to the Grange, but Irène focused on what was to come. Though she couldn’t repeat her spell with Sally beside her, she recited it in her mind, over and over. When they reached the curving gravel path that led to the Grange, Sally said, “I’ll be leaving you here.”
Irène stopped walking. “Where are you going?”
“The kitchen. I was told you are to go to the main entrance.”
She turned right, to cross the lawn to the kitchen door. Irène said, “Wait, Sally. What did Master Hughes say? What has he told Lord Llewelyn about me?”
Sally paused. “It’s nothing to do with me, Irene. You’re my friend’s child, and I won’t speak against you, but I think you’re walking into trouble.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I know how men are. If he’s decided he wants you, he’ll use you, then cast you aside when you grow your first gray hair.” She went off across the lawn, shaking her head as she walked. Irène drew a breath to calm her racing heart, and walked with a sedate pace up to the big front door of the Grange.
It was a door she had never entered, but she refused to be daunted by the grandeur of the foyer, or troubled by the disdain with which the butler greeted her. She unpinned her hat, and when he didn’t take it, she laid it on a sideboard. He pointed the way to the parlor, but she shook her head. Pressing her hand over the amulet hidden beneath her bodice, she said, “Announce me, please.” Her imperiousness matched his disdain. For an instant she thought he might refuse. She pretended not to notice, but waited, chin in the air, for him to comply with her request.
Finally he said, “What name shall I say?”
“Irene Orchard. Miss Irene Orchard.”
The amulet seemed to vibrate against her skin as the butler led the way, opened the door, and did precisely as she had asked.
Irène waited until he had finished speaking her name to move into the doorway. She paused there, aware of the picture she made. Her shirtwaist was a creamy white, and her skirt a pale green. The hall behind her was lined with dark portraits and darker mirrors, dramatizing her silhouette. Her hair was piled in black, shining waves, and her complexion was as pale as milk. She tucked her chin and lifted her eyelids slowly, to show her thick eyelashes and the dark brown of her eyes.
As she had the day before, she curtsied. She gauged the level of it with precision, one hand gracefully holding the edge of her skirt, the other touching her shirtwaist, with the amulet beneath it. “Your Lordship,” she said. “Master Hughes.”
Llewelyn stood up, and Master Hughes followed his example a moment later. “Miss Orchard,” Llewelyn said, and inclined his head to her.
Hughes said stiffly, “Irene. His Lordship has a proposal for you. I felt you would welcome hearing it.”
“Of course, Master Hughes. Thank you.”
“Won’t you sit down?” Llewelyn said, indicating a damask chair near the sofa where he had been sitting.
Irène settled herself in the chair and tilted her head, waiting. Beneath the slight weight of the tin amulet, her heart fluttered in anticipation.
As she gazed at Llewelyn, she couldn’t help thinking it was a shame he didn’t look more like his horsemaster. That one—Jago, she recalled, not a common name—was lean and dark, with narrow lips and slanting dark eyes. His Lordship, unfortunately, was running slightly to fat, and the brush of his yellow
mustache was in need of trimming. His eyes were a milky blue, though they glittered, now that he had consumed her philter, with what she assumed was desire.
However, his clothes were beautifully made, and his boots shone as if he had someone to polish them every time he put them on. Even more important, he had a title. His wife would be Lady Morgan. Or Lady Llewelyn. Titles were complicated things. Perhaps, if she pleased him, she could be styled Lady Irene. She liked the sound of it.
“I am told you are fatherless, Miss Orchard,” Llewelyn said. He had resumed his own seat, but he sat stiffly, his spine rigid, his chin tucked. “Otherwise I would address him, as would be proper.” He spoke without hurry, but she sensed the need that drove him, that underlay his measured approach.
“It’s true, Your Lordship,” she said calmly, without the slightest tingle of guilt. Sebastien wasn’t with them enough to count as a father. He had said so himself. “I’m obliged to make my own way in the world.”
“Of course, your mother—” Hughes began.
Irène shot him a look, and his mouth snapped shut. “I am nearly eighteen,” she said. “She and I agree that I should make my own decisions.”
Llewelyn cleared his throat. Irène recognized it as a reflexive habit. Over time, listening to that sound might be annoying, but now she welcomed it as a sign that His Lordship meant to take control of the conversation.
“In view of your status as an unwed but fatherless young woman,” he said, “I took the liberty of applying to Master Hughes on the subject of your marriage. He is, I perceive, the only male close to you.”
Irène put her hand to her throat and felt the amulet quiver against her breast. She breathed, “Marriage?”
Llewelyn gave his dry cough again. “I have startled you, Miss Orchard. I apologize.”
Irène said, “I’m not quite sure what you’re telling me, Lord Llewelyn. If you could speak plainly, I would be grateful.”
“Of course. I know this is not only sudden, but unusual.” His cheeks colored above his beard, and he gave her a slight, apologetic smile. “I’m aware you have no dowry, and limited education, but you have made an impression upon me. You are a young lady of poise and wit, as well as a most pleasing appearance.”
Irène let her gaze drop down and to the side, to show her cheekbones to their best effect.
“Indeed, you have made me think it may not be necessary to allow my cousin to inherit my title and my land.”
Irène lowered her hand to her lap and linked her fingers. She bent a clear gaze on Llewelyn and said, “Forgive me for being blunt, milord, but am I to understand you are proposing marriage—to me?”
Llewelyn cleared his throat again. Truly, it was a habit he would have to break. He put his hands on his knees to push himself up, then held out his hand to her. She stood, too. Slowly, as if she were uncertain about the gesture, she gave him her lace-gloved hand.
Llewelyn said, “Master Hughes has given me permission to address you, Miss Orchard. Yes, I am proposing marriage. I am considerably older than you are, but I have property, and rather a good title. I’ve never married. I work in government, and have an excellent staff at Morgan Hall. You would be their mistress.”
Irène willed herself to blush, and felt warmth creep into her cheeks.
“If you need time to think …”
She remembered her mother’s warning. Time to think was a luxury she couldn’t risk. She bowed her head for a moment, as if considering this, but lifted it in only seconds. “Milord, you honor me. I’m known to be a decisive person, so I will decline your offer of time to consider. You’re offering me a lovely opportunity, and I will accept, with gratitude, and in the hope you will find me worthy.”
She heard Master Hughes’s skeptical grunt, but Lord Llewelyn smiled and squeezed her hand, patted it, then bent to give her a bristly kiss on her cheek. She smiled up at him—not too far up, as he wasn’t tall—and managed to squeeze a tear into her eye, which made him pat her hand again and murmur comforting words about a bright future, a happy life.
There was a little fuss about speaking with her mother, which she managed to prevent, and a bit more fuss about hiring a gig to transport her to Morgan Hall, and about finding a lady’s maid to act as chaperone. As they were arranging these details, with a skeptical-looking Hughes presiding, Blodwyn Hughes came into the parlor and stood in the doorway, fists on her hips and a look of pure resentment on her face.
Llewelyn said, “Dear Miss Blodwyn! You may congratulate me! Your father has acted for me in the matter of my marriage to your friend Miss Orchard.”
Hughes said, “Yes, Blodwyn. You should wish them happy.”
Blodwyn’s face turned a most unprepossessing red, and Irène took a step closer to her prospective husband. Fortunately, in this encounter Blodwyn was without her whip. Her eyes narrowed, but she managed to say, “My word! Irene Orchard? This is sudden, isn’t it?”
Lord Llewelyn cleared his throat and declared, “Yes, it is. But at my age—” Everyone laughed politely, and that was that.
Within the hour Llewelyn had made arrangements to borrow one of the Grange’s gigs, with harness for his horse. Sally called one of the upstairs maids, who agreed to serve as lady’s maid for the journey and be escorted home once Irène had engaged one of her own. Irène begged another hour to pack her belongings and bid her mother good-bye, and, with the maid at her heels, set off for the cottage against a backdrop of falling leaves and building clouds.
As she walked she saw the fox weaving among the trees, laughing at her with his black nose lifted and his tongue lolling. Secretly she smiled at him, and touched the amulet in tribute. He flicked his tail in a scarlet-and-black salute before he disappeared into the woods. Her body thrumming with excitement, she walked steadily forward.
8
Irène left the maid standing in the kitchen as she went into her bedroom to collect a few bits of lingerie, her hairbrushes, and one dress that was, if not fashionable, at least clean. The first thing she would do when she reached Morgan Hall would be to send for a dressmaker.
She didn’t own a valise, but there was a carpetbag in the back of her mother’s wardrobe, one left behind at some point by Sebastien. She called her mother’s name, but received no answer. She went into Ursule’s room for the carpetbag. When she had packed her things into it, it was no more than half-full. She glanced around the cottage, but there was nothing else she wanted to take.
Except the crystal. And the grimoire.
They were her inheritance, were they not? She was the last of the Orchiére line, inheritor of the power. She could be the last to practice the craft, to wield the magic of the stone.
She said to the maid, “Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.” She snatched up a basket as she hurried out the front door of the cottage and around to the slanting door of the root cellar. She lifted it quickly, ignoring the screech of its hinges, and went down the stone steps.
The stone still rested on the three-legged stool, concealed in its linen wrappings. Irène lifted it, wrappings and all, and stowed it in the basket. She was on the point of bending to take the grimoire from beneath the stool when she heard her mother’s voice.
“Irène! Irène? Where are you?”
In real haste now, lest her mother disagree with her judgment about the stone, Irène scrambled up the steps and lowered the door to the root cellar. With the basket casually over her arm, she met Ursule at the garden gate.
“You came back,” Ursule said in French. “Did your spell fail?”
Irène answered in the same language. “No, Maman. It was a success.”
The spark of hope that had flickered in Ursule’s eyes died away. She said, in a resigned voice, “Tell me, then.”
“Lord Llewelyn has proposed marriage. I was looking for you, to say good-bye.”
Ursule’s jaw tightened. “You’re going to accept him.”
“I have accepted him.”
“You know nothing about him, Daughter. Could
you not take some time, think it over?”
“I don’t know if I have time.”
Ursule nodded, but her mouth was tight with disapproval. Or sorrow. Irène couldn’t tell which. “You’re right, Irène. It won’t last long.”
“We’ll see, I suppose. But if it doesn’t, I will already be Lady Llewelyn. Or Lady Irene.”
“You’re giving up your French name.”
“You and Sebastien are the only ones who use it.”
“And now no one will.”
Irène, even focused as she was on what had transpired on this day, and what was to come, saw the sadness in her mother’s eyes. “Can you not be happy for me, Maman?” she asked.
“If I thought you were going to be happy, I would be, too. But I think your heart will break, sooner or later. I can’t bear to think of it.”
“To stay here, to live like this—that would break my heart.”
“Well, then, Daughter. This is farewell between us.”
“Say good-bye to Sebastien for me.”
Ursule shrugged. “If I see him, I will.”
Irène said, “I have to go, Maman. The maid is waiting. My—my fiancé is waiting.”
“Bonne chance, ma fille.”
“Merci. Au revoir.”
Ursule responded in a choked voice, “Adieu.”
Irène, with the basket in her hand, opened the cottage door. When she glanced back she saw that Ursule was on her way to Aramis’s pasture. She would take her comfort from him.
Irène collected the carpetbag and the maid, and together they started back to the Grange as the sun slipped past its zenith and began to sink into the west. The fox appeared the moment they started down the lane, and ghosted after them, an intermittent streak of red and black amid the dark green of the woods. They hurried on, eager to be off on their journey before darkness fell. The fox followed until they reached the Grange, and turned up the drive.
THE BOOK OF MORWEN
A Secret History of Witches Page 20