Laura Kinsale

by Uncertain Magic

  “I see.” Roddy kept her voice solemn, not wanting to break into his rising enthusiasm with her amusement.

  “Those bogs across there,” he went on without pause. “We’ll drain them. I think we can have a good start on it before the weather turns. We’ll have corn there next year, or hay.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

  “We’ll increase tillage in that way, by reclaiming the bogs. I don’t want to convert to grazing at the expense of crops. Particularly grain. Too precarious. There was famine in 1741—” He shook his head. “That’s the other thing I want to start on right away. A mill. And storage enough for our surplus. I won’t have my people starving. And I want to begin replacing the trees—” He motioned up the valley. “All those hills used to be forested. There’s an old ironworks up there. I’ve thought of reopening it. We’d have to operate on imported coke until the trees are ready.”

  “Only a few decades, my lord,” she murmured.

  “Yes.” He sighed harshly. “I don’t know that I have the patience for trees.”

  Roddy chewed the inside of her cheek to control herself.

  He gazed at the far hills. She lost her desire to laugh as she saw the bitterness come into his face. “If I could have begun planting when I first had the notion,” he said, “they’d be fifteen years along by now.”

  She wished she could touch him, soothe away half a lifetime of frustration. “’Tis no matter, my lord,” she offered softly. “The trees will be there for our children.”

  He looked toward her. His horse moved restlessly beneath him, closer to hers. He caught her hand in a hard squeeze. “Little girl.” He raised her glove to his lips. “If not for you, there’d be no trees at all.”

  She smirked, to cover the way her mouth quivered with a sudden, silly weakness. “No. Nor children either, I should hope. Shall I beat you to the bottom of the hill, my lord?”

  “Indeed not.” His grip transferred instantly to her horse’s bridle. “You’ll break your neck.” He grinned as the horses sidled. “And it’s such a pretty neck, my love. I have plans for it.”

  Roddy felt herself blushing. “You seem to have plans for everything, my lord.”

  He let go of her horse. The animal moved forward, and he brushed her cheek as she passed. “But some,” he said seductively, “can be executed so much sooner than others.”

  Roddy ducked her head and gave her mount a kick. They scrambled ahead of him down the long, green hill.

  Riding with Faelan through the wild and lovely country, she found it easy to forget the antagonism that had erupted this morning. But as they approached the home of John Willis, Roddy began to lose her carefree mood. She glanced often at Faelan. He did not seem to be concerned about the coming interview. He did not even mention it; just rode easily down the well-tended side road and past the stone gates toward the house.

  It sat among fine grounds, this house they were to summarily wrest from its resident. Roddy liked it, in spite of herself: it had a simple, pretty Palladian facade softened by a thick growth of vines that had turned scarlet in the autumn chill. A peat fire warmed even the high-ceilinged entrance hall, the coals burning in an efficient chimney that drew off all the smoke and still radiated a comfortable heat—a feat which the O’Connells’ smoky fireplaces had not accomplished half so well.

  Mr. Willis stepped into the hall with his hand outstretched just as the manservant was taking Roddy’s cloak.

  It was a welcome carefully contrived, Roddy knew, exquisitely timed to be gracious and yet unperturbed by His Lordship’s visit. Under Mr. Willis’ polite reserve was a turmoil of question and curiosity at this unprecedented “honor.”

  He was utterly unaware of Faelan’s plans for him. Roddy realized that instantly, and it made her more miserable than before. She smiled painfully in answer to his greeting, hardly knowing how to act toward someone who was about to experience what seemed to her the most heartless act of cruelty. As they sat down in the pleasant drawing room amid gold velvet draperies and polished wood, she glanced at Faelan.

  No manners, no morals, and no heart, he had said.

  That was not quite true. The devil himself could not have been more smooth of manner as he accepted a glass of rum punch from his victim.

  Mr. Willis was much younger than Roddy had expected, round-faced and boyish-looking, with fine brown hair tied back in a limp queue. Behind a pince-nez and a mild smile, his mind worked rapidly, assessing his guests and his interests. His hospitality held none of the emotion, the warmth and strong tradition, that characterized the O’Connells’. His actions were schooled and careful. It was necessary to be polite to his landlord; it was expected. And so he was.

  They began with a discussion of Roddy and Faelan’s journey, moved to the weather and the hunting, and the frightful lack of decent horses in the area.

  “Since the Relief Act, there’s not a nag to be had for under twenty pound,” Mr. Willis said. “Why, I can remember my father speaking of the time, not threescore years ago, Your Lordship, when that Popish fellow—O’Leary, the one eloped with Eileen O’Connell—refused to give up his mare for five pounds when the sum was legally offered. They shot the man,” he said with satisfaction, “but everything’s changed now. They wouldn’t do so now, and there’s not a bag o’ bones will hold a saddle to be gotten for love nor money.”

  “Yes,” Faelan said, in that neutral way Roddy had come to know so well. “It’s bound to be an inconvenience, when you can’t have a man shot for overpricing his horse.”

  Willis laughed in honest humor. “Too true, Your Lordship. Only too true.”

  “I understand you think the same of my price for the renewal of your lease.”

  The other man came back to business with a jolt, but he recovered smoothly. “Ah—the lease, Your Lordship. We can discuss that at some other time. I should be loath to bore your lovely wife with farming matters.”

  Faelan set down his empty glass and sat back in his chair. In his polished boots and open coat, he was the epitome of the carelessly elegant aristocrat, a fine greyhound to Willis’ plump country beagle. “I think we will discuss it now,” he said softly.

  Roddy’s finger tightened around the cup of tea she held. She took a sip, and tried to keep the cup from rattling in its saucer.

  Willis recognized the disadvantage of trying to come to terms with his opponent’s young wife present. “Your Ladyship,” he said. “If your husband insists—I’m terribly sorry to have no hostess to represent me. Perhaps my housekeeper might take you on a tour of the house…or would it be too cold for you to stroll in the garden?”

  “Not at all.” Roddy was happy to leave. Willis had hardly impressed her with his talk of five-pound horses, but he seemed no more than a plump gamecock in her husband’s ruthless hands, and she had no desire at all to be in at the kill. She and Mr. Willis started to rise, but Faelan remained firmly in his seat.

  “Don’t desert us, my dear,” he said. She caught the hint of steel beneath the silk. “This won’t take a moment.”

  Roddy sat back down.

  After a moment, Mr. Willis did so, too. Like two children caught misbehaving and called up for a lecture, they glanced at one another.

  Mr. Willis recoiled a little from the first direct look into Roddy’s eyes. She tried to smile, to show him that she, at least, was not so unfeeling of his situation. But then, he did not know his situation yet, and he took her smile and quickly lowered lashes as coy shyness. Charming, he thought. Damned shame this devil’s got hold of her.

  Aloud, he said with determined pleasantry, “You wished to discuss the renewal, then, Your Lordship?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid the offer in your letter to me several months ago will be insufficient.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Willis glanced at Roddy. “Well, Your Lordship, I would have preferred to discuss this between us in private, but since you insist on coming to terms immediately, I’ll say without ceremony that I can go to an annual rent of four thous
and, and that is my absolute limit.”

  “I see. We won’t be able to come to an agreement, then. Do you have any documentation on the net worth of your improvements?”

  It was said so evenly and casually that Mr. Willis missed the point for an instant. Then his mouth thinned into a smile. He steepled his fingers and leaned back, tilting his head. “Your Lordship,” he said. “You’re unfamiliar with the area. Four thousand is an excellent offer, I assure you. You would look far and long and not find better. But I understand that you may wish to do so. Perhaps we could make an appointment for three weeks hence to further—”

  “No. Thank you, Mr. Willis. I expect you will have long vacated by the time three weeks have passed. In fact, my wife and I will be looking forward to taking up residence here next Sunday.”

  “Faelan—”

  He silenced Roddy with a flicking glance and spoke again to Willis. “You may not wish to move all your furniture on short notice. I’m sure Her Ladyship would be happy to look over anything you wish to leave.”

  “I shall do nothing of the sort!” Roddy’s conscience overwhelmed her on hearing this last indignity to be forced on the hapless Mr. Willis. “I won’t turn this poor man out of his home, and then come and look over his furniture as if ’twere at public auction.”

  “As you will,” Faelan said moderately. “We’ll fit the place out to your own taste, then.”

  “No.” Having taken a stand, Roddy clung to it. “I won’t live here, Faelan.”

  He had been contemplating the view beyond the windows; at that, he looked toward her. Only his bright, cold glance and the faint flaring of his nostrils betrayed any emotion at all.

  “I’m sure this discussion is quite unnecessary,” Mr. Willis said. “I confess—I had no notion that you intended to take up permanent residence. You’re welcome here for as long as you wish, of course; I’ve a house in Kenmare to which I can remove—”

  “Absolutely not. We won’t put you out of your home.” Roddy set her chin, in spite of the ice-blue warning in Faelan’s eyes. It was he who had insisted that she sit through this farce; let him find that she was not so docile a creature as he seemed to think. To be a willing party to this barbarousness…it was impossible.

  “You won’t live here, my lady?” Faelan asked politely. Freezingly.

  She took a breath. “No. Not even if Mr. Willis should remove.”

  “I’m sorry for it,” Faelan said. And that was all.

  Mr. Willis, trying to smooth the disagreement over, said placatingly, “No, no, the house is yours. I shall do quite well in Kenmare; it won’t inconvenience me in the slightest. And I’m sure you’ll be wanting to begin on something grander for yourselves.”

  “It appears my lady has her principles,” Faelan said. “We won’t be moving here, then. But I still expect you will vacate the house by Sunday.”

  “Your Lordship,” Mr. Willis said, with the smiling patience of a man speaking to a small and rather dense child. “I feel certain that after you’ve a chance to review any other offers, you’ll find this decision is precipitate.”

  “I don’t fear that.”

  Faelan’s certainty made Mr. Willis frown at him uneasily. “You don’t have a better treaty, Your Lordship?”

  “No.”

  Mr. Willis sat back in relief. “Then, sir, allow me to explain the local situation to you. The subtenants—their rents simply cannot be raised at this time. No Christian man could ask it. Any larger offer will cut directly into my own living, I fear, Your Lordship.”

  Faelan smiled. “Ah. We couldn’t have that, could we?”

  “I think you can sympathize with my position. It’s a simple matter of arithmetic. I’m sorry, Your Lordship, but you will not get a better offer.”

  “And I won’t move into this house,” Roddy said. “So there’s no need for this to continue, is there? Faelan, please. I’m sure Mr. Willis’ offer is quite fair, and we can find somewhere else to live—”

  “Oh, I intend to discuss that point with you, my lady,” Faelan said. “Never fear. But you’re right; there’s no need to go on with this conversation. My decision on the lease is final. The old lease fell in ten days ago, and that Mr. Willis remains here at all is on my sufferance. If he and his belongings are still here past Sunday next, he can expect a visit from the bailiff.”

  Chapter 16

  Faelan did not speak as they rode from the house. At the end of the drive, he turned west, away from the direction they had come onto an overgrown track that seemed to lead up into the very mountains themselves. It reminded Roddy of the paths they had taken after the fairy ball. But then Faelan’s face had been open and easy; he had pointed out landmarks and named each one; had told her stories of ancient kings and laughed when Roddy swatted her shaggy pony for trying to take a nip out of her hat.

  He wasn’t laughing now. His hands on his mount’s reins were unnaturally gentle and controlled, a sign, she feared, that an explosive temper was held in rigid check. He might not punish an innocent animal in his fury, but she had no certainty of what he might do to the blatantly guilty human party concerned.

  She didn’t speak, either, afraid to question their direction or intentions. If we’re going to evict Mr. Farrissy, she thought miserably, I believe I shall start to cry.

  They rode for a full hour in silence. Then, high in the hills, they descended suddenly into a brushy valley. She caught the first touch of unfamiliar minds at the same time she smelled the sharp tang of burning peat. It was a child’s raw hunger and whimpering that filled the wretched stone hut huddling at the side of the path, a baby, not more than a year old, whose incoherent unhappiness overwhelmed any other thought.

  Faelan halted and swung off his horse, greeting in her own language the black-swathed woman who came to the door. She looked at him and Roddy, her eyes red-rimmed from the smoke that wafted through the thatch and the open door, and crossed herself quickly. Faelan spoke again, and above the baby’s misery Roddy felt the unfamiliar words form a sharp image of the great ruined mansion in the woman’s head. She glanced from Faelan to Roddy. One moment Roddy was looking with her own eyes at Faelan’s profile, and the next she saw him as a stranger, an image as dark and frightening as the ghostly great house itself.

  Roddy’s own presence made it worse. She saw herself as the woman saw her: richly dressed, smiling oddly, a wisp of gold flame with eyes that could kindle nightmares. The woman stood rooted to the spot on bare, muddy feet, emanating a mixture of awe and profound fear, and Roddy knew that the cottier woman was convinced her visitors were something else than human.

  The woman stepped back, and began to beckon them urgently into the squalid hut. Her dismay, Roddy realized, was centered not so much on fear of the unknown as on her utter lack of anything to share or offer. Not to be thought niggardly or close was her greatest fear—this woman who had not even food for her crying child.

  Faelan moved to follow without glancing back at Roddy. On her own, she scrambled from her horse, willing her nose not to wrinkle as she entered the dark hut.

  Inside, she could hardly see for the smoke and the watering of her eyes. But the sound of grunting snuffles and the dreaming dark mind of an animal alerted her to the sow and six piglets sprawled out in the corner. There seemed to be no furniture; the baby lay whimpering on the dirt floor amongst a pile of straw and rags.

  Faelan said something in a kind tone, and bent over the child. There was nothing threatening in the gesture, but to Roddy’s shock a shaft of sheer panic struck the woman. Her mouth dropped open, and her cry and Roddy’s blended, halting Faelan in mid-move.

  “Don’t touch it,” Roddy exclaimed. “She thinks—”

  Roddy stopped, caught exposing knowledge she should have no way of knowing. Faelan straightened, his gaze passing from her to the peasant woman’s frightened face.

  “We scare her,” Roddy said quickly. “Is it possible—I mean…she seems to think you might hurt the child.”

  That was not
exactly what the woman thought. The fear in her mind was that Faelan was going to steal the baby; that the sidhe had come to take the little girl away to raise her as one of their own.

  In a peculiar, spotty way, Roddy translated the unknown words through another’s mind and images as Faelan told the woman that she had nothing to fear for her child. He moved away from the baby, and stood looking down at the pigs.

  Instantly the woman scurried into the corner. She grabbed a piglet, ignoring the grunts and squeals to pull out the one she considered the finest, and thrust it into Faelan’s hands.

  He looked down at the wriggling creature, and a strange black humor curved his mouth. He turned to Roddy. She had no more choice than he about receiving the squalling, wriggling creature into her arms. “It seems we have a gift,” he said, above the pathetic shrieks.

  The sharp panic of the little animal and the dull hunger of the baby seemed to thicken the air in the hut until Roddy could not breathe. “Faelan,” she said hoarsely, trying to hand the piglet back, “we can’t take it! She has nothing, not even a scrap of bread for her child.”

  “Ah, you think you know the way of it all, don’t you?” His mocking voice cut through the dimness. “You leave it, then. You leave this miserable suckling pig and let this woman lie awake nights for a year, fearing that the bhean sidhe will return to take her babe.” He jerked his head toward the trembling figure, white-faced in the gloom. “Aye, she’s afraid of us, little girl. You more than me. You look straight in her eyes and give her back her gift in the name of charity. Do that, and see how grateful she’ll be.”

  Roddy stood still, gripping the piglet—knowing Faelan was right, that the woman was terrified the bhean sidhe would refuse her gift. The naming echoed in the woman’s mind, a darker one than ever Faelan called her. Banshee, it was, the stuff of nightmares. Roddy meant to do good, to reach out and help, but the truth was always there to bind her. Forever different, forever to be shunned for the trace of strange power that clung to her. She could never be kind to this plain peasant woman. She could only be fearsome, a fell spirit to be appeased.