He grabbed her hand and turned it, tracing the birthmark at her wrist. “I’d swear. Not the same, but somehow, you. You were the woman inside the tree. Your hair was black, you wore a crown, but you had this mark on your wrist.”
“Fate brought you to me, then.” She tried to be casual, but her smile was unsteady, and she suspected she might be as pale as he.
He contemplated her, emotion running swiftly across his face. “Fate.” After a moment he said, “I fell asleep with her, but when I woke, I was alone beside the tarn, in the darkness of old night. Yet another lady stepped from the water. Not the lass from the oak, not the queen or the gatekeeper. This woman’s hair was the color of the moonlight. She seemed familiar, and very solemn. She held up the knife I’d used in the maze, and the chalice I’d drunk wine from. I wanted to run away, but snakes were crawling over my arms and legs, binding me to the ground. The wounds were still there. I was in terrible pain, and screaming.”
“Did she hurt you?”
He shook his head. “Of all the wounds, even the one in my throat, this one beside my eye hurt the worst. She pressed the blade against the wound and it cauterized. She soothed me and wept over me, and then she said, ‘Do the same in the real world. Return honor to men if you would be reunited with us.’”
Morrigan watched her lover contemplate the horizon. A thrill raced through her as she recognized how seriously he considered the quest. A would-be hero sat here with her… a knight of old, like the Black Douglas or King Arthur. She had no doubt that he would give his life for the sake of the task.
Curran’s voice was low and hesitant when he continued. “She told me the wound would never fade, that it was my mother’s mark, to remind me of my origins.” He appeared confused for the first time. “I’ve never understood that, or what she said after. ‘Follow the sacred one, though she travels far and brings grief beyond endurance.’”
“You memorized it.”
“Aye, and gone over and over it until I….” He broke off another tall stiff stalk and rolled it between his palms until nothing remained but a damp green smudge. “Riddles. She held the chalice to my mouth and I drank. The wine tasted somehow like the lass I’d been with. I pledged myself to her, and every wound healed instantly.” He drew in a deep breath and regarded Morrigan. “Next I knew Fearghas was shaking me, gobbling about sleeping the whole day. Blood all over me, but no wounds, no sign of the lion fight, except for this scar, as you see it now.”
Morrigan propped her arms on her knees and cupped her chin in her palms. “Mark of the lion. Not the moon after all.”
“Moon?”
“When I first saw your scar, that’s what it seemed to me. A crescent moon.” She rubbed his hand between hers. “’Tis a fine vision, Mr. Ramsay.”
“Vision….”
“Well, if it was real, I want to go there. Will you take me?”
He laughed. “You’re not afraid?”
“No.” She grinned. “I’d like to see this lion.”
“I tried to find it again. I threw myself into the water— Fearghas thought I’d gone clear daft. He dragged me out, shook me like a dog, said in broken English that my father would roast him alive if anything happened to me. I realized for the first time my father hadn’t really deserted me.”
“And your quest? What is it?”
He shrugged. “I’ve searched… it’s made me half mad, knowing there’s something I need, and I can’t find it. I’ve felt empty and useless….” He stared at her, his voice faltering.
“Curran?”
“Oh aye.” Wonder again underlaced his voice. “It’s gone.”
“What?”
“That emptiness. It’s gone.”
A moment passed. He touched each of her fingertips, one by one, with his own. Closed his eyes tightly, frowning. “Morrigan,” he said. His voice caressed her name.
“Curran? Are you ill?”
He shook his head. “I think I’m finally well.”
* * * *
When the sleepy haze of late afternoon stained the sky, Morrigan sighed and said she must go. Amazement and misgivings buffeted her as she thought of what she’d done. He might leave now, simply abandon her to her fate. Yet hadn’t he promised a moment ago to bring her a copy of the Iliad?
She sat on his frock coat and rolled her stockings over her knees. Four times she had taken him into herself and she knew she’d given him much pleasure, yet his enthralled expression as she held up her hair and asked him to fasten the buttons on the back of her apron suggested he wouldn’t refuse another round.
She stood, unable to block out the memory of Douglas and Kit as they struck each other, their faces ugly with hatred.
At last, fear blossomed. She stole another glance at the setting sun. Incriminating wrinkles creased her skirt and his frock coat. Though they tried to smooth them, both seemed to cry out, You’ll be lashed until you’re dead for this.
Curran’s roguish smile implied the afternoon was worth any number of wrinkles. What wonderful, easy confidence. How she admired and envied it, and wished he could wrap some up and give it to her.
As they strolled towards town, Curran told her about his father. “His memory is cherished to this day,” he said. “He bought Kilgarry in ’54, right after the clearings, and rebuilt homes for those who’d survived. Until the day of his death he oversaw everything, from the draining of peat bogs to the lashing of the thatch on his shepherds’ cots.”
“Is it a rich estate?” she asked, before remembering her Aunt Ibby admonishing her that a lady never discussed money in polite company.
“Hardly. It devours time and currency like a sinkhole. There are many who claim the Highlands provide little of value besides sheep and soldiers.”
He told her that Thomas was orphaned at ten and grew up alone, so poor there were times he’d survived on rotted food he picked up in alleys. Yet he made a fortune in the expanding railway business by working himself up the line from rough laborer to a respected engineer of the Caledonian Railways. He branched out and founded a shipping company he named Uisge-Mor, and joined in the tea and silk trade, using clipper ships. “Samuel Cunard and my father enjoyed their rivalry,” Curran said. “But they remained good mates. Ship owners always try to outdo each other. For instance, one old seaman— Jock Willis— spent a fortune a few years ago building his dream ship, the Cutty Sark. She’s sailing right now, racing the Thermopylae on the China run. Last I heard Cutty Sark is ahead.” He gazed over the rolling moorland, pushing hair out of his eyes as though he had no idea how beautiful it was with the wind dancing through it. “My father adored the sea and his clippers. It’s almost a shame steam has ousted them.”
Pride and love underscored his words. Strange. She couldn’t imagine loving a father. Surprising sensations of loss and envy darted through her, but she shoved them away. Life was what it was, and no amount of wishing would change things.
They stopped at the edge of town. “We can’t return together,” she said.
“I won’t leave you.”
“This is one day Papa won’t have a word to say about where I’ve been.”
“Why?”
She stared at the ground. He must never know, never, what Douglas Lawton had tried to do.
“He’s been ill,” she said, faltering. “Bedridden. He won’t know I was gone.”
Curran reluctantly conceded. They agreed he would wait to come to the inn until the arrival of the late train.
Morrigan stole into the Wren’s Egg. All was quiet but for the ticking of the grandfather clock. Plucking up her courage, she crept along the narrow corridor to the kitchen.
Beatrice stood at the table, rolling out dough. A smear of flour whitened her cheek and dusted her bosom.
Her brows lifted as she absorbed Morrigan’s wrinkled dress and untidy hair. They’d lost most of the pins in the rough undergrowth. Too late, Morrigan realized she should have gone straight up the stairs to her room. She could have changed, with no one the wiser.
But the woman, unreadable as ever, said only, “Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
Her aunt wiped a corner of the table while Morrigan fetched a cold sausage pastry and cheese scone.
Her stomach growled. She devoured every bite, along with strong tea and a hefty slab of shortbread.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Walking on the moor.” Morrigan pumped water to wash her dishes. “I’ll be half the night on these tangles. I forgot a hat again.”
“Alone?”
“Who would I be with?” No blushes.
“You left your chores undone and said nothing to anybody. You’re an inconsiderate wench. I was fashed about you!”
“I needed to clear my head.”
“You think I don’t know you ride up to Finnarts Hill, where the cliffs are high and the rocks sharp?”
“I went the other way, nowhere near the sea. Besides, no matter where I go, I know the moor like my own bedroom.” The unintended picture the words created brought a hysterical giggle to the edge of her lips. She had to clamp her teeth together to keep it contained.
Beatrice crimped the edges of her dough and shrugged. “Your father was worried too.”
Morrigan sucked in a breath.
“If you’d seen his face, you would’ve been ashamed. I think he feared you ran away like Nicky.”
“So what if I did?” She spun around to face her aunt.
“Are you trying to make things worse for yourself and him?”
“Oh, aye. We must spare his poor feelings.”
Her aunt straightened and wiped her hands on the towel. “Since the day of your birth he’s labored to put food in your wame and clothes on your back. Do you think he enjoys scraping to the English? He’s here because this is where he can provide. Both his wives died in childbirth. Could he save them? Yet here you stand, grown so fine you can mock him, aye, the spoiled, well-dressed lady. D’you know how hard it was to lose Hannah? Do you have any idea how it tore him apart?”
Redheaded Hannah? Witch, Douglas called her. Whore, Enid had sneered.
Beatrice shook Morrigan’s arm. “He greeted like a wean when she died. We feared her death would kill him too.”
“Do you want me to say I wish it’d been me? I do, I always have. It’s abundantly clear he hates me because I made her die.”
“Have pity!” Astonishment lifted the woman’s brows. “Where d’you get such ideas?”
“I can’t help it if I live and she’s dead. Should I kill myself to make up for it? Could he be happy then?”
“Selfish besom!” Beatrice’s grip tightened. “He never blamed you.”
“I’ve known like he shouted it in my face every day. I killed my mother. And he’ll never forgive me for it.”
Ripping her arm free, Morrigan fled from the rage. If it caught her she’d suffocate. The world would expire. The air would blacken. Rivers would run with blood. She clawed at her throat.
Shadows swirled past her. There was a flash of blinding light, the stab of pain that always came right before she lost consciousness. Every sound was amplified: the creak of the steps, her breathing, her heartbeat.
She made it to the top of the stairs before it carried her away.
CHAPTER TEN
MORRIGAN ROLLED OVER and buried her face under the pillow.
Luxurious, seductive pleasure came with images of Curran Ramsay. But then Beatrice’s face interfered, the argument, and a slow-motion memory-fragment of running up the stairs. The echo of a scream reverberated. He’ll never forgive…. After that, nothing.
The unpredictable loss of consciousness was terrifying. It was as though her blood froze in an instant. She never knew when it would happen, and she was helpless to avert or control it. When she woke and tried to remember details, nothing came but disjointed colors, voices, and images that would surely frighten the most cynical, bloodthirsty soldier.
She threw off the bedclothes. All she wore was her chemise from yesterday.
What had happened at the top of the stairs? How had she ended up here? Curse this body. Damn her lunacy.
Leaping up, she rubbed her temples, trying to soothe away the dizziness, and paced from one end of her room to the other. Three times she made the circuit before noticing the flowers. Someone had put them in a vase. “He did come,” she said, and gathered the drooping blooms. They were drooping, hurried to their demise by the hours left on the ground without water. She doubted they would last another day. Her angry heartbeat slowed as she brushed the camellia’s petals against her cheek, inhaling remnants of scents that returned the afternoon and all its delight. You’re a flame within my heart.
Beatrice opened Morrigan’s door without bothering to knock. She held a steaming cup of tea and the container of liniment. “I thought I heard you moving about.”
Morrigan accepted the cup. “Is it late?”
“Not yet seven. Your father’s locked in the parlor with Curran Ramsay.”
“He’s come again?”
The suggestion of a smile flitted across her dour aunt’s face, and Morrigan knew she’d said it too fast. “Says he’s bent for Edinburgh. I wonder why he traveled so far out of his way, when there’s a train direct from Glasgow?”
Morrigan shrugged.
Beatrice crossed to the commode and rearranged the blooms. “He brought these for you. They’re fading already. You’d think, since he went to the bother, that he’d bring fresh ones.”
“He was kind to think of me at all.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about his kindness.” Her aunt sat on the edge of the bed. “What you said last night isn’t true. Your father doesn’t blame you for Hannah’s death.” With a glower she added, “Now don’t go off into one of your tantrums. I’ll admit Douglas has faults. But there’s good reason.”
Morrigan took a deep breath and unlocked her jaw. “I should get dressed, don’t you think?”
“There’s something I want to show you first.”
Reaching into her big apron pocket, Beatrice withdrew a stiff, old daguerreotype. She glanced at it, her lips pursing, before handing it to Morrigan.
It was a photo of a girl in a hard-backed chair, tartan shawl draped over one shoulder, the fringed edge folded beneath her hands on her lap. Long-lashed eyes peered at the world from a solemn, delicately boned face, a face like any other human’s, yet on this one so exquisitely arranged that it was hard to look away.
“Aye.” Beatrice nodded. “It’s your mother. This is before she met your father. Here, she’s seventeen.”
“Seventeen….” Frightening, this feeling of being turned inside out, of flying end over end. “Younger than I am.”
“The years have gone by.”
“Where is she buried?”
“The kirkyard at Glenelg. Ibby brought the Ramsay lad here on purpose. You’ve no idea how it scunnered your father. He wants no reminders of home. Ibby has never understood him. I believe she thinks she can convince us to go back there.” With a decisive shake of her head, Beatrice murmured, “He’ll never do that. Never.”
“Why?”
“The memories….”
“What memories, Auntie?”
“The deaths, of course. Nicky’s mam died there as well as yours.”
“Neala Grant,” Morrigan said.
Beatrice nodded. “I didn’t know her, but everyone said she was the sweetest lass ever born. That’s more than we can say for Hannah. Your mam was selfish, as selfish as a woman can be. Douglas’s wives were aye different.”
Morrigan stared at the portrait, remembering Enid Joyce calling Hannah a whore. Why had she done that? What could have given her such an idea? Enid was the whore, in spirit if not flesh.
Beatrice paused. When she continued, she sounded deliberately brisk. “Nicky was but two months old when Neala found herself expecting again. Both Neala and the new baby died in childbirth. It was such a tragedy in the parish; they were still grieving when we came, two years later.
Folk thought Neala a saint. Didn’t she tame Douglas Lawton, and he the black-tempered devil, always, even as a lad? I heard all about it, endless clishmaclaver over that unlikely romance. No one could believe such a tender, devout lass would want him. But when it came to Neala, the sun rose and set with Douglas Lawton. And he loved her. I mind how whenever the women spoke of it, they’d start greeting. They felt that sorry for him. After Neala died, Douglas raised Nicky alone, until Hannah came along.”
“Why do you say it that way? You make it sound… bad.”
“Hannah was bonny and well she knew it. Spoiled rotten. Everyone coddled her. With men it was worse. They’d do whatever she asked simply for a smile.”
Beatrice fingered the long plait hanging over Morrigan’s shoulder. “You’re like her. That’s part of the problem. You have her voice. Douglas is reminded of her every time he sees you or hears you speak. There are times I’d swear she’s in the room. I’ve caught myself looking about for her.”
Morrigan swallowed and clamped her teeth together so she wouldn’t interrupt this singular talkative spell.
“Hannah could have made a fortune if she’d been born in London. She could’ve been another Ellen Terry. It’s sure she put on a right good show at home. Few could deny her, your father included.”
Beatrice continued to stare at Morrigan’s braid for a moment, then she blinked and rose. “Can you manage a corset yet? I’ll help you lace it.”
When they finished, Beatrice crossed to the door. “We’ve squandered enough of this day,” she said. “I’ve no’ begun breakfast.”
“What made her die?”
“You know that already. Have you a yen to hear an account of how she suffered giving birth?”
“No. I just want… to know everything about her.”
“There is no more. But it would be nice if you showed your father a bit of mercy. His crime is that he cannot forget the life he lost. Now I’d appreciate your help downstairs.” The latch clicked behind her.
The memories Beatrice offered were like exquisite miniature paintings, packed in a beautifully wrapped gift box. Morrigan wanted to separate the layers of gauze and examine each image, one by one. All her life she had wondered about her mother, yet fear kept her from asking, the walls of stone in the eyes of Beatrice and Douglas. Somehow she’d always known she was not to mention Hannah Stewart.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 13