The Regency Romances

by Laura Kinsale

  “Fionn’s Kiss, he would call that wee blossom.”

  “It’s pretty,” she whispered.

  “’Twill not last long. Away back then, in the olden times, the women would distill the wee petals and make a drink—no taste nor scent to it. ’Twould bring…sleep, of a kind. And other things, sometimes.”

  Roddy frowned at the gray and green spread before her, hoping that, if she showed no interest, Senach would go away.

  He didn’t. He went on, with a more certain rise and fall in his voice. A story he was telling, whether she would listen or not. “Aye, your laddie’s father used to come here. He were a good lad, a stout strong lad, and smart as a whistle. But he were a dreamy fellow, do you know. Always looking for something, and it weren’t there.”

  She found her eyes drawn to Senach’s hands, resting like brown knots on the tall staff.

  “The big men, the landowners, they sent their sons away,” he said. “To the schools. For to be made into men. Most of ’em—ah, and many and many—they never come back. And if they do, they have forgotten. An’ yer lad’s father—Francis, that be his name—his father, he had to keep the land, do you know.” Senach shook his head. “No blame in that, be God, no blame to him, though most say different. It’s like a mountain, says I to yer laddie’s father, an’ the Catholics go up one side, an’ the Protestants go up the other. But in them days, do you see, the big men, they had to be Protestant. They had to sign a paper, or say a few words renouncing their creed—apostatizing, they call that—they had to become Protestant, to hold the land.”

  Roddy stared at Senach’s hands, caught up in the tale despite herself.

  “And yer lad’s father’s father—he did so,” Senach said. “He signed the paper, and he kept this land. He sent his son away for to be educated with the English. And not for a long while, a very long while, did he come back. We never thought to see him come back atall.”

  But he would, Roddy thought. If he were a dreamer, he’d come back to this place.

  “Aye.” Senach smiled. “He did come back. He brung with him a wife—a quare lady, oh, she were that beautiful, with fine clothes and fine airs, as fine as we’d ne’er seen.”

  Roddy sat there with her muddy cape and her windblown hair, clutching a baby pig. Not like me.

  The old man chuckled. “Och, but there’s many a fine lady, and don’t he never think of none.”

  He lifted his opaque eyes to hers, and Roddy felt the chill of blind sight like a shiver down her spine. She set her lower lip and turned away.

  “But this fine lady,” Senach went on, “she were the countess. She were the countess before you, do you see. She had this boy—this one boy, and that be your laddie away down there. And his father says to me, he says, ‘I’ll not be sendin’ that wee laddie away. I’ll be educatin’ him meself. Ye and me, Senach,’ he says. ‘We’ll be his masters.’ Because Francis, he had pined away for this place all them years. He had pined away until he could not abide, and he come home. And he took up the old religion, the Catholic creed, in secret. At first it was secret. But then he began to be seein’ that there wouldn’t be no other son; that this son, this laddie of yours, he could hold the land all in one, from here to there, and get out of the law that way—not to divide it up amongst all his sons when he died because he were of the old faith.”

  Senach turned, twisting his hands around the staff, and looked down the hill. “I have to tell you that ’tis not so long ago that if a man were of the Catholic creed, and his wife or son did what they call apostatize, as I be sayin’, then they didn’t any longer answer to him. They were set against him by the law, and free of him, and the land all went to the son, and the father were no more than his tenant.”

  Roddy frowned uneasily. “What are you saying?”

  “Och, I’m saying that the rebellious wife, the unnatural son—they had only to convert to seize the land. A wee laddie, ten years old, had only to say that he were of the Established Church, and he would be taken from his father and put in a Protestant’s care, and as much of the estate as the magistrate deemed fit and proper would be given over, and the father made a tenant, like the dairymen down there.”

  “That can’t be true,” she said. “A child—”

  “A child of ten. He had only to say so, and the law gave him the land.”

  “Do you tell me Faelan did that?”

  Senach made no answer. A light wash of rain spat a few drops onto his wrinkled hands.

  “He couldn’t have done that,” Roddy said sharply. “He hadn’t had the land until now.”

  “I hear crying,” Senach said. “Do ye hear it?”

  “No.” Her fingers moved nervously.

  “Aye. Oh, aye. I hear it. And Francis dead and murdered.”

  “What are you telling me?” she cried. “Say it in plain words!”

  Senach shook his head. “Dead now and gone. Do the wee pretty pig be crying?”

  “No.” The word was a sob. She felt unreasonable hot tears on her cheeks.

  “Ye can help yer lad. ’Tis the truth ye be wanting.”

  Without meaning to, she looked down at the house. Through the sparkling blur, a single figure took shape, a fine, proud figure, black hair and white shirt against the browns and blues. He was working, rebuilding, and if she could not feel his drive and his weariness through her gift, she could guess it. She could remember every night for weeks, how he’d come in from working until midnight by torchlight, to eat and undress and take her in his arms and fall asleep as he buried his face in her hair.

  Senach looked through her, and smiled. “He were a gallant lad, when he were childer. Aye. And then the dark come on him, and it has never left him from that day to this. ’Twere the day his father died, it was. The day the dark come on him.”

  She did not understand Senach. She was afraid to try.

  “But you—” the old man said. “You be the flame. You be the light. Ye cannot go thinking of yourself only.”

  Roddy stared down at her knees. “I think of him,” she whispered.

  “Aye. Oh, aye. And when you think of him, ye fear.”

  No, she thought. And, Yes. She drew her legs up and hid her face in her hands.

  “A gift ye have. Or so you call it. And you think ’tis a curse instead.”

  “It is,” she cried into her hands. “I hate it!”

  He chuckled softly. “Ah. ’Tis a sad sight. Cryin’ and pityin’, and who is that for, I ask ye?”

  “Don’t tell him what’s wrong with me.” She could not keep the quiver from her voice. “Don’t tell him.”

  Senach did not answer that.

  “Please,” Roddy whispered. “You know I can’t—with him. You must know. There’s nothing. Nothing! It wouldn’t be fair. He’d think I—” She stumbled on the enormity of what Faelan would feel if he knew of her talent, if he thought that she read him the way Senach read her. The horror of it almost choked her. “Oh, God, it wouldn’t be fair. I could never make him believe I can’t. He’d send me away. He wouldn’t have me here.”

  “The truth, now.”

  She scrambled to her feet, pushing MacLassar aside. “That is the truth! You know it’s the truth. He’d send me away.”

  Senach’s blind eyes followed her with uncanny accuracy. She tried to make herself believe that it was coincidence, or acute hearing—anything but what she feared. Impossible, that he should share her gift. Crazy, to talk to him as if he knew. She was alone in the world. She’d always been alone. A freak. Somehow that was easier to accept than the notion that Senach’s words were anything more than the senile ramblings of an old, old man.

  He leaned on the staff, his pale eyes turned toward her. He’s blind, she assured herself. Old and blind.

  And Senach began to laugh.

  Her nerve broke at that. With a small cry she turned, abandoning even the nominal courtesy of a farewell. She began to run up the path, up the hill, with the rough furze dragging at her cloak and the rocks clattering beneat
h her shoes. She could hear nothing but that and the sound of her own harsh breath.

  At the top of the hill she stopped and turned. MacLassar was struggling to follow, his small feet scrabbling for purchase on the wet, rocky slope. Senach was nowhere to be seen.

  She stamped her foot, ridiculing the idea that no one of his age could have walked out of sight down the hill in that short time. There would be other ways, paths and hollows that she could not see—places an old man bent on terrorizing silly children would know.

  MacLassar came panting up beside her. She picked him up and slung him over her shoulder, heading away from the mansion into the high hills and the mist.

  She had no forethought about where she was going. She walked, because it seemed that she must put distance between herself and the insidious memory of Senach’s words. The cold air stung her cheeks. Above her the black choughs followed and then wheeled away. The mists shifted, retreating and advancing, reaching out to envelop her.

  Somewhere far back in her mind she was surprised that she did not stop. The path went on, though the world had gone to white and shadow. She followed it. Up and up, until her chest was heaving for air. MacLassar was strangely quiescent, bouncing along on her shoulder without complaint.

  The path threading upward through furze and gorse had been easy to follow, but suddenly it leveled out and vanished in a stretch of rough grass and seemed to spread into infinity in the mist. Roddy paused. Around her, light shimmered through the atmosphere. She shifted MacLassar on her shoulder, and he gave a satisfied grunt.

  There seemed to be some reason to go forward, and none to go back. She walked slowly into the open area. In front of her the paleness formed into shapes: flat stones set on end in a line that curved away like silent soldiers into the mist.

  She walked forward. The only sound was the drag of her skirts on the dewy grass. As she moved past the line of rocks she could see that it curved back upon itself and made a circle, with a single group of odd-shaped boulders near the center. A few bushes grew among the spaces between, and a scattering of the tiny white flowers Senach had shown her, giving the group a softer, more welcoming look than the circle of brooding sentries.

  She sat down on one of the rocks in the center. MacLassar wriggled until she set him on the ground, where he curled up at her feet and went to sleep.

  Roddy went to sleep, too. At least, it seemed she must have, for when she looked back where she had come from the mist had thinned, and in a shaft of cool sunlight sat the woman who had danced with the militia captain on the night of the fairy ball.

  Roddy recognized her instantly. She thought that she had even dreamed about her, so familiar did that face of winter beauty seem. The woman’s hair was loose and long, a cascade of icy light. She sat with crossed legs amid a carpet of tiny, luminous white flowers, and looked at Roddy.

  “How pretty you are,” Roddy said.

  The woman tilted her head and smiled.

  “I’m Roderica,” Roddy ventured again.

  “I know,” the woman said. She did not offer her own name.

  “You helped us at the ball. I thank you for that.”

  The woman laughed, a sound that brought a pleased echo to Roddy’s lips.

  “Do you live nearby?” Roddy asked.

  “Oh, yes. I do.”

  “We’ve only just come. My husband is rebuilding the old great house. Do you know it?”

  The answer was a nod and another laugh. MacLassar lifted his head, and then came to his feet and ambled over to their visitor. He leaned against her, and Roddy felt his little shiver of pleasure as the woman touched his ears.

  “Do you come here often?” Roddy asked.

  “Often. To dance. Do you like to dance?”

  “Yes.” Roddy surprised herself a little with that answer. “I like it very much.”

  “Come back, then. Dance with me.”

  They both sat silent a moment, smiling at one another with the delight of discovery and new friendship.

  The woman said, “I’ll tell you stories.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I’ll sing for you. And you can sing for me.”

  Roddy nodded. “What’s your name?”

  “Fionn.”

  Bright and fair, that meant, though Roddy had no notion how she knew. “Like the flowers.”

  “Yes.” The woman shook back her hair and rose fluidly. “You’re called,” she said. “I must go.”

  Roddy sat rooted to the boulder and watched as the slender figure was swallowed by the mists. MacLassar stumbled onto his short legs. With a happy, bucking leap, he shook himself out of sleep and ran to Roddy.

  A moment later, she heard what Fionn must have: a voice shouting her name through the mist, hoarse with exhaustion and discouragement.

  She stood up, and called out quickly in answer.

  “Roddy.” Faelan’s outline appeared, a black shape, a rock that moved in the twilight atmosphere. He came through the circle with a determined stride, and only when he was very close could she see the strain in his face, the tight lines etched around his mouth and eyes. “Thank God!”

  She thought for a moment he would pull her into his arms. But he stopped in front of her, his gaze sliding over her with a piercing urgency, as if to determine any hurt, and then he threw back his cloak and sat down hard on a rock. “I ought to beat you,” he said fiercely. “God, I ought to beat you.”

  MacLassar trotted up and presented himself for an ear scratching.

  “And you, too, you worthless beast,” Faelan snapped. “I’ll warrant you’re the cause of this.” He tore open the lacing at his neck and brought a leather pack and flask from beneath his cloak. “Here,” he said, opening the pack and holding an oatcake out to Roddy. “Just eat a little at first. You must be half dead.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Roddy said. “Give it to MacLassar.”

  “Christ. Don’t get heroic on me with a goddamned pig. You eat it, before you fall down. Two days without food; I’m surprised you’re on your feet at all.”

  “Two days!” She frowned at him. “Don’t be silly. I broke fast and had tea, too, before I started up here.”

  “Sit down,” Faelan said. “You’re light-headed.”

  “No, I’m not. It hasn’t been an hour since I—”

  He grabbed her skirt and dragged her down beside him. “Sit down. Eat.”

  Roddy sat. She broke off a corner of the oatcake and stuffed the dry morsel in her mouth. MacLassar came rushing up, and she gave the rest to him.

  Faelan simply took out another and handed it to her.

  “I’m not hungry,” she said. “And you didn’t have to come after me. I could have found my way back.”

  “For God’s sake, are you feverish? You disappear for two days and then sit there and tell me I didn’t have to come after you?”

  “What are you talking about?” she demanded. “I took a walk, and I came up here and sat down for a few moments. I don’t know what you mean—disappearing two days. I’ve worked just as hard as anyone! Yesterday I spent the whole afternoon on my knees clearing out the rubble you’d pushed down the drawing-room chimney, and the day before that I pulled down the last of the silk in the ballroom. With your help—or have you forgotten your grand fit of sneezing already?”

  He looked toward her sharply. The concern on his face went to sudden wariness. Her question had been almost joking; his answer was soft, and deadly serious. He said slowly, “No. I remember that.”

  “Well,” she said, as if that explained everything. But her heart began to thump in dismay.

  He stared out at the circle of standing stones. The black mood came on him; she saw it in the way his eyes narrowed and his mouth curved. He stood up and walked to the tallest stone, put his palms flat against it as if he would shove it down. His teeth bared in that quick, savage straining at a hopeless cause. The rock never moved. With a jerk and a choked sound of frustration, he straightened, glaring at the gray-streaked surface as if
some answer should be written there.

  It was easy then to be afraid of him. Easy to suspect what Senach’s story hinted. Unnatural son. Murderer. She could look at Faelan’s rigid stance and believe there was a darkness in him, a demon that drove him and bowed to no morality or law.

  She had married him because he was beyond her gift, and she clung to that fragile safety. She dared not probe too deeply. She could hope…as long as she did not know.

  He swung away from the stone, and came to stand over her. “You’re not hungry?” he asked softly.

  Roddy shook her head.

  “Nor tired? Nor cold?”

  “No.”

  “I am,” he said. He sank down onto his knees beside her. “All of them.” His lashes sagged, a weary relaxation over blue-mist eyes. “Tell me. Tell me how that’s possible if I dreamed it all.”

  “You’ve been working,” she said.

  He crushed some of the silvery flowers beneath his palm as he leaned on it, resting in the grass. “Roddy. I haven’t slept since you left.” He reached out, stroked the back of her hand. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  She could not argue with him. Exhaustion softened and blurred his features. “You’ve found me,” she whispered.

  His fingers interlocked with hers. “Yes.” His eyes rolled shut. He drew her hand against his cheek and lowered his head to the ground. “…found…” His words mumbled into indistinctness. Roddy saw a shadow move in the mist beyond him. She looked up, and Fionn stood on the other side of the circle.

  The other woman laughed, a sound like bright bells on the wind. That joy washed over Roddy, banishing darker things. She watched as Fionn came closer and knelt over Faelan’s sleeping form.

  Roddy was near enough to touch the sunbeam of hair that cascaded over Fionn’s slim shoulders. Fionn looked up at her, with a hand over her mouth like a child holding back a giggle.

  “Faelan.” Roddy touched his face and rocked him gently. She wanted to introduce him to Fionn. But he only murmured and curled her hand more deeply beneath his cheek. She glanced at Fionn apologetically. “He’s very tired.”

  “You can wake him,” Fionn said. “When you wish.”