‘You may go,’ she says and the girl is smart enough to simply drop a curtsey and leave. The door closes behind her and Aoife waits a few moments, her hands stilled above her plate. When the sound of footsteps recede, my grandmother glances at Aidan, who nods.
‘Miren.’
‘Yes, Grandmother?’ I want to say I know what you have planned but I don’t.
‘You are aware, I know you are, of our parlous financial position.’
I merely nod.
‘I met with the solicitor today’ – as if I didn’t know, as if I wasn’t meant to be there, as if she didn’t lock me in my room – ‘and matters are even worse than I feared’ – as if she didn’t know exactly what our position was – ‘Your grandfather had been hiding things from me. The last of the ships must be sold.’
Yes.
‘The sale of the contents of the house might just make up the difference and keep creditors from hounding us.’
Yes.
‘Your grandfather left you his share of Hob’s Hallow, just as I shall. You are our sole heir, Miren.’
Yes – to whom else would you leave that crumbling pile?
‘But I wish you to inherit more than a debt. Your cousin Aidan has offered another way.’ She speaks as if this is all a foregone conclusion: her words suggest there is a choice, but her tone, oh, her tone! It is all business. Miren, this is how it shall be, you have no choice in the matter. She inclines her head towards our saviour.
Aidan pulls a small square box from his pocket. The wood is honey-coloured, the hinges and clasp golden. ‘Miren, if you would do me the honour of becoming my wife, it would solve many problems.’
Now there’s a proposal any girl would be happy to hear!
He flips open the box and the contents fair bulges out. It takes up all the room that is to be had inside. Against a bed of black velvet sits an enormous baroque pearl. It’s creamy silver, shaped almost like a teardrop, and tiny rubies run around its base, set into the ornament itself so they look like drops of blood. All mounted on a thick band of silver engraved with scales, of course. He must have had this made especially.
Aidan rises and grasps my hand. He does not kneel, and I do not resist. He pushes the ring onto my heart finger. It lies heavy and cold. I do not speak and I do not look at him, and he does not wait for me to do so, but returns to his seat. He expects nothing, not even consent.
Across from me Brigid’s face is like thunder. Can’t she see I want no part of this? There’ll be no help from her.
To my left, Aoife looks satisfied.
‘There,’ she says. ‘It is done.’
Still I do not say a word, and they take my silence for acquiescence.
9
The air across the salt marshes is strangely foul, as if all the corpsewights are standing by the roadside to watch as we pass. But I can catch no sight of them. It seems unlikely besides, so something must have died in the reeds or even further out on the beach, an animal washed ashore and rotting.
Aoife and I have barely spoken since we left Breakwater, although periodically she reaches for my hand as I sit beside her and examines the ring with approval. It makes my finger feel like a lump of dead flesh, so heavy and cold it is. It’s a tether, a chain. I don’t say this to my grandmother. I don’t snatch my limb back for to do so would be to begin a battle I’m not yet sure how to win.
Across from us, on the other seat, on the lap of one of the two new maids, is the wicker basket I used to carry the account books, now replaced by a large parcel Brigid handed me as we climbed into the carriage. It’s wrapped in brown paper and tied with a cream silk ribbon. She said, ‘A gift to my soon-to-be sister’ and smiled but her lips couldn’t quite hold the shape. I’d left the quilt behind, but she ran down the stairs and pressed it upon me. It seemed I wasn’t soon to be rid of, but I was polite and gave my thanks.
I will burn it at home.
We have fresh staff as well: the maids and, above, are two lads to aid Malachi – must be crowded up there with the coachman, his boy, and the two footmen (one handsome, the other extraordinarily plain). They are to begin the process of making Hob’s Hallow suitable for Aidan and his bride, though the place belongs to the bride already, or at least to her grandmother. But the townhouse isn’t a grand enough “seat”, and so Aidan and Brigid will move out here.
I think about one of the footmen; he’s not one of those who came to collect us a few days ago. He handed me into the carriage (Aidan did not bother to see us off, which was a relief, and Aoife did not care for she’d already got what she wanted) and when I looked at him I thought yet again how much I did not want to marry Aidan. The footman was tall, with sleek black hair, green eyes that tilted at the corners, lips cut into a perfect bow, cheekbones so sharp they’d slice your fingers if you stroked his face. He looked into my eyes and smiled, and I – I squeezed his hand.
‘Take care on the step, Miss,’ he said and his voice was low as he squeezes back.
Aoife’s been very careful to keep me away from any male I’m not related to – indeed, the cousins’ visits so few and far between that I wondered sometimes if that was intentional too. Raised with only old men around me, but for short-lived tenants’ sons, no one’s who ever looked like this. Or at least not for a long while.
I think of the marks Aidan left on my wrist and wonder how much more pain he’ll be wanting to inflict; what if I actually do something wrong? I press my lips together as my fingers heat up under another man’s touch. The carriage won’t return to the port-city immediately, not until the maids establish what needs to be bought and brought from Breakwater, then merchants and tradesfolk will be approached or sent and a new life will begin at Hob’s Hallow.
‘The wedding in a fortnight, I think.’ Aoife’s voice breaks me from my reverie.
‘What?’
She lifts a brow.
‘Pardon?’ I say pointedly.
‘Your wedding in a fortnight.’
‘Oh. At the Hallow?’ I speak as if I’ve got an interest in the event.
‘Oh, it will never be ready by then. No, in Breakwater at the cathedral. A reception at... Aidan will know somewhere, someone will owe him a favour that can translate into a grand ballroom.’
‘We don’t know enough people to fill a grand ballroom, Grandmother.’ A lot of those relatives who came for Óisín’s funeral will still be on their way home – two weeks won’t be enough to send invitations and get them to turn around.
‘Aidan knows important people, all the fine society of Breakwater. Never fear, my girl, you’ll not have a tiny wedding.’ From her tone, she’s thinking of her own marriage to Óisín in the chapel at the Hallow. She’s thinking of my sixteen-year-old mother Isolde coming back from a wedding gods-know-where, her belly full of me, and my father trembling by her side as she asked they be taken in, all sins forgiven.
I’m not certain how much fine society is left in Breakwater since the advent of the Queen of Thieves, but I can see Aoife’s got stars in her eyes, she’s dreaming of the old days or at least the ones she was told about as a child. How rich we were, how significant, how folk flocked to our doors to beg favours and be able to do them in return. I don’t mention there’s no dress for me to wear, and vainly hope this might stop the entire process.
‘Imagine the look on Florrie’s face!’ Aoife fair cackles, but I can’t resent that at least. Aunt Florence will indeed be a picture when she hears; it might even keel the old bat over at long last.
‘Do you miss him?’ I ask all of a sudden. Did they find a kind of love for each other at some point?
‘Who?’
‘Óisín!’
‘”Grief is the black cat rubbing at your ankles, looking for attention,”’ Grandma Aoife says, which is beautiful until she follows it with, ‘Kick it enough times and it goes away.’
I look at her for a long moment until she says, ‘Mark my words, Miren, the O’Malleys are on the rise.’
We speak as if the maids aren�
��t there, or they’re deaf, and belatedly I flick them a glance. It doesn’t matter anymore, Aoife’s done her crowing. And the girls look as blank as slates.
* * *
‘And what am I supposed to do with these?’ Maura shouts. But she’s eying the peacock-blue frock I’m wearing while she does it. A sure sign of change, a new dress. She’s not noticed the ring as yet.
Aoife disappears up the staircase towards her rooms, waving a hand at me: Deal with it. The maids are standing in the entry hall, small holdalls at their feet, one hugging the wrapped quilt like it’ll protect her from Maura and her grey-haired rage. Both are blonde and tiny, one plump, the other in need of a good feeding; both a little younger than I.
‘Maura, Mr Fitzpatrick has sent these girls to work for us.’
Maura’s wrinkled face freezes in horror. ‘To replace me?’
‘Of course not, you silly thing. For you to boss around. Go on. Surely it’ll make a nice change from Malachi ignoring you – these two have to listen. Ciara’ – the thin one bobs – ‘and Yri’ – the plump one copies her – ‘you will obey Maura in all things, and if I hear that you’ve not then whatever’s left of you after she’s had her way, I will deal with. Understood?’
‘Yes, Mrs Fitzpatrick.’
‘Mrs Fitz...’ Maura can’t quite get the word out and I can see it’s hit her like a blow.
I step close and steady her, say quietly for I’ve no doubt the maids will be reporting back to either Brigid or Aidan, ‘Not yet, Maura. Never fear.’
She notices the ring then and her eyes go wider still. When her quaking’s lessened, I pat her shoulder, turn and take the parcel from the plump one, bundle it into Maura’s hands. ‘This is for you. Brigid made it.’
She smiles then. Maura’s always had a soft spot for Brigid, was always kind when she came to stay. Besides, burning the thing seems a terrible waste when it’s so very fine. Someone may as well get use of it and I like the idea of our old servant snuggling beneath all Brigid’s hard work.
‘Now, Maura, show them where they’ll sleep, then set them tasks – probably cleaning their own rooms for a start.’ I glance at the two boys, perhaps sixteen the pair of them. ‘Where’s Malachi?’
‘Stables,’ she grumbles as if I should have known – and honestly, I should. Maura tears at the corner of the parcel until she can see the lovely fabric within. Her expression lightens and she smiles, not at me, but at the quilt.
‘Right,’ I say to the lads as I lead them back to the front door and out onto the stoop. ‘That way, to the left, then left again and keep walking until you see a tumbledown building. That’s the stables. There’ll be an angry old man in it, probably smoking a pipe and if he’s not outside, he’ll be in the upper rooms’ – I can’t recall a time when Malachi didn’t sleep above the stables of his own choice – ‘tell him I sent you and he’s to put you to good use. I’ll check on you later.’
‘Yes, Mrs—‘
‘Miss O’Malley,’ I say sharply. ‘Still O’Malley.’
‘Yes, Miss!’
With the lads suitably terrified and scampering, I turn my attention to the piles of luggage that are being unloaded from the carriage. Having left Hob’s Hallow with a single small case, I’ve returned with a trunk of items there’s no one out here to see and appreciate. All the pretty things purchased by Aoife at the cost of my freedom. And Aoife herself has returned with two trunks – she found time after visiting the solicitor to return to Madame Franziska while I was locked in a room.
There are four men staring at me now, well, three men, one boy, though the coachman’s not climbed down from his perch. He’s not there to do heavy lifting and he wants everyone to know that; he’s smoking a pipe, giving me a measuring stare. I say, ‘Follow the lads around to the stables and settle in. Then find Maura in the kitchens, she’ll show you where to sleep tonight. Tomorrow she’ll have a list of things we need and you can go back to Breakwater, then.’
He nods, faces forward, flicks the reins and the black horses start. Next, I glance at the others, standing around with the trunks and a collection of small cases, a large crimson box tied with silver ribbon, the baskets of food Brigid had her kitchen prepare as if we couldn’t feed ourselves. I gesture to the coachman’s lad (he’s not exempted from this kind of labour, not yet anyway), and the potato-faced footman. ‘You take that one between you, then return for the other’ – I indicate one of Aoife’s trunks, which I know is heavy enough with new dresses and shoes (far more than mine) to require two bodies – next I point the green-eyed footman to my own trunk, which I know is light enough for one man – ‘and you, that one and follow me.’
I lead them inside the tower’s foyer; I can feel eyes on my back and it makes me stand straighter. I’m taller than the lad and the potato-faced man by a head; the other man is a little taller than I. I can’t work out if it’s pride – well, I know it’s pride, I’m an O’Malley after all – but pride in this decrepit mansion, the pride expected of the mistress of the house, pride in being a rich man’s wife and saving this house from its fall? I don’t know. I lift my head a little higher as we take the staircase that splits in two at the top. I point to the right, address the puffing footman and lad, ‘That way. Go through the door and to the end of the East Wing. Madam O’Malley’s rooms are there. Take all of her cases. Try not to get lost.’
‘Yes, Miss,’ they reply, smart enough not to venture a name.
I don’t say anything to the green-eyed man, just crook my finger at him as the others move off. We head towards the door to the West Wing; only Óisín and Maura have slept in the tower for as long as I can remember. I stop, at last, at the entrance to my own suite, pause, breathe deeply, then lead the green-eyed man inside.
‘Over there.’ I indicate a spot by the window. Later on, I’ll have one of the new girls unpack for me. I could do it myself now, but best not to get them thinking I’ll do their job for them. I stand near the door, hand on the knob, watching as he carries the trunk to the designated spot and puts it down carefully.
‘Anything else, Miss O’Malley?’ he asks in a low voice.
‘No.’
‘There are other bags.’
‘Yes.’
He comes towards me, but instead of leaving he puts his hand on mine and together we close the door. I think of everything Maura ever told me about what happens between men and women, women and women, men and men. All the things Aoife didn’t mention, all the things she’d done, such terrible things to avoid me learning (poor Mrs O’Meara and her lovely boy). The idea of Aidan being the first to do this to me is unbearable.
My bright blue skirts froth between us, him pushing into me again and again, tongue and cock. And he’s staring into my face as if he’s never seen anything like me (and before this morning, to be fair, he had not). My back’s against the stone of the fireplace and I can feel the fabric of my new dress tearing and won’t Aoife be cross (and more than cross if she discovers us)? And I’m tearing and I don’t care and there’s nothing but this flame inside me and what will Aidan think to find he’s not the first to plough this particular field? It won’t matter. And won’t Aoife be angry to know that despite all her precautions, all her keeping me out here at the Hallow with no company, despite her dreadful sharp eye, I’m just like my mother?
* * *
When he’s gone – and it’s not long after we’ve finished, which suits me fine as there’s luggage to be lugged and what I wanted has been acquired – and I’m lying languid on the bed I remember the letters.
Feeling the heat of him cooling on my skin, I pull the bundle out from beneath the mattress. The ribbon is tied so tightly that I have to use Óisín’s mother-of-pearl-handled knife to slice it. I unfold the first; the paper is onion-skin thin and cheap, the ink almost bleeding through to the other side. The letter is brief:
Father, Do not look for us. I know we have stolen from you, but we have left our child as a surety. We have honoured the agreement with Mother in spir
it if not entirely in deed. Let Miren be the price between us.
And it is signed Isolde.
10
‘You must have children, Miren, as soon as you can.’
In the library Aoife’s walking back and forth on the rug in front of the hearth. It’s early in the morning but she looks like she’s been here for hours, pacing and plotting; her hair’s still damp from a morning swim. There’s a fire crackling, neatly laid and lit, no doubt the work of either Ciara or Yri. And the shelves have been dusted, too, freed of a decade or more of gilings; the lacy coverings on the backs of the armchairs have been changed, furniture polished so I can see my face in surfaces as I move past. Whatever else I might think of Brigid, she’s chosen good domestics. The only thing not cleaned is the ceiling, too high for the girls to reach.
‘Three,’ Aoife says on the turn. ‘Three’s a good beginning. Maura will need to start you on a course of herbs, make sure your womb is welcoming.’ She pauses mid-stride. ‘Whatever else your father was at least he wasn’t an O’Malley. Fresh blood for the line. Myself, your mother, no… but you all new and untouched.’
I almost laugh at that. Touched rather more than you know, Grandmother.
‘That’s got to help,’ she says this last almost to herself, then repeats, ‘Three.’
I reply as if it’s an enchantment to be completed, ‘One for the house, one for the Church and one for the sea.’ I thought this was over; I thought this way was old and almost past, that it needed only Aoife’s death for it, too, to die.
She laughs. ‘And more after that besides! As many as you can.’ She points to a large crimson box on the desk by the window, the one I noticed on our arrival yesterday. ‘That’s for you. Open it. Open it!’
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