The Absinthe Earl Page 12

  “This is astonishing rudeness, Edward, but I’ll put it down to your current ill health and prickly temper. When do you plan to introduce me to your companion? ‘Miss Q,’ was it?”

  The queen stepped closer, and I curtsied again, heart drumming frantically.

  “Your Majesty,” replied the earl, “this is Miss Ada Quicksilver, an Englishwoman and student of the Lovelace Academy for Promising Young Women.”

  “Lovelace, indeed!” she cried. “How charming. I’m quite jealous.”

  “You know of the academy, Your Majesty?” I asked in surprise.

  “I do, in fact. Founded by naughty Lord Byron’s daughter, was it not?”

  I raised my eyebrows, flushing again.

  She laughed. “Forgive me, my dear. I mean the daughter of naughty Lord Byron, Countess Ada Lovelace, of course. And are you perhaps named in her honor?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. My parents admired her.”

  “Quite a clever woman. Did not neglect her maths. I adore clever women. Are you one as well?”

  “I …” I knew very well that I was, though I would not presume to compare my intellect to that of my namesake. Yet to assert such a thing to a queen while I stood in rags before her—it was quite beyond me.

  “Miss Q is very clever, I assure you,” replied the earl. “She is a student of our folktales and mythology. I offered to help her in her research, but she has gotten rather more than she bargained for.”

  This last statement was no doubt intended innocently enough, but judging by the queen’s amused expression, she had taken the less respectable—but no less accurate—interpretation. “Well, it would seem to agree with her. She is the very picture of youth and healthfulness, though I don’t know quite what to make of that hair.”

  “I daresay we’ve all at least one hereditary trait that we’re prone to be judged by.”

  The queen’s countenance sobered to match the earl’s tone. “Too true, cousin Edward. It suits her, at any rate.” She returned her gaze to the earl, and her smile reappeared. “Come, it’s Christmas Eve. Let us return to Kildamhnait and continue this business in comfort and the company of friends.”

  “Hold, Isolde,” said the earl, “did you say Christmas Eve?”

  I glanced at him. Lord Meath was right. We had set out for Newgrange on the day of the winter solstice, two days ago now. “December twenty-third, is it not?” I asked.

  “Yes, well,” replied the queen, “Auntie said the miscalculation by her navigator was due to the need for … expediency. Count yourselves lucky I found you at all. Now, where is that sword, Edward?” She scanned the interior of the cottage.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Lost, to the waves, I presume.”

  The queen’s eyes went wide. “You jest.”

  “I do not. Even if I had managed to hold on to it in our fall from the ship, it would surely have been lost in our consequent scramble for dry land.”

  The queen squeezed her eyes closed, hissing, “Blast. We need that sword, Edward.”

  He frowned at her. “Had you been as frank with me as you apparently were with our pirate ancestress, I might have taken better care. And not to belabor the point, but if you hadn’t put us into her hands in the first place—”

  A shout from outside interrupted the earl’s tirade. The queen turned and hurried out of the cottage. Lord Meath and I followed.

  The morning was clear and bright, but I gasped at the shock of cold air against my bare flesh.

  The queen joined her servant and a richly dressed gentleman, both bent over something on the strand. As I drew closer, I saw that it was the sword, half buried in the sand, waves pulling at its graven gold hilt.

  “Great Fury,” whispered the queen.

  The gentleman reached for the hilt, but touching it, he recoiled with an oath.

  “As I suspected,” said the queen. “Edward?”

  The earl bent and lifted the sword. The weapon was apparently particular about who handled it. Why had it permitted me?

  The earl turned the blade in his hands, and the gentleman gave a low whistle. “She’s a beauty.” His gaze moved beyond the earl when he noticed me standing behind him. His eyes went wide as they moved over my form, and I hugged my chest. The frigid air made my cheeks feel all the hotter.

  Removing his coat, the gentleman stepped closer. “If you’ll permit me, Miss …?”

  “Miss Quicksilver,” I said, voice trembling from the cold. “I thank you, sir.”

  “Duncan O’Malley,” he replied in a heavy Irish brogue, helping me into the coat. He shot a disapproving glance at the earl. “What transpired here, Edward?”

  Isolde gave an unqueenly snort. “You may call out cousin Edward at a later time,” she said. “I’ve not had my breakfast. Edward, bring the sword. Duncan, bring Miss Quicksilver.”

  Lord Meath’s countenance was grim, but when O’Malley held out his arm to me, the earl nodded, and I took it.

  O’Malley’s heavy wool coat had a wide offset collar and reached all the way to my ankles. I felt like a child in it but was grateful for its warmth.

  He was a handsome and rather dashing fellow. His coarse dark hair formed tight ringlets that were lit with burnished gold. Like Edward, he wore it pulled back from his face, and also like Edward, he had clear blue eyes—all the more striking against the warm brown of his skin.

  We followed the queen and her servant to the small dock, where a vessel awaited—a snug copper tugboat, gleaming in the morning sun. “Medb” had been painted on her hull—Old Irish for the mythic warrior queen Maeve—and she flew the Irish flag, a green banner emblazoned with a golden harp.

  We boarded the tugboat and settled ourselves in the wheelhouse, where we could both enjoy the view and warm ourselves by the stove. O’Malley took the wheel, and we soon pulled away from the dock. The servant placed a kettle on the stove, and a breakfast tray on the small table before us—brown bread, butter, and bright-orange smoked salmon.

  “Please accept my apology for endangering your lives,” said the queen, a sudden earnestness overtaking her.

  Smiling, she lifted a slice of thickly buttered bread from the table, turned, and exited from the wheelhouse. We could see her make her way to the bow, where she removed her hat along with her hairpins, inviting the wintery air to whip through her long dark hair.

  Shivering, I murmured, “How cold she must be.”

  “You needn’t worry about Izzy,” replied Duncan over his shoulder. “If anyone was ever kin to the four winds, it is she.”

  Izzy? “You are cousin to the queen?” I asked.

  “Aye,” he replied, glancing back. “And to His Lordship as well.”

  “Isolde and I used to travel from Dublin with our families for the holidays,” the earl explained.

  “And my brothers and I used to try to drown the wee jackeens in the sea,” said O’Malley with a bark of laughter.

  Grinning, the earl replied, “They thought to scare us, but Izzy never met man, woman, nor beast she was frightened of.”

  “She’d pick herself up laughing as if it was all a great joke,” said O’Malley. “Unsatisfying, it was.”

  The servant placed cups before us and filled them with tea. I wrapped my hands around my cup, savoring its warmth.

  O’Malley spoke gravely to the earl then, but he did so in Irish and with an accent so different from my language professor’s that I caught only a word or two.

  I glanced at Lord Meath, who eyed me a moment before replying. And just as on the night in the fairy mound, I heard him speak a phrase and understood it clearly.

  “I haven’t harmed her, Duncan, nor have I any intention to.”

  My cheeks warmed, and I knew I should warn him that I was listening—yet I did not.

  O’Malley then asked a question I did partly understand, and the earl replied:

/>   “From London. It’s a long story, but we’ve come to consult with the queen on some strange business.”

  Earl Edward, countenance darkening, listened to a second question from his relative before offering an emphatic, “She is not, but I consider her to be under my protection nonetheless.”

  O’Malley laughed softly and muttered a few conciliatory-sounding words in reply—roughly, “no offense intended”—and I felt a deep blush spread over my face and chest.

  Unlike Isolde, O’Malley seemed to be struggling to overlook the impropriety of the situation, which again reminded me of my vulnerable position. Had O’Malley and the queen assumed that I was the earl’s mistress? Wasn’t it likely the others we met on the island would draw the same conclusion? I’d never embarked on such a venture before and had therefore never been exposed to this sort of scrutiny. It somewhat dampened my enthusiasm for the idea of spending the holiday with Lord Meath’s relations.

  The servant began dishing out breakfast, and the conversation dropped. We had not eaten since the luncheon of cold sausage and bread from the basket provided by Mrs. Doyle. The moment a plate was set before me, I realized I was ravenous, and temporarily put O’Malley’s probing questions out of mind.

  While we ate, the tugboat chugged southeast along the ragged coastline, which was broken once by a long, golden strip of sand that the earl called Keel Strand. There was very little activity along the shore, but then, it was Christmas Eve morning.

  “I understand you’re here on official business, Miss Quicksilver,” said O’Malley as he navigated around the southern tip of the island and into Achill Sound, “but I hope you’ll partake of the festivities this evening.”

  I glanced at the earl. “There will be a banquet and a ball,” he explained. “I had meant for us to attend, and certainly the queen will expect me to, but no offense will be taken if you’d prefer to rest and recover.”

  I studied him a moment, trying to ascertain his preference. I had no desire to intrude on his family gathering, and I worried about what would be whispered about the two of us. But neither did I care for the idea of spending the evening apart from him, especially in a strange place.

  “I’m afraid I have nothing suitable to wear, my lord,” I replied, avoiding a direct answer. It was no more than the truth—my trunk was likely resting unclaimed alongside his inside Westport station. “Nothing at all to wear, in fact.”

  O’Malley laughed heartily. “That’s an easy thing to manage.”

  I glanced again at Lord Meath, still uncertain. “Duncan’s right,” he agreed. “The queen will have brought her seamstress. If that is your only objection, I hope you’ll agree to accompany me.”

  My hand fluttered to the front of O’Malley’s coat, and I squeezed the overlapping edge of wool. “All right, my lord,” I replied.

  “Since Edward has got the jump on me in asking,” O’Malley said, glancing over his shoulder, “I must settle for the first waltz. If you’ll have me, Miss Quicksilver.”

  Having spent nearly all my adult life in the company of other women, I was unsure what to make of the young nobleman’s eager attention. “If you like,” I replied with a note of uncertainty.

  “And since my cousin appears determined to set himself up as a rival for your attention,” said the earl, smiling, “I had better claim the second.”

  I confess I’d begun to bask in the glow of this gentlemanly sparring when the queen reentered the wheelhouse. “And I the third,” she announced.

  Edward

  Poor Miss Q was unused to my cousin’s eccentricities. I could not even assure her the queen was speaking in jest, because she might very well be in earnest. But Isolde was flighty, and likely as not, by the time of the ball she would forget she’d proposed such a ridiculous thing.

  “Oh, don’t look at me that way, Edward,” the queen complained. “I’ll not eat your Christmas sweetmeat.”

  Which was little comfort since, after making similar declarations many times as a child, she had proceeded to do precisely that.

  Miss Q could only stare at Isolde as she plunked down on the bench beside me, grinning in a self-satisfied way, like a child with a secret. She lifted a cup of tea to her lips, humming a somber Irish Christmas carol with a jaunty rhythm that made it sound more like a jig. I turned to Miss Q to offer her what I hoped was a reassuring smile, and she did her best to return it despite the crease that had formed across her forehead.

  The medieval tower now in sight, the tugboat glided toward the dock. Servants were busy about the grounds of both the tower and the far more inviting manor house, which the family had erected only twenty-five years ago. The tower itself was not large enough or comfortable enough for the modern O’Malleys to lodge in—and certainly not for their royal relative. Nor was such a fortress necessary in the modern age. The only O’Malleys who spent any time in the dilapidated structure were the children, just as Izzy and I had once done, ignoring our parents’ warnings that the tower, with its many missing blocks, was unsafe.

  We disembarked and followed Isolde to the house, and she immediately placed Miss Q in a servant’s care. Orders were given for a bath, followed by a visit from the seamstress, and then she led me up to her suite of rooms, which were in the modern structure’s tower, overlooking the sound. I was grateful that my companion’s comfort had not been neglected, yet I also recognized this as polite maneuvering by Isolde, who intended to claim my full attention for this first interview.

  The queen ordered a fresh pot of tea and directed me to a sofa near the windows. I laid the sword on the gleaming floor planks—all the tables in the vicinity appearing too dainty to support the ancient weapon—and took my seat. Isolde began to pace before me.

  “I’ll order a scabbard and belt made for that,” she said suddenly. “I expect you to carry it at all times.”

  I intended for her to answer many questions in this meeting, but this was as good a start as any. “What is it you want with me and that damned sword?” I demanded. “None of your riddles now, cousin. You’ve involved Miss Quicksilver and me in something quite dangerous.”

  The queen froze, turning her head to pierce me with her gaze. “I sent you to Brú na Bóinne to fetch Diarmuid’s sword. We need our fiercest Danaan warrior now.” She shook her head. “How was I to know you’d have a maiden in tow? It’s so unlike you, Edward.”

  “Isolde,” I said gravely, “I don’t think you realize how nonsensical all this sounds.”

  “Indeed?” she demanded, raising a hand to one hip, and an eyebrow high on her forehead. “Did you not fetch Great Fury from inside the fairy mound? Did you not wield it, defeating the púca?”

  I eyed her warily. “Do you imply that I am somehow connected with Diarmuid?”

  She laughed. “Do you maintain you are not—all evidence to the contrary? And in the same breath that you dare call me nonsensical!”

  Miss Q’s words rang in my ears: I fear we no longer have the time for gentlemanly humility. The idea of a link with Diarmuid seemed to me something only the most arrogant or deluded of Irishmen would embrace, but my reasons for resisting it were more complicated—foremost among them being the implication that I might not be in control of my own destiny. But of the two women insisting I consider the possibility, Miss Q, at least, I trusted not to be carried off by flights of fancy. I took a deep breath and strove to moderate my tone.

  “Cousin, for pity’s sake,” I pleaded, “speak plainly. As usual, you are running out a mile ahead of me. What is all this about?”

  Blowing out a great agitated sigh, she sank down beside me. She removed her hat and set it on the table, stroking the leaf of a pink Christmas star with one fingertip. Her dark hair hung in heavy waves about her shoulders.

  “People say they are poisonous,” she murmured.

  I assumed that this observation was related to the flower and, possibly, in some oblique wa
y, to our debate—or just as easily not. Before I could inquire there was a knock at her door, and a servant entered with a tea tray. He placed it on the table before us, and the queen waved him away. She lifted the pot and filled both our cups, dosing her own heavily with milk and sugar. Then she angled her body so she could tuck her legs beneath her and leaned against me. We had been this familiar as children, but not since she was crowned, and I remained a stiff support for her loosening form. The heavily sweet scent of lilacs rose from her hair.

  “You’ve no idea how difficult it is, Edward,” she said. “To rule, I mean. I know we’d have made a violent couple, but there are times I regret opposing my parents’ wishes about the marriage. If only I had someone to talk to. Someone to discuss things with. It’s such a burden—you’ve no idea.”

  “Well, I’m here now,” I reminded her gently, hoping to preserve this more somber quality of thought. “Tell me.”

  She sat up and raised her cup to her lips, draining the contents before placing it back on the table. “We, and all of Faery, are about to be at war.”

  “War?” I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said, cousin.”

  Patience, I reminded myself. It was Isolde’s way. It would come out by degrees, if I could contain my frustration.

  “Are the fairies not gone?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she replied, “they left centuries ago. But they haven’t gone far, and I know absinthe allows you to see through the veil over their world—just as I do.”

  I had begun to suspect we had this in common, even before the events of the past twenty-four hours. “I take absinthe to stave off nightwalking,” I clarified. “The things I see are side effects. I always believed them to be hallucinations.”

  The queen fixed her gaze on me. “You no longer believe this?”

  “Miss Quicksilver told me she thought they might not be.”

  “Ah, so she is clever,” observed the queen. “We—you and I—see them because we are of them. And your nightwalking is related … Your restless ancestor has been borrowing your unconscious form.”