The Absinthe Earl Page 3

  He waved his hand, dismissing this argument. “Archaeologists are at the site already. But you’ve interested me with your theories, and I’m eager to hear what you make of it.”

  I stared at him, shocked out of sensible speech. “I hardly know what to say, sir.”

  “Why, yes, of course,” he said with an easy laugh. “But hold—I haven’t told you all yet.”

  I raised my glass, steadying myself with a sip of absinthe while I waited for him to continue.

  Removing the spectacles again, he said, “You asked me a question earlier, which I evaded. If you accompany me to Brú na Bóinne, I shall answer it truthfully.”

  Edward

  There’s an old Irish tale of a white trout that, when caught, transforms into a beautiful woman. No trout was ever netted so prettily as Miss Quicksilver. Fortunately for her, the fisherman had no intention of devouring her.

  “Lord Meath, I …” Her breath was short, so excited was she at the prospect, and I confess that what had earlier seemed to me a great bother grew more appealing in the light of her enthusiasm. “When do you intend to make the journey?”

  “I should have my arrangements made in two days’ time. Would that suit you?”

  “And how would we …?” Her hands moved restlessly in her lap, and I understood her discomfiture. A battle was being waged within her. It was a highly irregular invitation from a stranger, which she should unequivocally refuse. And yet such a perfect trap for this particular trout. It had the ring of fate, were I a man to believe in such things. But neither did I disbelieve.

  Finally, she asked outright, “What would those arrangements be, sir?”

  “We shall travel together, but I shall arrange separate rooms, of course.”

  Her gaze floated around the room in an absent way as she considered. “I would insist on paying my own way.”

  I shook my head. “As your employer, I would expect to pay your way, and a salary for the work that I’ve asked you to do.”

  “I would insist on paying my way,” she repeated more firmly. “But I will accept a small fee for the work. I’d rather not, as it is you who would be doing me the favor. But for propriety’s sake.”

  “As you like, Miss Quicksilver.” I raised my glass and drained the last drops, covering the relief I felt, and rose to my feet. “Now, I’ve kept you until a late hour, and if you’ll forgive me for insisting again, I’ll escort you to your lodging. I cannot permit a visitor to our dark, foggy city to walk the streets alone at this time of night.”

  She glanced around her again, and I saw her start as she discovered we were two of only a handful of patrons remaining in the Green Fairy.

  She rose to her feet, and I lifted her cloak from the back of her chair and wrapped it about her shoulders. “I thank you, sir,” she said quietly, glancing up at me through eyes that narrowed further as she smiled. “I have enjoyed your company and lost track of the time.”

  “And I yours,” I replied, noting the slight trembling of her frame beneath my hands. Conscious of an adolescent wish that this had somehow to do with my person rather than my proposal, I gestured toward the door, indicating she should precede me.

  In the cobbled street outside, she again raised her hood, and we walked in silence until we reached her modest boarding house.

  At the door, I said to her, “Shall I call on you tomorrow afternoon and provide you with the details of our journey?”

  She eased her hood back far enough to let me see her face. “Thank you, sir. I’m spending the day at Trinity College tomorrow, but I shall make a point of being in by teatime.”

  “Good night, then, Miss Q.”

  “Good night, Lord Meath.”

  I waited until she’d roused her hostess and gone inside before crossing the street to the boarding house opposite and taking a room for this night and the next. I confess I used my station to secure the room of my choosing, and the hostess was surprised when I expressed my wish for one of the small rooms in the front, facing the street.

  I’d climbed into bed—without my final nightly dose of la fée verte, as I hoped to sleep lightly—before it occurred to me that, while preoccupied with appreciating my own cleverness, I’d managed to lose sight of the fact that the prophesied death of Miss Quicksilver might, in fact, be related to her acquaintance with me.

  THE EARL’S SECRET

  Edward

  I tossed on the narrow sunken mattress, second-guessing my decision to watch over the woman. I was secretive out of necessity. What business did I have engaging a traveling companion? And wasn’t it likely I who was the dark cloud drifting on her horizon?

  Yet I could not bring myself to abandon her. Even if the warning was no more than the product of a diseased brain, she was still a woman traveling alone at a dark time of year. The weather could be more violent than what she was used to in England, and the roads treacherous. I liked her chances better with than without me, even if she was as self-reliant as she professed to be. As for whether I might be a danger to her … so long as I continued my regimen I would sleep soundly. By daylight, I was certainly a gentleman, and she ran less risk in traveling with me than she might with any of my companions of similar age. Not to imply that I was immune to her considerable, if unusual, charms. But my mental affliction had aged me beyond my years, stripping away a young man’s frivolity and thoughtlessness.

  These deliberations whipped me about like a lifeboat on a stormy sea, and in the end, I took the absinthe. I kept a flask of it on my person always. Without it, I simply could not sleep, for fear of what I would become in my dreams. But the question remained, how was I to watch over her while dosing myself insensible every night?

  I would just have to hope that her bed was as safe a place for her as a maiden’s bed should be, and confine my vigilance to daylight hours.

  I dropped off sometime close to dawn, not waking until full daylight, head pounding from the drink. By my watch, I had only a few hours before I intended to call officially on Miss Q. Even less time to catch up with her at the college. Between now and then, I had to settle our travel arrangements and make my preparations for the journey.

  It was past noon by the time I arrived at the magnificent old library. I had attended university in England, as my father wished, but I was no stranger to Trinity. Two of my older childhood companions had completed their studies there, and I’d visited them in my rowdier years. I often met them in the library, just before they abandoned their studies to pursue weekend pleasures.

  Even if you had no love of books, it was impossible not to appreciate the aesthetics. It was truly a cathedral of learning, with wood-paneled vaulted ceiling, two levels of shelved volumes, and many busts of notable scholars.

  But I did not find Miss Q in the Long Room. Tracking her to her actual location, the Reading Room, took considerable time, as I had to proceed with caution. If she caught me following her around like a villain in a gothic novel, I had no doubt our short acquaintance would come to an abrupt end. For she was a sensible young woman.

  She was so absorbed in her task of paging through old periodicals, it was not difficult to avoid her notice. I had intended only to mill about the place and keep within shouting distance in case some threat actually did present itself. But I soon found myself unable to quit the room, so absorbed was I in watching her at her work. She had referred to herself as studious and dull by nature, or something equally awful, but I think one might more accurately describe her as determined. There was nothing dull about her countenance as she read. Or the way her chin lifted, lips slightly parting, when she discovered a passage of particular interest. Or especially the now familiar squinting quality of her easy smile as she handed in one copy of the Irish Times to request another. I could have passed the whole afternoon watching her, striking as she was in the plum-colored plaid that accentuated both her womanly figure and her heart-shaped mouth.

 
But it was not the reason I had come, and neither was it a gentlemanly thing to do. So I left the Reading Room, picking up a discarded copy of the current Irish Times on a table outside, and found a comfortable chair to loiter in.

  As it turned out, the chair was too comfortable, the previous night’s rest too brief, and my reading material entirely too dull. I quickly dozed off. Waking suddenly, groggy and disoriented, I checked the time and found that nearly an hour had passed. I returned to the Reading Room, but Miss Quicksilver had already abandoned the desk where I last saw her. Glancing down, I noticed an old edition of the Irish Times still open on the desk, and my gaze fell on a photograph of me.

  The paper contained the obituary of the former Earl of Meath, my father. The photograph of me, as the heir apparent, appeared alongside the announcement. It detailed my personal history: date of birth, education, and naval career, which was predicted to be cut short by my father’s sudden passing. But that wasn’t all. The article’s final sentence mentioned the rumors of mental affliction that regularly circulated about my family, including my high-ranking cousin. Cold crept into my belly, and I turned and left the room.

  Of course, she would have heard of it eventually. Even the English referred to my relation as “the mad Irish queen,” though they did so with decidedly less affection than did my countrymen. Madness wasn’t a trait that much worried a Celt. I couldn’t think of a single family that hadn’t been touched by it to some degree.

  So why did it concern me that she should know?

  Because I damn well don’t want her getting cold feet.

  Now that I’d impulsively invited her, I had let myself become attached to the idea and was determined to see it through. I was no longer sure how much it had to do with the banshee and how much it had to do with my own growing fascination with her.

  I strode back through the library and passed once more through the Long Room, making sure that she had, in fact, departed for her boarding house, and I noticed a green vapor trail materializing near the entrance. I stopped to fish my spectacles from my pocket. I was usually safe from the visions during daylight hours, but I’d taken my nightly sleeping draught much later than usual. As the vapor took on a more definite feminine shape, I paused in replacing my spectacles. Had the banshee returned?

  No. This visitor was younger. A beautiful woman I easily recognized: my cousin Isolde, approaching from the other end of the Long Room. She continued striding toward me, though her eyes were on the floor. Her countenance was melancholy, very much in contrast with the brightness of her raiment. Green though she was from head to toe—absinthe-born, like the others—her floral headdress was probably twelve inches high, crammed full of enormous roses and peonies and seeming to defy the physical laws of nature, held aloft as it was by that delicate head perched on a long, graceful neck. Her narrow shoulders did, however, droop, whether from the weight on her head or from that on her mind, it was impossible to say. The long streamers of the bouquet she held in one hand trailed out sadly behind her.

  Not many had seen her this way. But we’d played together as children, despite her six years of seniority, and I knew that the melancholy was as much a part of her as the joyful and sometimes wild exuberance she displayed to the rest of the world.

  “Isolde,” I murmured.

  To my astonishment, she glanced up, apparently as surprised as I was. I had only a second to note that her headdress was held together by thorn-bearing vines, and that a drop of blood trickled down one pale cheek, before her forward momentum carried her against—and, in fact, through—me. The sweet aroma of anise filled my nostrils, and a chill breeze seemed to blow through the cage of my ribs.

  My hand thudded against my chest as if to catch her, and then came a whisper in my ear. Make haste, cousin.

  Ada

  My trip to the library had been fruitful, but I was relieved not to see the earl immediately on my return. I needed time to compose myself and overcome my feelings of guilt for checking up on his story. It had been the only sensible thing to do—if anything I’d done since meeting him could be classified as sensible.

  He was certainly who he claimed to be—if the Green Fairy’s bartender hadn’t been proof enough, I’d found photographic evidence in the Irish Times archive. Furthermore, the Brú na Bóinne ruin did exist and was the subject of a current archaeological study. It was not, however, a new discovery, as he seemed to believe. Two centuries ago, a farmer had set laborers to digging at the earthen mound. After digging far enough to realize they’d struck upon a ruin of some sort—within the confines of a hill that everyone in the county believed to be a fairy mound, and one associated with the Tuatha De Danaan—they dropped their shovels and fled. The farmer, too, had abandoned the project, leaving the grass-covered knoll to his sheep. Fairies were private creatures and had been known to take revenge on mortals who pried into their affairs. Robert Kirk, a Scottish minister and folklorist, was said to have been abducted by fairies in repayment for exposing their secrets in his important book on the subject, The Secret Commonwealth. When he died, his body was found on a fairy hill near his home.

  But the present-day tenant of Newgrange, thinking to profit either from the structure itself or from whatever it might contain, had excavated further. He found some antique trinkets and sold them for a fraction of their value. When an archaeological hobbyist got hold of a bead necklace and tracked down its origin, the truth had come out and the crown stepped in.

  It was a fascinating history, and I’d made careful notes. To say I was eager to visit the site would be an understatement of epic proportion. But truth be told, I’d been equally fascinated by the information I found on the earl and his family. I had to ask myself: was he mad, despite appearances? Might he be dangerous?

  More than a figure of dread, he struck me as a man who was suffering. If he would be open with me, as he’d promised to do in exchange for accompanying him to Newgrange, might I be able to help him in some way, if only by listening to his tale and sharing my research with him? I felt that it was too early to dwell on what he might do for me, though there was no question my meeting with him in the Green Fairy had been most serendipitous. The impromptu journey would cut short my time in Dublin, but I could always return to the city a day or two early. And it was just possible that last night I had accomplished exactly what I’d set out to in coming here.

  But in my enthusiasm, I was running ahead. This afternoon, we would have a second interview, and I’d have an opportunity to revoke my acceptance of his proposal, should I begin to doubt.

  My landlady had tea ready when I arrived, but I retired to my room first to freshen my complexion with cool water and tidy my windblown hair. I studied my face a few moments in the mirror, remembering that he’d called me “otherworldly.” Certainly, he had meant no insult, but could it fairly be called a compliment?

  What difference does it make either way? His opinion regarding my appearance was of no consequence, that was true enough. And yet … were my brows too thick? Was my nose perhaps too small? Was a smile that tended toward squinting considered a defect? I’d certainly been teased for all this and more—though for none so much as my hair—in my years at that frightful boarding school. It had been some time since I felt a pang over the lost time with my parents, but I felt one now. I turned to make my way downstairs.

  I met my landlady on the stairs. Her eyes were wide, and her corseted bosom heaved from having climbed too quickly. “There’s a fine gentleman come to see you, miss. Mr. Donoghue, he said his name was, and he’s wearing a hat and an odd pair of spectacles. But he’s a peer or I’m a Christmas pudding. Go on down with you, and I’ll ask Cook for more tea things.”

  I pressed my fingertips against my chest, where my heart was making clear its feelings on the topic of the earl’s visit.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Maguire,” I replied, wondering whether she detected the hum of excitement under my controlled tone.
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  She turned, hoisting her skirts as she retreated down the stairs, and I followed.

  As we descended I appreciated the good-natured woman more than ever. I’d not been gossiped to or scolded in her house, and even now her interest seemed to run no deeper than making a good impression on the important personage waiting in her sitting room.

  Due to the season’s limited daylight hours and the gloominess of the weather, the lights were already burning downstairs. As I entered the room, the earl removed his hat. His hair was loose today, but he’d used a little oil—I detected the clean scent of rosemary—to comb it back from his face, and his dark curls gathered behind his ears.

  “Miss Quicksilver,” said he, smiling warmly. “I’m happy to see you again.”

  “And I you, Lord Meath,” I replied with a curtsy.

  “Please, sit down,” he urged me, gesturing to the tea table near the sitting room window. A teapot and cup, and a plate bearing a fat slice of cake, were already there waiting for me.

  “Will you join me, my lord?” I said. “My landlady is bringing a plate and cup for you.” I knew that I should have warned Mrs. Maguire of the earl’s visit, but the circumstances were so unusual, I confess I had not been entirely sure he would come, and then what might she have thought of me?

  “I thank you,” said the earl, taking an armchair opposite me. “It’s a bitterly cold day. Please go ahead with your tea, and I shall tell you what arrangements I’ve made.”

  Oddly enough after our familiar fireside chat at the Green Fairy, there was now a feeling of awkwardness between us. Perhaps that was only to be expected. The absinthe house was a place for light and easy conversation, while the sitting room during daylight hours was a setting altogether different for a man and woman of recent acquaintance.

  Lord Meath removed his spectacles, and as I studied his face in the wan afternoon light, I decided I had mistaken his age. I’d believed him closer to my own age, but now, noting the smile lines at the corners of his eyes, I thought he might be as much as ten years older. Which, admittedly, left him still a young man, as I was only twenty-two.