The Absinthe Earl Page 8

  We warmed ourselves by the fire while she busied herself at the stove. No questions were put forward about our night in the ruin, though this was not surprising—a tenant would not think it his place. Mr. Doyle fussed with the turf fire until it was blazing, and then fell into idle chatter about the weather. I assumed that all the awkwardness had to do with our absence the evening before—and perhaps the farmer’s speculation about the earl and me—until I recalled that it was Mr. Doyle’s sale of beads found inside the ruin that had drawn attention to the place. This could easily have proved a consequential lapse in judgment had the man possessed a less compassionate landlord.

  A quarter hour later, a feast was laid before us—steaming bowls of porridge and a pitcher of fresh milk, eggs fried with mushrooms and onions, bread hot from the oven, with a cake of rich yellow butter, and a pot of strong tea. When Mrs. Doyle had poured our tea, she excused herself to check on her children, who were about their morning chores.

  My wondering whether the earl would think it advisable to tell his tenant of the púca came to an end when Lord Meath finally spoke. “Mr. Doyle, I don’t wish to alarm you, but I feel that I would be remiss in keeping from you the fact that we encountered a threatening creature inside the ruin.”

  The farmer turned from the fire, regarding Lord Meath with wide eyes. “Is that so, my lord?”

  “It had the appearance of a púca, though I know that must sound very strange.”

  “A púca!” Doyle regarded him with surprise and what I took for alarm rather than disbelief.

  “I know of no better way to describe it,” replied the earl, “and I’m at a loss to account for it.”

  Doyle shook his head. “Sorry I am that ever I poked my nose where I hadn’t ought to, my lord.”

  “I suspect it was less connected with your laborers’ foray into the chamber than with the reconstruction of the entrance, but I’m far from an expert in such matters.” Lord Meath’s gaze came to rest on me.

  I swallowed the bite of egg I had just taken. “I would agree with you, my lord. It feels significant that the first rays of dawn traveled down the passage and pierced the central chamber. It’s likely the structure was erected for just that purpose. I wonder whether it might even be some kind of gateway.” As I warmed to this topic and as the excellent breakfast underwent the chemical transformation necessary to revive my energy, some of the early morning’s sense of dread began to dissipate.

  I wondered, could this be the gateway? If we had left it open, what else might have come through. And was it truly closed?

  “Have you noticed anything unusual since the inside of the ruin was first examined, sir?” I asked Mr. Doyle, endeavoring, by my careful wording, to spare him further remorse. “Any sightings that could not be explained without reference to old stories?”

  “No, miss,” he replied. “But Mrs. Doyle has made me feel how wrong I was to trespass on the gentlefolk, and I’d take it back if I could.”

  By this answer, I could see that the farmer’s main concern was to ease his guilty conscience by confession to his lord—perhaps even to the gentlefolk themselves, who were known to be easily offended—and I did not pursue further questioning. But I confess I was looking forward to the loss of his company so I might discuss the matter more fully with Lord Meath.

  “The site is important, Mr. Doyle,” replied the earl in a somber tone. “I don’t believe you are to blame for the púca’s attack, but I’m counting on you to aid the scientists and workmen in keeping the passage sealed until I can return from my consultation with the queen.”

  “Rely on it, Your Lordship,” Mr. Doyle readily assented, clearly relieved for this opportunity to reaffirm his worthiness as a tenant.

  “Keep your own family away as well, for their safety.”

  “I shall, Your Lordship.”

  “As soon as we reach the train station, I’ll telegraph Her Majesty and request a company of soldiers to relieve the excavation crew.”

  Before Mr. Doyle could reply to this, we heard a sharp rap on the front door of the cottage. The earl walked out with our host to answer it, and they passed Mrs. Doyle as she returned to the kitchen. I overheard enough of the men’s conversation to understand that conveyance of some sort had been procured for us, and I was rising to join them when Mrs. Doyle pressed a basket into my hands.

  “For your journey,” she explained, smiling kindly. She was a young woman still, not yet thirty, and had numerous ginger freckles and a head of curls to match.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Doyle. And thank you for the excellent breakfast.”

  As I took hold of the basket handle, she held fast a moment, pulling me closer.

  “He’s a handsome lord, miss, but fey,” she whispered urgently. “Take warning. I fear you daren’t trust him.”

  Anxiety brought a flash of heat to my chest. Though I knew how right she was, this reminder of my predicament freshened my sense of unease. I was spared the concealment that would have been required for me to reply to this kind warning, by the return of Mr. Doyle, who came to lead me to Lord Meath.

  “Thank you for your generosity,” I repeated, hoping by my calm reply to ease her distress on my behalf, even if I could not do the same for myself.

  She pressed her lips together and made a small curtsy. Then, cutting her gaze at her husband, she seemed to contemplate a moment before adding, “You bear the mark of attention from their kind. You must take especial care.” She eyed my silver hair, which I hadn’t bothered to conceal under my hood, and curtsied again. “Safe travels, miss.”

  I thought about my grandmother’s story of the fairy kiss as I followed Mr. Doyle out again to the farmyard. I thought again about the earl’s words in the ruin: And thee, my own love, whom I both know and know not.

  Lord Meath waited for us near a small open carriage. “This is all that was available on short notice,” the earl explained as I joined him. “Fortunately, the weather is fine for a late-December morning.”

  This was true enough. The air had a bite, but the sunshine was its balm.

  “Will you be comfortable enough?” the earl asked.

  “I’m sure that I will, my lord.”

  I gave him Mrs. Doyle’s basket, and he placed it on the seat beside the driver before helping me in and climbing up to join me. We would be rather cozy on this ride, as there was only one passenger seat in the carriage and it was much smaller than the private coach.

  “With any luck,” he said as we got under way, “we’ll make Mullingar in time for the Westport train.”

  “If we don’t?” I asked.

  “If we don’t, we must stay in Mullingar and resume the following morning.”

  The open carriage was both a blessing and a curse. With the driver so close, the earl could not resume his questioning about the night we’d passed together. Neither could we continue our discourse on the púca and its significance. Instead, I studied the wintergreen-and-dun countryside, trying not to think about the warmth of his leg pressing against mine.

  I found my mind returning to the night before. But now that I was tucked safely into the coach, beside a man I had come to respect and trust, these thoughts raised a warming curiosity. I knew what it felt like to be held in his arms. To be kissed by him. I trembled to think how different an experience it might have been, had he been himself. I wondered whether he could ever feel the same desire for me as the sleepwalker had.

  That was no more than mistaken identity, I reminded myself. And as for the earl … well, he was an earl, while I was merely a Miss Q. And I had a decision to make.

  Edward

  You frightened me with your intensity.

  It was what I had feared most in persuading her to join me on this journey—that she might come to harm in my care. And the almost certain knowledge that I had acted in an ungentlemanly manner toward her, whether or not it was within my control, sick
ened me.

  Yet she insisted she was well. To all appearances, she was well. Her color was still high, but it gave her a healthful glow. She looked even more alive than she had this morning, when she had been flushed with excitement for the journey to come. And she had not fled from me in terror, as I imagine any other woman would have. Not yet, at any rate.

  I thought I might be driven the rest of the way mad by not knowing the specifics of what I had said or done. I could not now reopen the topic, not with the driver so near. In truth, I didn’t know whether I could ever speak of it again. Would not forcing her to speak in more detail constitute a fresh offense? As I eyed her profile, I noticed a purplish mark on her neck—a fresh bruise. Had I caused that? Certainly, she would have fled by now had I laid hands on her. Perhaps she had been bruised sleeping on the stone.

  Dear God. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, tormented by my lack of information.

  Feeling a gentle weight on my shoulder, I opened my eyes. Despite the rough road and the uncomfortable carriage, the poor woman had fallen asleep, and her cheek now rested against me. I scarcely dared breathe for fear of disturbing her. If she woke, she would certainly move away.

  I leaned toward her, lowering my shoulder so she might rest at a more comfortable angle. I resisted the urge to take hold of the hand that lay, palm up and fingers slightly curving, in her lap.

  “Rest, my clever and kind Miss Q,” I murmured, “and know that I will do whatever is required to protect you—even from myself.”

  FLIGHT OF FANCY

  Edward

  She slept for the duration of the journey. We did, in fact, make it to Mullingar in time to catch the train, though I had only a few minutes in the telegraph office, and I feared that my cousin would find my note incomprehensible. I’d been forced to compose it in French to avoid alarming the telegraph agent, and to call my French “passable” would be generous.

  Before we left the office, Miss Q asked the agent to post a letter for her. She told me that it was a note to her mentor at the academy, informing him of her change in itinerary. I felt a pang that she had no parent or other family member looking out for her welfare, and I again vowed to myself that I would take better care of her.

  We had some trouble with the station agent over the sword I was carrying, as it was too long to fit in my travel bag. After assurances that the weapon was a family heirloom, a promise to stow it above with our bags for the duration of the journey, and a few shillings for the agent’s inconvenience, we were finally allowed to board and take our seats.

  Our journey would take several hours, and I had retrieved my absinthe supply from my bag, thinking I was likely to sleep on the train and unwilling to risk another nightwalking episode, though it was yet early in the day.

  Miss Q had been paging through her notebook while I settled our baggage, but she glanced up as I sipped from the flask. She offered me a smile that I hadn’t seen on her before—shy, even self-conscious—and returned her attention to her book.

  “Are you troubled by my drinking, Miss Q?”

  “No, sir,” she replied earnestly. “I am only sorry for the condition that necessitates it.”

  “That is kind of you.” I sipped again before closing the flask and slipping it into a pocket of Mr. Deane’s overcoat. “I must be on my guard to avoid repeating the offense of last evening.”

  Color rose to her cheeks, and she replied, “What do you make of that creature that attacked us, my lord?” In her change of subject, I had my answer whether it was better to drop all inquiry into the specifics of my behavior.

  “I would like to hear your thoughts on the subject,” I replied.

  She laid her notebook aside. “I think that Brú na Bóinne may be a portal to wherever the fairies reside. Reconstruction of the portal, or perhaps activity in the chamber, may have opened it. I have read accounts of such doorways in County Sligo as well.”

  I nodded. “My family sometimes traveled on holiday to Sligo Bay. Locals say there is a fairy door in the face of Ben Bulben, the tabletop mountain where the warrior Diarmuid is said to have been killed by a wild boar.”

  The lady’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and her gaze fell to her folded hands as she considered this information.

  Her theory was reasonable, and a natural one considering her course of study. Yet I resisted this explanation with its potential threat. “It is also possible that the creature was roaming the countryside and just happened upon the ruin.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, looking up. “It’s possible. But according to the tales I’ve studied, púcas tend to be tied to a place. Lonely, deserted places such as castle ruins and old mills. And its appearance on the night of the solstice could not but be significant. Even had it traveled from elsewhere in the country, we’d be left with the question of its origin.”

  All this was as soundly logical as I’d come to expect from Miss Q. “And what do you make of the sword?”

  Her lips parted, but she hesitated.

  “Tell me, please,” I urged.

  “You named that sword, in Irish, when you were … sleepwalking.”

  I stared at her. “I what?”

  “You gave it the name of Diarmuid’s sword, Great Fury. You have no memory how you came by it?”

  I shook my head, stunned. “None whatever. What does it mean?”

  She pursed her lips together, and I followed the delicate motion of her throat as she swallowed. “I don’t know, Lord Meath. But …” Again she hesitated.

  “Please, go on.”

  “It seems clear that we’re witnessing some bleeding through between worlds. And I think it may somehow be connected to your nightwalking and to the visions you see when you drink absinthe.”

  I let go of some of my resistance to the idea that we had naively opened a fairy door—releasing heaven knows what in the process—in light of this theory that suggested a possible explanation for the madness that plagued me.

  “Connected how?” I asked her.

  Perhaps hearing the desperation in my voice, she eyed me with sympathy. “That remains a mystery, my lord. I hope we shall unlock it.”

  “But you do have a theory?”

  She frowned. “Any conclusion I draw now would be nothing more than conjecture.”

  “I am no less eager to hear it.”

  Ada

  I knew that he sought relief, and I could not refuse him—even though I must tread carefully to avoid being drawn into further discussion of events the night before.

  “Very well,” I began. “I think that in your nightwalking, you may be seeking something.” Thee, my own love. “Something you’ve lost. The absinthe stops your wandering in our world, but only because it opens a gate allowing the other world to reach you. The sword, for example, came from the other world, which explains why the workers didn’t find it.”

  His eyes were bright under tensely knitted brows. “But why am I afflicted thus? What have I to do with this other world?”

  “I don’t know, my lord,” I replied quietly. “But I think you may be more than you seem.”

  His gaze shifted to the window, and his fingers slipped into his pocket. He brought out the flask but only held it in his hand as he watched the evergreen pastureland and whitewashed cottages slide across his view. Finally, he turned from the window and drank deeply.

  His distress wrung my heart, just as it had that day in Mrs. Maguire’s sitting room.

  Replacing the flask, he removed his spectacles. His gaze fixed on me, and I caught a glimpse of the nightwalking earl behind his eyes. No more than a shadow, but I began to fidget under the intensity of his stare. I steadied myself with a reminder that he was taking his cure and I was therefore safe. If I was to remain in his company, both he and I must be more vigilant about his doses.

  He dropped his gaze after a moment and reached into the watch pocket of his trou
sers. But he froze in the act of drawing the watch out, producing instead what appeared to be a folded scrap of old tea-stained paper. Or parchment.

  “What is that, my lord?” I asked, unable to restrain my curiosity.

  He blinked at it and shook his head. “I haven’t any idea.”

  Yes, parchment. I watched him unfold it, and his eyes began to move over it as though he was reading. With no small measure of anticipation, I waited for him to complete his inspection.

  Finally, he handed it to me, and my hands trembled as I rubbed my fingertips over the material that was so much softer and suppler than paper. I studied the stark lines of the letters on the page but could read none of it.

  “This is Old Irish,” I said, breathless from the realization. “A week ago, I would not have been able to tell you that, but I viewed a page from the Book of Armagh while visiting the Trinity College Library.” The ancient text was highly prized, as it contained information about the life of St. Patrick, as well as rare samples of written Old Irish, the language that preceded Irish Gaelic.

  “Old Irish?” he said with surprise. “Are you certain?”

  “Fairly,” I replied. “I studied the document quite closely, and I have a good memory. I wish we could read it.”

  “I can.”

  Now I glanced up with surprise. “You can read Old Irish, my lord?”

  He frowned. “It would seem so.”

  I could see that this troubled him, and indeed, I had no way of accounting for it myself. Perhaps I was mistaken and it was only written in Gaelic.

  “What does it say, sir?” I asked, sliding to the edge of my seat.

  “It is a story—or, perhaps more accurately, a history. Shall I read it to you?”