The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (33 page)

“It’s a pleasure to dress you,” Ibby said as she allowed her protégé a peek in the mirror. “You remind me of your mother tonight.”

“Many used to say Hannah could charm the Prince of Wales himself, right away from his Alexandra,” Beatrice said.

“Which isn’t much of a trick from what I hear,” Ibby said with a wink. “Now pious Gladstone… there would be a conquest worthy of notice.” She handed Morrigan a pair of long white gloves. “Shall we?”

Morrigan ran her fingers along the edge of the neckline and stared into the looking-glass, afraid that such a display of bosom would scandalize everyone. Yet Aunt Ibby, who was a devout church-going Presbyterian, appeared perfectly at ease.

Curran was still in the entryway at the center of a cluster of men, holding a glass of whisky and laughing. As soon as he caught sight of her at the top of the stairs, he left them, propping one foot on the bottom step and holding out a hand. She inhaled and descended, placing her hand in his.

His gaze, so hotly pleased, leant her courage. He led her into the drawing room, into a spin of color, a blur of faces, and an expectant hush.

“Welcome to you, mistress.” Fionna Dunbar curtsied again.

“Thank you,” Morrigan said faintly.

“Morrigan, may I present Glenelg’s heart and soul?” Curran swept out one arm. “My wife,” he announced, moving her hand to his forearm. “Mrs. Ramsay.”

The hush dissipated into applause and a flurry of voices.
Aye, she well matches you, master,
a male at the rear cried.

Morrigan gritted her teeth to stop their chattering, only to feel, in the next instant, unbearably flushed. Thankfully, Ibby had given her a fan to carry.

“Soon you’ll be old friends with them all,” Curran said. “But let’s begin with the smoother path.” He guided her straight to Ruairidh Ogilvy, who, right now, did seem like an old friend. She smiled her gratitude at Curran’s discernment.

Standing before the fireplace, whisky in hand, Ruairidh was chatting with an unfamiliar man, whose pronounced grey sideburns swooped over his cheeks in curly profusion, leaving his upper lip and chin clean-shaven.

“Reverend Ogilvy,” she said. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

Ruairidh lifted his glass. “I’ve never in my life seen a bonnier bride, Lady Eilginn, and I’m certain I never will again.” He turned to Curran. “Would you tell me the history of your portraits? These two, above the fireplace, are they your mother and father? And this extraordinary likeness of your wife…. Every eye is drawn to it there.”

Kit’s painting sat on an easel to the left of the fireplace. “H-How did that get here?” Morrigan managed to ask.

“Ibby and Fionna had your bride’s kist brought from Mallaig.” Curran frowned. His brow rose, elongating the scar.

“A masterpiece,” Ruairidh said. “Who is the artist?”

Morrigan read the question in Curran’s wary glance.
Aye, and why have you never shown it to me, or mentioned it?

Making free use of her fan, Morrigan said carefully, “A lad from my hometown painted anyone he could get to hold still. He said it was good practice.” She felt the heat in her cheeks. The virginal white of her gown would make them look redder. “I didn’t pose for this, though. I didn’t know he’d done it until… recently.”

“There’s something about it,” the minister said. “It is you, my dear, yet different. Quite different.”

“Well,” she said, “he painted me as a mermaid.”

Curran continued to watch her as Ruairidh laughed. Morrigan laced her fingers together.

“It’s as fine as any Millais or Rossetti I’ve ever seen. Excuse me; I fear I’m somewhat a student of art, though I have not the means to indulge it. I did visit the Royal Academy once, long ago. Has your artist any recognition, or do we have the honor of seeing his work before anyone else? Will you tell us his name?”

“Kit… Christian… Lindsay.” She paused to clear her throat, not daring to meet her husband’s gaze. “I don’t know what’s happened to him. He married and left Stranraer some time ago.”

“If this is an example of his talent, I’ve no doubt he’ll achieve renown and riches. I’ll watch and hope for other masterpieces by Christian Lindsay.”

“As will we,” Curran said, though he didn’t sound as enthusiastic. Before Morrigan could formulate a plan to charm away his suspicion, he motioned to Fionna. She crossed to him and he spoke into her ear. With a nod, she fetched Tess; together, they carried the easel and painting out of the room.

Morrigan’s heart sank. Already, he was angry. She inwardly recoiled, fearful he would denounce her before all his guests.

But he smiled at Ruairidh. “The room is crowded. I don’t want it damaged.” Turning to the man with the sideburns who had been quietly observing this conversation, he said, “Morrigan, allow me to introduce you to Quentin Meriwether, my friend and solicitor. Quinn, my wife, Mrs. Ramsay.”

“I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Ramsay,” he said with a polite bow.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Meriwether.” She snapped open her fan again, hoping to rid herself of this heated discomposure. She might not know much about the world, but she did know that clients made their solicitors privy to all kinds of details never shared with anyone else. She fancied the warmth of his smile did not reach his eyes. They were frighteningly keen, almost slicing her head open in an effort to uncover her secrets.

What a fool she’d been. Every eye in the room was trained upon her, every tongue forming questions. There could be only one reason for a wedding, with her brother and father hardly cold in the ground. They all must wonder about her character, or lack of it.

“Quinn handles my legal affairs,” Curran was saying. “His home is in London, but we see him often. I think he’d like to live here, wouldn’t you, Quinn?”

“There is some truth to that,” Quinn replied. Aye, he was English, but his accent wasn’t overly unpleasant.

Tess and Fionna passed around ale and whisky.

“Janet will want to know how you like her recipe, mistress,” Tess said.

“Only a sip,” Curran replied. “I don’t believe it’s good for….” He stopped, blushing. Morrigan turned rigid and forcibly swallowed a horrified screech.

“It’s home-brewed,” he said quickly, “and potent. My wife isn’t accustomed to spirits. Ah, here’s Padraig.” With a parting word to Ruairidh and Quinn, he pulled her away.

“Padraig Urquhart,” he said. “He took over as gamekeeper when your father left Glenelg.”

“What a fetching lady you’ve found, sir.” The man bobbed his head. “And imagine, Douglas Lawton’s own daughter! I mind you holding this lass when she was no bigger than a mite. Why, she’s scarce grown since those days, but for her hair, which appears to have grown dearly!” His smile faded. “I was grieved to hear your father slipped away, mistress. And wee Nick. What a sorry trial for you.”

“It’s kind of you to remember them.”

“He and I endured the troubles together. Your da near single-handed-like kept us alive, but of course you know that. He’s a hero, every bit as much as Master Ramsay’s father.”

A young woman approached, holding an infant. Padraig drew her into the circle. “My wife, Rachel.”

Padraig, a decidedly older man with white hair, rough beard, and eyes near-buried in wrinkles, had a wife whose fresh dewy skin bloomed within a frame of flaxen hair she’d plaited about her ears in a style many years out of date. Morrigan’s surprise at the pairing of Rachel and Padraig was surpassed only by shock at the man’s affectionate and respectful description of Douglas. Padraig’s words birthed a thousand questions, but she held her tongue, not wanting to admit the Douglas he remembered was to her a complete stranger.

She couldn’t help wondering, sadly, if she alone had caused the change in her father.

Rachel’s costume made Morrigan uncomfortably aware that her own was far too rich for this gathering. Ibby had assumed tonight’s guests would be wealthy landowners and their spouses, not simple tenants. These people had no doubt labored to clean and repair the outfits they wore in her honor. Padraig’s jacket showed threadbare patches; his boot leather was cracked and weathered. Rachel’s frock, a saffron-colored skirt with a tartan scarf about her shoulders to add bright color, was also mended.

One of Morrigan’s old inn dresses would have worked well in this setting. It might have helped them accept her more readily.

If they knew her history, and what had caused Curran to join with her in marriage, she’d be no better in their eyes than the fallen woman of Stranraer.

Yet in his unpretentious way, Curran had invited the people closest to him— his crofters. No doubt she would one day meet the fine gentlemen and ladies of his acquaintance, but for tonight, this most important night, ordinary folk like her.

His choice of guests showed the marrow of the man she’d married.

She might not be able to change her costume, but she could at least display a willingness to be friendly. “May I hold the wean?” she asked.

Bobbing a curtsy, Rachel offered her child, saying, “Her name’s Jean, m’lady.”

Wee fingers curled around hers. The babe slept, her pink mouth open, skin brushed by fine, downy hair. For an instant, Morrigan forgot everything else.

“I expect you’ll be making a fine mother,” Rachel said.

Startled fear replaced euphoria. Morrigan stared at the sleeping infant, realizing she would soon hold her own child.
I’ll never hurt it,
she swore, remembering Nicky’s fears.

“You have that fierce look again,” Curran whispered in her ear. Louder, he said, “This is Malcolm Campbell and his wife, Agnes. Violet is their daughter.”

She quickly rearranged her expression to more properly acknowledge the red-faced couple beaming at her.

“Jean is a pretty wee thing, is she not?” Agnes said. “Poor Rachel, though. Jean’s birth near killed her.” Coming closer, she added, “She was breeched.”

Agnes wore a red and black checked dress, and her grey-streaked hair was pulled into a simple plaited chignon. Her shiny black shoes, no doubt tucked away for special occasions, looked new and stiff. Years of exposure to wind and weather had permanently marked her plump cheeks in a rosy meshwork of broken blood vessels.

“Malcolm is Kilgarry’s shepherd,” Curran told her. “But more importantly, he’s a grand fiddler. We never hold a cèilidh without him.”

The poor man’s collar looked so tight Morrigan couldn’t help imagining his head popping off. His beard was freshly trimmed and he’d slicked down his grey hair. In other respects he resembled his wife, his cheeks weathered and his eyes lit by gentle kindness. The couple was exactly the same height.

Merry. He and his wife, and Padraig and Rachel, each easily identified.

All these folk appeared kind and merry. Even Curran’s solicitor, who was laughing with Ruairidh, might fit into that category once she got to know him better and he realized she hadn’t set out to cruelly entrap his friend.

These simple but dignified people must truly love their laird to show her such quick acceptance.

“Violet is your daughter?” she asked Agnes. “She helped me ever so much today.”

“She’s my joy and a blessing,” the woman replied. Then Agnes asked the questions no doubt on everyone’s lips.

“Master, why is your wedding feast so small? I would’ve thought you’d invite the entire county plus two more to such an occasion.” She faced Morrigan, adding, “And why have we never met you? Violet told us Master Ramsay brought a lady to Kilgarry a fortnight ago. She called you his betrothed, but I thought she was making it up.”

“I… I….”

“Where were the banns read? It’s all peculiar, if you’ll forgive me saying so, especially for a laird—”

“Now Agnes,” Curran interrupted, “I’m not a laird, and you always see plots along with spirits and faeries. Lay the blame at my door, if you must, for I couldn’t wait to marry Mrs. Ramsay. Her wishes for a grand wedding with all the formalities were swept away by my impatience. You must console her, as I will try to do.”

“Och….” Agnes shook her head as Morrigan sent her husband a glance of mingled relief and awe. “’Tis unfair of you, master, to cheat your lady in such a callous manner. I
will
try to console her… though it was shabbily done. And you a gentleman raised.” She clasped Morrigan’s hand, clucking. “Men and their impatience. They should be taught better. Ah, well, my dear, it’s done. But you have this wondrous home and the loyalty of Master Eilginn’s tenants for as long as you live.”

“Aye, aye.” Malcolm nodded vigorously.

Agnes’s blue eyes glinted. “In truth, mistress, I did know this was coming, for I saw you to Master Ramsay’s left hand, a good year ago if it were a day.”

Morrigan glanced at Curran. “I… hadn’t met him a year ago,” she admitted.

“Nonetheless.” Agnes gave a careless wave. “I told Eleanor… Eleanor Graeme, who could not be here this night due to the coming of a babe… that our dear master would soon wed. And see? Here you are. The very mirror image of the woman I saw by his side.”

“I don’t understand….”

“She had a vision,” Rachel explained. “She saw you, standing beside the master. Agnes has the Sight.”

A commotion outside the drawing room caused Morrigan to look up. It was Seaghan MacAnaugh, laughing at something Fionna said as she invited him in.

Curran left her side for the first time. “You came!” he said, grinning. “What took so long? Scrubbing the fish-smell from your clothes?”

MacAnaugh fluffed the edges of his jacket. “Aye, and we swam in the bay for good measure. Your new wife cannot know the truth about us, can she?”

“No amount of poetry would keep her here; we would hear her scraiching clear back to the Lowlands.”

“Aye, that’s the truth!” Seaghan’s voice blasted across the room. He slapped Curran on the shoulder with one great hand. “Where’s the whisky?”

“Come away, you daft fools,” Curran said, amidst an uproar of laughter.

He turned, almost stumbling over Morrigan, who had crept up behind him. “Look, Morrigan, Seaghan did come. I was beginning to wonder. And here, at last, is Aodhàn.”

* * * *

Dizziness sent a cascade of multi-colored spots spinning through Morrigan’s vision, and filled her ears with a drone that overrode the clink of glasses, laughter, and conversations.