The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (44 page)

Eleanor brought Morrigan a tumbler of cold water from one of the burns and sat beside her, wiping her damp forehead with a handkerchief.

“Have you ever been married?” Morrigan asked.

“Me?” the woman replied. “Hardly.”

“Did you never find anyone to love?”

The midwife made a phlegmy sound of disgust. “I did indeed.”

“What happened?”

She shrugged. “I wanted to keep things as they were. That isn’t the way it’s done though, is it? He wanted me in his bed every night, bearing one babe after another, making him breakfast and dinner.”

“How else is there?”

“You’re aye young, mistress. I have no desire to sour you on wedded bliss.”

“Please, Mrs.— Eleanor, tell me. How did you want things?”

“I wanted to spend time with him, aye, but I’ve a life of my own, and didn’t wish to relinquish it in favor of serving his needs from dawn to dusk.”

“Would he not have allowed you to be a midwife?”

Eleanor shook her head. “Can you hear what you’re saying, mistress? Aye, he said he’d give me the freedom I required. And I pointed out that if marriage meant he suddenly had the power to take it, or give it, then it was already lost.”

“Oh.” Morrigan tried to sort through that.

Eleanor tucked a few strands of escaped hair back under her kerchief. “Someday you’ll understand, though wed to the handsome, whisky-voiced laird, maybe not.”

She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. Morrigan stiffened, wondering if she’d done something wrong. “Men never cease praising us,” she said. “They go on and on about how important we are. But if they really believed that, there would be no laws forbidding women all that men have, and enjoy. Education, Parliament, fields of science. I could be a physician.” She shook her dirt-crusted index finger in Morrigan’s face. “Watch out when men start to praise you. It’s their means of keeping you willingly in fancy gilt cages.”

She laughed, but it was not a happy sound.

Morrigan nodded. She wasn’t sure when she’d ever felt quite so unclear, but Eleanor’s lecture did make her recollect all that Curran had given her: the emerald and diamond necklace, the wardrobe full of clothing. Stoirmeil. Were they innocent gifts, or bribes, artfully designed for some murky purpose?

Gloaming settled over the hills, bringing cooler air and a mist. The women returned to Kilgarry so Tess, the oldest daughter living in the house, could bake the Michael strùan.

Cereal meal, eggs, and butter were whipped with the richest cream. The oven was cleaned out and restocked with sacred wood: bramble, oak, and rowan.

Every detail here had importance. Every act, specific meaning. No wonder Ibby caviled about tradition during the wedding preparations. These Highlanders lived close to the earth and seasons. Closer, Morrigan would wager, to those old gods and goddesses than Father Drummond might care to admit.

While the cake cooled, the women drank tea and admired Tess’s culinary skills.

“We’ll carry it with us to Mass,” Fionna said. “Father Drummond will bless it. Master Curran always attends our Saint Michael’s Day Mass, though he was raised in the Kirk. It’s but one of his many courtesies.”

“Glenelg changes little,” Beatrice said, “no matter what landowners do.” She stared around the huge kitchen. “I mind Father Drummond blessing our own strùan.”

“You were Catholic?” Morrigan asked. She’d never before considered Beatrice and religion in any way connected.

“Not after the clearings,” she replied in her usual emotionless manner. “Not Catholic or anything else.”

After a short silence, Fionna said, “I didn’t lose my faith. I know John and Beth are waiting in Heaven to be reunited with Tess and me. If I couldn’t believe that….” Her lips trembled. “Without religion, what is there to comfort you when a child dies? What is there to keep you from going mad?”

Tess pressed her cheek to her mother’s and squeezed her shoulders.

“John?” Morrigan asked.

“My husband. Beth was my daughter.” Fionna stroked Tess’s hair. “It was almost too late for Tess as well the day Thomas Ramsay found us. There he stood in his fine clothes. I thought we were about to be persecuted again, maybe chased out of the ruins. I tried to stop him when he picked Tess up, but I was too weak. Every one of us alive today is here because of him. I would’ve done anything for him and will for his son until my last breath. God made Thomas Ramsay his angel of mercy.”

Morrigan remembered Aunt Ibby telling her about Beth, the child who had starved to death. The heathen lass inside her spoke.
If God had brought him a day or two earlier, Beth might’ve lived, too.
Not content to stop there, she added,
What if God had prevented Randall Benedict from clearing his tenants? Nobody would’ve starved or frozen that winter. Hannah might still be with you. You might have your mother
.

Kyle and Logan brought in a freshly slaughtered lamb, their clothes redolent with the tangy scent of autumn.

Tess blushed and knotted her fingers together. Shy embarrassment shouted her secret, though no one but Morrigan appeared to notice.

Since Logan was her brother, Kyle MacPhee of the curling brown hair and bright intelligent eyes must be the male for whom Tess had gathered carrots. Morrigan leaned down to scratch Antiope’s ears and wondered how she could assist the romance. No doubt Kyle was oblivious, as Tess had implied. Perhaps Logan could help, but she’d have to be careful with that, as brothers could bedevil a lass half out of her senses.

Teasing had been Nicky’s special genius. He’d used it liberally, his intent, she suspected, to get her spine up and keep her from sinking into lassitude or self-pity.

Beatrice ordered her niece to bed early. It didn’t matter that Morrigan was now formally known as “Lady Eilginn,” or that she was a married woman, or expecting a child. Had High and Mighty Miss forgotten she’d nearly lost her unborn babe? Was it too much trouble to err on the side of caution?

No doubt the other women would stay up late. They’d roast the lamb and celebrate while the men drank whisky and guarded Curran’s stallions.

She fell asleep at last to dream of Kyle and Logan stumbling drunkenly through Glenelg, terrifying evil spirits with their off-key singing.

* * * *

Curran woke Morrigan in the half-light of dawn, so they could dress and attend Father Drummond’s Mass. She’d never seen the coastal landscape this early. Crimson light fought with stark shadows, creating an illusion of skeletal grinning mouths and enormous black eye sockets in the craggy mountains over on Skye.

It was the first time Morrigan had ever been inside a Catholic church. She listened to the Latin and watched folk cross themselves as they drank the wine and consumed the host. Incense stung her nose and candlelight flared. These were ancient, sacred traditions, going clear back to the Christ himself, so Agnes said. Morrigan couldn’t understand why it caused her palms, encased in fine black leather, to break out in a sweat.

Curran took her to the Protestant service in Glenelg as well, for the laird didn’t like to play favorites. Morrigan could almost hear Douglas Lawton’s disgusted snort at all this church-going. After the services there was the noisy and satisfying Michaelmas feast, followed by wrapping up leftovers for the poor. “Master Curran never forgets those who struggle,” Fionna told Morrigan. “He wants none to go hungry.”

At last the time came to loosen tight collars and begin what everyone had most anticipated— the seaside festivities. An impressive crowd from several parishes congregated in preparation for the oda at the long stretch of beach hugging the Kyle Rhea.

“Pardon me, Morrigan,” Curran said. “I want to see….” He disappeared into the throng without finishing his sentence, shouting for Malcolm and Padraig.

Morrigan watched Tess offer her carrots to Kyle. With a stiff, formal bow, he accepted them and handed her something in return. Morrigan couldn’t see what it was, but Tess smiled and appeared pleased. Not far away, Agnes Campbell kissed her husband’s cheek. He put his arm around her shoulders and said something that made her giggle.

It felt as though every lass had found her lad as Morrigan lost hers. Curran’s new wife, foolish woman, stood alone in the midst of couples. There was Seaghan, grasping Fionna’s bunch of carrots. Aye, Fionna, blushing like a virgin.

Morrigan retreated, embarrassed and jealous as she wondered if he had gone to meet another girl. Intending to duck away until all this mooning was done, she turned, and almost ran into Aodhàn Mackinnon.

She stared up into his face, mortified to be caught so blatantly deserted, and somehow that it was by him made it worse. He returned her stare, one brow lifted.

Without thinking, she held up a carrot.

It hung there, suspended by lacy greenery from her fingers, one of the most warped of those she’d unearthed, she saw with dismay. Sunlight glittered against the stones in her wedding band. Deep within, she floundered.
What am I doing?
She only knew that she’d pictured Mackinnon more than once the day she dug up the bloody things, and had imagined giving him one.

The slightest hint of a smile lifted one side of his mouth. He reached out, fingers brushing hers, and accepted her offering.

“Morrigan.” Curran appeared from behind and swept her into a hug, lifting her off her feet. “Someone’s managed to steal my Glendessary, but I still have Brutus. I’m going to win this race for you, I swear it.” He kissed her soundly and dragged her away, giving her companion a careless, laughing nod.

Morrigan glanced back once as she trailed behind her husband. Aodhàn’s hand rested over his jacket pocket, where he’d tucked her gift.

She handed her remaining carrots to Curran, trying to ignore the skittering of her heart.

“Thank you, my love,” he said, but she saw his competitive nature had already returned to the race, leaving nary a thought for her or silly vegetables. What had it all been for, anyway?

She thought of Eleanor’s grievance on Carrot Sunday, and for a fleeting instant, saw clearly to its heart. If females directed their own lives as men did, would they still choose the same things? Would it cause change so profound the world would fracture, as William Watson claimed?

* * * *

Contestants rode the oda bareback and barefoot, using bridles woven from dried bent grass. The men spurred with their heels and used whips of seaweed. Curran, eagerness manifested in his hot-bright eyes and flushed cheeks, leaped upon his glossy bay, Brutus. Pressing his thighs against the stallion’s shoulders and grabbing handfuls of mane, he became as near to a Greek centaur as Morrigan could ever wish to see.

Looking at him, she couldn’t imagine making any other choice. This golden hero, shining like the sun upon a snorting, magnificent, dark as sin behemoth, was hers— hers to sleep with, wake up with, grow old with.

Then mighty Glendessary thudded onto the scene, bringing with him ripples of laughter. Astride his broad back, displaying an enigmatic smile, sat Aodhàn Mackinnon.

“Damn you,” Curran shouted. “
You
stole him, Aodhàn!” He turned his face to the sky and laughed as if he couldn’t be more pleased.

The man’s gaze met Morrigan’s for a long moment then traveled down, clear to her boots and up again. At that moment, Padraig Urquhart slapped Brutus’s rump, eliciting a startled rear. Curran put his attention on staying astride and calming his steed, giving Morrigan the time she needed to dismiss the promise she fancied she’d seen in Mackinnon’s eyes.

No one else appeared to have noticed anything amiss. Aodhàn’s expression had only seemed, for an instant, lascivious.

His regard remained steady; a slight smile implied her thoughts held no secrets.

Glendessary pawed the sand and tossed his mane, eager to run. Just before swinging the horse around, Aodhàn nodded and mouthed something. It looked like
My jo
.

Had the world turned inside out? Had this dour, sullen man— for surely he was that, though intriguing— transformed into one who smiled, who flirted with his expression, and followed that up with suggestive endearments?

Then she remembered what Seaghan had told her.
One thing came out of it. His lost memories. The sea stole them long ago, and it appears the sea has finally given them back.

That’s what was different. No wonder he appeared lighter, as unfettered as an eagle.

This Aodhàn might require an entirely new designation.

Morrigan tore her gaze from the fisherman and rested it on her husband. But as Aodhàn had pulled his mount next to Curran’s, she couldn’t help comparing the two: Curran like sunfire on a fine June morning, Aodhàn dark and cool as a mist-shrouded October night.

The massive Clydesdales, prized by crofters above any other creature on earth, milled at the starting line. One gigantic hoof could kill with a single blow, yet the majority of the great beasts stood quiet and docile, muscles rippling beneath the knees of their jockeys. The scent of fresh dung permeated the air.

Kyle, astride a monstrous brute, leaned down to speak to Tess. Next to him, Logan’s sideways grin settled on Violet. Seaghan’s mount bared his teeth and swished his long tail.

“Where did that sorry beast come from?” Curran asked.

“I’d advise you not to ask such questions, Curran Ramsay.” Seaghan winked at Morrigan. “Now don’t tire yourself, Lady Eilginn. Sit you down in the bent where you can be properly impressed by our manly exploits.”

Seaghan’s rebellious steed broke loose from the starting line and Brutus bit Glendessary’s shoulder as Morrigan dutifully moved to the side and sat in the grass.

Father Drummond pointed a revolver into the sky. When it discharged, the crowd surged forward like a roaring wave. Morrigan leaped to her feet.

Seaghan pulled in front but soon lost his advantage when his mount stopped to rear and thrash. Brutus and Glendessary swept past on either side, Curran’s golden hair blowing wildly behind him, Aodhàn’s longer, giving off a sheen like raven-feathers. White sarks billowed. Legs fused to horseflesh. In unison, the two settled into their stallions’ manes and drew ahead of the rest.