Page 8 of The Wandering Season

The castle seemed pleased at our return, and I scoffed inwardly at such a preposterous thought. Then again, if any buildings were entitled to have thoughts and feelings, it would have been ancient ones like these, which had seen the comings and goings of generations the way we watch minutes pass by on the clock.

Niall reheated some of the leftover stew shortly after we returned. It was, if anything, more flavorful the second go-round, but I found the room going in and out of focus.

“You’re knackered, aren’t you?”

Niall said with a chuckle as I struggled to comprehend the questions he was asking.

I nodded. “I’m so sorry. It seems the travel has finally hit me all at once.”

“As it’s wont to do. Why don’t you turn in early tonight so we can get an early start in the morning? You’ll feel loads better. And don’t worry about the odd sound that goes bump in the night. It’s an old place and does a fair bit of wheezing and creaking like any old codger.”

I yawned by way of response, unable to even ask what he had in mind for our sightseeing adventures. I spared a brief moment of regret for Stephanie’s carefully planned itinerary but ignored it quickly as I focused on making it up the stairs in one piece.

The four-poster canopy with its thick blankets and rich linens was beyond enticing, and I was all too eager to fall into it. I forced myself through my evening routine. I could have easily fallen asleep in my thick wool leggings and fleece on top of the covers, but I would sleep far better with a clean face and brushed teeth. Of course the bathroom was down the hall, so I had to try to find my way around by memory in the soft glow of archaic electric lighting that wasn’t able to fully conquer the vast darkness.

I abbreviated my nighttime ritual as much as I could, not wanting to fall asleep where I stood in the sterile bathroom. As I returned I was glad to be the only guest of the castle, knowing that I wouldn’t run the risk of barging into anyone’s room, but being alone in the ancient space was a level of solitude I wasn’t used to. Back in my apartment, there were always soft rustlings of the neighbors even in the quietest hours. The silence here was more absolute. Still and contemplative in ways the New World hadn’t yet achieved.

Grateful that Avery had thought to send slippers in her care package, I padded down the length of the cold stone corridor to my room. I cursed myself for not counting the number of door handles to my room. I guessed which door was mine and was relieved at the sight of my purse on the bedside chair when I tentatively peered inside. As I crossed the threshold the handle grew warm and the room began to spin . . .

The room was much the same as mine, but a torrent of rain beat against the windows. Thunder and lightning crashed with unbridled fury where moments ago the weather had been fine. I didn’t see my purse any longer. Had I actually gone in the wrong door after all? But why would Niall have lit the fire for an empty room?

I turned to go find him but was greeted by the sight of an imperious-looking woman whose mane of red curls had been tamed, in violation of the laws of man and physics, into a towering mass of braids atop her head. She wore a determined expression like a general marching into battle, juxtaposed by a fine silk dress with billowing floor-length skirts she clenched in broad fists for ease of movement. Her resolute gaze penetrated me, and her stride showed no signs of stopping. I sidestepped out of her way, but her shoulder should have clipped mine at full force—

I felt nothing but a rustle of damp night air caress my skin.

She turned into the room I’d just opened, dropped her skirts, and placed her hands on her hips.

“Aoife Caitria Laoise MacWilliam, what was the meaning of that shameful spectacle you just put on at supper? How dare you speak to a member of the Tierney family in such a way? You know what that might do to your father’s standing in the county.”

I turned to see that the room, which previously had appeared empty, was indeed occupied by a young woman dressed much like the woman I assumed was her mother. Clearly dressed for important company . . . but appropriate for an era long passed. I wasn’t enough of a historian to place when, but sometime in the nineteenth century was my best guess. I rubbed my eyes, but the mother and daughter still occupied the space. And where, just moments before, the room had been empty save for the furniture, it was now adorned with the trinkets of a young lady on the cusp of womanhood.

There were a few remnants of girlhood—a once much-loved doll that now lived on a shelf next to some equally worn wooden horses—but there was a vanity with a silver-plated brush, comb, and hand mirror set that had probably been enormously expensive, and little pots of what might have been various handcrafted face creams, which had to be the mark of a monied landowner.

What madness was this? Had I fallen asleep while brushing my teeth? I must have. And Niall would find me snoring in a heap on the bathroom floor and have a good laugh at my expense.

I rubbed my eyes, willing my brain to reboot . . . but the visions were still there. Clearly the jet lag was getting to me, but the women before me felt just as real as Niall had, just twenty minutes before, if a little hazy around the edges. They lived somewhere between dreams and reality, and I couldn’t make sense of any of it.

The young woman, Aoife, turned to the older, fire dancing in her green eyes. “I speak this way because I won’t allow you to poison my father’s ear and marry me off to the most worthless man in all of Ireland just because you think it will serve your interests, Mairéad.”

Mairéad, a given name. Not Mother. Perhaps an aunt or some other relative who felt she had authority over the younger woman. I should have left them to their argument and not violated their privacy, but I felt rooted to my spot. I didn’t think I could turn away from the scene before me, even if I’d wanted to. I took some comfort in the fact that I was fairly certain they couldn’t see me, given that Mairéad had passed right through me once before.

“You have been told to call me Mother countless times, child.”

Impressively, Aoife didn’t blast her temper in a fit of rage, but I could sense it rolling off her skin like a poisonous fog. “I have told you countless times, I will never do so as you are not my mother. You may wish to be called a duchess, but that won’t confer the coronet on that empty head of yours. My father has explained to you countless times that I am under no obligation to call you any such thing.”

Mairéad huffed so her nostrils flared and crimson rose in her cheeks. “You ungrateful little witch. You have no sense of duty or honor. You ought to do what you’re told and be glad anyone has taken the time to think of your future. Do you really think you’re deserving of such attentions?”

Aoife didn’t hesitate. “Of course I am. I’m not some poor street urchin without a name or a shilling to call her own. I am just as deserving of my father’s consideration as your children. If anything, more, as I am the oldest.”

“Girls should be obedient to their parents. How dare you wield that nasty tongue of yours at me?”

Aoife crossed her arms over her chest. “Spare me. Seamus will get everything, by right of law. You’ll see the son of your flesh take my father’s place, just as you wanted. I don’t see why you seem so intent on making my future miserable. Just let me be.”

Mairéad scoffed but did not deny the accusation. “Because I won’t have you in the way. I wish your father had seen reason and sent you to a convent. I’ve begged him time and again. But he’s convinced your marriage will be of more use to us than your absence, so I’ll have you married and out of this house before your next birthday or so help me, your father will be made to see reason and have you locked away with the nuns.”

Aoife snorted in derision. “My father has never spoken about me that way in all his life, like a cow to be sold at auction, so stop spreading lies. He loved my mother and he promised her he would choose my husband with care.”

“Your mother indeed,”

Mairéad spit on the floor. “Grace Bourke was a trollop and deserved the cancer that ate away at her evil core. And you’re just like her. Oh, I knew your mother from the time she was a wean and she paraded about the village acting like the very queen of Sheba. Claiming she was descended from the great Gráinne Ní Mháille. As though being the whelp of a heathen pirate whore is anything to be proud of.”

“Grow up, Mairéad. You just couldn’t bear that she took attention from you. She was beautiful and you’re plain. She was clever and you’re dull. And you didn’t even have the decency to wait until her body was cold to bewitch my father into believing you were anything like a fit replacement for her.”

Mairéad, rather than taking offense, threw her head back and laughed. “Stupid chit, your mother may have been those things, but you know what I am that she is not? Alive. And mistress of this castle. And you had better get used to that truth, you dolt. I’ve finished playing games with a half-witted child. Mark my words, your father will be brought to heel.”

She turned from the room with an audible swish of her skirt. Aoife waited until her stepmother had left the room, then buried her face in her hands. She’d made a show of bravery to Mairéad, but she was straining under the weight of the horrid woman’s demands.

I wanted, more than anything, to rush over to Aoife and wrap my arms around her. To tell her to be strong and not to buckle under Mairéad’s conniving, but part of me didn’t want to risk breaking the spell. The word seemed apt. Whatever this was, the most reasonable explanation for it was magic.

A few moments later, heavy footsteps sounded down the hall, and a man with red hair and a beard streaked with white knocked. Aoife didn’t respond, and he entered the room after a short pause. Moving with the confidence of the lord of the manor.

“That was quite a scene at dinner, daughter of mine,”

he said by way of greeting. His tone was wary. This was not the first time he’d been forced to play referee between his wife and daughter.

“Tell that cow to stop meddling.”

Aoife raised her head, staring at her father with startling bottle-green eyes, made all the more brilliant by the tears that threatened but never spilled.

“You can’t speak about her that way. Her position demands respect.”

He sounded weary, as if this was a refrain he’d been forced to repeat scores of times before now.

“That bitch is not my mother.”

Aoife jumped to her feet. “I will not treat her as such.”

Her father’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I am aware of that, child. But she is my wife and the lady of this house and does not merit such abuse at your hand.”

“So you think it perfectly well that she clumsily arrange for a marriage with that absolute boiled turnip of a man? Declan Tierney is a waste of man flesh and shoe leather, and you bloody well know it. Did she even tell you what foolishness she was concocting?”

His expression softened. “She did it under my orders, Aoife.”

She blanched. “How could you? Did it even occur to you to warn me?”

“It did not, as I expect young ladies under my charge to obey orders. Though I see in retrospect some warning might have helped you to keep your tongue at bay. That said, I will not treat another outburst of this kind with any sort of indulgence, is that clear? I don’t think you appreciate the tenuous situation we find ourselves in, daughter. The MacWilliam family is one of the few families of consequence who concern themselves with Irish interests. If families like ours and the Tierneys don’t band together, we have no sway whatsoever.”

Open-mouthed and aghast, she stared at her father. “Does that matter more than I do, Da?”

“Aoife, I’ve sheltered you far too much from this world we live in. The blight has seen our people dropping dead in the streets. If you don’t believe me, I’ll take you on a carriage ride to show you myself. Five minutes in a workhouse would show you just how ivory this tower is that you’ve been living in. You are one child. Your unhappiness is a small price to pay for some chance of getting some support from England.”

“I’m not as blind as you think I am, Da. I simply don’t think a handful of Irish lords has a chance to turn hearts of stone. They see men drop dead in the streets, children who’ve never owned a scrap of clothing, the miserable huts they’re forced to live in. If that doesn’t inspire them to charity, nothing will. Even if all the Gaelic families rose up, nothing would change. The English will never stop exporting our grain to line their own pockets. They don’t care that our people are dying in the streets. And more, you must make peace with the truth that England will never cede any measure of self-governance for the Irish without a war. One that starving men can’t win.”

A flicker of despair crossed his face. “We have to try, Aoife. How could I live with myself if I don’t?”

“And I am to be sacrificed on the altar of your conscience, Da? Declan Tierney is a fool. Worse, he’s a brute. Would you really see me wed to such a man? His own dog cowers at the sight of him.”

His expression softened. “Mo stór, he would not dare mistreat you. He knows the MacWilliam clan wouldn’t stand for it.”

“And if I don’t see you for six months or a year at a time? How will you know I am in need of defense? Do you think a man like that will let me send letters freely? Every servant in his infernal keep will be under orders to surveil me every waking moment and while I sleep too. You don’t think he has the means to keep you in the dark if he’s mistreating me?”

He looked downcast at his feet, unable to meet his daughter’s eyes.

“Tell me truly, Father. Would it even matter? If I showed up here with a blackened eye and an arm in a sling, how many days before you’d send me back for more of the same?”

He finally met her gaze. “Three. I wouldn’t presume to keep you from your lord and master for any longer than that. This is to be your lot in life, and you will learn to endure it. You will learn to put others before yourself for once in your life.”

His words sounded like he was parroting Mairéad. He turned as if the matter were closed but craned his head back to look at her once more. “You will be wed to him within a fortnight.”

“Mother would be ashamed of you.”

The fire in Aoife’s eyes could have lit the very stone walls of the castle ablaze.

“Perhaps she would be, and I will answer for it in heaven. But here on earth, I have other considerations I must take into account with more immediacy than the wishes of my deceased wife. Someday, I pray you will be wise enough to understand.”

Aoife’s father left the room, but her eyes remained transfixed on the doorway, just to the right of where I stood peering in at her private world.

“I’m so sorry,”

I said, my voice just above a whisper. “That’s grossly unfair.”

If Aoife heard me, she made no sign of it. She took a glass pitcher from her vanity and threw it against the doorjamb. I jumped back, reflexively, and braced myself for the impact of the shards of porcelain. I opened my eyes to see my room returned to its regular state, my modern purse on the chair sticking out like weeds in a rose garden.

My heart was thumping against my rib cage. How would I sleep tonight?

And how crazy would people think I was if I ever dared to tell them what I saw?