Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One (5 page)

She and Maura scamper out the front door before I can stop them. Father and I follow, with more decorum but just as much curiosity. Our carriage is rattling slowly up the potholed drive with the new governess inside. I’m not optimistic. After all, Mrs. Corbett recommended her, didn’t she? I’d wager she’s some sheltered convent girl, brought up by the Sisters to earn her livelihood teaching dull, demure young ladies to become dull, demure wives. I’m expecting a prim miss given to sprouting platitudes.

So I’m quite surprised when the carriage door is flung open and Sister Elena hops out without even waiting for John to hand her down. She swishes up to the porch, taffeta petticoats rustling, moving as though she owns the place.
Maura was right. Sister Elena is pretty—no, beautiful—with smooth brown skin and black ringlets peeking out from beneath her hood. And she’s fashionable—as fashionable as the Brothers’ strictures will allow. Her dress has a wide bell skirt in a soft pink that reminds me of Mother’s peonies. A pleated black silk cummerbund draws attention to her small waist, and black velvet slippers adorn her feet.
“Sister Elena, welcome,” Father says, stepping forward. “We’re glad to have you. These are my daughters, Catherine, Maura, and Teresa.”
“Cate, please,” I correct.
“And Tess.” Tess is half hiding behind me, her blond head resting against my shoulder.
“Certainly. If we’re to dispense with the formalities, you must call me Elena. I’m so glad to meet you all.” Elena smiles, her chocolate eyes tilting up at the corners. “I’m certain we’ll get along famously. I’ve always been fast friends with my pupils.”
Father looks relieved, but I bristle at her boldness. She doesn’t know a thing about us, and Regina Corbett’s bosom friendship hardly recommends her to
me
. Father inquires after her journey, whether the inn she stayed at last night was satisfactory, whether she might like to see her room and freshen up before they discuss our curriculum, while my temper commences a slow boil.
Elena can’t be more than a few years older than me. She’s a member of the Sisters, which means she spends much of her time walled up in their cloisters in New London. What can she teach us about the world or about catching a husband?
I remember Paul’s words from yesterday—
Lord help her
—and grin.
“Cate?” Father says, and I startle, the mad smile slipping from my face. “Would you show Sister Elena to her room?”
“I’ll do it,” Maura volunteers, grabbing Elena’s leather valise and leaving John to bring her trunk. “You’ll be in the room directly across from mine. It’s got a beautiful view of the gardens.”
“Ah, yes. Mrs. Corbett mentioned you’ve got the magic touch with flowers, Miss Cate.”
Her tongue trips over the word lightly, but I look at Elena hard. She’s giving me a bland smile. Perhaps it’s just a figure of speech, albeit a dangerous one.
“Thank you,” I say uncertainly. “I do enjoy being outdoors.”
“My late wife—” Father begins, then coughs. “She spent a great deal of time in the gardens. Cate inherited her mother’s talent for growing things.”
I give Father a startled look. I wasn’t aware he thought I had any talent; this is the first I’ve heard of it. Maura leads Elena inside, pointing out the sitting room, Father’s study, and the dining room before leading her upstairs. Maura bounces like a child, whereas Elena walks sedately, back straight, trailing a gloved hand along the curved wooden balustrade like a queen. I scurry after them.
“You’ve a lovely home,” Elena says, pausing at the top of the stairs to admire the painting of Great-Grandmother. She was a petite woman with pale blond curls like Tess’s. She wasn’t pretty, though—she had a cadaverous face, with a complexion like old milk. But she was strong. She raised four children, buried two, and kept the farm running even after a fever took her husband.
Maura tosses her hair. “It’s falling apart. It was my great-grandparents’ originally—this is Great-Grandmother. Sour looking, isn’t she? I’d love to move into town proper, but Father won’t hear of it. It’s frightfully dull out here in the country. It must seem horrid to you after all the excitement of New London.”
Good Lord. “We’re hardly in the country,” I object. “It’s only two miles to town. And Father will never move, not with the cemetery here.”
Elena takes Maura’s frankness in stride. “I’m very sorry about your mother. You must be tired of hearing that, I know. I lost both my parents when I was eleven. People never know what to say, do they? Mrs. Corbett told me you were in full mourning for a year. That you’ve put off coming out into society. Of course, with your father away so much, with no mother to introduce you, how could you? But it must be rather lonely.”
“Yes,” Maura says emphatically, just as I say, “We manage.”
Moving away from the stairs, we pass Father’s room, the closed door to Mother’s bedroom and sitting room, my bedroom and Tess’s, and finally come to Elena’s. It’s right across the hall from Maura’s. “It’s not very grand,” Maura says apologetically, even though Mrs. O’Hare and Lily spent all day yesterday airing it out and dusting the heavy mahogany furniture until it gleamed.
Elena crosses to the window and pushes back the heavy green draperies. Beyond the garden, the fields stretch out for acres and acres, the ripe golden wheat undulating in the breeze. “It’s a lovely view. What a pretty garden.”
Maura puts Elena’s valise on the bed and jumps up beside it, ducking beneath the rose-colored canopy. “But we’ll have to spruce up the house a bit, won’t we?” she persists, eager for an ally. “If we’re to have callers, I mean. Cate’s got to find a husband soon.”
“Maura!” I hiss, mortified. She can’t wait five minutes to bring that up?
Elena smiles, even white teeth flashing against her dark skin. “When’s your birthday, Cate?”
“March fourteenth,” I murmur. I’m surprised Mrs. Corbett hasn’t told her that, too. It seems the old bat’s been quite chatty.
“She’s got a suitor,” Maura confides, and I fight the urge to throttle her.
“Your intention ceremony’s coming up,” Elena says. “Don’t worry about a thing, Cate. Leave it all to me.”
I stare at the dusky pink rug, resentment swelling up again. I’m hardly the type to leave the worrying to anyone else, to start with. And how can I leave my future to a complete stranger?
Maura thinks it’s all very straightforward: I’ll marry Paul. But he didn’t say whether he was back in Chatham for good, or only for a visit. And the way he spoke of New London, with such fervor—I can tell he likes it there. What if he asks me to marry him but move away?
How did Mother expect me to keep my promise when I came of age? She knew I wouldn’t be able to stay home forever.
I’ve got to find her diary. Soon.

An hour later, I’m kneeling on the hardwood floor of Mother’s sitting room, surrounded by the contents of her writing desk. Nibs and sealing wax and parchment are scattered helter-skelter on the floor. A neat stack of correspondence, bound with a blue velvet ribbon, sits next to me. I’ve already read through it—twice. There are no mentions of any Zuzannahs or Zinnias anywhere. Who is this mysterious Z. R.?
I know Mother kept a diary during that last year; I interrupted her scribbling in it whenever I came into her rooms. I’ve never been able to find it. But I’ve never been as determined as I am now. I need her guidance. Not just about magic, but about my future. What did she want me to do?
I feel along the drawers, looking for a spring or a latch that might reveal a false bottom. There’s nothing. I throw things back into the drawers, slide them into place, and rock back on my heels, frustrated. Elena’s very presence here pinches at me like too-tight slippers. I’ve put off thinking about myself, concentrated instead on Tess and Maura and my promise. But I can’t ignore the reality any longer. Father didn’t hire Elena to teach us French and flower arrangements; he hired her to make sure that Maura and I find husbands.
The Brothers are afraid the witches will rise up again someday, Mother said, so they loathe the idea of powerful women. We are not permitted to study and go to university as men do, or to take up professions. There are a few notable exceptions: the town midwife, Mrs. Carruthers; the dressmaker, Ella Kosmoski; and Marianne Belastra—but Mrs. Belastra took over the running of the bookshop only after her husband’s death. Women are not normally granted permits to run businesses.
The Sisterhood is held up as an alternative to marriage, and an honorable one. They do the charitable work of the Brotherhood: serving as governesses and nurses, visiting the sick and dying, and feeding the poor. But no one in Chatham has actually joined them in years. The notion of spending my life studying scriptures or teaching orphan girls is odious. I’m fairly certain I’d murder my pupils. Furthermore, living in a cloister with dozens of other women sounds suffocating. Trying to keep my magic a secret would be too risky.
No. The Sisterhood is not an option.
I crawl beneath the desk, running a hand along the underside. The diary can’t have disappeared into thin air. But there’s nothing here. I wince as my slipper catches on a nail in the floorboard, then pull off my shoe, frowning at the run in my stockings. Mrs. O’Hare is sure to scold me again about how I go through them faster than Maura and Tess together, and—
Wait.
I inch backward. The floorboard nearest the wall tilts beneath my palm. I pull at the nail that sticks up; it comes free. I lift the board. Underneath, there’s a hollow space. I thrust my arm in to the elbow, hoping I won’t disturb anything crawling. My hand searches over dusty wood. It touches something small and smooth and round. I pull it out—only a gray button. It must have fallen in here by accident. I remember the dress it belonged to: high necked, with each of its gray flounces edged in black lace, and a row of these buttons up the back.
I tuck it into a drawer and keep searching.
There’s nothing else.
“Acclaro?”
I try, hopefully, and power sizzles through me. I shove my arm in again, and the illusion of emptiness is broken as my fingertips brush against a book.
The familiar blue cloth cover is grimy, but I hug it to my chest because it’s a piece of her. Whatever secrets it contains, for a few minutes, she’ll be with me again. Mother will be able to tell me what to do. She always knew what to do.
Thank the Lord.
“Miss Cate?”
Oh, this is just the dignified pose I’d like the governess to catch me in: on hands and knees beneath Mother’s desk, one shoe off, bottom wiggling in the air. At least she didn’t come in a moment ago and catch me magicking a book out of thin air. Hasn’t she ever heard of knocking?
Adding injury to insult, I bump my head on the desk as I turn around.
“I knocked, but no one answered,” Elena says, a smile tugging at her lips. “Mr. McLeod is here to see you.”
“I was looking for an earbob,” I lie. “I lost it. Somewhere.”
“I see. Would you like to take a few moments to tidy up?”
Is she laughing at me? I’m offended until I look down at myself. My bodice is covered in dust from lying on the floor, my hair is falling into my face, and my hands are gray with dirt. It’s hardly how I want a prospective husband to see me.
I stand, brushing the dust from my sleeves, trying to salvage some shred of dignity. “Yes, I believe I shall. Please tell Paul I’ll be with him directly.”

If it were any other caller, I’d feign illness and spend the afternoon reading. No one would dream I’d stay indoors for anything other than sickness. I’m desperate to know what advice she’s left for me. I was so young when she died, only thirteen, and still such a child. The three years until I had to declare an intention loomed like thirty, especially without her. I wouldn’t have listened to anything she said about marriage and husbands then; perhaps she was clever enough to know it, and she wrote down her words of motherly wisdom instead. My nerves jangle in anticipation like the keys on Mrs. O’Hare’s belt.

I pull on one of my nicest day dresses, a dark gray with a pale-blue sash and blue lace at the collar. I fix my hair as best I can, then head downstairs to the sitting room.
Paul is there, his long legs spread out in front of him. Elena has disappeared—presumably for her chat with Father about our curriculum. Maura and Tess crowd together on the sofa, chattering like magpies, firing rapid questions at Paul about New London. He takes up more room than I had remembered. He seems very—male, with his beard and his tall black leather riding boots and the deep timbre of his voice, dwarfing the highbacked blue brocade chair he sits in. I suppose I’m very used to living among women, with Father away so much. Not that we are very quiet women.
Paul stands when he sees me, taking both my hands in his. “Cate,” he says, looking at me appreciatively.
He’s seen me covered in slop from the pigpen. He’s seen my hands and face smeared with strawberries. We used to roll down the grassy knoll beyond the pond until our clothes were stained green. But he’s never looked at me like this. It makes me suddenly aware of every inch of myself.
“That dress is just the color of your eyes. You’re lovely.” He says it easily, confidently. As though he’s used to telling girls they’re lovely.
I flush and pull away. I’m not used to hearing it, and I can’t quite reconcile this earnest, admiring man with the mischievous boy I remember. “Thank you.”
“Tess tells me your father’s building a gazebo down by the pond. I should like to see the progress.”
“It’s barely begun. They only erected the frame yesterday.”
“Still. I’ve missed the country air. Come for a walk with me?”
Oh. He doesn’t want to see the gazebo so much as he wants to go for a walk with me.
Alone
. Paul was never terribly subtle.
“Can I come?” Tess asks. I open my mouth to say yes, but Maura elbows her. Tess lets out an angry squeak, and the next moment Maura’s on the floor in a heap of skirts.
“Teresa Elizabeth Cahill!” I scold. I don’t know exactly what she’s done, but I’m sure she used magic to do it. “We have a
guest
!” I say, pointing emphatically at Paul.
He just grins, his mouth quirking below his new mustache. New to me, anyway—who knows how long he’s had it. “No, no, carry on,” he says. “I’m not a true guest. I’m practically family.”
Maura arches her eyebrows at me, but I scowl. “You
are
a guest. Don’t encourage them. And you two ought to be ashamed of yourselves. You’re too old for this. Tess, apologize.”
“She started it,” Tess argues, rubbing her side.
“Because you were being a ninny,” Maura says. “Paul doesn’t want to go for a walk with all three of us. He came to call on Cate.”
Tess gives Maura a good pinch. “I’m not a ninny! I’m cleverer than you!”
“You’re hopeless, both of you. Perhaps you ought to go and ask Elena about the proper etiquette for entertaining callers.” I take Paul’s arm and feel his muscles twitch beneath my palm. “A walk would be delightful. Please. Before I murder them both.”
I mean to sweep out dramatically, but somehow the doorsill drops away and I lift my foot into empty air. I trip forward, narrowly avoiding rapping my skull on the hall table and destroying an heirloom vase that belonged to Great-Grandmother. Instead, Paul catches me. In fact, he holds me closer than is entirely necessary. I hear a titter behind me and spin around to see Maura, her hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Even Tess can’t suppress a smile.
Lord help me, my sisters are evil and my best friend’s become a rake.
We reach the front hall just as Elena pops out of Father’s study. “Miss Cate, let me fetch your cloak. Would you like Miss Maura to accompany you on your walk?”
“No, thank you.” As if I haven’t gone for hundreds of walks alone with Paul—in the garden, chasing each other through the cornfields, playing hideand-seek through blueberry bushes.
Elena eyes us, and I’m suddenly conscious of the distance, or lack thereof, between our bodies. “I’m afraid I must insist that you take a chaperone. I can come with you if you’d like.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. I hardly worry that Paul will ravish me in the gardens.
“Don’t forget your gloves,” Elena adds.
I flush, remember the warmth of Paul’s mouth on the thin, delicate skin at the inside of my wrist. Perhaps she’s right. We’re not children anymore. The way Paul looks at me—it’s like he remembers that kiss, too, and might enjoy taking other liberties if I were to allow it. No man’s ever looked at me like that before. It’s a heady feeling.
Still, I don’t care to have Elena telling me what to do, much less following us and eavesdropping on our conversation. I feel nervous enough as it is.
“Where’s Lily? Lily!” I call.
Our maid appears from the kitchen, wiping wet hands on her apron. “Miss Cate? I was just helping Mrs. O’Hare with the dinner pre—”
“Never mind that. Grab your cloak. Mr. McLeod and I need a chaperone for our walk.”
Lily has great meek brown eyes, like a cow’s. “Yes, miss.”
Once I’m properly cloaked, Paul and I stroll through the gardens, Lily following at a discreet distance. Geese fly overhead in inky formations, honking against the eggshell sky.
“I’m sorry about all that mayhem. My sisters—”
“Are adorable girls, as ever,” Paul finishes. “No need to apologize.”
“They’re ill-mannered beasts!” After witnessing their behavior today in front of both Elena and Paul, I’m starting to believe we may actually require a governess.
“They’re high-spirited,” Paul says. “It must be grand, having sisters. You’re lucky. Being an only child is lonely.”
I don’t remember a time before Maura was toddling after me, pulling at my hair, stuffing my toys in her mouth. “Is it?”
“At times. Take Father’s debts. If I’d had a brother to share the burden, to confide in—it would have been a relief.”
“You can confide in me,” I suggest. “We were like brother and sister, growing up, weren’t we?”
Paul’s mouth twists into a frown. “Is that how you think of me? As a brother?”
I don’t know what to say. I was still a child when he went away. I’ve thought about us marrying, but as a solution to the problem of my future, not as a romantic daydream. I have fond memories of the boy who chased me through the gardens, but the man who’s standing in front of me now with the beard and mustache is a stranger. We can’t simply pick up where we left off.
“I can assure you, Cate, I don’t think of you as a sister.” Paul stops walking. Runs a hand over his beard. Shuffles his feet. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks when he finally looks at me. “You’ve always known your own mind, and I won’t rush you. We have plenty of time to get reacquainted before December.”
December? That’s when I have to announce my betrothal. Is he implying—?
I stand there staring until Lily dawdles up to us, and then I give her such a glare that she scurries back, mumbling apologies.
“I’m sorry. That was forward of me, wasn’t it?” Paul gives me a rueful smile. “This isn’t—it’s not going according to plan. You said that bit about us being like siblings, and I couldn’t bear thinking—”
“You had a plan?” I give him an impish smile, brushing my hand against the tops of the Autumn Joy sedum. They’ve got rusty red heads like broccoli that stand out well against the backdrop of goldenrod.
“Fool that I am, yes. I planned out what I was going to say on the train.”
“On the train?” I gape at him. “Before you even saw me again? What if I was perfectly hideous? What if I’d got spots and a double chin?”
“You’d still be my Cate. And besides, you’re lovely. You look quite like your mother, you know.”
It’s the nicest compliment anyone could pay me. I suspect he knows it. My resemblance to Mother isn’t obvious, as it is with Maura; my hair has only the slightest hint of red and my eyes are Father’s. But sometimes I catch a hint of her sharp nose or the determined set of her shoulders in the looking glass.
“Thank you. That means a great deal. But what if—what if I’d turned into some mealymouthed miss with nothing to say but ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘How clever you are, sir,’ the kind who laughs at all your jokes?” Paul laughs at this, so long and so loudly that Lily looks over at us with alarm. I elbow him. “Hush!”
“Well, my jokes are good, but not as good as that. You could never be that kind of girl.” Paul tucks my arm into his and continues on through the gardens. For once, I’m immune to the heady scent of the roses, of the plot of blue monkshood overrun with weeds.
All I can think is that this is it: the moment that decides my future. It’s happening sooner than I expected. I’m not ready. I don’t know what Mother would want me to do.
“Don’t look so terrified. I don’t expect an answer now. I haven’t even asked the question yet.” Paul smiles.
“You’re mad.” But I’m relieved.
“And you’re even more fun than I’d remembered.” Am I? I don’t feel like much fun. Perhaps he’s attributed the change to my growing up, becoming a young lady. Perhaps this is how all girls feel, stifled and muted. “A life with you will never be dull, will it, and that’s just what I want. Think about it, Cate. That’s all I ask. Can you do that?”
“I suppose. Only—you didn’t say how long you were staying in Chatham. Will you be going back to New London soon?”
Paul comes to a halt right in front of our little fountain—a statue of Cupid, with water coming out of his bow. “I’ve only just gotten back. Are you trying to get rid of me? Is there someone else—another suitor?”
“No,” I blurt before I think. Aren’t girls meant to be coy and mysterious? Perhaps I ought to let him think that I have half a dozen men at my beck and call. But he’d find out soon enough that it wasn’t true.
“Ah.” Paul leans down, his warm breath tickling my neck, his voice a husky whisper. “Would you miss me if I went away again? Is that it?”
I step away, well aware of Lily’s eyes on us. “I asked if you were back for good, and you said we’d see. What does that mean?” My words come out sharper than I intend.
“It means I came back to see you. There are a lot of girls in New London, Cate, and I may have gone a little wild at first. May have called on a few of them, even fancied myself in love. But none of them were you. So after my apprenticeship ended, I decided to come home. What happens next— I suppose that depends on you. I know you were angry with me. Did you miss me at all? Even a little?”
I can’t help laughing at his mock pout. “Of course I missed you. But I—” My eyes fall to my feet, embarrassed. “Where do you mean to live? Here, or New London?”
“Ah. I see.” Paul shifts back into seriousness. “I’m afraid there’s not much business for an architect here in Chatham. Jones has offered me a position as his assistant. I’ve saved up a bit, and—if I were to marry, I could take a house in a decent part of town. I couldn’t imagine my Cate happy in a cramped little flat with no garden.”
My Cate.
It’s both sweet and surprisingly possessive. How long has he been saving up to rent a house for us? How long has he entertained the notion of asking me to marry him? It feels like the time I fell off the pigpen fence, all the air knocked out of me. Paul sees my face. “I think you’d like the city, once you got used to it,” he says hopefully.
I look at the spiky yellow dahlias clustered around the base of the fountain. I’ve never wanted to live in the city. But if it were just me, perhaps I could get used to it. “My sisters. I couldn’t leave them.”
Paul cocks his head at me, clearly puzzled. “They could come visit us. They would always be welcome.”
He doesn’t understand. How could he? “Things are different now. Without Mother.”
I bolt, walking as fast as my skirts and stays will allow. If I can’t marry Paul, what will I do? Fear grips me. Perhaps Mother always expected me to marry and move away. Maybe my promise was meant to last only while Maura and Tess were young. Maura’s always insisting that they don’t need me the way they used to.
I wish I could believe that. Z. R.’s warning comes back to me.
The three of you are in very great danger.
But why? Does someone else know about our witchery?
Paul hurries after me. “I know this must seem very sudden, after I’ve been away so long. Just think about it. Please.”
I nod, blinking back tears. This is ridiculous. Now he’s going to think I
am
a delicate flower.
We wind through the garden toward the sound of hammering. Lily trails behind us, picking a bouquet for the kitchen table. On the hillside, Finn Belastra is kneeling in the skeleton of the gazebo, pounding the floorboards into place. He looks odd in his shirtsleeves, a hammer in his hand instead of a book.
“Is that Finn Belastra?” Paul asks. “The bookseller’s son?”
“Indeed. He’s our new gardener.” I raise my voice. “Mr. Belastra, the gazebo is coming along nicely!”
“Happy to have me away from your flowers, are you?” There’s a gap between his two front teeth. It makes his smile a bit rakish and all the more charming. He reaches for a sheaf of papers, waving them at me. “It’s all a matter of following directions!”
“Belastra!” Paul calls out, and Finn’s smile vanishes. “Good to see you. Taking up horticulture, I hear? Or are you planning to give me a run for my money?”
“Mr. McLeod is an architect now,” I explain, then wince at the note of pride in my voice. I’m acting like a betrothed already, as though his accomplishments somehow reflect well on me.
Finn scrambles to his feet to shake Paul’s hand. “Welcome back, McLeod. I trust you enjoyed your studies?”
Paul shrugs. “Well enough. I didn’t spend as much time in the libraries as my mother or my professors would have liked, but I scraped by. Not like you. Cate, did I ever tell you how Belastra could identify any point on the globe? Always showed the rest of us up. The Brothers used to try to best him, but they never managed it either. And it wasn’t just geography. The man’s brilliant.”
“You give me too much credit,” Finn objects.
Paul shakes his head. “You were best in our class in every subject. We were all in envy.”
“Funny way you had of showing it,” Finn mutters, turning back to his plans. It hits me suddenly that, all of Paul’s joviality aside, they do not much care for each other.
Paul chuckles. “Poor Belastra got the stuffing knocked out of him on a regular basis. Schoolboys are cruel creatures. The Brothers rarely intervened, but your father! Lord, I’ve never seen him so angry. He was teaching Latin once and caught us kicking Belastra’s books around the school yard. The lecture he gave would have squeezed guilt from a stone.”
“Father can be quite eloquent when he wants.” On the subject of books, particularly. I wonder if he would have been half so passionate if he’d caught the boys kicking Finn.