The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (17 page)

Pride and love underscored his words. Strange. She couldn’t imagine loving a father. Surprising sensations of loss and envy darted through her, but she shoved them away. Life was what it was, and no amount of wishing would change things.

They stopped at the edge of town. “We can’t return together,” she said.

“I won’t leave you.”

“This is one day Papa won’t have a word to say about where I’ve been.”

“Why?”

She stared at the ground. He must never know, never, what Douglas Lawton had tried to do.

“He’s been ill,” she said, faltering. “Bedridden. He won’t know I was gone.”

Curran reluctantly conceded. They agreed he would wait to come to the inn until the arrival of the late train.

Morrigan stole into the Wren’s Egg. All was quiet but for the ticking of the grandfather clock. Plucking up her courage, she crept along the narrow corridor to the kitchen.

Beatrice stood at the table, rolling out dough. A smear of flour whitened her cheek and dusted her bosom.

Her brows lifted as she absorbed Morrigan’s wrinkled dress and untidy hair. They’d lost most of the pins in the rough undergrowth. Too late, Morrigan realized she should have gone straight up the stairs to her room. She could have changed, with no one the wiser.

But the woman, unreadable as ever, said only, “Are you hungry?”

“Starved.”

Her aunt wiped a corner of the table while Morrigan fetched a cold sausage pastry and cheese scone.

Her stomach growled. She devoured every bite, along with strong tea and a hefty slab of shortbread.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Walking on the moor.” Morrigan pumped water to wash her dishes. “I’ll be half the night on these tangles. I forgot a hat again.”

“Alone?”

“Who would I be with?”
No blushes
.

“You left your chores undone and said nothing to anybody. You’re an inconsiderate wench. I was fashed about you!”

“I needed to clear my head.”

“You think I don’t know you ride up to Finnarts Hill, where the cliffs are high and the rocks sharp?”

“I went the other way, nowhere near the sea. Besides, no matter where I go, I know the moor like my own bedroom.” The unintended picture the words created brought a hysterical giggle to the edge of her lips. She had to clamp her teeth together to keep it contained.

Beatrice crimped the edges of her dough and shrugged. “Your father was worried too.”

Morrigan sucked in a breath.

“If you’d seen his face, you would’ve been ashamed. I think he feared you ran away like Nicky.”

“So what if I did?” She spun around to face her aunt.

“Are you trying to make things worse for yourself and him?”

“Oh, aye. We must spare his poor feelings.”

Her aunt straightened and wiped her hands on the towel. “Since the day of your birth he’s labored to put food in your
wame
and clothes on your back. Do you think he enjoys scraping to the English? He’s here because this is where he can provide. Both his wives died in childbirth. Could he save them? Yet here you stand, grown so fine you can mock him, aye, the spoiled, well-dressed lady. D’you know how hard it was to lose Hannah? Do you have any idea how it tore him apart?”

Redheaded Hannah?
Witch
, Douglas called her.
Whore
, Enid had sneered.

Beatrice shook Morrigan’s arm. “He greeted like a wean when she died. We feared her death would kill him too.”

“Do you want me to say I wish it’d been me? I do, I always have. It’s abundantly clear he hates me because I made her die.”

“Have pity!” Astonishment lifted the woman’s brows. “Where d’you get such ideas?”

“I can’t help it if I live and she’s dead. Should I kill myself to make up for it? Could he be happy then?”

“Selfish besom!” Beatrice’s grip tightened. “He never blamed you.”

“I’ve known like he shouted it in my face every day.
I killed my mother
. And he’ll never forgive me for it.”

Ripping her arm free, Morrigan fled from the rage. If it caught her she’d suffocate. The world would expire. The air would blacken. Rivers would run with blood. She clawed at her throat.

Shadows swirled past her. There was a flash of blinding light, the stab of pain that always came right before she lost consciousness. Every sound was amplified: the creak of the steps, her breathing, her heartbeat.

She made it to the top of the stairs before it carried her away.

CHAPTER TEN

MORRIGAN ROLLED OVER
and buried her face under the pillow.

Luxurious, seductive pleasure came with images of Curran Ramsay. But then Beatrice’s face interfered, the argument, and a slow-motion memory-fragment of running up the stairs. The echo of a scream reverberated.
He’ll never forgive
…. After that, nothing.

The unpredictable loss of consciousness was terrifying. It was as though her blood froze in an instant. She never knew when it would happen, and she was helpless to avert or control it. When she woke and tried to remember details, nothing came but disjointed colors, voices, and images that would surely frighten the most cynical, bloodthirsty soldier.

She threw off the bedclothes. All she wore was her chemise from yesterday.

What had happened at the top of the stairs? How had she ended up here? Curse this body. Damn her lunacy.

Leaping up, she rubbed her temples, trying to soothe away the dizziness, and paced from one end of her room to the other. Three times she made the circuit before noticing the flowers. Someone had put them in a vase. “He did come,” she said, and gathered the drooping blooms. They were drooping, hurried to their demise by the hours left on the ground without water. She doubted they would last another day. Her angry heartbeat slowed as she brushed the camellia’s petals against her cheek, inhaling remnants of scents that returned the afternoon and all its delight.
You’re a flame within my heart.

Beatrice opened Morrigan’s door without bothering to knock. She held a steaming cup of tea and the container of liniment. “I thought I heard you moving about.”

Morrigan accepted the cup. “Is it late?”

“Not yet seven. Your father’s locked in the parlor with Curran Ramsay.”

“He’s come again?”

The suggestion of a smile flitted across her dour aunt’s face, and Morrigan knew she’d said it too fast. “Says he’s bent for Edinburgh. I wonder why he traveled so far out of his way, when there’s a train direct from Glasgow?”

Morrigan shrugged.

Beatrice crossed to the commode and rearranged the blooms. “He brought these for you. They’re fading already. You’d think, since he went to the bother, that he’d bring fresh ones.”

“He was kind to think of me at all.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt about his kindness.” Her aunt sat on the edge of the bed. “What you said last night isn’t true. Your father doesn’t blame you for Hannah’s death.” With a glower she added, “Now don’t go off into one of your tantrums. I’ll admit Douglas has faults. But there’s good reason.”

Morrigan took a deep breath and unlocked her jaw. “I should get dressed, don’t you think?”

“There’s something I want to show you first.”

Reaching into her big apron pocket, Beatrice withdrew a stiff, old daguerreotype. She glanced at it, her lips pursing, before handing it to Morrigan.

It was a photo of a girl in a hard-backed chair, tartan shawl draped over one shoulder, the fringed edge folded beneath her hands on her lap. Long-lashed eyes peered at the world from a solemn, delicately boned face, a face like any other human’s, yet on this one so exquisitely arranged that it was hard to look away.

“Aye.” Beatrice nodded. “It’s your mother. This is before she met your father. Here, she’s seventeen.”

“Seventeen….” Frightening, this feeling of being turned inside out, of flying end over end. “Younger than I am.”

“The years have gone by.”

“Where is she buried?”

“The kirkyard at Glenelg. Ibby brought the Ramsay lad here on purpose. You’ve no idea how it scunnered your father. He wants no reminders of home. Ibby has never understood him. I believe she thinks she can convince us to go back there.” With a decisive shake of her head, Beatrice murmured, “He’ll never do that. Never.”

“Why?”

“The memories….”

“What memories, Auntie?”

“The deaths, of course. Nicky’s mam died there as well as yours.”

“Neala Grant,” Morrigan said.

Beatrice nodded. “I didn’t know her, but everyone said she was the sweetest lass ever born. That’s more than we can say for Hannah. Your mam was selfish, as selfish as a woman can be. Douglas’s wives were aye different.”

Morrigan stared at the portrait, remembering Enid Joyce calling Hannah a whore. Why had she done that? What could have given her such an idea? Enid was the whore, in spirit if not flesh.

Beatrice paused. When she continued, she sounded deliberately brisk. “Nicky was but two months old when Neala found herself expecting again. Both Neala and the new baby died in childbirth. It was such a tragedy in the parish; they were still grieving when we came, two years later. Folk thought Neala a saint. Didn’t she tame Douglas Lawton, and he the black-tempered devil, always, even as a lad? I heard all about it, endless
clishmaclaver
over that unlikely romance. No one could believe such a tender, devout lass would want him. But when it came to Neala, the sun rose and set with Douglas Lawton. And he loved her. I mind how whenever the women spoke of it, they’d start greeting. They felt that sorry for him. After Neala died, Douglas raised Nicky alone, until Hannah came along.”

“Why do you say it that way? You make it sound… bad.”

“Hannah was bonny and well she knew it. Spoiled rotten. Everyone coddled her. With men it was worse. They’d do whatever she asked simply for a smile.”

Beatrice fingered the long plait hanging over Morrigan’s shoulder. “You’re like her. That’s part of the problem. You have her voice. Douglas is reminded of her every time he sees you or hears you speak. There are times I’d swear she’s in the room. I’ve caught myself looking about for her.”

Morrigan swallowed and clamped her teeth together so she wouldn’t interrupt this singular talkative spell.

“Hannah could have made a fortune if she’d been born in London. She could’ve been another Ellen Terry. It’s sure she put on a right good show at home. Few could deny her, your father included.”

Beatrice continued to stare at Morrigan’s braid for a moment, then she blinked and rose. “Can you manage a corset yet? I’ll help you lace it.”

When they finished, Beatrice crossed to the door. “We’ve squandered enough of this day,” she said. “I’ve no’ begun breakfast.”

“What made her die?”

“You know that already. Have you a yen to hear an account of how she suffered giving birth?”

“No. I just want… to know everything about her.”

“There is no more. But it would be nice if you showed your father a bit of mercy. His crime is that he cannot forget the life he lost. Now I’d appreciate your help downstairs.” The latch clicked behind her.

The memories Beatrice offered were like exquisite miniature paintings, packed in a beautifully wrapped gift box. Morrigan wanted to separate the layers of gauze and examine each image, one by one. All her life she had wondered about her mother, yet fear kept her from asking, the walls of stone in the eyes of Beatrice and Douglas. Somehow she’d always known she was not to mention Hannah Stewart.

Or the
clearings
.

Or Glenelg, that place of secrets.

She thrust back the ivory curtains to let in more light and perched the daguerreotype beside her looking-glass. Feeling equal measures of trepidation and anticipation, she compared the face in the daguerreotype to her own wavy reflection, seeing immediately that her eyes were deep-set, like her mother’s, and that she could imitate Hannah’s expression.

She touched the solemn, still face. Hannah Stewart.
Redheaded witch
.

Everything she’d ever heard her father say about her mother was the lie. It was right there, in Hannah’s face. She was simply a lass perched on the verge of womanhood, eyes serious but hopeful, mouth unsmiling but serene, ready to smile. The whole together gave an impression of dreamy imagination, and her steady gaze seemed to cover vast distances. This girl longed for the same things as other women. Happiness. Freedom. Love.

Then Morrigan searched for some kind of revelation in the mirror. What had Curran Ramsay thought of her? What sensations had she roused in him? She ran her hands over the places he had touched, her mouth, her throat, her breasts, and lower, where an ache lingered. It was a mysterious place, a place of power, the one spot on a woman’s body to be hidden and protected at all times, a place that didn’t belong to the woman who was born with it, but to her future husband. She had allowed Curran Ramsay, almost a stranger, to ransack it, not once but four times.

Slow heat spread, lifting the hair on her scalp, turning her cheeks scarlet. What was it she felt? What she’d done was the worst thing a woman could do. She stared at her face, wondering if her sin would be visible to others.

Diorbhail Sinclair was persecuted, reviled, and shunned. Morrigan was sure Diorbhail hadn’t announced her crime when she came to Stranraer. In fact, she remembered hearing that Diorbhail tried to pass herself off as a widow. Yet her secret had been uncovered.

Would Curran desert her as the father of Diorbhail’s child had done?

Curran! He’s with Papa!

She finished dressing in a rush, certain they’d slaughtered each other. But the gentleman was sitting alone in the dining room with a cup of tea, studying the local newspaper. At the sight of her, he dropped the paper, rose to his feet, and blushed like a wayward schoolboy.

Somehow his shyness made everything bearable, and routed all hint of embarrassment and shame. Morrigan leaned across the table with newfound confidence and gave him a kiss.

He clasped the back of her head and returned her smile. Then, pleasure fading into worry, he came around to her side of the table, asking formally, “How are you? When I arrived last night you’d fainted on the stairs.” He removed his pocket watch from his waistcoat without looking at it, snapped open the lid, and absently polished the crystal with his handkerchief.