When Conn woke up the next morning, her leg ached something awful. The cut muscles pulled painfully when she moved her ankle. Wincing, she limped downstairs to the kitchen.
“Let’s take a look,” Elizabeth said as she pulled the duct tape off and unwrapped the bandage, exposing the gash. The skin around the cut was mildly red and swollen, but otherwise looked pretty good. Gingerly, she reapplied some of the black gooey ointment Miss Molly had sent home with them and rewrapped Conn’s leg.
“I think you’ll be climbing trees and running around soon enough,” she pronounced as she pressed the duct tape in place. “In the meantime, how about some oatmeal?”
After breakfast, Conn took a book out to the back yard where she saw some digging tools lying in the yard. “What were you doing?” she asked her mother.
“Well, now that we’ve got most of the inside work done, I thought I’d start cleaning up the yard, maybe plant some flowers,” Elizabeth said.
“Want some help?”
“I’d love some help if you feel up to it.”
“So,” Conn said a few minutes later as she began digging up a weedy flowerbed with a hand trowel, “you knew Miss Molly when you were growing up?”
“Umm hmm,” Elizabeth replied as she pulled out some dead plants. “She and Nana were good friends, so we were often over there or she was over here.”
“She called her house ‘the witch’s house’,” Conn said. “What did she mean by that?”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “I’d forgotten. The Peregorn witch.”
“That’s what Jed called her,” Conn said. “Why do people call her that?”
“It’s silly, but for generations, one Peregorn woman has never married, learning how to make medicines using herbs and roots and things. It probably started a couple hundred years ago, but that woman is always known as the Peregorn witch,” Elizabeth explained. “All because they’ve passed down old knowledge that other people have forgotten.”
Conn was reminded of the seanmhair who made the prophecy to Caitríona.
“But I think Molly enjoys the whole witch mystique,” Elizabeth continued with a fond smile. “I think Nana and I were the only ones she allowed around her house.” She sat on her heels, reminiscing. “It was fascinating being around her. She knew so many things about animals and the forest. I learned so much just sitting and listening as she and Nana talked.”
“Like what?”
“Well,” Elizabeth closed her eyes, trying to recall, “I could be wrong, but I think there was a Peregorn witch who befriended Caitríona when she first got here.”
“What?” Conn asked, stunned. Could this be the missing connection she needed to find out what happened to Caitríona?
“I’m pretty sure I remember Nana and Molly talking about it.”
Trying to hide her excitement, Conn said, “She invited me to come back. May I go visit her?”
Elizabeth nodded her consent. “As long as you don’t make a pest of yourself.”
***
Later that evening, after they had eaten dinner and dusk was falling, Jed came by. Will was running around the yard, catching his nightly quota of faerieflies and Conn was sitting on the porch swing, her leg still too sore to run. She saw Jed’s untidy blond head appear at the curve in the drive. He stopped there, uncertain as to his welcome.
“Hey,” he called hesitantly.
“Hey,” Conn replied. “Come on up.”
She scooted over on the swing as he approached.
“You okay?” he asked as he sat down beside her.
“I’m fine,” she said.
Jed fiddled with a loose thread where one of the seams on his overalls was coming apart, winding and rewinding it around his finger as he mumbled, “I’m sorry I ran out on you.”
Conn looked over in surprise. “You didn’t run out on me. You went to get help. What do think you could have done against a shotgun if Miss Molly had wanted to hurt us?”
Jed slumped a little in relief. “Was she scary?”
Conn shrugged and said, “At first she was, but then she took me in her house to put medicine on my leg. She makes all kinds of medicines herself. She was friends with my Nana.”
Jed was staring at her in amazement. “You went in her house? I heard there are bones and dead things in there for her witch’s brews,” he whispered.
Conn laughed. “Where did you hear that?” She shook her head. “Nothing like that. She’s an artist. She does the most beautiful paintings of animals and plants. I think you would like them.” She glanced over at him. “But maybe you shouldn’t tell anyone about this. I think she likes to be left alone.”
Jed snorted. “Who’m I gonna tell? No one ‘round here would believe me.”
“Time to get washed up for bed,” Elizabeth called as she came out onto the porch. “Oh, hello, Jed. I didn’t realize you were here.”
Jed stood. “I was just leavin’, Miz Mitchell. I just wanted to see how Conn’s leg was doin’.” He gave a half wave. “See ya.”
“Bye,” Conn said, getting to her feet, stifling a yawn.
§§§
“Watch yourselves, dears,” said Ellie, her plump bosom heaving as she carried a still-laden tray back into the kitchen. “He’s drinkin’ again. Didn’t eat a lick of dinner.”
Hugh Playfair was not dealing well with his “exile,” as he frequently muttered, especially when he was drunk. For awhile after his father’s departure, he had continued riding out, keeping a close eye on the plantation per his father’s mandate. But within a few months, as summer gave way to autumn, the solitude of his situation began to take its toll. Despite occasional visits from the owners of neighboring plantations, there was no one else at Fair View with whom he could socialize or converse. His wife, the servants gleaned from his valet, had refused to return to America, and his friends were managing their affairs in India or Hong Kong or elsewhere in the Empire.
Batterston did not regain his former level of authority or autonomy as Hugh did not trust him, and spent as little time with him as possible. The one person he seemed to gravitate toward was Orla. He called upon her frequently under the pretext of reviewing the plantation’s accounts, but, once she was in his presence, he usually began speaking of other things.
“I just listen, really,” she said in reply to Caitríona’s queries about what they did in the study for hours. “He’s lonely. He’s not cold like his father. He’s not cut out to be by himself.”
“You like him!” Caitríona said in a repulsed tone.
“No,” Orla protested, but the color rose in her pale cheeks. “Only, I… I feel sorry for him.”
“You feel sorry for the man who keeps us held captive on this cursed plantation,” Caitríona scowled.
“I miss our family, too, but is life here really any worse than it would have been back home?” Orla asked. Caitríona opened her mouth with a retort, but Orla cut her off. “I’m serious. With Mam dead and Da God knows where… I’ll be twenty-one this year. Back home, I’d have who knows how many children of my own by now. Here, we’ve got plenty to eat, work enough to keep us from being idle. We’re not treated as cruelly as others are. Things could be worse for us.”
Caitríona could think of nothing to say, though she would have died rather than admit it. She contented herself with not speaking to her sister for two days.
Despite Hugh’s assurances to his father that America would not go to war, the rumors were becoming more persistent. Every trader, every courier, every visitor brought tidings of the increased tensions between North and South, and there was talk that the South would secede from the Union.
As Hugh felt more isolated, he began drinking more heavily, sometimes not eating for days at a time. He stayed closed up in his study, or up in his room, bellowing at anyone who interrupted him. Except Orla. She, it seemed, was the only one who could penetrate the fog of whisky and melancholy that surrounded him.
***
Caitríona waited until everyone scattered after supper. Orla had not returned from taking Hugh’s tray to him, but that was not unusual lately. She hugged the shadows as she made her way through the grounds to the gazebo. It was an unexpectedly warm evening for October as she waited in the shadows, listening to the frogs down by the water. Just as she was beginning to think Hannah wouldn’t be coming, she saw a shadow of movement approaching in the dark.
Hannah was breathless when she got there, the moonlight slanting into the gazebo illuminated the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“What’s wrong?” Caitríona asked, pulling Hannah down to sit beside her.
It was a minute or two before Hannah could speak. “William asked me to marry him,” she said.
Caitríona’s breath caught in her throat. She turned away, staring toward the stream. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Hannah answered.
Caitríona felt as if her heart was being ripped from her chest. For a long time, she had known that her feelings for Hannah had changed, though she hadn’t put a name to those feelings – until now.
“Don’t do it,” Caitríona whispered.
“Why not?”
She could feel Hannah’s gaze, though she refused to meet it.
“Give me a reason I shouldn’t marry him,” Hannah insisted, leaning toward Caitríona from her perch on the bench.
The blood was pounding in Caitríona’s ears so that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hear her own voice. “Because I love you,” she said softly.
For long seconds, Hannah said nothing. Flooded with shame at admitting her feelings, Caitríona lurched off the bench, preparing to flee, but Hannah caught her hand and held it fast. Caitríona stood, not sure what Hannah’s gesture meant, but reveling in the feel of Hannah’s warm hand in hers. She could feel Hannah rise to stand next to her.
“I love you, too,” Hannah said.
Caitríona turned to look at her. “You do?” she asked doubtfully.
Hannah smiled, and Caitríona thought she had never seen anything so beautiful. “Yes, Miss.”
Caitríona laughed and pulled Hannah into her arms. With Hannah’s body pressed into hers, she thought she could have died contented that very moment. She had no idea how long they stood thus, holding each other, neither willing to let go, but eventually, they did. Caitríona was surprised to find that it was still hard to meet Hannah’s eyes, only now it was because she was afraid the intensity of her feelings might scare Hannah away.
“I have to get back,” Hannah said reluctantly.
“Me, too.”
They walked together down the gazebo steps, but before they parted, Caitríona asked, “So, what will you tell William?”
Hannah smiled. “I’ll tell him no.”
Caitríona kissed her impulsively, surprising Hannah as much as herself. Laughing, she ran lightly back to the house, feeling more like she was floating. She slipped quietly through the empty kitchen and up the servants’ stairs. She fell giddily onto her bed and wrapped her arms around herself. As Orla wasn’t yet upstairs, she took out her journal and made a hasty entry. She changed and got into bed, sure she would never be able to fall asleep, but she was awakened sometime in the middle of the night by Orla slipping quietly into their room. Within seconds her giddiness soured.
“What’s wrong with you?” Orla asked the next afternoon as she and Caitríona cleaned the dining room. “You’ve been grumpy as a goose all day.”
Caitríona flared at once. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me,” she spat. “I could smell him on you when you came in! And I could smell you in his room when we cleaned it this morning.”
Orla did not attempt to deny it. Her cheeks burned scarlet, but she bravely faced her sister and said, “I love him.”
Caitríona’s jaw dropped. “You love him! He’s married, you fool! You’ll never be anything to him but a… but a whore he can bed when the mood strikes.”
In a flash, Orla’s eyes blazed with a temper equal to her sister’s. “At least what I’m doing is natural,” she shot back.
Warily, memories of last evening with Hannah racing through her mind, Caitríona asked, “What do you mean?”
“Do you think I’ve not seen the way you look at Hannah? How stupid you are when she’s about? You’re a… you’re… unnatural!”
Without thinking, Caitríona slapped her sister hard across the face. The red outline of her hand burned on Orla’s cheek.
Orla’s eyes filled with tears. “I hate you,” she whispered, raising her hand to her cheek.
Caitríona turned and stalked upstairs. She gathered up her few possessions and clothes, tore her bed linens from the mattress and carried them all to another room in an otherwise empty wing of servants’ rooms. There, she threw her clothes onto one bed and began making up the other. “I… hate… you,” she seethed in rhythm with her vicious tugs on the sheets.
§§§
Conn awakened to night sounds as crickets chirped and, far off, an owl hooted. A near full moon was lighting her room as she lay there, feeling a powerful sense of exhilaration. She had always, from the time she was little, insisted that she would never marry. She never questioned how she knew it; she just did. But now, feeling Caitríona’s love for Hannah….
She was filled with a fierce joy at the realization of this kind of love. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t a boy. And she felt fiercely proud of her connection to the line of women who had descended from Caitríona. This, she now knew, was what she would feel someday. She knew it as certainly as she knew her name.