INSIDE A FAIRY MOUND

Ada

Lord Meath was late, and I feared he’d changed his mind. But at a quarter past the hour, he arrived.

“My apologies for the delay,” he said to me after Mrs. Maguire let him in. “Fear not, we shall get you to your tram in time.”

He had joined in my subterfuge, I assumed, to protect me from the disapproval of my landlady, and I recalled how when we’d first met he’d asked me whether I was embarking on an elopement. That was exactly what this felt like, and the thought evoked an uncharacteristic giddiness in me—unimportant orphan girl that I was, running off to marry a handsome Irish earl.

But I’m not, I reminded myself, because I couldn’t tolerate such foolishness, not even inside my own head.

His carriage driver came to the door for my luggage, and Mrs. Maguire handed me a parcel neatly wrapped in brown paper. “In case you have trouble finding a meal on the road, love,” she explained.

I thanked her and felt a genuine pang on parting with her. I suppose I was always feeling the loss of my mother, but a matron who showed some interest in my welfare did tend to make me feel it more keenly.

I took the parcel and gave the promise she asked for: that if I decided to spend more time in Dublin, I would consider returning to her. “Should you be still in need of lodging,” she’d added, with a glance at Lord Meath. A world of meaning passed in that glance. I’m fairly certain it went something like “I wish the two of you well, but should it turn out that you are not the gentleman you appear to be, I’ll not keep silent about what I know.”

For a moment, it seemed to have rattled him. But he recovered quickly enough, offering his thanks for her hospitality.

A fine carriage was waiting outside, and I guessed that it belonged to the earl’s household. When he offered his hand to lift me inside, I felt my first true misgiving. While eating my solitary supper the evening before, I’d overheard Mrs. Maguire talking to Cook, and there were words about young noblemen and their carelessness in their dealings with young women of lower rank. I knew very well that I was meant to overhear those words and that her intentions were kind. At the time, I only smiled to myself and went on with my supper.

But planning such a thing and actually going through with it were entirely different matters. I imagined explaining this excursion to my academic advisor, and my cheeks flamed.

The earl noticed my hesitation. “Have you changed your mind, Miss Q?” He stepped closer, and I shivered at the sudden proximity. “Please don’t be afraid to tell me if you have,” he continued in a lower voice. “Or feel in any way obligated because of the things I’ve told you.”

I took a steadying breath, and I smiled. Reaching for the hand he still held out, I replied, “Not at all, my lord. I only wondered whether I’d left my hairbrush on the dresser upstairs.”

Smiling, he squeezed my fingers slightly, causing another shiver. It was a peculiar sensation—warm instead of cold.

“Shall I retrieve it for you?” he asked. I read in his eyes that he hadn’t bought this fib, but he would go on the pointless errand to give me time if I wanted it.

I shook my head. “I’ve remembered. It’s in my trunk.”

Gripping his hand, I stepped up into the carriage. When I had taken my seat and adjusted my skirts, he followed, sitting opposite me. The driver removed the step and closed the door, and we got under way.

“I’ve made alterations to our arrangements, which I want to discuss with you,” said the earl before awkward silence could descend.

“All right,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light.

He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a folded paper that turned out to be a map. “I’ve sent a rider ahead to my tenant at Newgrange,” he said, “and his family will host you in their home this evening. Their cottage is cozy, but you’ll be welcome to all they have. I’ll lodge in the camp with the archaeologists and workers.”

I frowned, wondering why he would inconvenience himself so. “You’ve decided against Drogheda?”

He nodded, then bent forward to show me the map. “With these arrangements, we can rise early so you can finish your inspection of the site, and then we’ll continue by private coach to Trim. That village boasts an impressive castle ruin, which we can view in the late afternoon. In the morning, we’ll take a train to Westport, then on to Newport. From there, we can travel by boat to Kildamhnait Tower.” The tip of his finger circled Achill Island. “One of Grace O’Malley’s old strongholds.”

“And will we find pirates there?” I asked.

He gave a conspiratorial grin. “If we’re lucky. With more good luck, and favorable weather, we’ll arrive by Christmas Eve.” He glanced up at me, eyes alight with boyish enthusiasm. “What do you think? Will it be too much for you?”

I shook my head. “I hardly know what to say, my lord.”

“Your honest reaction to all this, please. I don’t want to drive you like a sheep.”

I smiled, hoping to reassure him. I believed that his case of nerves rivaled even my own. “It’s all beyond everything I imagined when I made my plans to come here. You quite overwhelm me with your kindness, sir.” The real fondness I was beginning to feel for the earl came through in my tone, and I wondered what he would make of it.

“Well,” he replied, refolding the map and tucking it back in his pocket, “it’s really you who have been kind to me. Agreeing to the trip to Newgrange and not taking fright at my wild schemes.” His gaze was downcast, and I knew that my gratitude had made him uncomfortable, but a little smile still quirked his lips. “You’re made of sturdier stuff than most young women of my acquaintance. But I suppose that comes of not spending all your time in drawing rooms.”

“Don’t give me too much credit,” I said with a laugh. “Drawing rooms were never offered. Had they been, who knows what sort of woman I’d have turned out to be.”

“The sort that would be followed about by every young lord in the county, I’d wager. It appears that may be your fate anyway, despite the lack of drawing rooms.”

This was said in such a mirthful tone, there was simply no reason for the coy way I directed my gaze down at my folded hands.

“Forgive me, Miss Q,” said the earl quietly. “If my behavior seems overly familiar, I hope you’ll set it down to how comfortable I feel in your company. I meant no offense.”

“And I took none, my lord,” I assured him. “It’s only that I’m unused to such compliments. But it does not necessarily follow that I don’t enjoy them just as much as your drawing room–variety female.”

He laughed heartily at this, dispelling the sudden specter of my landlady and her less-than-subtle warning. Our discourse continued in this lighthearted vein until we reached the Dublin–Drogheda tramway station. I was pleased to find that the melancholy that seemed always to half-possess his mood was not detectable this afternoon.

I had never experienced our next mode of conveyance before that day. The tram had a steam-powered locomotive—very like that of a train, but smaller—that pulled a double-deck passenger car. Lord Meath explained that the trams, not being considered entirely safe, were allowed to operate only in the suburbs of Dublin. Then he hastened to assure me we had nothing to fear. So fascinated was I by the mechanics of the thing, the reassurance was unnecessary. I was eager for my maiden voyage.

The passenger car was clean and simple, and though it was covered, its windows were open to the elements. Having seats on the upper deck, we had some view of the surrounding hills. But the locomotive produced a great lot of noise, steam, and vibration, such that our conversation was scant during the more than two-hour journey.

The driver had been paid to let us off just short of Drogheda, where a small private coach was waiting to take us to Newgrange. As we switched from tram to coach, the clouds suddenly parted, and the sinking sun spilled golden light over the emerald hills and squares of pasture with their low stone walls.

I paused outside the coach, turning my face to catch the sun’s warmth. Inwardly, I was warmed by eager anticipation of the journey to come.

Edward

Her hood had slipped back, sunlight transforming her hair into molten silver and raising the natural rosiness in her complexion. I felt a piercing sensation in my chest and knew that I’d taken a fairy dart there.

“How lovely,” she murmured.

I cleared my throat to relieve the sudden tightness. “Indeed.”

She opened her eyes, and the warmth of the smile she turned on me rivaled the sun.

“Are you warm enough, Miss Q?” I asked. The ground was damp and lent a bite to the air, but she had a good winter cloak with a fur-trimmed hood.

“I am, my lord.”

“Shall we enter the coach?”

She allowed me to help her inside, and I offered her the blanket for her lap. She accepted, and I helped spread it over her.

“I fear we’re in for a bumpy ride,” I warned her. “The weather takes its toll on these country roads, but we should reach our destination in less than an hour.”

“I shan’t break,” she assured me.

She turned her face to the coach window, watching the passing scenery while I gave up my feeble struggle not to watch her.

She appeared oblivious to the effect she had on me and on those around her. On the tram, we’d sat together but preserved a polite physical distance that likely made it clear to others we were not man and wife. Before we left the outskirts of Dublin, a wealthy-looking tradesman had boarded our car and stopped before us as if expecting me to make room for him between us. Instead, I had scooted closer to her, leaving room on the other side. I don’t believe she even noticed this gentlemanly skirmish. Perhaps she was so used to being stared at for her irregularity, she’d simply learned to ignore it.

She turned from the window then, perhaps feeling my eyes on her now, and asked, “Have you heard stories connected with the fairy mound at Brú na Bóinne, my lord?”

Having watched her, entranced, for perhaps a quarter of an hour while pretending to gaze out her window, I struggled to recover my dozing faculties. Finally, I replied, “One of the reasons I thought it might interest you is that over the course of my lifetime, I have heard various reports of fairy activity on and about the mound.”

She adjusted her position to give me her full attention. “Much has been said of it in the lore. May I ask what type of activity?”

Her scholarly inquiries these past days had started me reflecting on my boyhood and the stories I’d heard from servants on my father’s estate, as well as from my grandmother.

“The usual variety,” I replied. “Revelries and processions. Sometimes, ghostly figures have been seen atop the mound and walking the surrounding countryside.”

“The reports distinguish between fairies and ghosts?”

I was not sure of the answer and said so, but added, “My sense is that in the minds of my countrymen, all inexplicable events are connected to fairies. My grandmother believed—or professed to believe—that those who die of wasting illnesses wake in Faery, their bodies whole again.”

Excitement gave her a feverish look. “I have read firsthand accounts of this belief,” she said. “They are said to wake in Knock Ma, the palace of the fairy king, Finvara. If I am not mistaken in my geography, we will be traveling quite close to the ruins at Knock Ma, will we not?”

I smiled. How could I help it? It was pleasing to give her such pleasure. “Indeed,” I replied. “We shall make a visit there after Christmas, if you like.”

“You are too good to me, my lord,” she said, laughing. She then reached into the satchel she always carried and drew out a notebook and pencil. “May I take down notes of our conversation?”

“Of course, Miss Q.”

“I cannot express how grateful I am for these personal accounts, Lord Meath. I assure you they will be put to good use.”

“To the contrary,” I replied, “you have expressed it quite graciously. And I am very happy to be able to help you in return for your agreeing to accompany me on this uncomfortable journey. Now, tell me, Miss Q, what you have learned about Brú na Bóinne.”

She took a moment to jot down a few words—an impressive feat given the movement of the carriage over the bumpy road—before replying, “I know mostly what can be found in books, which is why I have made this journey to Ireland. I know that the mound has a strong link to the Tuatha De Danaan. There is said to be an underground kingdom ruled by Angus, who is associated with love and poetry, and his queen, Caer, who could change into a swan. I know that Angus was the foster father of Diarmuid, a legendary Danaan warrior. Diarmuid spent his boyhood at Brú na Bóinne and was eventually buried there.”

“I have never understood why Diarmuid is viewed as a romantic figure,” I remarked, “having been most famous for stealing the fiancée of his chief and friend, Finn.”

She laughed. “The lore has not been kind to his paramour, either. Most stories say that Gráinne enchanted and lured Diarmuid away, and after Finn allowed Diarmuid to be killed by a boar, she went back to him.”

“We are agreed, then,” I replied, laughing with her. “It has more the character of tragedy than of romance.”

She sobered a moment, touching her pencil to her chin, and replied, “In scholarly circles, the story is viewed more symbolically, though there is little agreement on what it symbolizes. There is a sort of parallel to the story of Adam and Eve, and it is likely the original story evolved under the influence of the church.”

“Ah. Perhaps it was never intended to be a love story.”

She smiled. “Perhaps not.”

After that, she made a few more notes in her book, and when she lifted her gaze again, she pursued a new line of questioning. “In my studies, there has always been a distinction between the ‘big folk’ of Faery—such as the Danaan and their enemies, the Fomorians—and the diminutive fairies that Irishmen often refer to as the ‘gentlefolk.’ Do you find that to be true in your experience, and do you know how to account for it?”

Again I was forced to recall memories from long ago, when my grandmother was still living. I had not thought about her stories for many years, and I confess they turned my thoughts to the cousin I’d grown up with and made me nostalgic for simpler times. I remembered tramping across meadows and tumbling down hills in our searches for gentlefolk and fighting with wooden swords we’d made by taking apart old fences. I always pretended to be one of the ancient heroes—Oíson or even Diarmuid—while she pretended to be the warrior queen Maeve or the Morrigan, the dread goddess of war.

“My grandmother told us stories of both varieties,” I replied. “And in them, the gentlefolk were not always small. Here I believe your own learning probably exceeds my own, but I think she viewed the gentlefolk as descendants of the Danaan.”

She nodded. “I have read of this belief. Other sources refer to the gentlefolk as faded versions of the ancient heroes.”

She grew quiet and focused as she fell again to the task of scribbling. Much as I was tempted to keep her talking—something I sensed would not be difficult, as she was warm to this topic—I left her to her work and fell into nostalgic reverie while watching the scenery pass outside the window.

After much jostling on the muddy road—and a stop to free a mired wheel—we arrived at Newgrange. The sun was setting as we alighted from the coach, so rather than stopping at the farmhouse, we made straight for the ruin.

The workmen’s equipment had left muddy ruts in the field, and their tents huddled together on one side of the fairy hill. Miss Q raised the hem of her dress and approached the dark opening in the hillside as calmly as if she were entering a church. There had been some clearing away of turf and stone since the photographs were taken, and the opening was now large enough to walk through. The workmen had also reconstructed the stone frame of the door, supporting it with timbers.

“Come away from there, miss,” someone called.

The man strode toward her, and I walked over to intercept him.

“Good day, sir,” I said. He turned to look at me. “I’m Edward Donoghue, Earl of Meath. I believe you had word of my coming? This is Miss Quicksilver. We’re here by order of the queen to inspect the ruin and the work that’s going on here.”

I extended my hand, and the man took it. “Honor to meet you, my lord,” he replied stiffly. “I’m Tom Deane, the architect in charge.”

“Is it unsafe to go inside?” I asked him.

Deane’s gaze shifted to the opening in the hillside. “By our accounting, it’s stood at least two thousand years. It’s not likely to cave in now. The entryway was in a risky state, but we’ve shored that up.” His gaze returned to my companion. “It’s safe enough, but I’d prefer nothing was disturbed until the archaeologists finish their work.”

“Miss Quicksilver is a specialist in Irish history and mythology,” I explained. “I’ve brought her along to help evaluate the cultural significance of the ruin. I assure you, she won’t disturb your work.”

Deane sized up Miss Q in a way that suggested he was not as susceptible to her considerable charms as I.

“Perhaps you might wait until the morrow, my lord?”

“I’m afraid we have only this evening and the morning until we must continue west to make our report to Queen Isolde. We’d like to perform a brief inspection tonight. Before we do, perhaps your men can share with us any discoveries they’ve made.”

“May I ask if anything was found inside, sir?” asked Miss Q.

Deane shook his head. “Nothing but the bones of small mammals and birds. But we weren’t the first inside. Once excavations get under way, I’m sure we’ll find more. What was carried away already by the farmer, the archaeologists have classified as ‘grave goods.’”

Miss Q looked a little stricken at the word “excavations,” but she made no comment. “Meaning items that would have been buried with any human remains interred here?” she asked.

Deane nodded, and I saw a flicker of keener interest in his gaze. “Exactly so,” he replied. “We assume ceremonial burials took place here, though we’ve yet to confirm it.”

“I see.” She glanced again at the entry. “How large is the ruin, Mr. Deane?”

“The main passage goes back about sixty feet. At the end is a large chamber with three smaller chambers adjoining. We’ve found large stone slabs throughout, and our geologist says they came from nowhere around here. Which has confounded us a good deal, considering that the people who built this structure must have had only rudimentary tools.”

The disapproving Mr. Deane was warming up nicely. It was a special talent of my Miss Q.

“The passage runs straight?” she asked.

“It does, miss.”

“Hmm.” She continued to study the entryway. “Do you mind if we have a look inside now, before the light’s completely gone? I give you my word we’ll not disturb anything.”

“All right, then,” he said, with graciousness, even. “To tell the truth, we were all going for a pint, anyway. Perhaps my lord and yourself would like to join us?”

“We would indeed,” I replied, stepping in. “But with our time so short, we’d better go about our business. Don’t let us stop you, though, Mr. Deane. Perhaps Miss Q can ask the rest of her questions in the morning?”

Deane nodded. “Certainly, my lord. Take the lamp, and you’ll find plenty of candles inside. Without them, you’d not see anything but shadows. And once the daylight is gone, it’s black as pitch. Hope you don’t frighten easy, miss.” Deane smiled at her. “It fairly makes my skin crawl. You’re sure you won’t reconsider? A pub’s a cozier spot to sit out the darkest night of the year.”

She returned his smile. “We thank you for the invitation, sir, but you go on. I assure you I’m not easily frightened.”

My heart swelled with something like pride. How ridiculous, Meath, was my head’s answer.

“Good eve, then, miss. Good eve, my lord.” He’d removed his hat on our arrival, and he replaced it now. “If you would, put out the lights when you leave.”

“Good eve, Mr. Deane,” I replied. “You have my word.”

Miss Q met my gaze as he left us. “After you, Lord Meath.”

“After you, Miss Q. I insist.”

With a grin of anticipation, she turned and lifted an oil lantern from a hook by the entrance.

We had a bit of a squeeze just inside, where the passage narrowed. As it opened out again and the light from our lantern and others filled the space, I was surprised by how square the passage was. And not earthen at all—stone slabs lined the whole length of it. It was hard to imagine so many of them being transported here by modern man, much less by a primitive people.

“It’s close, isn’t it?” she said, voice echoing in the chamber. I felt an inexplicable surge of dread and increased my pace to close the distance between us, my head suddenly filling with visions of ancient monsters. But then I realized she was talking about the closeness of the walls. Steady on, Meath.

“So it is,” I replied.

“It appears not much more than a man-made cave,” she observed sedately, but I felt the energy she was suppressing. Was it fear? Excitement? Perhaps both? I confess that to me, it was a large hole in the ground, made interesting by the fair maiden lighting my way. “Whoever ordered the construction left very little evidence for us to follow and understand the why of it,” she continued.

“So far as we know now,” I replied. “Who knows what they may find when they begin to dig?”

At the end of the passage were the chambers described by Mr. Deane—the one larger chamber and the three smaller adjoining ones.

“I’m wondering whether they should,” she said, holding up the lantern to examine a spiral design that ran floor to ceiling. It was similar to the one outside, carved on a wall facing the entrance. “Dig, I mean. I’m eager to know more about it, of course. But whoever built it—would they like us digging it up, do you think? Perhaps it’s no accident that it has been buried for two thousand years.”

I moved closer to take the lantern for her, but instead of continuing her observation of the spiral, she looked up at me. I understood vaguely that she’d asked me a question and seemed to be expecting an answer. For the life of me, I couldn’t recall anything she’d just said, not with her attention so fixed upon me.

So I smiled and said, “Perhaps,” and hoped for the best.

Seeming to accept this, she set down her satchel. Then she unbuttoned and removed her cloak, for the earth over our heads had apparently insulated the chamber against the cold. I watched her, frozen, as she also removed her jacket. She stood before me in her skirt and a simple white blouse, and I could see the outline of her corset beneath. The blouse sleeves ended just below her elbows, and I found I couldn’t tear my gaze away from her exposed forearm and wrist.

“Do you mind if I make a few sketches tonight, my lord? It will look different by daylight, and I’d like to compare.”

“By all means, Miss Q.”

Smiling, she retrieved a drawing pad and pencil from her satchel. Finding no place else to sit, she sank primly on the edge of a slab that held a large stone basin.

“I hope it’s not sacrilege,” she murmured.

I sat down a respectable distance away from her and replied, “Now we’re both guilty.”

But as she scratched away on her pad, I found I could not sit still. I believe I could have watched her for hours without her noticing, so absorbed was she in her work. The small movements of her hands and wrists. The shallow breaths, shortened by excitement, that caused her breasts to rise and fall. The pulse point in her neck that I could just see by the light of the lantern. And that heart-shaped mouth, mauve lips parting as she concentrated …

Breathing deeply to clear these thoughts, I rose and took a turn about the chamber. Finding a box of matches, I made another circuit and lit fat candles that stood in a series of pie tins. I distracted myself by studying the slabs with their rounded edges, and the spiral carvings that had caught her eye. But none of it was any use. I was fascinated, indeed, but not with these cold stones.

God help me.

She had placed herself in my power. Trusted me completely. And I’d believed myself trustworthy. Believed that I could protect her from whatever the banshee had seen. I asked myself for the thousandth time, What if it is I? What if I was the shadow cast over her short life? The one who would bring her to ruin and destruction?

“Lord Meath?”

I started and turned.

“Are you well?” she asked. “Have you … Have you seen something?”

I forced a smile. “I am well. Perhaps a little fatigued from the journey.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, rising. “I’ve been inconsiderate.”

“No, please, finish your sketches. I’ll move to one of the other chambers so I won’t disturb you further.”

“It’s not necessary, my lord. You aren’t disturbing me.”

The disturbing, of course, ran the other direction, but I could hardly tell her so. “You are kind to say so. Nonetheless, I’ll leave you to it. Please call me if you need anything.”

Ada

As I watched him retire to the adjacent chamber, I knew he was hiding something from me. Perhaps another vision, something worse than before. I noticed he hadn’t yet donned the tinted spectacles, so he had no protection from the green visitations.

Selfishly, I had not missed the spectacles. His eyes were bright and alive, something easy to miss when he wore them. He was full of charm and humor, and I couldn’t help feeling that the side of him I was seeing now, until the past few moments, was his true self. That the brooding lord was just a projection of his suffering—the nightwalking and the drinking, and the visions that resulted from the cure he took.

Dear fellow, I thought. Then I wondered how long I’d been thinking of him thus.

I let my eyes drift from my sketch to find him again in the other room. The furrows had returned to his brow, but even like this he was … I know no better word than “beautiful.” It was more than the dark sensuality, the Irish blue eyes, or the sailor’s growth about his cheeks and chin. More than the power in his build, hinted at by the fit of his clothing.

He has a beautiful soul.

Yet how could I know such a thing, having been acquainted with him for only two days? I was developing a schoolgirl crush.

He ran a hand through his dark curls and removed his coat and jacket, draping them over the chamber’s stone slab. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and bent to light and lift another of the numerous candles. I studied the musculature of his forearms with each small movement, finding it inexplicably compelling. I imagined how his arms might look were his fingers gripping my waist, and the blood rushed to my cheeks.

Pulling my gaze back to my sketch pad, heart racing, I thought back over the day’s events. All the little moments that had tugged at something more than my heart. The way he had refrained from pushing me when I experienced that moment of doubt. The man who had tried to take his seat beside me on the tram, and how he’d refused to allow it. The way he rushed to my aid when Mr. Deane came to scold me as if I were a child. The way his gaze had rested on me as the sun slanted across us in the road, and then again inside the coach. Even just a moment ago, as I’d hurriedly made my sketches, hoping to finish before he grew bored.

I closed my eyes and shook my head, collaring these thoughts like disobedient children. Then I continued with my work, shutting out the small sounds the earl made as he moved about the other chamber.

I don’t know how much time had passed when I started up from the stone at some new sound. I do know I’d become absorbed again in my work, and it might easily have been an hour or more.

As I glanced about the chamber, the sound came again, and I realized it had come from Lord Meath. He was seated on the stone slab, back resting against the wall. What I’d heard was the heavier breathing that often came with sleep.

The poor man had been so exhausted, he hadn’t even needed his sleeping draught.