Betraying Season (39 page)

Ally was equally relieved. “I should hope that Lady Keating merely wanted me so sleepy and lethargic that I could no longer watch over you,” she observed to Pen. “It quite neatly prevented me from noticing how she was drawing you away from us and into her power. My poor girl, I let you down, didn’t I?”

Pen took her hand. “Not at all. I let myself be drawn away. And anyway, I’m going to be replaced shortly, aren’t I?” She gestured toward Ally’s growing bulk.

“And so am I.” Ally smiled and turned Pen’s left hand over, where a gold band set with sapphires sparkled. “You have two new allegiances now,” she said, taking Pen’s other hand, with the Goddess’s ring. “I hope you won’t forget your old ones in the excitement of the new.”

“No danger of that. I’ve got a goddaughter coming soon to remind me of the dear old ones.” Pen leaned over and gently hugged her.

Pen returned home in early June, just in time for the queen’s splendid coronation in London, then concentrated on preparing for her August wedding, which Niall came for alone, as neither of his parents were able to travel and Doireann was still unfound. Lady Keating remained at Bandry Court, still imperious but childlike and docile, with no memory of the duke or of the plot to kill the queen or even of her past role as the Goddess’s lady, though she still never touched the teapot when pouring her tea. Fortunately, Mrs. Tohill had a sister who had previously cared for a feeble, elderly lady, and she had accepted the position as Lady Keating’s nurse.

It was wonderful to have Persy and the rest of her family meet her dearest Niall. Charles seemed slightly dubious about him when he learned that Niall had earned a first in history, his current bane at Eton, but forgave him when Niall asked him to stand as his groomsman at the wedding.

“Of course I will. I did for Lochinvar last year, so I know all about it,” Charles told him proudly, then deflated. “Except I’ll have to go to the tailor and get measured for s’more swell togs because I’ve grown four inches since last fall. Horripilatious, isn’t it?”

Persy groaned. “If you don’t stop using that word, Chuckles, I’ll cast a forgetting spell on you and make you stop.”

After the wedding, Pen and Niall honeymooned at Loughglass, then were back in Cork in time for the birth of Ally’s daughter on October 7—precisely when Corkwobble had said she would be born—and then to Bandry Court for Samhain, for it was time for Pen to see the Goddess. It wasn’t easy at first to return there. But it was while they were there that they received a letter from Doireann. She and Brian Lenehan had fled to Dublin and married there, then taken ship for India. Niall sent her dowry and an offer to return
home, but she refused. Brian had already arranged to take a position with the East India Company before their elopement, and they had settled happily in Calcutta—or as happily as Doireann could ever do anything.

Niall and Pen had decided to spend some months at Loughglass so that Niall could get to know his father better and begin to take over management of the estate, with occasional visits to Bandry Court to check on Lady Keating and into Cork to visit Ally and the Carrighars and Corkwobble. Pen was happy enough; she liked Lord Keating, who enjoyed nothing so much as having her nearby while he read or tended the orchids and orange trees in his glass conservatory. But she sensed a restlessness in Niall that riding around the estate with the steward and inspecting fields and livestock couldn’t satisfy. When she asked him about it, he denied it, then sighed.

“I’d be happy to be lord of the manor for part of the time, or later, when we have a family,” he said, staring up at the brocade canopy of their bed. “But right now Loughglass is still Papa’s house, and despite Mother’s condition, Bandry Court is still hers. I’d like to have something that’s my own—”

“And what am I?” Pen demanded, indignantly bouncing onto his stomach.

The rest of the conversation degenerated into a mock wrestling match, but it had made Pen think. Perhaps they might travel for a few months. Niall could show her the places he’d visited on his European tour, and they could be silly and romantic in Paris, or Venice . . . and maybe visit Hanover while they were there? She wondered if a part of Niall’s restlessness wasn’t over the one bit of unresolved business in his life: meeting the duke. After all, Lady
Keating had held the image of his real father over him for the last ten years. Surely he couldn’t put it out of his mind now without wondering what the man was like . . . well, maybe in the spring. But she should really broach the topic now so that they could prepare.

In the meanwhile, she leaned over Niall’s arm to peer at the forgotten letters on the sofa beside them. “Heavens, are those what I think they are?”

“Do you find the mail more interesting than me?” Niall’s face was muffled in her neck.

“No. I just don’t want to give Moylan apoplexy if he comes back in.” She picked up the letters and looked at them more closely. “Of course, if you’d rather not read a letter from Her Majesty—”

“What?” That got Niall’s attention.

“One for you and one for me.” She handed him his envelope, then turned hers over. “Oh, mine’s marked ‘Private and Personal.’ ” She slid off his lap and unsealed the letter.

31 January 1839

To the Hon. Mrs. Niall Keating

Loughglass House

Cty. Cork, Ireland

My dear Pen,

You must forgive me for not having written sooner. So many necessary but alas
tr
y
in
g duties and obligations clamor for my attention that my personal correspondence must needs be attended to last, but I was quite determined to write you once and for all! I must wish you a very happy New Year, the first
full one of your married life. Such a strange and wonderful thing it must be to be a married woman—I confess I wonder what it will be like to be so myself someday, and I hope and pray I shall find myself a husband I love and respect as well as you do your dear Mr. Keating.

It is of Mr. Keating, in fact, that I would like to devote a portion of this letter. When she visited me just before Christmas, your dear sister (we had such a lovely afternoon together—
dear
Lehzen made sure we were quite undisturbed while we had an “official” meeting of that most high and puissant order of, DASH accompanied by much mirth—though we sorely missed your presence there!) in between our bouts of laughter told me in great detail just what happened to you in Ireland last spring, and how you once more rescued me unaware from a most hideous peril. I assure you, I was appalled to hear what danger you endured to guard my life, and what danger too Mr. Keating faced. I am now doubly indebted to my dear Leland sisters, and can only thank our Heavenly Father for such dear, loyal friends as yourselves. Powerful friends, too, it would seem—for Persy made it clear that your own most extraordinary magical abilities have drawn the attention and approbation of very high powers. She was impressed, indeed, as am I.

Pen looked up from the letter and blinked back tears. She had never expected that the queen would know of what she had done—certainly telling her about it herself had never entered her mind. And Persy had called her magic most extraordinary—
Persy.
She went back to her letter, trying not to sniffle.

However, in your case I understand that I may address you not only as friend, but as
cousin.
Dear Persy acquainted me too with the fascinating (if shocking) story of your dear husband’s birth. I am most sorry that I cannot, of course, publicly acknowledge our connection, but I will always
think
warmly of you as family and look forward to meeting my cousin Mr. Keating someday soon.

It has puzzled me, since then, to think of something I might do for the both of you to demonstrate my deepest gratitude without, of course, drawing the attention of the world at large. But I flatter myself that I have thought of a possible gift, if Mr. Keating chooses to accept it, and my good Lord Melbourne has approved it and made all the necessary arrangements with the Foreign Office. If he does not, I shall understand perfectly. If he does, however, I will wish you now a fair and safe journey, and enjoin you to write me often and tell me
ever
y
thin
g, as both a friend and cousin and as one of my stalwart ladies of DASH.

Yr.
most
affectionate cousin and friend,

V
ICTORIA
R                                            

Pen read her letter twice, then turned to Niall. He was staring at the letter in his hands as if he could not quite believe what it contained.

“Well? What is it?” But she had already guessed.

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured.

Pen extracted the letter from his unresisting fingers. “
Six-month position, with option to extend on your or the ambassador’s request . . . ,
”
she read aloud, skimming, “
special attaché to Her Majesty’s embassy to the court of Hanover . . . to aid in maintaining the strong bond between the two countries, based as they are on long association and family ties. . . .
” She looked up at him. “The duke,” she said softly.

“The duke,” he echoed. “This means . . . I could meet him on
my
terms.”

“Your terms?”

Niall’s eyes were shining, either with happiness or unshed tears, or perhaps both. “I’d have my own position and purpose and reason for being there. I won’t have to meet him as a supplicant, the way I would have under Mother’s scheme. We can both decide if we want to acknowledge each other, if only in private—”

He dropped the letter and buried his face in her shoulder. Pen held him tightly and stroked his thick, gold hair. It would be exciting to travel and see more of the world, and to meet the duke—or king, as he was in Hanover—and see how much of him there was in Niall. She would miss Ireland, but they would return home soon.

She kissed Niall’s head and then smiled to herself as she looked hard at the door into the room. The door, slightly ajar, shut itself, and the bolt slid home with a sharp snap. Niall raised his head and looked around, then at her.

“Just a precaution,” she explained, taking his face in her hands. “We don’t want to shock poor Moylan again, do we?”