Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One (4 page)

Everyone from Chatham and the surrounding farms is here, stuffed into the wooden church; services are mandatory except for the very ill. Even when it became obvious that Mother was dying—and after, when the house was in deepest mourning—we weren’t granted a reprieve. Brother Ishida urged us to offer up our grief to the Lord. He promised it would prove our greatest consolation. I did not find much truth in that, myself.

My eyes roam over my neighbors. The Brothers sit together in the first two pews. Their families sit behind them in places of honor. We are meant to shun worldly vices like pride and envy, but being married to one of the Brothers carries with it a certain cachet. Their wives are meek women with downcast eyes, but they dress well. Their wide bell skirts fan out around them, and their taffeta petticoats rustle when they shift. Puffed sleeves stand up on each shoulder—sentinels guarding their thoughts, lest anything shameful sneak in. And their daughters! They are pictures of garish girlishness in bright yellows and purples, pinks and emeralds, their hair in the new pompadour style instead of the simple chignons my sisters and I favor.

A half-swallowed giggle catches my attention. Brother Malcolm pauses in his sermon on charity, frowning at proof that not everyone is wholly absorbed.
It’s Rory Elliott. For a moment, she smiles at all the attention and tosses her long black hair. Then she lowers her eyes demurely, her cheeks flushing as pink as her dress, and inches closer to Nils Winfield. She gets away with being scandalous because she’s betrothed to Nils, and his father is Brother Winfield.
Everyone else’s eyes slide away as Brother Malcolm resumes. The Lord . . . something. I keep watching Rory and see how Sachi Ishida elbows her sharply in the ribs. Rory mouths something unladylike, but folds her hands in her lap, straightens her back, and fixes her attention back on Brother Malcolm. Sachi smiles, and I wonder—not for the first time—why the town sweetheart chooses to associate with a girl like that. Rory’s mother is a shut-in who never leaves their house. They say she’s a drunk, and that she doesn’t know who Rory’s real father is. Her husband, Jack Elliott, gave Rory his name, but since he died in that carriage accident, the Elliotts won’t have anything to do with Rory or her mother.
Sachi catches me staring. I raise my eyes back to the dais, where Brother Malcolm is just finishing his sermon.
“We clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord,” he intones.
“We clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord,” the congregation echoes. I mouth the words along with everyone else. Mother taught us to say the prayers before bedtime and meals when we were small, but it seemed more a matter of habit than of faith. Any real belief I had in the Lord died along with my mother.
“Go in peace. Serve the Lord,” the Brothers chant.
“Thanks be.”
Our neighbors file out slowly, chattering to one another, exchanging news. I want to shove them out of my way, throw elbows into their soft stomachs. I want to be home.
Instead I smooth my skirt and wait my turn to exit the pew.
Mrs. Corbett is at Father’s side, nattering on about the governess. I watch them, Maura’s prediction ringing in my ears. The old hag can’t really be trying to entangle Father romantically, can she? He’s not home often enough to be a husband to anyone. And we do not need—do not ever want—a new mother.
Father manages a smile. He used to be handsome, but perpetual mourning has taken its toll. There’s a scattering of silver in his blond hair, and his face droops like a basset hound. “You must stay for dinner, then,” he suggests.
Surely that’s just politeness.
Mrs. Corbett simpers. At least I think that’s the intended effect. Her mouth twists into a ghastly sort of smile.
Mrs. Ishida appears at the end of our pew. “Miss Cahill! I’m giving a little tea next Wednesday afternoon, and I was hoping you might like to join us. Miss Maura too, of course.”
Mrs. Ishida’s teas are the most coveted invitations in town. We have never been granted a summons before. Mrs. Corbett looks up sharply, her tongue darting out between her teeth like a snake testing the air.
I clasp my hands together and stare demurely at the wooden floor. “It’s so kind of you to think of us. We would be delighted.”
“Lovely,” Mrs. Ishida says. “We shall look forward to seeing you on Wednesday, then.”
I wonder what’s prompted this sudden interest in our society. I look over at Sachi, who is whispering with Rory, their dark heads bent close together. Her eyes glance off mine so quickly, they almost throw sparks. Did she set her mother on us?
“It’s good for young ladies to be out in company. They won’t make the right connections at home studying Cicero,” Mrs. Corbett whispers. “Perhaps Sister Elena can help them organize a tea of their own. They ought to have an at-home afternoon.”
Oh no. If we commence gadding about, we’ll be forced to return the invitations. I am ostensibly the lady of the house, but I’ve never been called on to perform as such. The thought of having neighbors running roughshod through the place, poking their noses into our lives, terrifies me. I don’t know how to serve tea and cakes and make polite conversation. By the time I was old enough to go visiting with her, Mother was too ill, and then we were in mourning for a year. What do polite people talk about? Not magic or books or Greek mythology. Likely not gardening.
Loath as I am to admit it, this governess might be useful after all.

The church and its white spire dominate the town square. The holding cell in the basement and the Brothers’ council chamber serve as jail and courthouse. All of Chatham stretches out from here: the general goods store, the stationer’s, the chocolatier’s, Belastras’ bookshop, the seamstress’s, the apothecary’s, the butcher’s, the bakery, a few dozen homes. Most of the population of Chatham lives on farms outside town, where they grow potatoes and corn, oats and hay, apples and blueberries.

Father has escaped the dread clutches of Mrs. Corbett and is chatting with Marianne Belastra, Finn’s mother. She’s a thin woman with gray twining through her rust-colored hair. She has Finn’s freckles—or the other way around, I suppose. Finn stands next to her, nodding enthusiastically at something Father says. His sister, Clara, tugs on the sleeve of his jacket. She’s Tess’s age, but tall and gangly, with enormous hands and feet that seem all out of proportion to the rest of her. Her skirt isn’t quite long enough; a hint of her petticoat peeks out beneath.

“Good day, Miss Cahill,” a deep voice says behind me.
I whirl around. It’s been ages since I’ve heard that dry growl, but I’d know it anywhere.
How on earth did I miss him in church? He must have slipped in at the last minute and sat behind us.
I knew Paul would be home soon; everyone in town knows. Mrs. McLeod’s talked of nothing else for weeks. He must have come a few days early

to surprise her. Still, I can’t help staring. He looks so much older. A man of nineteen, not a boy of fifteen. He’s taller—I barely come up to his nose now—and he’s got a close-cropped mustache and beard just a shade darker than his blond hair. He looks quite the gentleman in his frock coat, lounging indolently beneath a maple tree.

“Mr. McLeod, home at last. How are you?” I curtsy, wishing I’d worn a prettier dress. Apple green looks beautiful on Maura, but it does me no favors. Why didn’t I wear the mauve brocade?
“Quite well, thank you, and you?” He shifts from foot to foot. Is he as nervous as I am? His green eyes are so intent on my face, I can’t help flushing under the scrutiny.
“Very well.” Still angry with him.
“Mother and I are leaving. Could we escort you home?”
Oh. No gentleman’s ever offered to escort me home before. I should be pleased. As Maura so helpfully pointed out, Paul is my best chance for finding a husband. If I don’t get betrothed soon, Father will involve himself—or, worse, the Brothers will choose for me. They could pick anyone—a lonely old widower or a devout man poised to join the Brotherhood. I’d have no say in it.
Still, Paul didn’t even bother to come home for Mother’s funeral. Girls are not permitted to receive letters from men unless they are betrothed, but surely he could have written me if he’d wanted to, instead of that dry little note of condolence he sent Father. If he’d thought of me—missed me at all —he would have written. We were the best of friends right up until the day he left. This man in front of me now is a stranger.
And I’m not the carefree Cate he left behind. Seeing him again—it makes me miss that girl. She didn’t realize how much she had to lose. She laughed more and worried a great deal less.
“Let me tell my sisters I’m going,” I decide.
Maura greets Paul with enthusiasm while Tess smiles shyly. When I say the McLeods will take me home, Maura glares at me for abandoning her and Tess to the dull politeness of our neighbors. I can’t help smirking. Perhaps this will give her the chance to make those friends she’s been longing for.
Paul hands me up into the McLeods’ barouche, and I settle onto the leather bench next to his mother. Paul sits across from us. Mrs. McLeod nervously arranges a blanket over her lap, shivering, as the matched pair of bays starts forward. I suspect the open carriage is Paul’s doing. His mother is notoriously afraid of catching a chill.
“Good morning, Mrs. McLeod,” I say. “How are you?”
She gives me a sour smile as she recounts her latest aches and pains. Paul is her darling; I don’t think she’d care for any girl he paid attention to, but she’s always found me particularly irritating. I suspect I am too hardy for my own good.
“How was your apprenticeship?” I ask.
“Paul’s become Mr. Jones’s right-hand man. And he was quite the scholar at university,” she gloats. “Tell her, son.”
“I did well enough for all the time I spent in the library.” Paul ducks his head. I’d wager that he spent precious little time in the library, compared with how much he spent wandering the city and carousing.
“He’s modest,” Mrs. McLeod says.
“New London is grand. Construction booming all day, every day except Sundays. New factories, new warehouses down by the port to store goods, new houses for the men making their fortunes off the factories. All the big houses have gaslights now. Some even have indoor water closets!”
“Imagine that,” Mrs. McLeod breathes.
“The streets are a madhouse. Trains come and go all day long, bringing workers from the country looking for jobs. Ships come to port with goods and people from Europe or as far away as Dubai. The city is bursting at the seams. Whole families are living crowded together in three-room flats above shops and taverns. It’s an amazing time to be an architect.”
I can’t fathom it. The only life I’ve known is here in Chatham. I’ve never been out of Maine. Never farther than the seaside. “Taverns? I don’t imagine the Brothers approve of that.”
Paul chuckles. “They shut them down as fast as they open. There are signs up everywhere, warning us against drink and gambling.” He stretches his arms over his head, and I can’t help noticing how well his suit fits. “They regulate the gentlemen’s clubs with iron fists, Jones says, but he took me with him to his, and you wouldn’t believe the—”
“Paul. I’m sure Miss Cahill doesn’t want to hear your scandalous tales.” Mrs. McLeod settles her feet on the hot-water bottle on the carriage floor. “Are you quite certain you aren’t cold, dear?”
I would love to hear scandalous tales, but I can’t very well say that. Instead, Paul and I both assure her that we are comfortable. I take in a deep lungful of air as we pass an orchard, the trees tangled with ripe red apples. On the other side of the lane, the trees are bare, already picked. The sweet air smells like home, like autumn. I wonder what New London smells like—smoke from all those factories? Sewage from all the people and horses?
“And now you’re back for good?” I ask Paul.
“We’ll see. I’ve missed the place.” His green eyes linger on mine until I find myself flushing again.
“It hasn’t been the same without Paul, has it, Mrs. McLeod?” I say lightly, deflecting the attention. She’s only too glad to enumerate the many ways in which she’s missed her son, how silent and dull the house has been without him, how she’s been planning a dinner party to celebrate his return.
“And you’ll come, of course, won’t you? You and Maura and your father,” Paul suggests.
“Of course.” It’s one invitation I can accept with ease. The McLeods are our nearest neighbors. As a child, I was in and out of their house almost as much as my own. I grin, remembering the time Paul dared me to tightrope-walk the wall around the McLeods’ pigpen. I fell and sprained my ankle, then swooned from the pain and fright. Paul carried me home, terrified he’d murdered me. Once he was assured I was all right, he teased me mercilessly about being such a girl. He went about for months falling down in a mock faint.
I must have been about ten at the time. Mother was recovering from the third stillbirth—Edward Aaron. Mrs. O’Hare insisted on cleaning me up and bandaging my ankle before I was allowed into Mother’s rooms. I remember her pale, drawn face and the purple shadows under her swollen eyes. She told me I had to start behaving like a lady soon, and I stuck out my tongue at her, and she laughed.
The barouche pulls up before our house, and Paul jumps out. “I’ll be back directly, Mother,” he says, helping me down, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow.
He stops just outside our front door, fixing me with an earnest expression. “Cate, I was so sorry to hear about your mother. She was a great lady,” he says.
“Thank you.” I stare at the plot of black-eyed Susans beside the porch. “We appreciated your note of condolence.”
“It wasn’t enough. I wanted to come home, but it was the beginning of the term—”
Yes, the timing was inconvenient. My mother’s death wasn’t reason enough to miss a few classes. Never mind that Mother used to sneak him sweets that his mother forbade. When she was well enough to come outside, he used to turn cartwheels through the garden to cheer her, and when she wasn’t, he’d make hideous faces at her through the window. He was my best friend, and he grew up with her, too, and he couldn’t be bothered to come home for even a week.
“You couldn’t have gotten back in time for the service. I know. It’s quite all right.” But I don’t meet his eyes, and my reassurance sounds hollow. Will he notice?
“It’s not. I wanted to be here for your family—for you—but—” I look up as he falters, and he leans in close. He smells spicy, like pine needles. “I couldn’t come home. Financially, I mean. I was too proud to write it at the time, and my mother would murder me for telling you now. Money’s been scarce.”
“Oh,” I say, stupidly. I’ve never had to worry about money, not for a minute. I’ve always taken it for granted that our good name is all the currency I need.
“You must have wondered why I never came home at holidays.” He gives me a funny little smile, as though he hopes I did wonder.
“Your mother told everyone you were with your cousins in Providence.” I’d assumed he’d made fine new friends in the city and forgotten me.
“We couldn’t afford even that. I would have been sunk if Jones hadn’t offered me lodging. I owe him a great debt.”
Oh. I feel guilty now, for all my uncharitable thoughts. “You should have told me. You could have written.”
“I wanted to.” Paul smiles. “I wanted to tell you everything. But to have your father reading it all first—that made it less appealing.”
“As if I couldn’t get around Father,” I huff, affronted.
Paul chuckles and steps closer—far closer than is appropriate. There are only inches separating us; I can feel the warmth of his body almost touching mine. “I’ve missed you.”
I’ve missed him, too. But it was inevitable that our friendship would change as we got older, and perhaps the forcible separation was for the best. After Mother died, when Maura ran wild, keeping the magic a secret was hard. Keeping it from Paul would have been nearly impossible.
“Can you forgive me? I know you must have been angry.”
I duck my head. “No, I—”
“I know you better than that. Come now. Mad as a hornet?”
I grin, sheepish. “A whole nest of them. It—hurt. A bit. That you weren’t here.”
Paul takes my hand. The smile fades from my face. “I’m sorry for it. Truly,” he says.
“Paul!” Mrs. McLeod’s querulous voice calls. “Let Miss Cahill go inside before she catches a chill!”
“Indeed, Miss Cahill, we know what a delicate flower you are,” Paul teases.
I roll my eyes and give a very unladylike snort. “Indeed.”
“So you forgive me, then?” His hand grips mine, burning warm even through the kid gloves that separate our skin.
“Of course.”
Paul’s eyes search mine. “May I call on you tomorrow afternoon?”
My heart beats faster. As an old friend? Or as a potential suitor?
When I asked whether he was back to stay, and he said
we’ll see
—what did that mean? Does he intend to court me in earnest? The sense of panic that’s been battering at me for the last few months eases just a little.
I’m suddenly very aware that he is still holding my hand.
“Yes. Only”—I wrinkle my nose—“the house may be in a bit of an uproar. Our new governess is arriving in the morning.”
“Governess?” Paul’s eyes go wide. “Lord help her. How many have you gone through?”
“This is the first, thank you. Father’s been tutoring us, but he’s going to be away most of the fall. And how do you know we haven’t become exceedingly polite young ladies while you were gone?”
Paul brings my hand to his lips, turns it over, and presses a kiss to the bare bit of skin at my wrist. He’s held my hand dozens of times over the years, boosted me up onto horses and into trees. This is entirely different. It leaves me gaping at him, mouth open like a ninny.
He winks at me and doffs his hat. “Because I know
you
. See you tomorrow, Cate.”