Dark of the Moon (11 page)

"Ah, Caitlyn," he said as if weighing the name. "Yes, that will do. Come down to the kitchen when you're dressed, Caitlyn."

And then he took himself off, leaving Caitlyn to glare at the closed door. It was some five minutes later before she reluctantly turned her attention to the bath.

Three weeks later, Caitlyn was rebelliously peeling potatoes under the disapproving eye of Mrs. McFee. In attire she was a miniature copy of that good lady, clad in a sleeveless linen dress of green and yellow stripes that left the long white sleeves of her shift on view. It had been inexpertly cut down from an old one of Mrs. McFee's. While it was cooler than the other dress she now possessed—long-sleeved, solid blue kerseymere, courtesy of the same source—it still seemed hellishly hot in the sweatshop atmosphere of the kitchen, where mutton roasted on a turnspit in the immense stone fireplace and various vegetables and fruits for a pie bubbled in iron pots suspended over the fire. The too-large white mobcap she wore kept slipping down over one eye, driving Caitlyn mad as she had to swipe it back with one hand. Her apron, which was so large she had it wrapped twice about her middle, had started out white but now bore numerous multicolored splotches from all the things she had spdled on herself that afternoon alone. (She had changed the one she had worn during the morning; Mrs. McFee was a stickler for cleanliness.)

Despite the sweat that beaded her brow and upper lip as she worked, Caitlyn herself was cleaner than she had ever been in her life. She feared that her skin would rub clear off her bones if she scoured herself any more. Her hair had been scrubbed by Mrs. McFee personally (who made no secret of the fact that she feared finding lice) until her scalp was raw. Clean, it was soft, shiny, and inky black. Caitlyn wore it gathered into a skimpy, straggly bun at her nape, with the mobcap over the whole as Mrs. McFee informed her was proper. From her hairline to her toes inside the sturdy leather shoes she had been allowed to keep, since they were not much different from women's footgear and anyway there were no shoes at Donoughmore to fit her small feet, her skin was as white as the belly of a whale. Straight, inky-black brows and lashes framing kerry blue eyes and the faint pink of her mouth were the only touches of color in her face. Small nicks from the knife she was using covered her hands, and her blood was mixed liberally into the bowl of misshapen peeled potatoes at her left hand. Piles of potato peelings covered the scrubbed tabletop and littered the flagstone floor. The most disheartening thing about it was that, after she had finished the monumental job of peeling enough potatoes to feed five hungry men (Mickeen joined the d'Arcys at supper), herself, and Mrs. McFee, she would then have to clean up the mess she had made. Just thinking about it made her exhausted.

It was near suppertime. Caitlyn had been working in the kitchen most of the afternoon, learning with a complete absence of enthusiasm how to cook. The truth was, she was inept, just as she was at all the women's work Mrs. McFee had set her to. She hated being a female, she did, and all that went with it!

"All done," she announced finally with an awful sigh. Mrs. McFee looked around from kneading dough to frown at her.

"Aye, and it looks like you've left more on the floor than you've got in the bowl! Ah, well, if his lordship says you're to help me, then I guess you will. Bring the bowl over here, then, lass, and get on with cleaning up the mess."

Making a face at Mrs. McFee's broad back, Caitlyn picked up the bowl and awkwardly carried it to the work table against the far wall where the woman labored. Holding her skirt carefully clear of her feet with one hand (walking without tripping over the voluminous skirt was an art), she made it to the table with nary a mishap and set the bowl down. Mrs. McFee took one glance at the contents, then shook her head.

"It's a mystery to me how two dozen big, firm potatoes can be reduced to so little. You've peeled off so much meat that there's scarce anything left! Well, what's done can't be helped, I suppose, and as his lordship says, you're bound to get better at it."

Caitlyn shrank a litde under this disheartening speech. She hated being a female! She hated Mrs. McFee, with her disapproval and bossy ways! And she hated the d'Arcys, every one of them, from Cormac to Connor. Aye, even Connor, though she had to admit to a grudging admiration for him that was the sole reason that she labored so meekly under Mrs. McFee's iron direction. She wanted to please Connor, it was that simple. He loomed large in her life, did Connor, a wondrous being who could boom with rage enough to send his grown brothers scurrying and yet be unfailingly kind to her, a little scrap of nothing who had fallen by accident into his life.

"Sweep up now, do!" With those impatient words, Mrs. McFee put her back to work.

Carefully tucking up her skirt into the waistband of her apron, Caitlyn found broom and pan.

Then with a quick look at Mrs. McFee to be sure that the lady was not watching, she swept the broom over the table so that the peelings fell to the floor. From there it was a simple matter to sweep all the peelings together and into the pan. Feeling smug that she had at last done something right, she picked up the pan and started for the bucket in which such scraps were put.

And promptly tripped over the hem of her skirt, which had worked its way loose from its temporary mooring. With a surprised oath, she went sprawling.

"Devil take it to hell and back!" As oaths went, that was not so bad. Certainly not as bad as the one she'd uttered as she'd hit the flagstone floor. Mrs. McFee, who would have to be deaf not to have heard, launched into a scandalized tirade while Caitlyn lay spent on the flagstones, too dispirited to move. Potato peelings were everywhere. It would take an hour to clean them all up again.

Plus Mrs. McFee was going off, as she did half a dozen times a day. Caitlyn lay there with her chin on her hands for a moment, thinking. Then she got determinedly to her feet, pulled off her mobcap, and threw it on the floor. Her apron was next. Mrs. McFee stopped berating her to watch with widening eyes as Caitlyn tossed its starched whiteness deliberately to the floor.

"I'll not be learning any more woman's work," Caitlyn pronounced to the older woman with a lift of her chin. Then, turning on her heel, she stalked from the kitchen, remembering in the nick of time to lift the hem of her dress. Determination growing by the moment, she marched up the stairs and into Cormac's bedroom, one of the four on the second floor. Each of the d'Arcys had his own room, which was an unbelievable luxury when Caitlyn considered that in Dublin's Irish quarters most families of six or seven shared a single small room and thought themselves lucky. Their bedrooms plus the small office and hall made up the second floor.

Downstairs there were two sitting rooms, the kitchen, pantries, a small stone washroom, a brewery for the brewing of beer and ale, and the dining room, which was separate from the kitchen so that, as they ate, the members of the family should not be forced to endure the heat of the huge stone fireplace that dominated the kitchen, where most of the cooking was done in iron pots. In the attic were four smaller rooms clearly meant for servants, one of which Caitlyn had been given for her own. She was the only one to sleep in the attic. Mrs. McFee lived with her daughter and son-in-law in a cottage in the village and came in each day to do for his lordship. She was the only household help.

Opening the wardrobe which stood against the far wall, Caitlyn rummaged around until she found drawers, breeches, stockings, and shirt. She was too hot to bother with a coat, and anyway the voluminous folds of the too- big shirt would conceal femininity as budding as hers.

With some difficulty she pulled off the cut-down dress, untied the tapes of the two petticoats and stepped out of them, and drew the shift over her head. That left her buck naked, as females did not wear drawers (being bare-arsed under those loose-fitting skirts seemed to her more indecent than wearing breeches, though so far no one had asked for her opinion), and she had taken off her stockings earlier in a ftitile attempt to feel cooler in the kitchen. Pulling on Connac's clothes, she felt better than she had in ages. They were miles too big, and she had to tie a string around the waist and roll up the breeches at the ankles and the shirtsleeves to get anything resembling a reasonable fit, but that didn't matter. Taking the pins out of her hair, she tied it back in a neat tail at her neck and looked in the cheval glass in the comer. She still did not look precisely like her old self—she was far too clean for that—but she was closer than she had been since she had exchanged O'Malley for Caitlyn.

Humming a litde under her breath, Caitlyn went back down the stairs and out of the house.

She chose the front door instead of the back, which went through the kitchen, not because she feared Mrs. McFee but because she simply didn't care to listen to anything the woman had to say.

Once outside, Caitlyn breathed deeply of the fresh air and looked around with pleasure at the verdant beauty of the countryside. It was a gorgeous afternoon, the morning's mist having blown away to leave the weather clear and sunny. Walking around die side of the house, where the old dog rose to greet her (his name was Boru, and he had belonged to the d'Arcy brothers since they had lived in the Castle), she looked toward the fields. The peasants were cutting peat two hillocks away, their scythes making bright flashes as they lifted and fell rhythmically. She saw Connor on Fharannain over by the peasants, both arms resting on the front of the saddle as he talked to one of the men. Closer at hand, Mickeen and Rory were doing something to the ears of a dozen recalcitrant sheep. Cormac and Liam were nowhere in sight. Near the stable, which was closer to the house than the sheep bam, Willie labored, scrubbing down a dappled gray mare. Grinning, Caitlyn went to join him.

"Hey, Willie, you're getting more water on you than you are on the bleedin' horse." Willie was, indeed, very wet. He looked up with a start at this greeting, then grinned all over himself as he saw who addressed him.

"O'Malley!" The name was uttered with transparent delight. Then Willie remembered, and his smile faded, to be replaced by an uncertain look. He turned back to the horse, which he began scrubbing with quite unnecessary vigor. The animal, protesting, nickered and sidled, glancing around at its groomer with a reproving expression. "What're you doin' dressed like that? You're a bleedin' lass!" The last word was accusatory.

Caitlyn walked up beside him. took another sopping brush out of the bucket, and started to wash the animal's neck. She had never been around horses much, but she was not afraid of them, or of any animal. Casting a sideways look at her erstwhile friend, she said, "Ah, Willie, I'm just O'Malley, like I've always been. There's no difference."

"There's a big bloody difference! You're a lass!" He stopped scrubbing to glare at her. His round freckled face was hostile.

Caitlyn rested her brush on the horse's neck and returned Willie's look. "I was a lass then too. You just didn't know it."

"I know it now. I thought his lordship had got you in skirts." Willie was almost sneering.

Caitlyn laughed, the sound rueful. "Aye, he did. But I tell you somethin', Willie, skirts and me just don't mix. I keep falling down!"

A slight grin tugged at the comers of Willie's mouth. "I can't picture it," he admitted.

"It's a sight," Caitlyn assured him, and the two grinned at each other in sudden affinity.

"Where'd you come from . . . good Lord!" The speaker was Liam, who'd just stepped out of the stable, presumably to check on Willie's progress. The ejaculation came as Caitlyn automatically looked over her shoulder at him and he recognized her.

"Connor'll have a fit!" Liam said with certainty.

"I'll not being doing woman's work again," Caitlyn said firmly, going to work with a will on the horse's neck.

"I'll do whatever you or Willie or the others do, but I'm not doing woman's work!"

"Tell that to Connor," Liam said with gloomy relish. "It's his say-so, not mine. For now, you go on up to the house and change back into a dress. It's not decent, having a lass in breeches."

"Oh, get along with you!" She was in no mood to listen to Liam's strictures. And she would worry about Connor when she saw him.

Willie rolled his eyes at Caitlyn out of Liam's sight and ducked under the horse's neck to work on its other side, effectively distancing himself from the discussion. Caitlyn dipped her brush back into the bucket and joined him.

"Listen here, Caitlyn, you heard what I said!" Liam ducked under the horse's neck too and confronted Caitlyn, catching her wrist so that she had to stop what she was doing. She turned to face him, her eyes sparking, the wet brush in her hand. Great droplets of soapy water flew to splatter on Liam's shirt front. He brushed the drops away, looking disgusted. An unholy grin lit up Caitlyn's face. Liam scowled at her, his blue eyes fierce.

"You're a lass, and you'll wear a skirt!"

"I will not!"

"You will!"

"Not!"

The sound of carriage wheels interrupted the increasingly heated confrontation. Both Liam and Caitlyn looked around to see a handsome gig with a piebald mare between the shafts roll into the barnyard. Driving it was an exquisite lady. Caitlyn goggled at her. What would such a beauty be doing here at Donoughmore?

"Confound it, it's Mrs. Congreve! Now the fat's in the fire, and no mistake! She'll likely swoon if she finds out you're a female dressed like that, so you keep quiet, do you hear me?"

With this fierce whisper, Liam let go of Caitlyn's wrist and walked forward to greet the newcomer with a smile.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Congreve! If it's Connor you're wanting to see, he's in the fields."

"Hello, Liam! Hard at work as usual, I see! And yes, I do want to see Connor! Could he be sent for, do you think?"

"Well ..." Liam hesitated, cleariy not liking to say no but not wanting to do as she asked either. Mrs. Congreve laughed, a sound like the tinkle of litde bells. Caitlyn wondered with a little pang what such a lady could want with Connor. Mrs. Congreve was a beauty, and no mistake. Her elaborately arranged coiffure was white with powder, and her skin was powdered too, with a tiny black patch set beside one pale blue eye to show it off. Her form and features were fragile, her long, slender nose and tiny rosebud mouth the height of fashionable beauty.