The Falconer (Elizabeth May) (10 page)

I pocket the valve and grasp my skirts, forcing a smile. ‘Good morning, Father,’ I say.

My first instinct upon seeing my father used to be to embrace him. When I was young, I liked to imagine he would gather me into his arms and kiss my cheeks. I pictured resting my face against the broad wall of his chest and inhaling his soft scent of pipe smoke and whisky.

But Father never lived up to my daydreams. He always loved my mother more than me, and all his hugs and kisses and tender-hearted questions were for her alone. Those were the only times I ever saw him smile.

Now when he comes home, even those affectionate moments feel like a dream. What’s more, he won’t even look at me. The last time he truly did, I was covered in his wife’s blood, a stained ghost of the daughter he once had.

The worst thing is that I think he believes me a murderess. His expression when he found me that night . . . I’ll never forget the combination of grief and quiet accusation. Later, when we were alone, he grabbed me by the shoulders and asked me what the hell had happened. I kept silent, even when he shook me so hard that my head pounded and my neck ached.

I never shed tears for the woman he loved so much. I never gave my father the answer he wanted most: some insight into what happened. He just left me with my maid, who helped me scrub off all the blood. And when he told the chief constable that my mother had been killed by an animal, I suspect he did it to save his reputation, not mine.

Father stiffly removes his hat and smoothes his dark, ruffled hair.

‘Good morning, MacNab.’ MacNab takes Father’s hat and helps him remove his damp coat. ‘Aileana,’ he finally acknowledges me.

Father hesitates, then leans forward and presses a formal kiss to my cheek – so quick and brusque it feels more like a slap. I clench my skirts tighter and try to remain composed. It’s best that I pretend I never wanted his affection, that we have always been a family consisting of an absent father, a broken daughter and a dead mother.

When MacNab’s heavy footfalls disappear through the antechamber, my father and I stand in awkward silence.

Father clears his throat. ‘Are you well?’

I nod. ‘Indeed.’

Father removes his gloves and places them on the drum table. ‘I saw the Reverend Milroy on my way here.’

I try to keep my face neutral. ‘Oh?’

‘He says you haven’t attended services. Would you care to explain?’

I stopped attending services months ago, after the reverend preached about backward superstitions, faeries among them. He told us that such barbaric beliefs encumber progression and scientific advancement – because while knowledge makes men atheists, science brings them back to religion. Knowledge might have stolen my faith, but science will never bring me back to it.

‘I’ve been busy,’ I say, indicating the bouquets.

Father reaches for the cards tucked under each bouquet. ‘Hammersley, Felton, Linlithgow.’ He looks up. ‘When you respond, I expect you to do so with the utmost decorum.’

I unpocket the valve and fiddle with it again. ‘I shall, Father.’

‘I need not remind you that when you leave this house, you represent the family name.’

‘Aye, Father.’ I slide a metal piece into position.

‘Aileana. Put that contraption
down
.’

His voice is so cold and commanding, I can’t help but drop the valve onto the table. ‘Father—’

‘Why did I arrange to have an entirely new wardrobe made for your season?’ I open my mouth to answer, but he continues. ‘It certainly wasn’t so you could toil away on your inventions, miss services and neglect your responsibilities. So tell me – why did I do this?’

I lower my eyes, so he won’t see my glare. ‘You know why I invent.’ I try to keep my voice soft, gentle. ‘You know why it’s important to me.’

It was what my mother and I did together, every day, that he was never a part of. When I build, it reminds me of her. He may have removed all of her belongings from the house, but I still have my inventions.

Father stiffens. ‘I asked you a question, Aileana.’

I swallow. I hate this. ‘So I might make a suitable match,’ I whisper.

‘Indeed. Under Scottish law, you are my sole heir. That sets you apart from every debutante in the city.’

Aye. The one thing I have that gentlemen want is more wealth. As if I needed to be reminded yet again.

‘Indeed,’ I say.

‘A wedding would shift attention away from last year’s . . . unfortunate circumstance.’

I can’t believe he just referred to Mother’s death in the same way one might describe a couple caught in a garden tryst.

‘Unfortunate circumstance.’ I try not to sound bitter. ‘We wouldn’t want them to focus on that.’

Father lifts his chin with a scowl. He still won’t meet my gaze. ‘I hope you grasp the importance of this, Aileana. I’d like to see you matched before the season ends.’

‘It might not be that easy,’ I say.

‘Then I will arrange someone for you,’ he says simply.

Damn him. In the end, I truly have no choice – except perhaps the selection of whichever lord I’m best able to deceive. My future lies in a gilded prison of silks and balls and false politeness.

I can’t help saying something. ‘Are you so anxious to be rid of me?’

A flicker of emotion crosses his face. ‘Don’t interpret this as something it isn’t.’

‘Then what is it?’

He collects his gloves calmly off the table. ‘It’s quite simple. Part of your duty is to marry.’

‘What if I don’t want it? Marriage?’

He looks unconcerned. ‘Of course you do. Don’t be dramatic.’

I try to stay calm. ‘I’m not being dramatic, Father.’

No response. Not anger or surprise or anything more than a single blink to indicate he heard me. ‘What you want isn’t important,’ he says. ‘Duty comes first.’

Something violent rises within me, but I press it down. I’m not meant for marriage. It isn’t for someone like me. But Father doesn’t realise that marriage would force me to suppress the part of me that still grieves.

‘Of course.’

Father doesn’t appear to notice the hint of anger in my voice. He passes me the calling cards. ‘Send your responses.’

I resist the urge to crumple them in my fist. Instead, I accept them calmly. ‘I shall invite Lord Linlithgow to fourhours.’ When Father frowns in confusion, I tell him, ‘Catherine is visiting for elevenhours.’

‘Very well,’ Father says. He glances at his watch fob. ‘I’ll have MacNab send Lord Linlithgow your reply, and shall return at fourhours to join you both for tea.’

I watch him walk to his study and try to calm myself.
What you want isn’t important
.

In the drawing room, I flip the switch to light the fireplace. As the room warms, I sit on the red velvet settee and look out of the window, breathing in the scent of the burning wood crackling in the hearth. The sun peeks through the trees across the square. Thin white clouds drift overhead, carried faster by the wind. Ornithopters and airships float in the distance, wings fanning leisurely above the houses.

I lose count of how many cups of tea I consume as I sit there. I press the button and the electronic hand grasps my cup and pours the tea. Over and over.

It’s a relief to be alone. Here, I can let my father’s words wash over me with the crushing weight of a tidal wave.
What you want isn’t important. What you want isn’t important. What you want
—

‘Lady Aileana?’ MacNab pushes open the drawing room door. ‘Miss Stewart is here to see you.’

Thank heavens. ‘Do let her in, MacNab.’

A moment later, Catherine rushes in, her soft pink muslin gown rustling against the doorframe. Her hair is slightly windblown, her pale cheeks are rosier than usual, and her blue eyes are bright.

‘Where’s your escort?’ I ask with a frown. ‘Oh dear, don’t tell me your mother came.’

‘Good God, no!’ she exclaims. ‘I had to sneak out to see you. Do you have any idea what’s happening out there?’

‘Not the faintest,’ I reply and press the button on the dispenser.

Hot tea pours into the cup I’m holding and I add a splash of milk and a sugar cube, as Catherine prefers. I nudge the saucer to her side of the mahogany tea table between us.

Catherine removes her shawl and settles on the settee across from me, smoothing her skirts. ‘Princes Street is a complete disaster. Do you know half of North Bridge was destroyed?’

I wince. I had been hoping to escape all reminders of my destruction last night, but I suppose I should at least look surprised. ‘How awful!’ I reply. ‘What on earth could have happened?’

She takes a sip of her tea. ‘Apparently there was an explosion late last night, though what caused it remains a mystery. The force has been called in to investigate and inspect the damages.’

I freeze. I didn’t even think to consider who might have been hurt as a result of my actions. ‘Please tell me no one was injured.’ I can barely say it.

‘No one, thank God.’ Catherine leans forward and takes my hand. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to distress you.’

I exhale in relief and give her a feeble smile. ‘Thank you. Do continue.’

‘There’s not much more to tell. Everything between south Princes Street and Waterloo Place has been cordoned off.’ She cringes. ‘Traffic was so terrible, I nearly got out of the carriage and walked. I would have made it here faster if I had a blasted ornithopter.’

I nod. I’m one of the few individuals fortunate enough to own a flying machine. Though I built my own, it is an invention reserved for only the wealthiest families in Edinburgh. Only a few engineers in the country are qualified to manufacture them.

‘I assume your mother responded in a panic, or else you wouldn’t have slipped out of the house without an escort.’

Catherine nods calmly. ‘She tried to use this as an excuse for me not to come to luncheon. Naturally.’

‘Naturally.’

‘And when that didn’t work, she brought up what happened to Lord Hepburn.’ She eyes me and sips her tea.

Oh dear. I had forgotten about poor Lord Hepburn. I do hope he’s recovered from those nasty injuries without too much difficulty. ‘What about him?’

‘Have you not heard? The poor man was attacked during the assembly.’

I feign shock. ‘Attacked? What do you mean?’

‘Whoever it was cut up Lord Hepburn’s chest, although he was found with stitcher sutures. Isn’t that strange? As if his attacker changed his mind.’

I widen my eyes to appear as innocent as possible. ‘My word! Does he remember anything?’

Such as an insane woman who fought off an invisible attacker and then stitched him up and left him on his bed? Does he remember that?

‘No,’ Catherine says. ‘Inconveniently not.’

‘Well.’
Good
. ‘I hope they find the vile person responsible. Just think: the attacker might have been another guest at the ball. Can you imagine?’

Catherine sighs and plunks down her cup and saucer. Tea sloshes onto the tablecloth. ‘For heaven’s sake, I think I’m going mad.’ She pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes briefly. ‘I can’t believe I’m about to ask you this.’

‘Ask me what?’

When she looks up again, her eyes are bright with unshed tears. ‘Was it you?’

I almost can’t breathe, my chest aches so much. ‘
Me?
’ The word comes out in a croak. ‘Why would you ask such a thing?’

‘Blast it all, but I think the rumours are finally starting to influence me.’ She hesitates, as though she’s thinking very carefully about what she’ll ask next. Deliberately, she says, ‘I saw you in that hallway. You asked me to hold your reticule. You missed five dances and returned to the ballroom looking frightfully unkempt. What am I supposed to think?’

Our friendship has been steadfast since infancy. It was my only solace while I was in mourning, and is the only comforting relationship I have left. Despite that, I don’t think I can ever stop lying to Catherine. I know she’ll never understand how far I’ve gone from the person she believes I am, but I never once thought she doubted me.

‘Do you think I killed her, too, then?’ I ask quietly. ‘My mother?’

‘No!’ She looks horrified. ‘My God, I would
never
think that.’

‘Then you must know that I would never have hurt Lord Hepburn.’

Catherine studies me. ‘But you know who did. Don’t you?’

I smile then. ‘That would be an admission I was there. I was in the ladies’ parlour with a headache, remember?’

Catherine doesn’t return my smile. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got yourself into, but if it’s serious, you should tell me.’

I’m tempted. Only faeries know my secret; most of them die after learning it. Catherine is my last connection to a normal life, to the one I had before I became . . .
this
. If only she knew how important it is that I have one thing left untouched by the fae. She grounds me in my humanity, what little remains of it.

‘I can’t,’ I say softly.

She lowers her gaze. ‘Are you safe, at least?’

‘I promise I am.’ It’s so much better to keep lying than tell her even that bit of truth.

She wipes away her tears. ‘I should never have let the horrid gossip get to me like that. I’m so sorry I doubted you.’

‘There’s no need to apologise. I doubt myself all the time.’

Nodding, she clears her throat. ‘You must promise me that this headache will not return during Gavin’s ball.’ When I do nothing but stare at her, Catherine scowls. ‘You did remember, didn’t you?’

I return to sipping my tea. ‘Aye. Your dear brother . . . who is at Oxford—’

‘And who is returning tomorrow—’

‘Of course,’ I say brightly. ‘How could I forget that?’

Catherine clearly sees right past my lie. ‘We are hosting a ball in his honour and you assured me that you would save me from the clutches of tedium.’

‘And so I shall,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

I should be glad Gavin is returning. Before he left for Oxford two years ago, we had been good friends since childhood. Indeed, I once fancied the idea of us marrying someday. But now he’ll just be another complication.

‘And you will dance with every gentleman who signs your card.’