The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(43)
“Just try to avoid the arm they broke last time I was in Ireland,” he told Peter resignedly. “And if you have to kick me, there are some areas I’d prefer you avoid.”
After all, there might come a day when the thought of taking a woman to bed filled him with something other than guilt and grief.
By mid-May the Kavanaughs had moved from Carlow to Cahir Castle, farther west. Cahir had the distinction of being built on an island in the River Suir. Almost a peninsula, really, for though it was surrounded by water on three sides, the fourth side nearly touched the riverbank. But the causeway was easily defended and walls encircled both the castle and outer courtyards.
As the party clattered across to the island, Ailis thought how odd it was to arrive without Finian. His death had been more of a shock than Ailis had anticipated. He’d been sixty-one, but a big, bluff man who had never been ill and hardly ever injured. Then in February he was struck with fever and flux that gradually turned bloody and left him bedridden and wasting away so rapidly he seemed to grow smaller each day. After three excruciating weeks, he had died with his wife at his bedside.
Although unexpected, he had lingered long enough for Ailis to be prepared. The transition period to her leadership would be the most delicate time, but she had Father Byrne on her side and the support of the rebels in the Wicklow Mountains. She was the one who had determined to get the hundred Spanish soldiers away from the coast. She was the one who had come up with the daring plans for this summer. All she had to do now was keep a cool head, refuse to be cowed by any bluff Irishman who thought his body made him a better leader than a woman, and ensure her schemes were followed. If she succeeded this summer, her leadership would be unassailable.
As they entered the castle, Liadan took charge of Maisie. “I want you to stay by me,” the child announced. “Right next door.”
Ailis interposed. “Maisie will have Uncle Finian’s chamber, as she should.”
It was a calculated move. Ailis had watched Maisie closely during her uncle’s illness, but the Scots girl managed herself so neatly that perhaps no one would have been able to read her intentions. Maisie had cared for her dying husband with kindness, and conducted herself as a new widow with perfect gravity that gave nothing away. She had come to Ailis three weeks after Finian’s death to inform her there was no chance she was with child—Ailis was not surprised—and ever since, all the household had been waiting for Maisie to announce her intentions. Return to Scotland seemed likely, for why would she remain in Ireland now?
But here she still was. Without ever announcing anything, simply a serene part of the household whom Ailis was uncharacteristically hesitant about questioning too closely. The Holy Mother knew how desperately they could use Maisie’s fortune—if she left Ireland, there would be no chance at all of any more forthcoming. Ailis controlled her curiosity. Instead, she began to compile an unwritten list of possible Irish husbands for Maisie. Young, this time, and handsome. Silver-tongued charm would not go amiss. Although come to think of it, Ailis had no idea if Maisie was at all susceptible to charm. Surely she must be. She was a girl just turned sixteen who had been married off to an old man. Find her the right young man now, and they could tie her to Ireland and its interests for the long future.
Maisie accepted the offered courtesy of taking up residence in her dead husband’s usual chamber. Ailis didn’t mind—she had never been easily moved by luxury. Far more important to have the power rather than merely its trappings. And the Kavanaugh plans would be run from her own chamber in the rectangular keep, with its narrow windows giving a far distant view of the Rock of Cashel in clear weather. She had settled herself beneath those windows at the long table that served as her desk, reviewing the household accounts for the move from Carlow, when Maisie knocked on her door.
“Come in.” Ailis angled her chair away from the table and waited for Maisie to draw up a low padded stool near her. The Scots girl wore a black Italian-style bodice gown, silver buttons running from waist to high neck, with an underskirt of dark gray that echoed her eyes. Her extraordinarily pale hair was severely parted in the middle and contained in a silk caul at the back of her head. The colours of mourning suited her fairness.
Ailis didn’t often smile, but she did now. “How are you settling in?”
“Very easily. I was hoping, now that we have something of a new beginning, that we could talk about my role in the household.”
Interesting. Was Maisie going to make a power play? She’d never get away with it, not without a child of Finian’s to her name, but it could prove entertaining. Not that Ailis had time for entertainment this year.
So she said neutrally, “How do you envision your role?” Always let the opposition speak first. The more you knew of their minds, the better you could anticipate and block them.
“I had thought I could take over Liadan’s education. That would remove some of the pressure from your clerks. I know you were convent-educated, as was I, and if you are not yet prepared to send Liadan away, I could be useful for the interim. She is a very bright girl. She should not be neglected.”
It was the closest thing to a criticism Maisie had ever made. It narrowed Ailis’s eyes as she answered, “No, I am not prepared to send Liadan away.” Certainly not this year or next, for Liadan lay at the very heart of her ultimate plans. “And I do agree, of course, that she is very bright. Do you think I had not noticed?”