“I warrant you’re right,” Cate said softly, speaking more to herself than to me.
There was another knock on the door, and Beth came into the room, her face flushed pink. “Pardon, miss, one the footmen sent me to fetch ye.” She wore a shy grin that made me wonder what else the footman had said to her.
“Any particular reason,” I prompted after a short lapse.
She nodded, clearly distracted by other thoughts. “He says that some lord has called and is waiting in the drawing room for ye to come down.”
I leapt to my feet, knowing but one lord in London. “Please excuse me. Henry is downstairs.”
Cate continued to stare at the knife. “Yes, yes,” she said distractedly. “Do not keep him waiting.”
Rushing past Beth, I left the room for the front staircase, hoping to have some time alone with Henry. Nora and her mother were on a walk to Saint James Palace, and with Cate going out, the townhouse would be empty except for the servants.
A young footman stood to one side of the French doors that led into the drawing room, and I smiled at the heightened color in his cheeks. Seeing me approach, he opened one of the doors. I hurried past and he clicked it shut behind me.
“Henry,” I said, then came to a sudden stop, surprised by an unfamiliar gentleman who stood not ten paces from me. “Please, excuse me, sir, I must have come into the wrong room.”
I turned to leave when he walked forward, closing the distance between us. “No, please don’t go, Miss Kilbrid. It is I who must beg your pardon for calling this morning, but I had to see you. I called yesterday evening once I heard you were in town, and was told you had already gone out.”
He spoke as though we knew each other and I studied his appearance, trying to recall if we had ever met. He was a handsome young man, no more than a hand taller than me, with a slender build and olive complexion. His dark hair was tied back, revealing equally dark eyes and features so fine they could almost be considered feminine, in a masculine sort of way. I stared at him, unable to draw a connection.
“You must forgive me,” I finally said, embarrassed by my poor memory. “Have we met before?”
He bowed. “Not in person. I am Lord Stroud, a friend of both Lady Dinley and Lord Fitzalan. And, I believe we share another close acquaintance.”
His choice of words was bewildering. “Is there some other way we have met if not in person?” I asked. “And, pray tell, who else do we both know?”
He looked at me, his dark eyes fixed on my own. “This has been a treacherous season for sea travel,” he said, his voice growing very serious. “I feared for your safety, but I should have known better. Sheol tú faoi bhrat Bhríghde.”
My mouth fell open. Though my Gaelic fell short of fluent, there was no mistaking his words—that I had sailed under Brigid’s mantle.
A thousand questions shot through my head, all colliding together into an incoherent mess. I tried to speak, to say something in reply, but the surprise left me gaping like a fish out of water. My breath thinned beyond even the restrictions of the extra-tight stays, and I wobbled precariously in my new heels. The gentleman’s hand found my elbow, and the next thing I knew he was leading me to one of the sofas. He helped me to sit before lowering himself down next to me as I worked to control my breathing.
“This must be quite a shock,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t know how else to tell you that we are the same.”
I stared at him, my mind still an incoherent jumble.
We are the same.
Brigid spoke of her children in the Old World, but I was so used to being alone that I never dreamed of meeting another of her descendants in this lifetime. It seemed a sort of dream to be staring at a man who claimed the same ancestry.
A minute passed before my breath slowed enough to allow for rational thought. With all my heart I wanted to believe him, and I would just as soon as he had been put to the test. Though Brigid’s mantle was a sacred symbol for my kind, I thought of another way to test his lineage.
I set my chin and looked right into his eyes. “Brigid Buadach,” I said, speaking slowly and keeping my voice low in case the footman had an ear pressed to the door. “Buaid na fine, Siur Rig nime, Nar in duine, Eslind luige, Lethan breo.”
Brigid Victorious, Glory of Kindred, Heaven-King’s sister, Noble Person, Perilous oath, Far-flung flame. It was the first half of the words I recited before crossing into the Otherworld. Only one correct response existed.
He listened intently to the Gaelic words until it was his turn to speak. “Riar na n-oiged, Oibel ecnai, Ingen Dubthaig, Duine uallach, Brigid buadach, Brigid buadach,” he said, reciting the remaining words.
Support of strangers, Spark of wisdom, Daughter of Dubthach, High-minded lady, Brigid Victorious, Brigid Victorious.