thinkin' of, child. Ye be a grown woman now. 'Tis time to be thinkin' of marryin' and startin' yer own family. Have ye given thought to that?"
"Yes." Ravenna looked away. She thought of marriage often in her tales of knights and princesses. But, as for herself, she tried not to think of it, for she had never fallen in love with a man, and her writings made her yearn for true love, or nothing.
"What have ye thought, child?" Grania stared at her with milky, rheumy eyes, her hand shaking on her blackthorn.
"I'm not going to marry for a while. I've just come home." Ravenna prayed that would be the end of it. She didn't want to discuss the subject. Grania was obviously wanting her taken care of before she died, and Ravenna couldn't blame her for that, but instinctively she knew the subject was volatile. Malachi's name might come up, and she didn't want to risk upsetting her grandmother for nothing. Even she herself knew it was an absurd notion to think of marriage to Malachi. She hardly knew him anymore, letters or no. He was indeed a man now, and they would have to reacquaint themselves. But his name was the only one she could think of when the subject of marriage came up. There was no other whom she could even remotely imagine herself with because she didn't know anyone else. Still, none of that was what made her reluctant to speak of marriage. It was instead the fact that she was determined not to marry until she fell in love. She was a girl from the Weymouth-Hampstead School. She'd rubbed elbows with daughters of the peerage long enough to know that love played little part in determining who was fit for a husband. But in her case, it would be different. She would marry a man she loved. And if she never met that man, then she would go to her grave a spinster.
"Ye've just coom home, indeed, but here ye be talkin' of Dublin. Ye can't go there alone." Grania persisted. " 'Tis necessary to have a husband."
"I—I won't be leaving soon, Grania. Not until... not until there's no longer a reason to stay here." Ravenna's lips grew taut as she measured tea from a rusty tin. Her education had been superb, but she still made tea her own way, water in the pot and then the tea, the English be damned.
"Are ye sayin', child, that ye'll be waitin' here until I die? 'Tis a foolish waste of time if ye are." Grania cleared her aged, phlegmy throat and placed a gnarled hand on the cat on her lap. In the years Ravenna had been gone, it seemed there was a whole new crop of cats taking the charity to be offered at Grania's cottage. Ravenna petted the fat brindle, Zelda, still Grania's favorite, and wondered if she was destined to be the kind of woman Grania was, to live in a cottage full of stray cats, to weave her tales for the town's children. And to be called a witch.
Grania suddenly pointed a serpentine finger at her and said with a passion, "I'll not be dyin' soon, Ravenna. Not 'til you're wed and taken care of. There's no doubt about that. I failed ye mother. I'll not fail her daughter."
"You didn't fail Mother," Ravenna said quietly. "She loved my father, I know it."
Grania grew still. "I think she loved him too, lass, but I haven't had a vision givin' me the certainty of it."
"Then enough of this sadness. I've come home. For now we still have our house, and some money. There's no pressing need for me to be off to Dublin now. I've taken
Trevallyan's punishment and wiped the slate clean. Let's begin anew."
"Ye mustn't think he punished ye. He didn't."
Ravenna didn't answer.
"I sent ye to school of me own free will."
Ravenna still didn't comment.
"I don't want ye to be seein' that Malachi again, now that ye are back. 'Twas one of the reasons the father convinced me to send ye off."
"Malachi had nothing to do with what I did," Ravenna was quick to answer. "I haven't seen him in five years. You can't make me turn my nose up at him if I see him on the street. He's the only friend I've ever had."
"He's a rebel. They say he's running
"Yes." Ravenna looked away. She thought of marriage often in her tales of knights and princesses. But, as for herself, she tried not to think of it, for she had never fallen in love with a man, and her writings made her yearn for true love, or nothing.
"What have ye thought, child?" Grania stared at her with milky, rheumy eyes, her hand shaking on her blackthorn.
"I'm not going to marry for a while. I've just come home." Ravenna prayed that would be the end of it. She didn't want to discuss the subject. Grania was obviously wanting her taken care of before she died, and Ravenna couldn't blame her for that, but instinctively she knew the subject was volatile. Malachi's name might come up, and she didn't want to risk upsetting her grandmother for nothing. Even she herself knew it was an absurd notion to think of marriage to Malachi. She hardly knew him anymore, letters or no. He was indeed a man now, and they would have to reacquaint themselves. But his name was the only one she could think of when the subject of marriage came up. There was no other whom she could even remotely imagine herself with because she didn't know anyone else. Still, none of that was what made her reluctant to speak of marriage. It was instead the fact that she was determined not to marry until she fell in love. She was a girl from the Weymouth-Hampstead School. She'd rubbed elbows with daughters of the peerage long enough to know that love played little part in determining who was fit for a husband. But in her case, it would be different. She would marry a man she loved. And if she never met that man, then she would go to her grave a spinster.
"Ye've just coom home, indeed, but here ye be talkin' of Dublin. Ye can't go there alone." Grania persisted. " 'Tis necessary to have a husband."
"I—I won't be leaving soon, Grania. Not until... not until there's no longer a reason to stay here." Ravenna's lips grew taut as she measured tea from a rusty tin. Her education had been superb, but she still made tea her own way, water in the pot and then the tea, the English be damned.
"Are ye sayin', child, that ye'll be waitin' here until I die? 'Tis a foolish waste of time if ye are." Grania cleared her aged, phlegmy throat and placed a gnarled hand on the cat on her lap. In the years Ravenna had been gone, it seemed there was a whole new crop of cats taking the charity to be offered at Grania's cottage. Ravenna petted the fat brindle, Zelda, still Grania's favorite, and wondered if she was destined to be the kind of woman Grania was, to live in a cottage full of stray cats, to weave her tales for the town's children. And to be called a witch.
Grania suddenly pointed a serpentine finger at her and said with a passion, "I'll not be dyin' soon, Ravenna. Not 'til you're wed and taken care of. There's no doubt about that. I failed ye mother. I'll not fail her daughter."
"You didn't fail Mother," Ravenna said quietly. "She loved my father, I know it."
Grania grew still. "I think she loved him too, lass, but I haven't had a vision givin' me the certainty of it."
"Then enough of this sadness. I've come home. For now we still have our house, and some money. There's no pressing need for me to be off to Dublin now. I've taken
Trevallyan's punishment and wiped the slate clean. Let's begin anew."
"Ye mustn't think he punished ye. He didn't."
Ravenna didn't answer.
"I sent ye to school of me own free will."
Ravenna still didn't comment.
"I don't want ye to be seein' that Malachi again, now that ye are back. 'Twas one of the reasons the father convinced me to send ye off."
"Malachi had nothing to do with what I did," Ravenna was quick to answer. "I haven't seen him in five years. You can't make me turn my nose up at him if I see him on the street. He's the only friend I've ever had."
"He's a rebel. They say he's running
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