“Mrs. Byrne,” she said, catching up in the drawing room, “tell me—do you expect this particular night to be so much darker than every one that has come before, or are you scheming to burn my house down?” She smiled conspiratorially. “I own that I often think it would be no great loss.”
Setting down her current armload on a sofa table, Mrs. Byrne rubbed the small of her back and smiled. “Burn down this great pile? Now, then, I’m not sure it’s possible.” She selected a candle and held it up to the dim light that spilled from the chandelier. “Wouldn’t you be knowing that it’s St. Brigit’s Eve?”
“Another saint?” Eden asked, touching a blackened candlewick. “Wasn’t it St. Agnes’s Eve just a fortnight ago?” She concealed a shiver, recalling the dreams that had come to her that night.
“Aye, so it was. But tomorrow is the second of February, which is the day of the blessing of candles. Candlemas.”
“But we are not Catholic.”
“The traditions go back much farther than the coming of the priests,” Mrs. Byrne said as she began setting out a row of candles along the windowsill. “In ancient days, Brigit was a goddess of Ireland, who presided over the hearth, healing, fertility, and marriage, especially women about to marry. Here in England she was known as Briganta. When she became a saint, there was a women’s shrine kept to her in County Kildare—my own home.”
“And what will you do with all these candles?”
” ‘Tis the tradition to put candles in every window of a dwelling at sundown and burn them until dawn.”
“That is hardly frugal.”
Mrs. Byrne paused in her work. “Shall I put them away, your ladyship?”
“No. I shall not stand in the way of your charming customs.” She helped Mrs. Byrne arrange the candles and cocked her head to study the results. “There is little else to celebrate at this time of year.”
“Yet Candlemas also marks a cross-quarter day—halfway between the winter and spring solstice. ‘Tis the symbol of spring’s promise and of new life.”
Eden laughed. “Why, Mrs. Byrne, have you a bit of the pagan in you? Perhaps you are an Irish witch of some sort, or the descendent of an ancient priestess?”
“If I were a woman of such power, would I work as a housekeeper?” She tapped the side of her nose with a mischievous look. “Should I not have a wart about here?”
“I would not wish such a blemish upon you, Mrs. Byrne, for any amount of magical power.”
Feeling more at ease with the housekeeper than she did with her aunt, Eden helped Mrs. Byrne place candles in every windowsill, even her bedchamber.
Claudia’s room she left alone. Claudia, in fact, was nowhere to be found when Eden returned to the sitting room. Grasping the opportunity, Eden hurried upstairs to the nursery.
Miss Waterson sat at the opposite end of the room from Donal, arms folded and mouth pinched. Donal stared back just as stubbornly, and Eden sensed that the impasse had been going on for quite some time. A tray of food, resting on a rickety table, was untouched.
She stepped into the cramped room and smoothly interposed herself between the combatants.
“Miss Waterson, if Donal has finished his dinner, I would like to talk with him before he retires to bed,” she said. “You may spend a little time putting your things in order, and retire early if you wish. You must be very tired.”
“My lady…” Miss Waterson looked ready to ring a peal—over her head or Donal’s, Eden didn’t know which—but the governess got herself under control. “Very well, my lady. But it would be best if he does not spend too long downstairs.”
“I understand.” Eden ushered her son from the room. Donal took her hand and practically carried her down the stairs. She almost asked him what he thought of his new governess, but she knew that would be a mistake. He needed more time to become accustomed to the woman. As she must.
Donal came to a sudden stop at the bottom of the stairs. “What are all the lights for, Mother?”