The Lammas Curse by Anna Lord Page B

with
playing a witch,” huffed the dowager.
    Carter laughed harshly. “Well,
if anyone should know it would be Hecate, the queen of
witches!”
    “Carter!” shouted Lord
Cruddock, slamming his fist on the table so forcefully the crystal
glasses juddered. “Apologise at once!”
    “It’s alright, Duncan,” calmed
the dowager, not taking offence. “There will come a time when to
call a woman a witch will be a compliment. Witches were wise women,
the midwives and healers of their day, skilled in herb lore. They
were the forerunners to the doctors and botanists of today.”
    “It is the tone of voice, not
the word that I find offensive,” replied the son to his mother.
“Yes, there will be a time for such a word but that time has not
yet come.” He turned to his god-son. “Carter!” he said sternly.
    Carter flushed red as he
brought his wine glass to his lips with choppy hands. “I’m sorry,
Lady Moira,” he managed with sincerity before turning whiny. “I
just want even-handed justice. Everyone else is happy with their
role. I feel I have been reduced to a laughing stock. Why can’t the
three witches play the three witches?”
    The servants arrived to clear
the plates. Wine glasses were replenished. Black pudding with pears
stewed in syrup arrived as a palate cleanser and conversation took
a pause.
    “Ah! Le boudin noir aux
poires !” exclaimed the Rajah in impeccable French, lightening
the tone. “My compliments to your chef francais ! I may steal
him from you when I leave! I have been searching for a good French
chef for months”
    The palate cleanser went down a
treat and the empty plates were duly cleared. As soon as the
servants retreated it was the Countess who returned to the earlier
topic.
    “Mr Dee,” she addressed
down-table, “I didn’t quite understand what you meant by your last
phrase – the three witches play the three witches?”
    “My brother was referring to
three local women,” Miss Dee explained, adopting a neutral tone to
downplay the perceived offensiveness behind her brother’s words. “I
believe you have met two of them – Mrs Ardkinglas and Mrs
Ross.”
    “Oh, yes,” the Countess
confirmed, “our housekeeper and the owner of the Marmion Hydro
Hotel. I presume they are identical twins.”
    “There’s a third,” added Carter
portentously.
    “You mean to say they are
triplets?” posed the Countess.
    Carter nodded just as some
individual cheese soufflés arrived and everyone was momentarily
distracted by the fluffy fromage.
    “Identical triplets are very
rare,” commented the doctor. “The third child doesn’t usually
survive the lengthy birthing process, or if they do they are often
retarded due to the lack of oxygen to the brain – or so goes
medical opinion.”
    “The third sister,” asserted
Miss Dee, “lends support to your medical opinion. She lives wild in
a ramshackle hovel in Jackdaw Wood and is deemed to be a little
mad.”
    “Mad Mother MacBee!” trilled
Carter in a sing-song snigger. “Mad Mother MacBee!”
    “That is most unfair,”
interceded Miss Lambert, employing a defensive tone sharpened by
pity and chagrin. “Mother MacBee is not at all mad. I have
encountered her several times and she has appeared quite sane. If
she were rich she would be called eccentric, but because she is
poor and chooses to live alone she is called mad.”
    “Pity- like the naked new-born
babe,” mocked Carter. “Bravo, Miss Lambert!”
    Miss Lambert turned pink and
shrank back in her seat.
    “Milk for gall, young lady,”
declared the dowager sternly. “And thou shalt get kings! Remember
that!”
    Lord Cruddock suddenly snatched
up his glass of wine. “I propose a toast!” he trumpeted with gusto,
lifting his crystal beaker high in the air. “Let us lift our
chalices to our lips, good friends, and drink to the success of the
Lammermoor tournament, the Scottish play, and Scotland!”
    “The Lammermoor tournament, the
Scottish play and Scotland!” they