Lessons in Enchantment

by Patricia Rice

  Henry pulled a short knife from his boot. “I never used it on people.”

  “That’s good. You have to be close to use it. It’s a last resort unless you’ve perfected the art of throwing. I want you to feel safe if anyone comes nosing around the stable who shouldn’t be here. Don’t believe any tale anyone tells you. It’s just me and Mr. Morgan and no one else, got that?”

  Henry looked worried. “Yes, sir. What about the lady?”

  “Lady Phoebe?” Drew frowned. “I suppose, but I wouldn’t like her to go out without accompaniment.”

  “If I go with her, then there’s only old Tavish to guard the stable, sir. He tipples a bit and sleeps a lot. What about a dog?”

  The boy caught on quickly.

  Drew frowned. The governess had mentioned a dog. “I’ll consult the lady. Let me know if you have any other concerns, and tell me immediately if you notice any more strangers.”

  He entered the house by the back door and checked the door hinges and bolts, then the windows. He could provide a few spring-activated surprises that would give the household fair warning should anyone attempt prying at the locks. The problem became maintaining locked doors with too many people keeping odd hours.

  Hugh emerged from the office with a stack of correspondence. “I’d feel better were I to go back to Glasgow myself to investigate any return of the Association rather than asking others to do my work.”

  “I know.” Drew tried to dust off the straw and gave up. Entering his workshop, he set aside the pterotype to prepare an alarm for the door. “So would I. But if we gallop off to interrogate half Glasgow, who would stay here to guard the children?”

  “You’re certain the geezer said the Association? I thought they’d died out decades ago, a relic of the old days when landowners controlled the laws. Money is in trains and shipping and factories these days. Estate owners court bankruptcy and don’t have the wherewithal for skullduggery anymore.” Hugh bounced the letters against his palm and frowned in thought.

  Remembering Dalrymple’s plan to use his investment partners to run for council, Drew frowned. “So now we have wealthy businessmen wanting to control the laws, maybe a new angle on an old tactic. Laborers are attempting to unionize. This new Association may want to prevent unions. Simon was talking about allowing his men to appoint leaders to bring complaints directly to him, not a union but close enough. I hadn’t even considered that a problem until now.” Drew tested his spring and lever, then hunted through a selection of screws. “We need to know who hides behind the Association mask these days.”

  “Sending these queries to Glasgow will start rumors flying,” Hugh cautioned, waving the ones in his hand.

  “Good. Give them something to do. I telegraphed Simon yesterday to warn him.” Drew carried his tools down the corridor.

  “The telegraph office will tell everyone within miles,” Hugh shouted in alarm.

  “Don’t be naïve. We have a code. He’ll be watching for your letter for explanations. What do you think about bringing in a dog?” Drew studied the door frame, hating to mar the pristine paint.

  “I’m thinking you should ask the cat lady,” Hugh replied dryly.

  Yeah, that’s what Drew was thinking too. Except he was also thinking about moist lips and a slender waist and why the damned woman had chosen to walk back from the park instead of taking the carriage with him. And where the hell had she been all morning?

  “If those properties are to be sold,” Phoebe told her solicitor, “then whoever buys them must be forced to uphold my life lease on the flat. There is absolutely no question of allowing money to exchange hands without my share being included.”

  Mr. Lithgow pushed his spectacles up his nose, scanned the original lease she’d retrieved from her trunk at her aunts’ house yesterday, and nodded. “Quite right, my lady. If he is selling the property, then this contract specifies a definite obligation. I’ll check the deeds office and be certain they are aware of the lien. Will you be signing the employment contract in the meantime?”

  To keep a roof over her head, she should. But it felt like servitude, and Phoebe didn’t wish to be hemmed in. “I’ll take the papers and study them at my leisure.” As if she had any leisure. She had a perimeter to establish around Mr. Blair’s house, one that strangers couldn’t breach without her knowledge.

  “Of course, my lady. Shall I charge my bill to your account?” he asked solicitously.

  Which meant from the investments they had tucked away against the inevitable rainy day. She supposed it didn’t get any rainier than being homeless. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Lithgow. My mother and I appreciate your honest service.”

  She pulled on her gloves after she left so he did not see the gaping hole in one seam. She supposed she could sew it, if she’d thought to pack her meager sewing things after the wall collapsed. She didn’t wish to spend more on fripperies with the solicitor’s bill dipping into their small earnings.

  She walked slowly up the hill toward the impressive line of attached housing that was now her abode. She wasn’t certain she could ever really call it home, but Raven circled overhead, and she was learning the creatures in the neighborhood.

  Houses here didn’t have dovecotes, but pigeons roosted on the roofs. Their habit of traveling in flocks was useful. She knew where the squirrels nested, although the ones in the attic were a bit resentful of being removed from their cozy nest on the verge of winter. Perhaps she could find them some rags to snuggle into.

  There were several stray dogs scavenging in the mews and alleys not far from the house. They’d be flea-ridden creatures, but it didn’t hurt to enlist them in her defensive barrier. Instead of entering through the front door, she walked down to the kitchen and asked for scraps.

  “You shouldn’t be feeding them strays, miss, my lady,” Cook argued. “Nasty things, they are.”

  “They wouldn’t be nasty with a good bath, but they need to be trained first.” She didn’t intend to explain that she could reach them with her mind and teach them much faster than it would take the normal way. Animals weren’t dumb by any means. They responded to food and shelter as well as any human.

  She mentally reached the nearest hound with an image of the big bone she carried. She didn’t think Cook would appreciate it if she left it in the stairwell, so she took the bone around to the mews where she’d stored her bicycle. While she was there, she filled a basin with water.

  She slipped into the stable, waved at a worried-looking Henry, and waited. Not too long after, a large hound loped down the alley. She was no dog expert, but Irish wolfhound traits were obvious, perhaps with a bit of foxhound. In any case, he was large. That ought to deter anyone sneaking around the door.

  “Keep him fed and watered, Henry,” she whispered. “He’ll be good company.”

  Henry appeared somewhat taken aback at the dog’s arrival but rallied quickly. “Master said as he thought a dog would be good. I’ll let him in here with me.”

  “Not unless you want fleas,” she warned.

  “I’ll give him a bath, I will. I’m good with dogs.”

  Not wanting to be around when the skinny boy attempted to wrestle a wolfhound into a horse trough, Phoebe hastened through the garden gate, stripping off her gloves and coat as she entered the rear door.

  She nearly ran into the broad form of Mr. Blair.

  He caught her arms and steadied her. Phoebe didn’t want to look at him, but she hadn’t been raised to look down. Once he released her, she clenched her molars and looked past his disgraceful dishabille, straight at the prickles of late afternoon beard. The visceral thrill his whiskers caused warned she daren’t look further. “Sorry. I was in a hurry to return to the children. I hadn’t meant to be gone so long.”

  She was glad she’d left the solicitor’s envelope in the kitchen for Abby to carry to her room.

  “I’ve made a few changes,” Mr. Blair warned. “Let me show you what I’ve done to the door so you do not trip an alarm.”

 
“You’ve been fortifying the house,” she exclaimed as he showed her the hidden latches and springs he’d installed around doors and windows. “Brilliant! Although I do hope no one ever tries them.”

  “And that’s something I need to talk with you about. I’m not certain how much you want to know about the Association. Would you prefer to trust the locks and not know more? I don’t want you staying awake all night listening for boogeymen.” He led her toward his workshop with its overlook of the tiny kitchen garden.

  He’d disappeared yesterday after their visit to the park without telling her what Ebenezer had said. She’d already fretted away one night. Assuming this Association was what he’d learned about, she was relieved he was finally willing to share information.

  “I have never listened for bogeymen. I have Raven and my other animals to let me know of strangers. They protect their own, and in so doing, they look after me. Unless you tell me this Association consists of Frankenstein monsters, I’d like to know what to expect. I assure you, they should be more afraid of me than I am of them.” She hoped that sounded brave. She’d never had to look out for others before—although Mr. Blair seemed as if he might be a competent partner.

  Hands behind her back, she studied the contraption he’d been working on.

  “You are an unarmed woman,” Mr. Blair corrected. “You cannot possibly stand up to thugs, hence the locks.”

  She shot him a glance, raised her eyebrows, and declining to engage in pointless argument, waited for explanation. He was most attractive running his hand through his dusty hair and looking harassed.

  “This is a modern industrial age. The Association and its kind should be long dead,” he said with angry emphasis. “It was a group of powerful landowners who banded together to prevent the common man from gaining the vote by use of intimidation, harassment, and occasionally worse.”

  “I’m aware of the history, nothing more,” she admitted.

  “You have no particular reason to know more of that period, although your noble grandfather most likely would have known of them, if he was not one himself. The origins of the group were in aristocratic landowners who were convinced common men would lead the country to perdition if they were allowed to vote. But then common men became wealthy running shipyards and trains and factories, gained the vote anyway, and an association of landowners lost its influence and purpose.”

  “But the Ebenezer-creature said an association sent him?” She processed what he was telling her while examining his fascinating machine. She liked being spoken to as an equal, although she wasn’t certain he was aware he was doing it.

  “Yes, which makes no sense. These days it is business and industry owners who feel under attack by laborers making demands, not landowners. So far, government has prevented unions, but tensions are rife.”

  “And by government, you mean the aristocrats, landowners, and wealthy men who own shipyards and factories, since women are not allowed to vote.” Phoebe understood the results of male manipulation. Laborers might have good reason to complain about working conditions, but at least they had employment. Women either had to marry or starve. And that was how a few men ruled the world—by preventing others from doing so.

  “There was a time when I believed women were better suited for the compromise required to run a country. Then I met you.” Mr. Blair turned to tinker at his dratted machine.

  Phoebe didn’t know if she appreciated essentially being called uncompromising, but she liked that he saw her gender as equal to men. “Sewing circles are unlikely to send thugs to follow children. What might an association want with the twins? Did you ask your cousin about his wife’s journals?” She fretted that the book was what they really wanted, but the dirty snitch comment didn’t seem to be related.

  “I’ve written Simon about the journals, but they do not explain why Ebenezer was sent to see if the children were here.”

  Would anyone know the children had a book? Should she tell Mr. Blair? He’d want to read it. She’d promised an unseen spirit she wouldn’t let him. She’d read nothing so far that he could use.

  “If the old Association has returned,” he continued, “then I must assume it is again powerful men who wish to maintain the status quo. Simon may have roiled them with his new-fangled ideas. Our family does not come from wealth, so established gentlemen and nobility would consider him little more than an encroaching mushroom, as my grandfather used to say. There may be powerful men who covet his mine, or simply neighboring mine owners whose best workers have been lured away by Simon’s newfangled practices.” He rolled paper into his machine and began pushing the keys, producing inky letters on the paper.

  Phoebe watched but her mind was on how this applied to the children. “So you’re thinking the Association decided to remove your cousin and sent someone to cut his axle—because wealthy men do not crawl under carriages themselves. And in some manner, the children’s mother must have known who did it? Told the twins—after she died? That’s far-fetched by any standards.”

  “Granted, unless one believes in ghosts, which apparently everyone here does, but the Association? Not reasonable.” He hit a lever and part of the machine jumped back to the beginning.

  Startled, Phoebe watched in fascination as he hit the letter keys a little faster. He was printing right before her eyes! She wanted to ask a dozen questions, but she had to think about the children first and foremost. “I will ask our Librarian about ghosts. But the twins might know something far more prosaic, like remembering a neighbor in the carriage house who shouldn’t have been there.

  “If the bad men were in the least superstitious, guilt may have played on their minds, and the children running screaming from them would raise all the tales about Letitia’s Sight,” Phoebe suggested. “I still can’t believe grown men would fear children. No one listens to four-year-olds!”

  “Simon would, if he thought Letitia told them.” Drew cursed as the keys jammed. “Letitia was half the reason he’s as wealthy as he is. I can’t imagine anyone understanding that, though. I have Hugh learning more about the Association. Once we know who belongs, we may have a better idea of which one might be cowardly enough to fear innocents.” Unjamming the keys, he returned to typing with two fingers again.

  “If anyone knew that your cousin’s wife was half the brains behind his success, they may have intentionally chosen to remove her along with your cousin,” Phoebe said softly.

  Mr. Blair abandoned his machine to pace the room in agitation. Experimentally, Phoebe touched a finger to one of the keys. It did nothing. She hit it harder, then stepped back, startled, as it produced a smeary letter on the paper. When he did not object to her experiment, she tried another letter.

  “That almost makes sense,” he murmured, as if thinking aloud. “Letitia’s family came up from nothing, but they’re ambitious and talented and have fingers in a lot of pies. They are mostly educators, but they’ve scraped together enough to buy a bankrupt estate, so now they’re landowners. I doubt they’re considered socially acceptable by the older generation.”

  “Or their heirs,” Phoebe said absently. “Jealousy is human nature.” With one finger, she typed the alphabet and frowned at the awkwardness. “You’d better not let the children see this or they’ll tell me they don’t have to learn to write.”

  “It’s supposed to write faster than the human hand,” he grumbled. “And it would, if the keys didn’t have to be unjammed every fourth letter. As it is, it’s worthless. I thought I could solve the problem, but I haven’t.”

  Phoebe picked out a sentence but the keys stuck when she tried to type dear. “The letters are too close to each other. If the d was on one side and the e on the other, it might work better.”

  “Agreed, but besides working out all the possible combination of letters that shouldn’t be near each other, it would be impossible to type fast while hunting each letter. The alphabet is more straightforward.” He came over to stand beside her and study the machine.

  She
was entirely too aware of his masculine presence and eased away, but she couldn’t contain her excitement when she realized the unleashed power of his machine. “More women might be able to make a living if they could be taught to type documents like inventories and wills! This machine could be the new spinning wheel. We would learn to memorize the key placement.”

  “Like on a piano?” Frowning at the machine, he seemed lost in thought. He was much too attractive when he was playing at mechanic instead of staid businessmen. She couldn’t think clearly enough to continue this discussion. She should return to translating the journal.

  Hoping it didn’t appear as if she were fleeing, Phoebe eased toward the door. “Thank you for explaining. I’ll return to the children now.” And she fled.

  Thirteen

  “There’s a bleidy great hound out there,” Hugh complained as he entered the workshop late that night. “And you’ve taken the machine apart!” He sounded genuinely dismayed at the last.

  “Aye right, a hound.” Weary, Drew pushed out from under the work table. One of these days, his bones would crumble into dust under there, but work gave his mind better use than imagining what Lady Phoebe was or was not wearing right now.

  Having her with him, helping him think through his dilemmas—while wanting nothing more than to kiss her senseless—had inspired him in more ways than one.

  “Great monster of a hairy beast, gnawing on bones and growling when I come near. Where’s Henry?” Hugh dumped his coat over a chair.

  “Maybe our stableboy turns into a beast at night. How in hell would I know? Tell me something I want to hear.” Drew tried to remember if he’d eaten. His stomach said he hadn’t.

  “The contractor has accepted our terms. We’re both about to be a lot poorer,” Hugh said in his usual pokerfaced manner.

  “We’re tearing down the tenements? Shouldn’t we be celebrating? Where’s the whisky?” He could use a long draw of liquid courage as he mentally registered the declining balance in his bank account.