Not wanting to get too excited since Cat had quite an imagination, Phoebe studied the street below. “I believe the lady is Miss Higginbotham from next door. It’s a cloudy day, and I don’t see shadows. Can you describe what you see around the gentleman?”
“His light is black,” Cat said defiantly. “Like yours is pretty red.”
Oh dear, Cat saw auras. And that man down there had a black one? Phoebe tried to study the bowler-hatted gentleman but he had turned his face away. “I don’t know the gentleman, do you?”
Clare crept up and clung to Phoebe’s skirt before she’d lean over to look. “He’s one of the bad men,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Did your mama tell you that?” Phoebe asked, wary of the bogeyman theory.
Clare nodded.
“So your mama hasn’t gone away?”
“She came back with daddy.”
Phoebe didn’t know if that was good or bad or even real. She studied the street along with the twins. The man on the bench did not look up.
It appeared Miss Higginbotham, though, was approaching Mr. Blair’s door and not her aunt’s. Phoebe was torn between wanting to greet her friend and finding out more about bad men.
Clare retreated to the chimney. Cat spoke for her. “Mama said people with black shadows are bad and to stay away.”
Phoebe wished she could speak with the ghost, but she resisted teaching the twins to be mediums at this tender age. With a frisson of fear, she signaled the children that it was time to go downstairs. “We’ll explore the attic after I see what Miss Higginbotham wants. Can you sit quietly in the nursery and finish your work until I return? Maybe we can ask for milk and biscuits to be sent up.”
The children cheered and raced down the stairs. In the attic, Cat slowed down and grasped Phoebe’s hand, letting her siblings run ahead. “Cousin Drew is a pretty red too,” she whispered, before taking off down the stairs to the nursery.
More information she needed to retrieve from the librarian—aura colors. Perhaps she ought to make a trip to the castle library since she had yet to hear a reply to any of her other queries.
Resisting the urge to barrel outside and question a stranger, Phoebe proceeded to the parlor.
Miss Higginbotham—Dahlia—waited, practically glowing with joy. She rose to take Phoebe’s hands. “It’s my half day off, and I had to come to say how very happy I am and to thank you for giving me courage.”
“Nonsense. It took a great deal of courage just to admit what you wanted. Do you have time for tea? I’d love to hear how you’re faring.”
Dahlia smiled in relief. “Could we? I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend who understands me so well.”
“And I’ve never had a friend so talented. Sit, and I’ll let Abby know.” Phoebe rang for the little maid. In a whisper, she asked Abby to send Mr. Morgan out to investigate the stranger, then sent her off to the kitchen.
Over tea, they chatted about Dahlia’s lovely new chambers, her friendship with the other clerks, and her blooming success as a milliner, if not a sales person. And then her expression darkened, and she reached over to squeeze Phoebe’s hand. “I don’t want to say this,” she murmured.
“Courage,” Phoebe returned. “Life is not all roses, as I am well aware.”
Dahlia nodded, and the flowers in her hat bobbed. “It is my uncle. He is quite convinced you are at fault for driving me away. He thinks you have set your cap for Mr. Blair and are jealous of me. He is. . . having you investigated.”
Phoebe grinned. “If that is all, please do not worry yourself. I am exactly who I say I am, and Mr. Blair is free to court whomever he wishes. I know the situation is unlikely, but the children’s father is here now, and my aunts have visited, and my mother will arrive soon. There is utterly nothing untoward in my teaching Mr. Blair’s wards. They are very clever children, and I am enjoying myself immensely.”
Dahlia looked partially relieved. “Then it is just my uncle being mean, I suppose. He says the children aren’t normal and neither are you or your family and that you’ve put a hex on Mr. Blair. I’ve never heard him utter such rubbish, but he is meeting with men who are guiding him. . . Oh, I’m not supposed to talk about that. I’ve been listening where I shouldn’t again, so this is all hearsay. My aunt isn’t speaking to me yet.”
Phoebe felt a flutter of fear. “You are speaking with your uncle, though? That is a good sign that he’s coming around.”
“No, he still thinks I should marry Mr. Blair. He does not understand at all. But he has been using my room above the shop to meet with his friends and had to explain why. I do not like that he’s keeping his affairs from my aunt. I’m not sure what I should do.”
Phoebe leaned over and patted her hand. “There is nothing you can or should do except keep the doors open for your family and hope they will eventually accept that you’re happy. I do worry about your uncle’s new friends though. If you should learn more of them, would you give me their names? People who believe the children aren’t normal are a danger to them.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that! If they really think it’s necessary that I should marry Mr. Blair to advance my uncle’s cause. . .”
“They might say or do anything,” Phoebe finished for her. “The children have already lost their mother to a tragic accident that might not have been accidental. We must be vigilant.”
Dahlia’s eyes widened in shock. “Surely not! No one would harm little children, would they?”
“Some people think of children as little more than dogs or cats to be tossed aside if they’re in the way. Mr. Blair is a very wealthy man. If people believe the children block their access to Mr. Blair. . .” Phoebe let her voice trail off as she considered this new aspect she’d just invented.
People could very well be trying to get at Andrew and his money and. . . his inventions?
“I will listen to my uncle and his friends and warn you if I hear anything,” Dahlia said bravely, rising from her chair. “And I think I will also try to see my aunt. I know she cannot possibly be involved in anything remotely illegal.”
Which might mean Dahlia knew her uncle wasn’t quite so honorable, Phoebe reflected as she walked her guest to the door.
“The old clutchfist!” Simon swore as he and Drew rode down the mews later that afternoon. “He’d sell his soul for a few coins.”
“Drumsmoore is not selling anything if I offer him money for nothing,” Drew reminded his cousin dourly. “He doesn’t own Lady Phoebe. He simply hopes I’ll keep her and her mother and their hexes away from him. Offering a plump settlement simply dangled too much temptation for him to care what we’ll do with the information he provided. He gave us names.”
Glengarry had been one of them. And John Wilkes from his consortium—people whose favors Dalrymple was courting. Unease crept up Drew’s spine.
“The earl is afraid of the women he should be protecting!” Simon said, still indignant. “I think it was your promise to keep them away from the estate that made more impression than your coins.”
“Well, we did tell a few faradiddles about what they can do,” Drew said. “After you mentioned war hawks and military mice, he’d have believed flying pigs.”
As they rode down the mews toward the stable, a rubber ball flew past their noses, bouncing under the hooves of their horses, causing them to shy and prance. The toy bounced suspiciously high several more times.
Drew glanced up to the roof of his house—just in time to see the cascade of water. “Duck!” he shouted, yanking the reins of his mount so it stepped backward.
Simon didn’t move fast enough. The waterfall hit his top hat, knocking it sideways, and drenching his hair and coat. He shouted and shook his fist, but the culprits weren’t visible.
“I’m not thinking highly of your damned governess,” Simon shouted, leaping down and leaving the reins to Henry, who’d run out of the stable at the excitement.
“She’s unorthodox, but that was no normal water toss.” Drew di
smounted and handed over his reins, catching the garden gate his cousin had just shoved past.
Following in Simon’s damp footsteps, Drew counted off the distance to the back door. He calculated how hard that water had to be flung to pass over the garden and reach the mews. Enoch’s talents were broadening. If they could harness his levitation, that amount of pressure would create far more efficient fire hoses.
Inside, the children laughed and shrieked and ran down the stairs to greet their father, not caring that he was soaked through and hopping mad. They flung themselves into Simon’s arms, all talking at once. No decent man could help but crouch down and gather them up in a hug.
Drew’s gaze lifted to the woman drifting down after them. A smile teased at the corner of her lips as she observed the scene. She was wearing her split skirt, which he feared was a warning of sorts, but then, so had the water been. It was a bit daunting realizing he had come to understand Lady Phoebe. He sidled past Simon and his offspring and up the stairs. She halted and waited for him.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded in a low voice.
Her skin looked dewy and fresh, and her eyes sparkled—but that could be anything from tears to fury. He waited.
“Dahlia reports that her father is warning her against me and the children, saying we’re not normal. I have just learned that Cat reads auras. The twins believe that a black aura indicates a bad man. So they are not necessarily recognizing the men, just reacting to their colors. One has been spying on the house all day.” She reported this crisply, as if conveying information of value but doubting he’d believe it. “Hugh was unavailable to question the bad man.”
Drew had doubts about the twins’ ability, certainly, but after Letitia, he would never ignore a warning. “The bucket of water?”
“I wanted to encourage Enoch to guard his sisters in unanticipated ways. He’s too young to physically attack anyone, but he’s clever. He thought of the water himself.” Laughter lit her features now. “I didn’t wish to discourage him.”
Drew wanted to kiss her while she was laughing and looking merry. He needed to hold her and proclaim her as his very own enchantress. And if he were in the least superstitious, he’d believed she really had put a spell on him. But lust was a spell all men fell under, sooner or later. Except maybe dried-up husks like Drumsmoore.
Which brought him back to the task at hand. He didn’t mention that her uncle was willing to sell her for coins and an exchange of information. Instead, he grew serious and contemplated the family tableau below. “We have names. The Association has apparently been revived and is intent on preventing parvenus like myself and Simon from obtaining a handhold on the reins of power. I haven’t been a particular concern to them since they perceive me as little more than a mechanic. Simon is the one encroaching on their territory by buying lands and mines and expanding into industry while talking unionist notions.”
“And he crossed swords with one of them?” she asked, following the direction of his thoughts. “Your cousin has a temper. Did he anger someone enough that they’d actually want to kill him?”
Drew nodded curtly. “Several people, including a local baron and a lord in Parliament. We have no proof. All your uncle did was provide us with names of people belonging to the Association, but Simon recognized some of his neighbors immediately. Wilkes and his cronies wanted to buy him out. Their wives visited Letitia occasionally to enlist her aid.”
“She laughed at them,” Phoebe said without hesitation, recognizing the tactic from the journal. At his glance, she shrugged. “We are not a family who cares about gossips and social standing, if you have not surmised. Malcolm women are raised to support our families and worthy causes and offer our aid to those in need. I believe it is ingrained into our souls from birth. Selfish old biddies clucking do not warrant recognition. It is no doubt a family failing and the reason we are often called witches. Centuries of defiance haven’t changed us.”
Drew fought back a broad grin. “You’re teachers and librarians and you educate others in your defiance, which is revolutionary in many eyes, including Dalrymple’s, which is why my neighbor may fear you. I wager half your family has been burned at the stake, literally and figuratively.”
She wrinkled her nose. “It is not a laughing matter. I don’t think any of us have been brought down by a mob in centuries, but it has happened. As a consequence, my family has learned the safety of being social and powerful. In the old days, for protection, we married the most influential men available. These days, we are related to half the aristocratic families in the kingdom.”
“Supportive family is important,” he said. Which was why he didn’t wish to be reduced to penury. Too many people—like Simon and the bairns, as well as his mother and a few other cousins—counted on his money. A lot of people had helped him over the years.
She nodded. “My family has been given talents we can use, if necessary. I could have applied my gift in any number of ways to earn coins, but I preferred to use it to help others. Perhaps that was foolish of me.”
“That’s a philosophical discussion we need to have some other time. Right now, we need to plot how to stop Simon’s enemies. Has Hugh returned?”
“Not yet, hence our preparations to guard ourselves,” she said. “Although I am not convinced anyone would invade in daylight.”
Drew stood aside so Simon could pass by, carrying the twins under his arms, with Enoch on his heels, pelting him with questions.
It did his soul good to see his cousin returning to life after this last bleak year. And some part of that recovery had to do with this fascinating woman. Drew offered his arm. “We need to develop a battle plan.”
The spark of relief and approval in her expression was ambrosia to his battered soul.
Nineteen
Phoebe watched from her bay window as Mr. Simon sat down on the bench and began sharpening his dirk next to the man with the black aura. The man took one look and scurried off. She tried to smile, but she remained uneasy.
Mr. Morgan had finally returned, and the men had had their heads together all afternoon. She didn’t know the results of the discussion. She wasn’t too concerned that Mr. Blair hadn’t told her what had happened with her uncle. She’d accepted at an early age that the earl would never be part of her life. She’d never needed him to be.
But for the sake of the children, she hoped the discussion had led to some decision about catching the maggots who had killed their mother. She couldn’t be comfortable while constantly searching shadows for danger.
For the rest of the evening, the men came and went on various errands. As usual, she ate her dinner alone, then went upstairs to read a book to the children before turning out the lights. She kissed their cheeks, left them in Daisy’s care, then retreated to her room. She was glad she’d brought a few of her own books with her because she’d not found anything here except technical manuals.
She wrote notes in her journal summarizing the things the children had learned to do with their talents and adding a few notes of her own. The Malcolm librarian had finally sent a reply earlier in the day. The response hadn’t been wholly satisfactory—she’d said there were too many passages in ancient journals about ghosts, auras, and levitation, and too few of value to bother copying at length. The Librarian had simply sent summaries. But she’d reminded Phoebe that she must turn in her own journals, that her notes might help to find the necessary volumes.
Occasionally monitoring the animals, Phoebe was reassured that no large creatures were stirring. She knew the men had talked to the police about patrolling outside. The rats didn’t bother scurrying from the constable’s familiar footsteps. They had talked about hiring a guard for the alley but hadn’t found anyone suitable. At least one of the men was supposed to be here at all times during the night hours. She didn’t know what was delaying their return.
She relaxed a moment, thinking she heard one of them opening the back door. She sought Wolf for reassurance, but he was asleep. No pail crashed
against a wall, so it had to be someone who knew about the latch. She ought to feel at ease. She didn’t. Had the men locked up before leaving? They still didn’t all have keys and had a bad habit of believing the latch was all that was necessary.
She got up from the table and held back a bit of drapery to look down at the street. She saw no furtive figures lurking in the shadows outside the gaslight, but she sent out mental feelers.
The rats under the street were in a panic, rushing in the direction of the park.
Alarmed, she sought the mice in the kitchen walls. They were scampering away from. . . a smell? Since when did mice flee smells?
And that’s when she noted the smallest flicker of red and orange licking out from the coal cellar under the street—at the bottom of the kitchen stairs. Fire?
Sending out mental shouts to her pets, Phoebe grabbed Letitia’s journal, stuffing it in her robe pocket as she raced upstairs to wake the children and Daisy. She couldn’t know for certain that what she’d seen was fire, but it was enough to know the rodents were fleeing it.
“Put on your shoes and coats,” she ordered. “Run down to the back door, but do not go out until I know if someone is out there. Hide as I taught you if you see anyone you don’t know.”
Wolf wasn’t responding to her mental pleas. The horses were all gone, out with the men. She wished she could wake Henry.
The children bravely reached for shoes, not weeping but uncertain if this was another of her tests.
“Daisy, go below to wake the staff,” she whispered as the older woman clucked and tugged on small coats. “I fear there is a fire in the coal cellar.”
The older woman reacted with shock and concern and hustled out. The house was separated from the cellar by a stone landing, and coal burned slowly, but smoke was a danger.
Lessons in Enchantment Page 17
