The Would-Be Witch

by Boucher, Rita

  “How horrible!” Miranda gasped. “But his music, how . . .?”

  Adam tapped his temple. “In here Miranda. Ludwig hears it inside. Drew understood that, deciding that life might be worth something after all, but inner music is not enough for him. Last I heard, he was travelling the world seeking for a cure at any pain, any price. I pray that he can reconcile himself to his loss, one day, before the quacks kill him. There are people who will hear for a hundred years and not listen half as well as Drew can, even without his ears; just as there are composers who will never create music like Ludwig’s, though they can detect the drop of a pin.”

  “Perhaps your friend will find his magic before he loses hope,” Miranda said. “Desperate people can do desperate things.”

  “As you did?” he asked, his hand stealing across the table to clasp her fingers, twining them in his. “Most of the world lives without magic, Miranda, unaware of its existence and yet, content enough in their ignorance, as I was. My eyes were always earthward, denying the stars. But now that I have looked up, I can see that the stars are real.”

  “Damien can touch them,” Miranda said longing in her voice. Despite herself, she felt a tremor at his grasp, like a distant flicker of lightning heralding a storm.

  “And you and I can still enjoy their glow and rejoice that they shine,” Adam said, leaning forward, squeezing with gentle pressure as if he could convince her with the force of his earnest belief. “There are so many kinds of magic, Miranda.”

  “Hear him child,” Tante Reina said from her place by the stove. “He speaks truth.”

  “But you do not fully comprehend how important it is,” Miranda protested, disentangling her fingers as she rose from her place. “Since the time of King James we were hunted. How many died, we will never know, for there were so many accused and condemned for witchery. If you understood, Adam, you would weep, at what was lost, the heritage forgotten. There are so few true witches now, that I had to try; don’t you see? And if I thought there was a chance of success, I would attempt the trip again. Cripple I may be, but I am still a Wodesby. I know what I owe my Blood.”

  Adam rose, her words crushing hopes that he hadn’t known he harbored. She could never accept him, any more than she could accept herself. Out of a sense of duty, Miranda would doubtless acquiesce to the suitor that her brother had chosen, the man whose affection she doubted. The marquess was honest enough to admit that in the matter of the Blood, he was less than a mongrel.

  As the implications of her statement unfolded, Adam realized that his chances of winning Miranda were slim, even if he could somehow win her brother’s approval. With a husband who shared her birth, there might be a better chance that her children would possess the Gifts that she herself lacked. Such sentiments were laudable, similar, in fact, to part of Society’s code that he had hitherto accepted as a matter of course. Ancestry and breeding were the currencies that were valued far beyond mere coin.

  Yet comprehension did nothing to quell the rage roaring within him. While he could almost accept himself an unsuitable match, he could not abide the term “cripple,” coming so casually from her lips again. How could the mate her brother had chosen; a man who, by her own admission, did not love her, come to value her is she did not value herself?

  In five strides Adam was around the table grasping her shoulders in his hands. “Because I cannot make music like Beethoven or capture the world on canvas like Turner, am I any less of a man? And if you cannot cast a spell or conjure a ghost it makes you no less of a woman. So do not dare to call yourself a cripple again, Miranda Wilton, not when there are so many in this world who have far less than you ever shall, who will never know that there is magic.” Heedless of Tante Reina and Thorpe, he pressed his lips to hers mercilessly, kissing her with all the frustration of his stillborn hopes. Her blue eyes glistened as he looked down at her. “Sometimes, we are crippled by our own minds, Miranda. Unfortunately, those disabilities are usually the hardest to overcome.” Without a backward glance, he headed up the stair.

  Miranda managed to hold her tears until she heard the sound of the front door closing above. “He is gone, Tante Reina,” she said, sinking down into her chair and reaching up to touch her bruised lips “How he must despise me.”

  “Despise you?” Tante Reina shook her head as she put a comforting hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “So little you know of men, child. Only now has he realized what he feels; it frightens him. To find that he needs so badly, is shock to a man. Could I but read your palm, I would tell you what your future is with him, but those of the Blood—"

  “Aye, I know,” Miranda said, bitterly cutting the old Gypsy off, “my lines of destiny cannot be read by the Rom. Even the cards can be deceiving when it comes to those who inherit the Blood. What good does it do me, this blood of mine, Tante Reina, other than set me apart?”

  The older woman’s eyes blazed. “He is right, the Gajo. Is not lacking magic that makes you the cripple, Miranda. Tonight, your man’s world is torn apart, much of what he believes turns upside down. Yet, he sees your pain, he offers you comfort, he opens to you a window to his soul. But do you recognize this? You think is easy to say what he says to you, girl? You, who learned to read faces like books; did you not see how hard were his words?” She shook her head. “Only yourself, you see; poor Miranda, whom we all must pity. Well, child, my pity is upon you, for Brand was ready to offer you the greatest of magics, but you could not grasp it because you close your hands and your heart.”

  Chapter 11

  The swell stood out among the usual patrons of the Thistle like a guinea on the muck pile. Still, there was not a man among those dregs of humanity who was willing to take a chance at him, even though there might be a fat purse for the taking; not with Abel Cole sitting beside him. To the denizens of the Thistle a slow suicide on blue ruin was infinitely preferable to a quick end at Abel’s brawny hands. So they did their best to ignore Abel and his guest even as they listened intently.

  “I tell yer, she ain’t been about fer days,” Abel said, smashing his fist against the table “An’ them Gypsy people o’ theirs don’t talk ter nobody, even when I flashed th’ ready an’ arsked fer me fortune, like yer tole me. Scum gives me th’ eye like t’was me who’s th’ dirt; an’ shows me th’ sharp side o’ ‘is blade, when I arsked agin. I’m tellin’ yer, it ‘urt bad, it did, ter walk away when I wanted ‘is teeth.”

  “At least you have some semblance of brains,” Ropwell said impatiently. “Stir them up and we will never get the girl. I’m beginning to believe we may have to take her from the house itself.”

  “Too dangerous,” Abel advised. “What wiv th’ Gypsies always about. Bide awhile, I’d say. Got ter come out sometime, she does.”

  Time, however, was a commodity that was rapidly running out for Ropwell. The duns were already banging at his doors. Unless the Wodesby chit located his jewels soon, he was bound for Fleet or worse. Moreover, his lordship had the distinct feeling that Abel would not take kindly to an offer of vowels as promise of future payment. “Well, keep your eyes open for your chance,” Ropwell said, letting the last of the cheap gin burn its path down his throat as a vague plan took form. Ironically, his only other hope lay in Lord Brand’s hands and that gentleman had shown no sign thus far of fulfilling the terms of his wager before it came to a forfeit. If Brand could somehow be prodded, then perhaps he could remain afloat until the Wodesby chit was forced to find the jewels for him.

  . . .

  Lawrence Timmons frowned as the green gown slithered over his nephew’s head. “Why is this necessary, Adam?” he said, eyeing the younger man with concern, “especially tonight. If you would just wait for tomorrow, I would be glad to go with you to Gutmacher’s Hall of Wonders.”

  “It has to be now, Uncle Lawrie,” Adam explained, tweaking the false bodice into place. “The closer we draw to the final date, the more vigilant the false Professor Gutmacher will become. Besides, unless I make my effort soon, I might never be a
ble to show my face at White’s again. Rumor has it that I will be the loser without an effort because I have come to believe in witchcraft.”

  “But you have,” Lawrence noted. “Surely you can cease this Inquisition of yours, now that you have confirmed that the phenomenon exists.”

  “To the contrary, Uncle,” Adam said, placing the wig upon his head. “‘Tis all the more important now to show up the charlatans. With so much falsehood abroad, how can anyone determine the truth? I have never forfeited an honest wager in my life; I am not about to do so now.”

  “At least wait until I can go with you,” Lawrence said, his tones just short of a plea. Nothing good would come of this, not when Adam was acting with such uncharacteristic recklessness. Although Brand’s staff was absolutely trustworthy, there was no telling if the counterfeit professor’s minions were still on the watch. Changing into costume in less than absolute secrecy could well be a disastrous error.

  “You may go on to Wodesby House in all good conscience, Uncle Lawrie,” Adam said, thoughtfully selecting a patch from a box. Supposedly, shape and placement supplied a meaning. Which one signified a heart that was frozen? “I wish you all the luck in the world in your interview with Wodesby.”

  “I would speak to him on your behalf, if you would allow it,” Lawrence proposed.

  “You will not!” Adam thundered, the patches scattering upon the carpet in a black flurry. “You might well ruin your own chances to win Wodesby’s favor. It would be folly to believe that he would countenance a match with an Outsider like me.”

  “I, too, am an ‘Outsider,’ as you call it,” Lawrence pointed out.

  “However, the mare that you want is already past brooding.” Adam gave a humorless laugh. “The Mage of all England might well be content to let her graze on another man’s pasture.”

  “You will cease to refer to Adrienne in coarse terms.” Lawrence drew himself up sternly. “If I did not know that you were speaking out of frustration, I would box your ears, m’boy, despite your age.”

  “I do apologize, Uncle Lawrie,” Adam said, shamefaced as a child caught with his fingers in the jam pot. He fussed with the folds of the dress and avoided his uncle’s eyes. “My conjuring skills have deserted me, indeed, if I cannot even hide my feelings.”

  But Lawrence would not be mollified. “For the past two days you have been acting more the child than the man grown. And know you this, Adam. I am not going to ask Damien for Adrienne’s hand. I am doing him the courtesy of informing him that I intend to marry his mother, will he, nil he.”

  “He may turn you into a frog,” Adam warned, making a paltry attempt at humor.

  “Then his mother assures me that she will be delighted to share my lily-pond,” Lawrence declared with a confident smile that faded at his nephew’s expression of utter dejection. “When I was young, Adam, I hesitated and lost the one woman that I ever loved. Life offers very few second chances, boy; remember that. Now do me the favor of postponing your confrontation with Bob Taylor until the morrow. Or if you are adamant, I shall send a footman to Wodesby and tell him that I will be delayed, and we will face the erstwhile Herr Gutmacher together.”

  “Nonsense, all is arranged,” Adam said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “You had given your notice as my abigail and I will do well enough without one, I assure you.”

  Though there was a smile on his nephew’s lips, Lawrence saw shadows of long-ago in Adam’s eyes. The man’s look of bewildered loss, the determination to hide the traces of dejection were much the same as the boy’s had been all those years before. But Lawrence could no longer put his arm around Adam and pull him close, or reassure him. Already, the proscribed boundaries of a gentleman’s private business had been breached. He dared trespass no further.

  “Go on and give my felicitations to your lady.” Adam said, setting the wig upon his head and taking up a lorgnette. “I am sorry.”

  “So am I, dear boy,” Lawrence replied, making a futile attempt to imbue those few words with the totality of his love and support. “So am I.”

  . . .

  For a moment, in the dim shadows of twilight, Miranda thought that Adam had returned to Wodesby House. She grabbed hold of the baluster to steady herself, her heart leaping with hope. But as the man handed his hat to Dominick, the sight of Mr. Timmons’ silver hair laid her momentary delusion to rest. She mustered her manners as she walked down the stair. “How are you, Mr. Timmons?” she asked, “and how does your nephew do?”

  “I am tolerably well, Miss Wilton,” Lawrence said. “However, these two days past, my nephew has been the most miserable excuse for a human being that I have had the misfortune to meet. He is rude, short of temper and close to utterly impossible.”

  “It sounds as if he is afflicted by the same malady as the one besetting my Miranda,” declared a voice from the stair above.

  Mr. Timmons looked up at Lady Wodesby with his heart in his eyes, causing Miranda’s throat to contract. Was this what Adam would be thirty years hence, a trim, dapper man with a warm smile and a youthful step? She realized that she wanted to see Adam change, to watch his hair turn from brown to grey, to be able to trace those lines of laughter at the corners of his eyes and know their history.

  “I am quite pleased to hear that your daughter shares Adam’s lamentable state,” Lawrence said solemnly, taking Lady Wodesby’s hand and kissing it with courtly affection.

  “And your nephew’s condition pleases me no end,” Lady Wodesby agreed with a smile. “An excellent omen.”

  “He is at wit’s end,” Lawrence added. “When he was dressing for his evening at Gutmacher’s, I vow, he was surly as a bear.”

  “Even better!” Lady Wodesby exclaimed, nodding toward her daughter. “She comes running every time someone knocks upon the door these days.”

  “Mother, really!” Miranda fumed. “I do not! Nor do I appreciate being discussed as if I were not present.”

  “Kind of you to greet me, Miss Wilton,” Lawrence said, his lip twitching as he resisted the urge to curve it. But the impulse to smile faded as the door to the library swung open. “Ah, the young lion beckons. Shall we beard him in his den, milady?” he asked, offering his arm to Lady Wodesby.

  To Miranda’s surprise her mother actually giggled as she tucked her hand into the crook of Mr. Timmons’ hand. Her mother had fallen in love with Adam’s uncle. How had she missed the signs? She watched open-mouthed as the two entered the library, their eyes fixed upon each other. The door closed behind them, then opened again as Thorpe and Angel made their exit, mewling and growling in their disgruntlement at being excluded.

  “Private means just that,” Miranda scolded, looking at the animals in growing alarm. “Now which one of you is supposed to be keeping watch over Adam?”

  Angel barked.

  “What do you mean, ‘there is no longer a need’? He is under Wodesby protection,” Miranda said, uneasy as she thought of Adam alone and vulnerable. At least he would be among people if he was going out for the evening to . . . to Gutmacher’s! “Hecate!” she murmured. Gutmacher was the one who had arranged for Adam to be ambushed. She looked at the closed library door doubtfully, hearing the murmur of voices. If Damien had decreed that the Wodesby shield was unnecessary, there would be no help from that quarter.

  She turned and walked back up the stairs to her room pulling her cloak from the wardrobe and stuffing her pistols into her reticule. Silently, she stole out the servant’s way, avoiding the curious gaze of the familiars, or so she thought. Halfway down the square, she heard an inquiring “meow” at her heels. “An evening stroll,” she replied casually.

  Thorpe hissed.

  “If you want no lies, then ask no questions,” Miranda told him, walking on toward the corner where there were usually hackney cabs to be hired.

  “Cor! Nearly missed yer, I did.” A hulking bruiser stepped into Miranda’s path. “‘is nibs didn’t tell me yer was mad, but lucky yer crazy enough ter talk ter cats, else I would’v
e let yer pass. Wounnent let th’ darter o’ the ‘ouse out by ‘er lonesome, I tells meself. Then, I ‘ear yer talkin’ ter th’ tom ‘ere, an yer didn’t sound like no servant.”

  “I am glad my elocution is pleasing,” Miranda said, her fingers creeping into her reticule as the man walked towards her. She would puzzle out his meaning later. At the present, however, there was no mistaking the menace of his stance. It would be a pity to ruin the bottom of the bag, a delightful brocade that matched her walking dress perfectly, but there was no helping it. She cocked the hammer, aimed by instinct and clipped him neatly in the shoulder, knocking him off his feet.

  “I have a second pistol loaded,” she told him, pulling out the gun with a flourish. “Just in case I need to finish the job.”

  “Yer daft,” he whispered, clutching his arm.

  “Then you had best not risk coming after me again, just in case I am mad enough to kill you.” She favored him with the most maniacal grin she could manage and he cringed. “My cat will keep a paw at the ready.”

  Thorpe yowled his objection.

  “Yes, you are right,” Miranda agreed, taking her cue from Thorpe. A good scare was definitely in order. “It might be much simpler to give his brains an airing, but it would mess the walk and we are in a hurry.” She watched from the corner of her eyes as the fellow crawled crabwise toward the cover of the bushes.

  “Dinnent mean no ‘arm,” he protested.

  “Shall I call the Watch then?” she asked sweetly, keeping him in sight over her shoulder as she walked toward the waiting hackney. Thorpe yowled once again as she shut the door to the cab before he could jump in. “Inform Tante Reina that I am going to Gutmacher’s Hall of Wonders to find a cure,” she called as the driver flicked his whip. “And tell Dominick to remove that giant slug from the shrubbery and hold him. I want to know who sent him and why.” As the carriage careered toward Piccadilly, Miranda recalled Mr. Timmons’ disparaging description of his nephew’s condition, Surly, rude, miserable, close to impossible. She smiled.