by CE Murphy
She gazed at him curiously, wondering without being able to ask when he had assumed such a concern for her sister, but feeling much as Webber felt, for the peace she said, “Perhaps,” to Archer’s suggestion.
Miss Webber, observing the intensity with which Elsabeth and Archer regarded one another, produced a trilling laugh and tucked her arm into Elsabeth’s. “Surely a family of such strong young women who are inclined to walk the many muddy miles betwixt Oakden and Newsbury cannot be ill for long. Why, Miss Elsabeth, you will not take it amiss if I confess to you that I had never seen such a sight as your appearance this morning. Oh!” she said with another of the false laughs, “I do not mean your appearance, of course, but your arrival!”
Elsabeth, whose interest in walking with Miss Webber was, in her own best estimation, limited, examined their linked elbows with the expressionless dismay of one quite unable to extract herself politely. It was with her gaze upon their entwinement that she replied, “My dear Miss Webber, I could hardly imagine that you did not say exactly what you meant. I am sure my appearance was dramatic, being wind-blown and muddy both, and I am sure it is a rare sight in London Society that a young woman of quality should be seen in such a fashion.”
“What fashion?” Webber asked with evidently genuine surprise. “I only saw that you looked remarkably well upon your arrival this morning, Miss Elsabeth. It seems to me that your appearance”—and if he put a slight strain on the word, it was only to emphasize that he meant what Miss Webber claimed to—“showed nothing more than positively credible concern for your sister. Would you not agree, Archer?”
“I would say that exercise benefits even ladies of Society, regardless of how unwilling they are to take it,” Archer replied rather severely, and at Elsabeth’s side, Miss Webber’s jaw clicked shut.
A terrible twitch made itself felt at the corner of Elsa’s mouth:
a twitch quite determined to turn itself to laughter. She swiftly looked away, finding Webber’s earnest gaze to be a safe landing place for her attentions, and she thought, ‘So, that is how it is with Miss Webber.’ Well, then. Archer was perhaps odious, but he at least had the grace to wear it on his sleeve, whereas Miss Webber’s inclinations were all sweet-coated poison. Perhaps, Elsabeth decided, despite his atrocious behaviour, she might find it in herself to be ever so slightly kinder to Mr Archer, for no other reason than to tweak Miss Webber.
Rosamund would cluck and tsk with disapproval. Pleased by the prospect of providing her sister with this modicum of entertainment in her convalescence, Elsabeth took the decision. Her smile formed first at Webber, at whom she was already looking, and then at Archer, at whom she took some effort to redirect her attention. “You’re very kind to say so, Mr Archer. I have always thought it better to be healthy than to be overly concerned with Society’s decorum. Of course, I have that advantage, living in the country as I do. I am sure that it is more common to be frail in Town.”
Miss Webber, with a strength that belied any hint of fragility, released Elsabeth, stalked to Archer’s side and took his arm so that he was obliged to escort her to dinner. “Not at all,” she said sharply. “I’m sure I know many fine, strong young ladies, and would like to count myself among them. Perhaps it is only that there is less mud in London.”
“There is a tremendous amount of mud at Streyfield,” Archer said thoughtfully, and Elsabeth, trying not to laugh, welcomed Webber’s escort into the dining room.
(11)
Rosamund, though, was not to be amused by Elsabeth’s antics; not that night. Elsabeth returned to her side to find her newly feverish and quite wretched with sweat and shivers. There was nothing to be done: the fire was high and water was at hand; Elsabeth coddled Rosamund by the one and fed her small sips of the other, and, when Rosa was too tired anymore to sit by the fire, tucked her into the duvets and mopped her forehead. Twice, Mr Webber called in to attend to her; after the second, Elsa muttered, “If only he would stay away I might at least warm you with a little fire here at the bed, Rosa.”
“Oh!” Rosamund’s eyes flew open. “No, it would be too dangerous even if he did not visit. The bedclothes could burn so easily!”
“You have far too little faith in my skill,” Elsa assured her, but did not light the flame she could call between her palms. Indeed, gazing hopelessly into her lightless fingers, she whispered, “What good is being magic-ridden, Rosa, if the power cannot be used for something such as this? To heal you, when you are so ill? It is bad enough to be kept from Society out of fear of discovery, but to also be useless with power! It is intolerable!”
No sooner had she spoken than she wished the words had not passed her lips: Rosamund’s green eyes stood wide with distress. “Elsa. Elsa, you must not say—not even think!—such things. You know the stories that are told. Do not wish yourself so low!”
“No. No, of course not, Rosa. My poor sweet Rosa, plagued with a sister who says whatever frightful flight of fancy that comes into her mind. I shall cease such nonsense and sing to you instead, perhaps one of Mamma’s tunes? It will soothe you, and you will sleep.”
Wan but smiling with relief, Rosamund clung to Elsabeth’s fingers as she sang a sweet and pretty song composed by their mother when they had been ill as children. But the tune was simple and the words rote; they took no great part of Elsabeth’s attention, leaving her to think on what Rosa had not allowed her to say.
Magic was the provenance of the low; good breeding did not sorcerers get. If Papa Dover knew whence his family had been infected with the bad blood, he never spoke of it; Elsabeth assumed he did not know. It happened from time to time, just as a bay mare might throw a white foal. Soldiers—not officers, but the common men, foot-soldiers and sailors—might have a knack for turning bullets or calling a helpful wind; magic was permitted, even grudgingly acknowledged as necessary in military matters. It was even suspected that Bonaparte himself commanded a certain amount of esoteric power. But it was certain—and Elsabeth herself was certainly not supposed to know it—that the very lowest of the low, the camp followers of the French legions, had magic. Healing magic, at that: they were the source, it was whispered, of Bonaparte’s great successes, for he lost one man to every ten the British lost, or so it seemed to those who had fought on the battlefields.
And to know, sitting at Rosa’s sickbed, to know that in the world, amongst those who had nothing to lose by practising the magic that was in them, that there were skills that could help Rosamund now—no. Elsa let the words to her mother’s sweet and simple song fill her mind, thinking of each word as it came as if there was nothing else in the world. To do less now would ignite the fire, always the easiest and most natural of Elsa’s gifts, and the fire, fuelled by rage, burned too hot to quench. It was necessary to forget, necessary to do as Rosa had instructed, and not even think of it, for though she knew herself to be naive, Elsa believed she would trade her position with any one of the French camp followers for the ability to help her sister, and that it would be well worth the trade. So, she sang, and in singing, forced herself to forget, and took some small, bitter comfort in Rosamund’s slow drift toward a restless sleep.
Half an hour passed; then an hour, and Rosamund slept. The clock called out, announcing it was as yet still too early for Elsabeth to retire when her hosts might be waiting news of Rosamund’s recovery. Reluctant with obligation, Elsabeth rose and joined the party below, where Webbers and Gibbses sat together, losing at cards to Archer, whose approach to the game appeared indolent and yet highly successful.
“I will only be a little while,” Elsabeth assured them. “Rosamund is sleeping, but I must return to her soon, and so will entertain myself by reading rather than disrupt your game.”
“You cannot possibly like to read more than a game of cards,” Mr Gibbs said with the air of a man personally offended.
“I am sure Miss Elsabeth is uninterested in all things so crass as cards,” Miss Webber put forth. “Indeed, I am sure I have heard tell that she is a great reader;
that she prefers reading to all else, and looks down upon those who do not read for pleasure.”
“Quite,” Elsabeth said drily. “Tell me, Miss Webber, do you read for pleasure?”
A line drew itself instantly between Miss Webber’s eyebrows, and her response of “Of course” perhaps lacked conviction. That, however, was not Elsabeth’s concern; she only smiled gently and replied, “I could never look down upon you for choosing to play cards, but rather stand in envy of one who does so with more skill than I have.”
“What,” Archer wondered aloud, “was the last book you read, Miss Webber? Perhaps we might discuss it over our game.”
Heightened colour streaked Miss Webber’s cheekbones as her brother, unable to bear the sniping any longer, leapt to his feet so that he might show Elsabeth the small offering of books available. “I have brought most of them to your sister’s room already,” he said in woeful apology. “I can only once more wish I had a library like Archer’s. You must invite Miss Elsabeth to Streyfield someday, Archer; one as fond of reading as she is should be granted access to such an array of books as you have.”
“I am not,” Elsabeth said mildly, “that fond of reading, despite Miss Webber’s protestations. There are many things in which I find enjoyment, and I promise you, Mr Webber, that your selection is quite adequate to my needs. I must thank you, sir, and insist I keep you no longer from your game.”
“Shall I not invite you to Streyfield, then, Miss Elsabeth?” Archer asked.
Elsabeth lifted her gaze with slow astonishment to find Archer’s attention wholly on her, and to find Miss Webber’s countenance, just beyond him, tight-jawed with silence. It was, Elsabeth thought, one thing to tweak the other young woman; it was quite something else to make any motions toward encouraging Archer, whose manners were, after all, abominable. “I’m sure my family and I would be honoured by your invitation, Mr Archer. I can hardly imagine who would be more enamoured by your library, my father or myself.”
Archer’s face closed down as swiftly as Miss Webber’s lit up. Satisfied with the one, if not the other, Elsabeth selected a book and retired to a chair, whereupon the gathered card-players took it upon themselves to resume the conversation they had been engaged in before her arrival. Or perhaps not, Elsabeth thought; Miss Webber was quite of a mind to discuss Streyfield now, and to put the invitation to Elsa in its proper light. “It has been such a long time since we have been to Streyfield ourselves, Mr Archer. I do long to see it again, and even more, to see your sweet sister Persephone.”
Elsabeth, all unintending, made a noise of surprise. The entire party turned their attention to her, Archer most of all. “I beg your pardon, Miss Elsabeth?”
“Forgive me, Mr Archer. I was only surprised to hear your sister’s name. It is both classic and unusual, is it not? And if I may say so, a rather dreadful thing to do to a child. I believe I should grow up with a fear of spending half my days in the sunless shadows of Hades, with a name like that.”
Beyond Archer, Miss Webber’s eyes assumed a roundness so profound, it could only be thought of as bulging; Elsabeth, trying not to think that, trained her gaze on Archer, whose lips were compressed in an expression made equally of dislike and approval. “You are correct. Our mother died in childbirth, and to my father, my sister’s birth was therefore a source of both the brightest joy and deepest grief. Her name reflects that conflict. I do not often speak of this, Miss Elsabeth, but you are...uncommonly insightful.”
“Oh, Mr Archer,” Elsabeth said, faint with horror. “Forgive me. I should never have been so opinionated.”
“I am beginning to believe that there is no power of this earth that could cause you to be otherwise,” Archer replied, and, with this comment, returned to the game. This time, although the conversation continued about the charming Miss Archer, touching on her accomplishments and indeed the accomplishments of all young ladies, Elsabeth did not again join the discussion. Nor did she recall a single word of the book she read, though periodically she thought to turn the page, as would be naturally expected. Twice as she gazed sightlessly at the pages, she saw Mr Archer glance her way, as if he expected another interjection, and though she had many thoughts on their topic, she resolutely held her tongue until the hour had grown late enough that she could politely take her leave and return to Rosamund’s side.
There, Rosamund, who was not at all better but who had wakened, was subjected to a nearly endless flurry of exclamations regarding Elsa’s own lack of discretion, Miss Webber’s endless litany of the traits that an accomplished woman might call her own—all of which Miss Archer displayed in spades, and which Miss Webber, by extrapolation, was presumed to command—and finally Mr Archer’s opinions regarding how over-used the term accomplished was, given what he himself regarded as necessary to deserve the word.
“I should like to see any gentleman with as many skills as an accomplished woman of Mr Archer’s acquaintance must display,” Elsa finally snapped in a proper fury. “I should think he knows not a single soul of accomplishment, man or woman, for his standards are impossible and he is himself odious beyond measure.”
By the end of her outburst, Rosamund sat cross-legged beneath the duvet, her smiling face cupped in her hands and the beads of sweat on her brow fading. “I believe you have chased my fever away with your outrage,” announced Rosa happily. “I believe I shall sleep well now, Elsa, although I will cringe a little for that remark you made about Miss Archer’s name. Please, if I may have a little water, then you shall lie down with me and I will sleep in the eye of my sister’s storm.” And, upon receiving the asked-for water, so she did.
(12)
Rosamund was, if not well, at least past danger by morning; this, Elsa was pleased to report to her hosts, though it was the combined opinion of both the doctor, who had, after all, been called for the night before and who arrived early in the morning, and of Mrs Dover, who had not been called for at all but who arrived with her two youngest daughters in a flurry of concern only shortly after the doctor, that to move Rosamund now would be beyond the pale. The doctor’s opinion was borne from a concern for relapse; Mrs Dover’s, from a concern for marriage: the longer Rosa stayed under the Newsbury roof, the more time Mr Webber had to fall deeply in love with her. Once satisfied that her eldest was not in any real danger, there could be, in Mrs Dover’s opinion, no more suitable situation than Rosamund remain at Newbury to convalesce.
It was therefore with great passion that, at breakfast, Mrs Dover informed Mr Webber that Rosamund was very poorly indeed and could not possibly be moved for some time yet.
“Move her!” cried Webber. “I should think not! She must remain here, under the best care the doctor can offer! I will hear nothing else! And Miss Elsabeth must stay as well, for of course Miss Dover will not recover so quickly without her sister’s presence for comfort.”
“It will be our delight to have them,” Miss Webber said in a tone of rote necessity that Mrs Dover heard as nothing less than genuine welcome. Leopoldina, who was as selective of hearing as her mother, sought an opportunity in Miss Webber’s words to invite herself to stay at Newsbury; Elsabeth, neither so selective of hearing nor in the least unwise in her youngest sister’s ways, shifted in her chair and put a foot firmly on top of Dina’s, pressing down until the younger girl glowered and thus missed the moment of opportunity.
Mrs Dover’s foot, much to Elsabeth’s regret, was out of reach; she had no way to prevent her mother from thanking the Webbers with too great enthusiasm, or from sitting straight and putting on what she imagined to be the airs of a great lady as she complimented the Newsbury lands, overlooks and rooms. “There is not a prettier place to be found in the country,” she declared. “I hope you will not quit it any time soon, Mr Webber. It should break all of our hearts, and I dare say you could find no more agreeable young lady in all of England than our Rosamund to pass a summer day with. She is quite the prettiest girl in the county, though I am of course biased. But others have said so as well, s
o I think perhaps my fondness does not entirely turn my head the wrong way on this matter. And there are such charming people here, Mr Webber, more charming, I should think, than you will find in the city.”
As each of their hosts was most lately from Town, and as Mr Webber himself had no country lands to claim as his own as Mr Archer did, this observation was met with a certain pointed silence that Mrs Dover did not notice at all. Indeed, she carried on blithely, full of conviction that the country was superior in every way to Town, save, she admitted, for the shops; the people, she felt, were quite the best in the country.
“It has been some time since you yourself have lived in London,” Miss Webber observed in a tone meant to question.
“Oh yes,” Mrs Dover replied, and then to the astonishment of Webbers, Gibbses and Archers alike, her ready, bubbling speech came to a sudden halt, a breath trapped behind sharply pursed lips. For the briefest moment, the Dover ladies did not look at one another at all, as if for fear doing so would betray the secret held close to each of their hearts. Then Mrs Dover rallied, as light and airy as she had ever been. “That is how I know the country to be more suitable: I have never had any desire to return to London myself.”
“But you always say—!“ Dina’s outburst was silenced not by a pressing foot this time, but by Elsabeth’s swift kick to her sister’s shin.
Mrs Dover fixed her youngest with a gimlet stare. “That I am grateful for the peace and quiet of the country, which is a far more suitable place to raise a large family than London’s bustle. I am sure you would agree, Mr Webber, would you not? Can you imagine any better place to bring up sons and daughters than this very house?”
“I cannot,” Mr Webber said obligingly, “but then, I am happiest wherever I am in the very moment that I am there, Mrs Dover. It is my gift and my curse to be a simple man made happy by simple things. I have little ambition but a great deal of enjoyment in the world.”
