Magic and Manners (An Austen Chronicle Book 1)

by CE Murphy

  “I cannot imagine that she would agree to such a scheme.”

  Elsabeth’s smile sharpened as a plot occurred to her. “Then I shall ask my aunt, with whom my sister Rosamund is currently staying, to have you visit. I shall suggest to her that she put on a performance of dismay that a young woman as lovely as yourself, with such excellent connections, has not yet been brought out, and she shall propose to Lady Beatrice that if she cannot manage to bring you out, then perhaps my aunt could be of some small service to her Ladyship and bear the expense of bringing you out herself.”

  Miss Derrington’s lips parted in astonishment. “Mother could never allow that. The very idea would be an insult!”

  “I imagine so. And so you will achieve what you wish: a Season in London, and I dare say the freedom to choose your own husband, if you pursue it with conviction.”

  “Miss Elsabeth, are you always so cunning?”

  “No.” All the sharpness left Elsa’s tone and she knew that what remained of her smile was sorrowful. “Not always.” Were she always, she might have laid the blame for Mr Webber’s departure at Archer’s feet directly; instead, she had supposed it was Miss Webber who had persuaded Mr Webber away from Bodton. She spoke a little while longer with Miss Derrington, and left her determined to speak to Lady Beatrice about a Season; that seemed both monumental and minimal, in the face of what she had learned about Archer’s behaviour. And to think that, only that morning, she had thought of softening toward him! No: she had not been wrong from the start, to think him arrogant and cruel, concerned only with his own position and superiority.

  Her sedate walk home became a blind run when she passed out of sight of Charington Place, and did not resume a more casual pace until she was very near the vicarage. There she smiled and did supper duties with Ruth, then, pleading weariness after a day of refreshing exercise, retired to her room to weep for Rosamund’s loss, and the mercilessness of the very wealthy.

  (39)

  A knock came on Elsabeth’s door early the next morning: Ruth, pleasantly awake and prepared for the day, invited her to visit other parish houses. Elsa pleaded a headache that nearly had Ruth staying home, but Elsabeth promised that she would be much restored by a cup of tea and a quiet morning alone. Ruth assured her Mr Cox would be busy out of the house until at least the middle afternoon, and departed with a concerned glance over her shoulder. Elsabeth waved her away and returned to bed for a little while, until the temptation of tea was too great to ignore, and, in a morning dress with a dressing gown over it, made her way to the kitchen.

  Even the cook was out, perhaps searching for the evening meal. Elsabeth, relieved by the solitude, sat by the fire with her tea and thought bleakly of Rosamund’s dashed prospects. An unsuitable family: how dare Archer make that determination if Webber himself had not! And even if they were—and they were, Elsa admitted that in the privacy of her own thoughts; they were unsuitable by Society’s standards, beleaguered by magic as they were—but even if they were, Rosamund herself was the most suitable creature to have ever lived, even touched by a little gift of sorcery! Even Ruth, primmest of the sisters, proved to find a sensible use for her talent, and if Ruth could embrace such skill, then Mr Webber, by far a mellower soul than Ruth, could overlook it, had he not been misled by the odious Mr Archer.

  A knock came on the door in the midst of her raging thoughts; Elsabeth threw off her dressing gown and stormed through the house to answer it in a fury that lent magnificent height to her colour and snapping vividness to her dark eyes. Anyone who stood beyond the threshold might have been stunned by it, but it was Archer who stood there, and he was in the moment of her arrival thunderstruck. To him, it was as if a living goddess had struck open the door that he might gaze upon her glory; this, with the memories of her laughter and her dancing in the distance, with the recollection of her arch conversation and uninhibited delight of playing in the snow, moved him to speak freely and without caution to the astonishing creature before him.

  “I had thought myself twice or more in danger at Newsbury, but knew myself to be beyond danger only yesterday. Miss Elsabeth, I cannot repress my feelings; I cannot look upon you and not speak those feelings you have awakened in my breast. You must allow me to tell you how much I love and admire you, and upon the strength of these emotions I must ask you to marry me.”

  Not even Elsabeth could retain her outrage in the face of such an astonishing speech delivered upon the vicarage doorstep. Nor could she command voice of her own, and only gazed at Archer in wordless amazement. He took this as encouragement and stepped forward, seizing her hands in his own; his, Elsabeth noted, were warm, and though she would have said a moment earlier that her own burned with fire, they were now cold and small in his. She regarded them briefly, then, still unable to speak, felt obliged to look up again as Archer spoke on.

  “I am not insensible to the difficulties offered by not only your social status but your family’s peculiarities, and yet I find I cannot allow them to dictate my feelings, much as I know they should. There is nothing to be done: my heart is yours and I must rise above the inferiority of your status in order to have you as mine. I am even willing to risk having children with you: that is the depth of the love and desire that have come to command me.”

  “Oh,” Elsabeth said in a voice hardly recognisable as her own. Her hands were warm again, not from borrowed heat but of their own fast-flowing blood. She disengaged them from Archer’s and took several steps down the hall; a bit of reflection showed her how Archer took a step after her, as if surprised that she had left. She turned then, voice quite in control, if honed to a cutting edge. “How very generous of you, sir. How generous of you to overlook the circumstances of my birth, which were not as fortunate as yours, and to overlook my family’s peculiarities, which I assure you I am myself in full possession of.”

  “Yes.” Archer smiled as if suddenly relieved. “Yes, it is generous, and I am gladdened to hear that you understand that, for it is not easy for a man of my station to—”

  “Be rejected in a proposal of marriage?”

  Archer flinched and stepped back as though she had struck a blow: it had not, she saw, occurred to him that she might deny him. Nor was she unaware of the import of his asking: he was of more elite breeding, and to propose marriage to a lady of her class, whose family was rumoured to be magic-ridden, was indeed a great stride for such a man.

  True love, Elsabeth felt, would not feel the need to dwell on those topics as Archer had. “I should offer an apology for disappointing you, Mr Archer, and I would, save that I feel that an offer of marriage should not come hand in hand with a litany of insults; it is no delight to be proposed to by a man with a list of reasons as to why he must act against his better judgement to make the proposal. Moreover, even if you had foregone such charming footnotes, even if you had been a gentleman worthy of the title since the hour I met you, how could you ever imagine I should agree to marry the man who has been the architect of a beloved sister’s unhappiness?”

  For the second time, Archer startled. Elsabeth pressed forward, fingers snapping with outrage. “And yet you now dare lower yourself to propose to me, when you would not permit Webber, a far more amiable soul, to marry Rosamund, and instead left him looking like a creature of caprice and my poor sister looking a fool for disappointed hopes? That is an unforgivable offence, Mr Archer, and were Webber a whit less kind-hearted, he, too, might have rejected you as I do!”

  By this time, Archer’s control had returned, as had a measure of icy calm in his voice. “I make no apologies for separating them; I believed then and believe now that it was the only appropriate action to take. I thought it wiser to allow him Miss Dover’s memory than the unpleasant discovery of—”

  “Of what, Mr Archer? Do finish so that I might fully understand why you have destroyed Rosamund’s future.”

  “Of her family’s magic,” Archer replied in deadly tones and after only the briefest of hesitations. “It is known in Bodton that you
r youngest sisters and father, at the least, are inclined toward sorcery, and I have made discreet enquiries in London. Old rumour tells tales of all your family being afflicted with magic, although I confess I have seen no indication of it in you or Miss Dover, and cannot imagine it of Mrs Cox.”

  “No wonder you were able to lower yourself to propose to me. Let me set your mind at ease on the topic, Mr Archer. I am most thoroughly afflicted, as you call it! Let me show you the power I am invested with, that you can be quite certain of your folly!” It was no difficulty to call her natural flame to hand, balls of it in her palms and flickers dancing from her fingertips. “There! Is this what you wish to have proven?” Elsabeth flung a palmful of fire the length of the hall, casting shadows where none had been before, and threw sprites of flame about Archer himself. Not at him; even in her fury, she could never threaten a living creature with the pain of fire, but about him, so that it spun and darted an arm’s-length halo. Archer, to his credit, did not look in the least afraid or even astonished, although his attention was fully taken by the fire. It burnished his skin, bringing out its warmth, and reflected in his eyes as he turned his gaze from it to Elsabeth.

  “I wonder that any of your family has gone unremarked-upon, if this is the display you are prone to when in a temper. The floor-boards at the ball: that was not my clumsiness, then. I only wonder if it was your own insulted heart that laid me out, or if another of your clan rose to defend you.”

  “I take no shame in admitting that it was I, nor any more shame in being born to magic than Captain Hartnell does! Oh, do not imagine I know nothing of your treatment of him! Rather than allow him the best years of his life in independence, you have reduced him to the comparative poverty of a soldier, all for what you consider a taint!”

  Elsabeth’s fires winked out with a clench of her fist, leaving Archer quite inscrutable in the comparative darkness, and it was with remarkable calm that he replied, “You are too concerned with Captain Hartnell’s misfortunes.”

  “And why should I not be, when that which has driven them is that which you have condemned my own sister for, and that which you are willing to risk your own status and heirs upon!”

  “Do you think I should take joy in your misfortunes?” demanded Archer. “Do you feel I should make light of those scruples that I have mentioned? I cannot, nor would I have dreamt that a female such as yourself might not appreciate the honesty I have shown in admitting to them! That I am prideful I will not deny, but neither can I bear deception, which I might have believed you had yourself realised and even admired! No: I will not rejoice in the inferiority of your connexions nor the magic that afflicts your family, but I am surprised that you list my honesty amongst your reasons for refusing me.”

  “You fail to understand, Mr Archer. All your honesty has done is removed any sense of compassion or concern that I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanly manner.”

  For the third time, Archer looked startled, but did not speak; Elsabeth took advantage to press her point: “I assure you, Mr Archer, that I should have refused you regardless; there are no circumstances that might have persuaded me to accept your offer. You hold in disdain the feelings of others, whilst impressing with arrogance and conceit the superiority of your own position and manners. I give you the great credit of doubt to say I had known you a full month before I was certain you were the last man in the world that I could ever wish to marry.”

  “You have made yourself perfectly clear, madam. I beg your forgiveness for taking up so much of your time.” Archer snapped his heels together and turned for the door; only when he reached it did he pause and say, “Please accept my best wishes for your health and happiness, Miss Elsabeth. Good day.”

  With these words, he departed, leaving Elsabeth to fall against the wall in tremulous shock. But the wall was not support enough: she slipped down it to sit on the cut stone floor, and gazed, shaking, at the door through which Archer had left. That he loved her! That he should ask for her hand in marriage! These were not possible things, and a great trembling sob caught her chest. For some time, she sat against the wall, surprised at the strength of her tears, which were born of high anger, not regret, and which faded only when the sudden thought of her cold tea came to mind. She rose from the hall and returned to the kitchen to boil a second kettle, and sat staring over her teacup’s rim for immeasurable time, until she heard the sounds of someone returning home and, unable to face the prospect of conversation, fled to her room.

  (40)

  When she was obliged to finally leave her room and meet with others, Elsabeth felt the day passed as a performance: she behaved as though nothing untoward had happened, and Ruth, knowing no better, accepted this performance as entirely natural. Elsabeth slept poorly and rose early to take breakfast and a walk, the latter of which was first begun along familiar paths, and then, when she realised how close it might bring her to Charington Place, struck out among the trees in search of solitude. She could not leave behind the astonishment of the previous day’s encounter no matter how she strove, nor the varied degrees of offence that had been given and taken alike. She longed to visit Miss Derrington, or better still, Rosamund, but she was meant as Ruth’s companion for weeks yet; there could be no swift departure on her part, and she could only hope that Mr Archer might find reason to leave Charington soon on his own. Surely, every meal taken at the manor house would be a misery otherwise, and there could be no satisfactory explanation as to why without revealing at least some of Mr Archer’s ill-conceived emotions—or worse yet, perhaps, some mention of her own display of fiery temper.

  That was an action upon which she had not permitted herself to dwell. Elsabeth sank to a snow-covered branch with a moan, and sat silent in the wood for some time, thinking once and again on her foolish confirmation of the Dover magic. Rosamund would never have stooped to such absurd behaviour, nor Ruth. Leopoldina and Matilda, perhaps, but that was a brush with which Elsabeth did not want to paint herself; a brush with which even Mr Archer had avoided painting her up until then. Nor was there any taking it back; the damage was done, and, for all of Elsabeth’s admonishments to the younger sisters, it was she who had in the end perhaps condemned them all to spinsterhood. Although Mr Archer had shown no fear, he could not be expected to hold his tongue on the matter Elsabeth had made so clear to him, though—bright and happy thought!—perhaps he would not wish to explain what extraordinary circumstances had caused Elsabeth to display her talents in such a spectacular manner.

  And then as quickly into woe again: they were not, as a family, known for being circumspect; few would question it if Archer presumed to speak and simply imply Elsabeth had been taken by a fit of boldness. So consumed was she with these thoughts, she did not hear Archer approach until he cleared his throat; then she came to her feet in a startle, and without thinking, accepted a letter that he offered to her.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I have been obliged to follow your footprints in the snow to find you, when I could not find you at home. Do not be afraid: I have not come to pursue the topic that you found so distasteful yesterday. Indeed, all I wish to say is written within that letter, and yet, having put it in your hands, I fear I am embracing a kind of cowardice, and that I should instead speak what I have struggled to write. Will you allow me?”

  Startlement impelled a candid response: “Could I prevent you?”

  “With a word.”

  Elsabeth gazed a moment at the gentleman before her. “I believe you mean that.” In that moment, she was decided, and sat again on her branch in a posture of acceptance.

  Almost instantly, Archer turned his back, as he could not both look upon her and speak. “There are two matters I would discuss with you. I only ask that you try to put aside your disgust for me and listen without prejudice, as I am putting aside my own pride to speak.”

  No lady could admit to the sound of derision that passed Elsabeth’s lips upon hearing those words, but neither could any merely mort
al creature fail to listen on, now that curiosity had been awakened. Archer turned his head at her sound, and she covered it with a cough. The corner of his mouth turned upward, though she could not say that humour propelled the expression. “The first is the matter of your sister and Mr Webber. Let me address this first: I am guilty, as you say, of parting them. I believe all of my reasons were good ones, but there is one, beyond the matter of your family’s...talent...that has not been addressed, and which, in the end, I felt was stronger even than the question of suitability. Webber is, as you say, an extraordinarily amiable soul, and I have seen him fall in love a dozen times. I should have thought his attachment to your sister no more than that, save as the days progressed, his demeanour toward her seemed ever softer, until I believed him truly in love. Upon my realisation that it was generally thought in Bodton that he would propose, I felt obliged to consider Miss Dover’s presentation of affection, and that was what I found so lacking as to be the final push to move me as I did.”

  Archer paused and gathered himself. “From your consternation over her grief, of the wrong done to her, and of her disappointed hopes, I am forced to consider that I have been wrong in this matter. I should not think a young lady who had formed no attachment could be disappointed in hopes save for frivolously, nor—and I am uncomfortable thinking of this in regards to my own actions—seem as unwell as I believed her to look in London.”

  This statement by itself was enough to drive Elsabeth to her feet as if she would set off for London at that very moment; Mr Archer, sensing her intentions, lifted a hand. “You cannot be there more swiftly than if I was to drive you there myself; knowing this, will you not hold a little longer, and listen?”