Magic and Manners (An Austen Chronicle Book 1)

by CE Murphy

  “I cannot put you out!” Elsabeth said, shocked, but Sophia shook her head with a smile.

  “I am certain Julia will allow me to share her bed tonight and as many nights as need be, whilst Rosamund regains her strength.”

  Elsabeth embraced her. “You are the most generous of souls, Sophia. I only hope Miss Webber is as amenable as you imagine.”

  Miss Webber proved to be an enthusiastic proponent of the plan, and, with the smallest fuss possible, Rosamund was installed in Sophia’s room, with Elsabeth attending her. Behind the safety of locked doors, Elsa felt no compunction against fanning the fire to unlikely heights, and slept very little until near dawn, when Rosamund sighed suddenly and fell into a sleep that seemed more natural than the laudanum-induced torpor.

  A knock awakened Elsabeth at what seemed to be no more than moments after she succumbed to sleep, although from the light at the window she saw it had been a few hours. Rosamund stirred without wakening, and Elsa pressed a kiss to her still-warm brow before hurrying to the door.

  A maid bearing a tray of toast, egg mash, sausages and tea stood on its threshold, smiling hopefully. “We thought nothing too strong of scent, though I’m happy to bring you something of more substance if you wish, Miss.”

  “This will be perfect,” Elsabeth assured her. “Thank you. I shall send word of Rosamund’s health in a little while.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsey and hurried off as Elsabeth brought the tray into the room. Rosamund sat up, angelic with confusion. “Wherever are we, Elsa?”

  Elsa gave a glad cry and ran to embrace her sister. “You are awake! And we are at Sophia’s room at the Webbers’ town house. Rosamund, you must listen to me now, and take what I say to heart. You have been—you are—very ill. It is the doctor’s order that you must make use of your magic.”

  Astonishment pulled a gentle laugh from Rosa’s throat. “That cannot be true.”

  “But it is,” Elsa replied softly.

  “How can he even know I have magic, much less that I must use it? Why must I? Am I to condemn myself in Society?”

  “It was Doctor Swift, the noted battlefield doctor, who tended to you. He has seen the effects of magic denied before, so knew before we even spoke what you suffered. Rosamund, I do not wish to frighten you—”

  “I am already frightened!”

  “Then begin with this: the tea is too hot to drink. Make me an ice-drop for my cup, and one for your own. You must, Rosa. We will be cautious, but you must use your magic.”

  Rosamund cast a furtive glance toward the door, then extended a finger as if to drip ice into the teacups. “I shall cool your tea, but—oh!” Ice cascaded from her fingertip, filling Elsa’s cup to the brim and spilling over in glacial ripples. Rosamund clenched her fingers shut, then pressed her fist against her mouth to gaze in horror at what she had wrought. “That has never happened before!”

  “Perhaps it is that there is so much magic pent up in your blood that controlling it is difficult,” Elsabeth hazarded. “The doctor said it has begun to poison you, Rosa; that is why it must be spent. If trying such a small task achieves such results, you may need to try something larger, to expend as much at once as possible. I wonder; could you conjure a storm?”

  Rosamund wrenched her gaze from the ice-filled teacup to look in astonishment at Elsabeth. “I cannot unleash a storm in London, Elsabeth, even if it were within my power to do so. First and least importantly, I should no doubt be discovered as the heart of it, but far more importantly, think of all the poor souls who can barely heat their homes to begin with! I might kill hundreds! Even thousands!”

  “Then we must return to Bodton, where there are fewer lives to risk and far more countryside to spread a storm across. I am sure Mr Webber will lend us a carriage. We will leave today.”

  “This is madness! You cannot be serious!”

  “This is your life, Rosamund. I have never been more serious.”

  “My life?”

  “So the doctor said.” Elsa took Rosa’s hands, which were cold in her own. “It happens more to ladies of gentle birth than anyone else, he says. We are so forbidden to have magic that we deny it, and, in time, we die of it. Mamma and Papa did us more kindness by moving us to the forgiving countryside than they knew. You are very ill, Rosamund; please, let me take you home to heal, in whatever manner is necessary.”

  “And what will we tell the Webbers?” Rosamund whispered. “That I am weak with fevers, as I was at Newsbury? What a useless creature they will see me as.”

  “But you are not,” Elsabeth rejoindered gently. “You are ill only because you have fought so hard against the magic in your veins; release it and you will regain more strength than I dare say you ever knew yourself to have. The Webbers—Mr Webber, at least—will think none the less of you for it; that I can promise. Now, Rosa: eat, while I arrange a carriage, and inform Aunt Felicity that we must leave at once.”

  Rosa, more petulantly than Elsa had ever before heard her, said, “I don’t want to eat.”

  “You must. It will help you to keep from flying away from me, Rosa. I shall send Mr Webber in to make certain you have a few bites, at least; I know you cannot resist his pleas, even if you might resist mine.”

  “That is not fair.”

  Elsabeth smiled. “I know.”

  Emotion akin to anger flushed Rosamund’s face. “Then at least allow me to dress in something more suitable to having Mr Webber nursemaid me. Sophia will not mind if I borrow one of her morning dresses.”

  “And you will look very fashionable indeed,” Elsa agreed a moment later from within Sophia’s wardrobe; even her morning dresses were of a certain elevated degree now that she was so familiar with Town. In a few minutes, Rosamund was dressed in the warmest of Sophia’s outfits and looking very well as Elsabeth went in search of Mr Webber.

  She did not have far to go: he paced the hall beyond, and fell upon Elsabeth with thanks when she invited him to oversee Rosamund’s breakfast. He hurried within, leaving the door open for propriety, and Rosamund, who was of a mind to deny even Mr Webber, found herself blushing suddenly at the look of raw relief and love that flooded his face as he stepped into the room.

  “Mr Webber,” Rosamund said, steeling herself, and then fell silent in astonishment as he dropped to his knees before her, words rushing from him.

  “I am here to make certain you eat breakfast.”

  A touch of laughter filled Rosamund’s voice, and, with that laughter, she could not deny the fondness she felt for the gentleman. “This is a somewhat dramatic pose from which to implore me to eat, Mr Webber.”

  “But it is the very best possible pose to ask that—once you are done with breakfast—you marry me, Miss Dover.”

  Joy and sorrow both rose in Rosamund Dover’s breast, until her eyes brightened with tears. “At the very moment I am finished? Is that when this wedding should take place? But I cannot, Mr Webber.” The answer broke, and she made to turn away, but Webber caught her hand and turned her gently back again.

  “Because you are ill?” he asked softly. “Because of the source of that illness? I know all, Rosamund. I was with Miss Elsabeth last night when the doctor came, and even if I had not been, she employed her own personal and remarkable talent to warm you in the carriage from the ball to this house. I know that you are gifted with magic, and I know that, to live, you must use it. Do not deny me on that front. Deny me, if you must, because you do not love me; deny me because I have been a coward and allowed myself to be led into believing that you did not care, but do not deny me because you fear or loathe your own sorcery: it is a part of you, and I could not but love it for so being.”

  Tears were fresh upon Rosamund’s cheeks long before he finished speaking, and her hands trembled in his. For the first time, nervousness came into Webber’s voice. “You do love me, do you not, Miss Dover?”

  “I do!” cried Rosamund. “Oh, Mr Webber, I do! Oh, there is nothing in the world that could make me happier than to be your wif
e, and if I must eat breakfast and conjure storms to prove it, then I shall! Oh, I shall!”

  Webber came to his feet and caught Rosamund in an embrace that crushed the breath from her, then, smiling so broadly that it was nearly a laugh, he drew her toward the breakfast that had been set aside. “Then eat, and we shall be wed. Well, after I have asked your father’s permission. And after the bans have been published. And—”

  “And after I am well,” Rosamund whispered, and sat down to eat.

  (45)

  The storm that saw the Dover daughters back into Bodton was spoken of for more than a century, as children caught in its wonder aged and spoke of it to their own children, who in later years told their children and grandchildren of it as well. Snow flew for three days, burying all of Bodton in a blanket four feet deep; the new bridge strained under its weight, and Rosamund Dover lost the unhealthy flush that had haunted her for so long. If the thaw that followed came on more swiftly than might be expected, and found hay and homes drier in its aftermath than anyone had predicted, then no one felt any urge to complain, and one or two more generous souls may have even tipped their hats in the direction of Oakden, when they imagined no one else could see.

  Mr Webber installed himself once more at Newsbury, and showed no signs of dismay that his sisters seemed disinclined to join him there. Indeed, he was rarely to be found there himself: having gained the sought-after permission from Mr Dover to wed Miss Dover, the young lovers were not often parted. Mrs Dover’s delight could not be contained.

  Nor could Leopoldina’s dismay. She did not resent that Rosa was to be married; she resented that she was not, and would not understand when the strictures set against her socialising extended out of winter and into the spring. “I have barely been out, Mamma,” she was heard to complain more than once. “You certainly cannot bring me back in!”

  “We shall see what is to be done after Rosa is married,” Mrs Dover oft replied, and, to no one’s astonishment more than Dina’s, appeared to mean it: Rosamund’s exceedingly fortunate marriage, so nearly thwarted, was not now to be threatened by anything, even Mrs Dover’s favourite daughter.

  “It is made worse,” Matilda confided to Elsabeth one afternoon, “because Captain Hartnell stopped calling so often when you were gone, and then the regiment was sent away for exercises. For six weeks, we had almost no social activity at all, Elsa, and none with young men. I pretended I was you, and read books and walked with Papa in the gardens to discuss them.”

  “Did you!” Elsa cried in astonishment. “Very good, Tildy! And was Papa pleased?”

  “Delighted, I think,” Matilda confessed shyly. “He said perhaps I was not so silly as Dina after all, and gave me more books to read. So, I passed our quiet winter with more enjoyment than I had expected, but Leopoldina has been almost unable to bear it. Elsa, when Captain Hartnell comes calling again...will you marry him?”

  “I will not.” Although she did not consider herself faint of heart, Elsabeth was not saddened that the regiment was away. A frank conversation with Captain Hartnell was inevitable, but should he not return until after Rosamund’s wedding, Elsabeth would not be troubled by it. She had read Archer’s letter so many times now, she knew its words by heart, and she could not comfortably reconcile the tale he told with Hartnell’s own. They were too alike, save Archer’s contained unsavory details that any man, wishing to present himself in a favourable light, might be inclined to edit them from his own history. But presuming they were true—and Elsabeth’s disinclination to believe Archer was in this instance mitigated by the uncomfortable fact that he had chosen to include his own sister as part of the narrative, a choice she could not imagine him making if it was not in pursuit of the truth—then a man who chose to elide those details from his own history was by his very nature untrustworthy.

  Elsabeth sighed, aware that she had fallen into silence and that Tildy had allowed it for some long moments, although she now looked at Elsabeth with curiosity. “No, I will not marry Captain Hartnell,” Elsabeth repeated. “And neither should Dina, although I cannot imagine a way to tell her so without sending her directly into his arms.”

  “Find her another beau,” Tildy said with such alarming pragmatism that Elsabeth laughed.

  “And then one for you, Tildy, and then all of my sisters will be happily wed. I could ask for nothing more.”

  “Not even a husband for yourself?”

  “I have yet to meet the man I would want to marry,” Elsabeth replied cheerfully. “Should I, then I will be happily wed. Should I not, then I will read books with Papa and be Mamma’s despair until I am old and grey with them.”

  “But we will not allow that to happen,” Mr Webber said, opening the parlour door to enter with Rosamund. “Surely, between us all, we might find some fellow suitable to you, Miss Elsabeth.”

  “You may try. So long as he is intelligent, well-mannered, inclined to walking and ideally wealthy, I will be satisfied.”

  “Should he not be young and handsome as well?” asked Rosamund, smiling.

  “Oh, young. Youth would do me very well. I should not mind if he was as handsome as Mr Webber, either, but I think a lively mind and humour make a man handsome even if his features are imperfect. Have you any candidates in mind, then, Mr Webber?”

  “I shall draw up a list,” Webber replied solemnly, and Leopoldina came running at their laughter to discover what diversion she was missing. The afternoon was passed in pleasantry, as many before and after passed, until May, and Rosamund’s wedding, were upon them.

  Hers was a grander affair than Ruth’s, with innumerable visitors from London and the whole of Newsbury Manor bustling with activity. Sophia Enton finally returned to Bodton, but announced she would stay at Newsbury with Miss Webber. Mrs Enton descended upon Mrs Dover to proclaim her distress over the whole matter, for what kind of daughter would refuse her own mother’s house, and Sophia not even engaged after an entire Season in London—a Season held at the Webbers’ expense, of course, and therefore not of such import to Mrs Enton that Sophia had not been successful—and what would Sophia do when Miss Webber married and no longer required a female companion: she surely could not then be expected to return to Mrs Enton’s house, which was, Mrs Dover shrewdly concluded, the crux of the matter. Mrs Enton saw herself as finally ridded of her unmarriageable daughter, and did not wish to re-enter that state of maternal uncertainty.

  “It will all work out,” Mrs Dover promised Mrs Enton with a confidence borne from having had, a year earlier, five unmarried daughters with no confident prospects, and now having one married with a child on the way—for Ruth had arrived for Rosa’s wedding in a most decidedly gravid state, and Mr Cox, his weight reduced considerably again, had spoken pompously of the inevitable son spending a great deal of time at Oakden, which would, after all, be his inheritance—and another about to marry a rich man.

  “Perhaps,” Mrs Enton responded with a note of determined despair, for she intended fully on leaving for the continent in the summer and not returning, possibly for years: Sophia’s fate would be her own, and Mrs Enton was more than content with that, if also sensible to the fact she could not be seen to be so little concerned.

  For Elsa’s part, she was only delighted to have Sophia in Bodton again, if only for a little while: she could not fool herself into imagining that Sophia would not return to London with Miss Webber, nor could she wish, except briefly and selfishly, for Sophia to choose otherwise. London suited her far better than Bodton, and with Mr Webber safely on the verge of marrying Rosamund, Elsa’s dislike for Miss Webber, of whom Sophia was clearly so fond, receded. It could not fade entirely, though in moments when she found Miss Webber vexing, Elsabeth reminded herself that Mr Archer had, however unwelcomed, proposed to her, and had clearly not made the same offer to Miss Webber. This thought was prone to bringing a smile to her lips, and though Miss Webber did not care for that smile, neither could she object to the appearance of friendly overtures from Miss Elsabeth, and a sort o
f peace was established between them.

  It was generally received with surprise in Bodton that Mr Archer attended the wedding, although Elsabeth would have regarded it as the height of bad manners for him to avoid it. He and Webber were too close of friends, and despite Mr Webber’s sudden confidence in his suit upon Rosamund’s illness, Elsa could not believe that he would not still have sought Archer’s approval. That he would have carried through with it regardless she did believe, but his was a gentle soul, and his happiness would come as much from his friend’s blessing as his love for Rosamund. Archer could not refuse to attend without breaking Mr Webber’s heart, and they were of too equal a social standing for Archer to find that acceptable.

  So Elsabeth and Archer stood among the bride and groom’s attendees, distantly polite to one another, and, when obliged to dance, did so with grace and little conversation beyond Mr Archer’s enquiry of “Have you spoken with Captain Hartnell?” and Elsabeth’s response of “He has been away.”

  Another topic lay upon her tongue but could not be voiced: she had not spoken with him in any measure since the night Rosamund had fainted and he had encouraged her to reveal her own magic in order to help save Rosa’s life. That had been a concession far beyond any expectation she had of him, and it was difficult not to soften a little in its face, even to regret her harsh—if just!—words to him on the day he had proposed. But discussion of neither magic nor marriage could be broached in public, or indeed at all; one was impolite for Society and the other an embarrassment for all parties. They parted civilly at the end of their dance and did not speak to one another again.

  Mrs Penney, Elsa’s beloved aunt, came to embrace her at the end of the day, as Rosamund and Webber, both shining with joy, drove away in a carriage pulled by four extravagantly white horses and under a cascade of petals that scented the air magnificently. “Are you very sad to see her go, my dear?”

  “Oh,” Elsa burst, and could not decide if she would prefer to laugh or cry. “Yes, but also no, Aunt Felicity. She will be very happy, and I want nothing more. But I will miss her terribly, and, without Sophia, I shall find myself quite bereft. It will not last,” she added for her own benefit as well as Mrs Penney’s. “I am not suited to being long sorrowful. But I will miss her. Thank heavens for Peters,” she concluded quite suddenly. “He is a good man and will keep the rest of the servants from taking too much advantage of them. They are both so kind.”