by CE Murphy
“They are, and they shall live generously and gently. I think you will see her often, Elsabeth. She is too fond of you to be long parted from you, and then you will see Sophia as well.”
“Miss Webber will not be forever under her brother’s roof, and Sophia must marry as well, sometime, else how is she to survive?”
A gentle smile curved Mrs Penney’s mouth. “Miss Webber’s inheritance is not inconsiderable, and Mr Webber would never keep it from her if she chooses not to marry. I do not believe she intends to.”
“But she is quite attached to Mr Archer.”
“She is quite attached to Miss Enton,” Mrs Penney replied. “Mr Archer is no more to her than the means to a socially acceptable end. If she marries, it will not be him.”
Elsabeth’s eyebrows furrowed, then cleared as she smiled. “Then perhaps Sophia can have him after all. He was greatly admiring of her once.”
Mrs Penney laughed. “Yes, Elsabeth. Perhaps so. Now, shall we retire to the—Elsabeth? What is it?” For her niece had gone quite rigid at her side, and now stood blushing as she gazed into the distance. Mrs Penney peered through the afternoon light to catch a glimpse of sunshine falling against red-clad shoulders, and at once understood. “Very well, then: go, and if you need a listening ear later, you will find me at Oakden.”
“Thank you, Aunt Felicity.” Elsabeth smiled briefly, then set off through the gardens to the distant figure of Captain Hartnell, whose own smile was bright as she approached. He was handsome still, as genuine and without artifice a man as she could imagine, and looking splendid in his uniform. Yet, for the first time, he seemed a peacock to Elsabeth, unsuitably brilliant in comparison to the reserved intelligence of certain other gentlemen. She curtseyed when she reached him, and murmured, “Captain Hartnell. We did not know the regiment had returned.”
“Miss Elsabeth,” the Captain replied with a bow. “Or is it now Miss Dover? It is! Miss Dover, It has been far too long.”
“Perhaps. Captain Hartnell, I am possessed of some intelligence that we must discuss.”
Surprised concern flinched over Hartnell’s face. “That sounds as though it cannot bode well, Miss Dover.”
“That may depend on what you have to say about it.”
Hartnell’s concern deepened into utmost seriousness. “I see. Let us have it, then, Miss Dover. What troubles you?”
Faced with the moment, Elsabeth could find no kind way to lay Archer’s charges at Hartnell’s feet. “Is it true that you attempted to elope with Miss Persephone Archer?”
Hartnell took this question as he might have taken a blow, with a backward roll onto his heels that swayed him before he regained his equilibrium. “I see. Troublesome intelligence indeed. Is there an answer I can give that will satisfy you, Miss Dover?”
“Only the truth, which may not please me but will see me satisfied.”
“Very well.” Hartnell took it upon himself to walk some little way, as if to compose himself, before returning to Elsabeth with his response. “Archer will have told you of all my transgressions, perceived or otherwise. Let me emphasise that the bulk of what I have told you was true: he did refuse me the parish—”
Elsabeth inhaled at this, but did not speak; Hartnell, observing this, continued more swiftly. “—albeit not at the time I implied. It is true that I intended to study law, and found it not to my liking. And it is true that Miss Archer...formed an attachment to me. She was—is—a sheltered child, Miss Dover, and I was a man of whom her brother did not approve. I do not like to think I encouraged her, but neither was I foolish enough to deny the opportunity to marry so well, should it afford itself to me. Archer would consider me the villain of the piece, and I am willing to accept that in order not to risk sullying Miss Archer’s reputation.”
“How generous of you,” Elsabeth replied slowly when it appeared Hartnell had nothing further to say. Every word that passed her lips grew colder. “If I am not mistaken, Captain Hartnell, Miss Archer is ten years and more Mr Archer’s junior, and you are of an age with Mr Archer.”
“Ten years is not an extraordinary difference in age.”
“No. No, it is not, when both parties are grown. But Miss Archer is even now only fifteen or sixteen, and could not have been more than a child when you concluded you would gladly avail yourself of the chance to marry well. Your story does not do you credit.” Elsabeth’s voice shook, and she could not say whether it was anger with Hartnell or with herself, for having ever found him charming. “I think I need not ask about the following matter of inheritance or Australia.”
Hartnell blanched again, offering all the answer Elsabeth could possibly require. “I believe our conversation is concluded, Captain. I do not expect to see you again soon.”
To Mrs Penney, watching from the steps of Newsbury Manor, there seemed a finality in the scarlet-clad soldier’s bow, and Elsabeth did not curtsey at all before she turned and left him to stand alone on the distant hillside.
(46)
The gaiety surrounding Rosamund’s wedding was to last several weeks, as much to while away the sorrow of Rosamund’s departure as for the pleasure of gathered family. Mrs Dover considered herself to have been much slighted by Mrs Penney the previous autumn in the matter of the visit surrounding Ruth’s marriage, although she was obliged to admit it had all turned out quite admirably: had Mrs Penney not insisted upon bringing Rosa to London when she did—but she had, Mrs Dover concluded, and all offence was entirely forgotten at the wedding’s conclusion. The Penneys remained under Oakden’s roof, so the place of one lost daughter was taken by a beloved aunt and uncle.
To no one’s dismay, Mr Cox returned to his parish the very day after the wedding, but Ruth stayed on as well. Mrs Dover exclaimed often how well marriage suited her while meaning how well gravidity suited her, and in no way considered that perhaps the long pleasant hours Ruth spent in the garden or the remarkable early harvest might have more to do with Mrs Cox’s glow of health than marriage or motherhood. Indeed, Mrs Dover, long since accustomed to an unusually generous garden, failed to notice that, with Ruth’s helping hand, the garden gave half again its normal yield.
Mr Dover did not fail to notice this, and warmed to his middle daughter in marriage as he never had when she lived beneath his roof. As spring days grew warmer and longer, they were often heard to be laughing over their work, and partaking of such earnest discussions that Matilda could not bear it, and was obliged to go forth and participate.
Leopoldina could not be troubled to join in such effort, and instead moped about the house, bemoaning the lack of attention from Captain Hartnell or indeed any other officer. Her mouth pulled into a sour pinch of pleasure, though, as she observed that Captain Hartnell did not visit Elsabeth, either, and she concluded that he had lost interest in her. Elsabeth, she thought, should show more dismay over losing the attention of the only man likely to want to marry her, but she did not share this thought for fear Elsabeth should realise her error and move to rectify it.
For her own part, Elsa moved happily enough betwixt family and friends, never imagining that Dina had relegated her to inevitable spinsterhood, nor that Mrs Penney watched her with soft concern. She thought little of Hartnell, and—to her own surprise—more often of Archer, whom it seemed she had misjudged; it became strangely easier to recall that he was handsome and clever with words, and more difficult to remember his infuriating superiority. But even Mr Archer did not prey too heavily on her thoughts; Sophia was installed at Newsbury Manor for the summer, at least, as Miss Webber had—curiously, in Elsabeth’s opinion, but it was a curiosity she was happy had been indulged—opted to keep her brother’s house whilst the new Mr and Mrs Webber toured Europe.
Sophia often joined Elsabeth on the vigourous excursions Elsa was known for; Miss Webber never did, and Elsa was grateful to feel some of her old closeness with Sophia returning. “I know you will return to London in the autumn for another Season,” she said one morning as they struck across fields still wet with
dew, “but I am glad to have you here for a little while, Sophia. The house is much changed, without Ruth or Rosamund.”
“I dare say it seems sillier,” Sophia guessed, and smiled at Elsabeth’s rueful nod of response.
“Tildy is perhaps growing a little less silly. A quiet winter did her good; without any of the elder sisters about, she earned a little more of Papa’s eye, and Dina could not lead her astray when she was hardly permitted out of the house. And now, with her under Ruth’s tutelage, the garden is growing remarkably.”
“If you have apples ripening in June, people will talk, you know.”
“Let them talk as they may. In the end, it did Rosamund no harm.”
Sophia stopped in wide-eyed astonishment. “You cannot mean to say Robert knew?”
“Oh, Sophia.” Elsabeth turned to her friend and extended her hands. “We have had so little chance to talk. I told you in London what the doctor said, the night Rosamund fainted, but I did not confess that Mr Webber did, indeed, learn all.” Together they settled into the grass after Elsabeth chased the dew away with a flicker of warmth from her fingers. “He proposed the very next morning, and he has assiduously and gently encouraged Rosa to do small but constant magics, that her health might remain strong. I am so very glad that Ruth has found a green thumb, and that she is inspiring Tildy in the garden, but I have not yet dared tell Dina any of this, for fear of what excesses she should indulge in, in the name of retaining her health. She will never accept that the magic she uses already is quite sufficient. I have certainly never gone to such lengths as she has, and I am fit and hale.”
“You cannot tell her,” Sophia agreed instantly. “To do so would be to send her wild. Ruth should be told,” she decided after a moment’s thought, “and Matilda, although not until she is considerably older and can be trusted not to whisper it in Dina’s ear. Have you told Mr Dover?”
“Papa is in no danger of becoming ill,” Elsa replied, but Sophia shook her head.
“Not for his own health, but for the dissemination of knowledge. Would it not be safer for all to have this information in as many hands as it could be trusted in? And I do not mean just for your family, but for anyone with sorcerous talents. We British are repressed, Elsa, and we English women moreso than the men. Think of what we are told of the French, or the colonies, or Africa, all places where sorcery is more accepted than it is here. I should think in a society where they are permitted their talent without censure, there must be far less fear of a fit of consumptive flight ruining lives! How many other differences within one another do we overlook or deny, so that the majority might carry on in its placid pursuit of all those things it has deemed right and proper! Certainly, it can be said that I stand among those who are ill suited to society’s expectations of marriage to a man, and yet, without Miss Webber’s intervention, I should have been condemned to such a life—had I been lucky enough to command such a life—without ever knowing the source of my misery! And I dare say you, Elsabeth, are strong enough of spirit that you should successfully determine never to marry except where it suits you, and what has Society to say about that, save that you are unmarriageable, which is not the same thing at all! Even poor Leopoldina, who is dreadfully untoward, would be praised and winked at and encouraged in her lusts if she had been born a man, so how can it be right that she is condemned for it as a woman? We are not unfeeling creatures who lack passion or thought of our own. Why must we be treated as we are, whether we are sorcerous or meant for women’s company or happy to stand on our own? We are repressed!” Sophia cried again, and fell back, gasping and aghast at her outburst.
Elsabeth brought her hands together in staccato applause, calling, “Brava, brava!” over its sound. “Sophia, what has happened to you in London? I have always known you to be kind and intelligent, but you are now afire! Oh, should such a presentation be given in Parliament, then surely the world could not help but be changed by your ardor!”
“But it will not be,” Sophia said, suddenly affecting weariness. “Such pleas will not be heard in the Parliament until they strike so closely to home that the Lord Chief Justice himself must rule with his heart to see the right side of the law, as happened half a century since with the Case of the Slaves. Oh, I have changed,” she admitted. “I do not know myself from who I was, Elsabeth, and I am torn between wishing I had remained unawakened and clinging to my new awareness with tooth and nail. I had never dreamt of anything beyond marriage; now I dream of changing the very world in which we live. Do not laugh at me, Elsabeth; I could not bear it.”
“Never.” Elsabeth leaned forward to take Sophia’s hands again. “Never, my dearest Sophia. I shall instead take up your banner and act where I can. I will tell Papa, and I will tell my Aunt Penney, of what the doctor said, and we will spread that grain of knowledge in hopes of sparing even one life. Even one life, Sophia: that is something, is it not? And we have changed one already, for Mr Webber has married Rosamund knowing that she is a magician. Is it not a beginning?”
“It is.” Sophia squeezed Elsa’s hands in gratitude. “It is. And you do not think me mad, which is even more than a beginning.”
“I could never think you mad. I may think it necessary to find an unwed member of Parliament to marry you to, that his fire should be lit by yours, but I could not think you mad.”
“I should rather stand for Parliament myself,” Sophia said, and blushed at her own audacity.
“And I should like to vote for you!” Elsabeth cried, and then, laughing, embraced her friend. “But until then, let me speak to Papa and tell him what we know. Will you come with me, or must you return to Newsbury?”
“We are meant to meet Mamma for lunch. She and Papa are leaving for a tour of Europe, you know, and Mamma feels that she must, for form’s sake, tell Julia that I have impinged on the Webbers’ good natures long enough and that I am to join them in their tour. I can hardly imagine her dismay if Julia were to agree,” Sophia said candidly. “I can hardly imagine my own. But there is no danger of that; Julia intends to insist that she cannot manage Newsbury Manor without me, and everyone will then be satisfied and able to go their separate ways. I would not think less of Mamma if she concludes herself shut of me, and forgets to write.”
“I would think far less of her,” Elsabeth said strongly, but forbore to speak on; Mrs Penney thought Sophia was in no danger of being dismissed by Miss Webber, and though Elsabeth held less confidence in such a belief, she could not easily wonder aloud to Sophia what she would do if neither the Webbers nor the Entons wished to maintain her. In due time, of course, she would inherit the Enton estate, but until then was not Elsabeth’s concern. In truth, she knew that she herself would never allow Sophia to fall upon difficulties. Nor would Rosamund; nor, upon consideration, did Elsabeth believe Ruth would, and so, if Sophia should fall from Miss Webber’s favour, or—inevitably, as it seemed to Elsabeth—be replaced by a husband, then she would never be left wanting so long as a daughter of the Dover blood breathed.
Satisfied with her own conclusion, she embraced Sophia once more, entreated her to remember each detail of luncheon with Mrs Enton the better to discuss it later, and went her way home to knock lightly upon Mr Dover’s library door.
“Enter,” called Mr Dover, upon which Elsabeth did, and discovered to her pleasure that Mrs Penney was within as well, the brother and sister thoroughly enjoying tea and scones laden with jam. Elsabeth acquired some of each for herself and at once sat to partake of both good company and good food.
“Papa,” she began when a scone was half-devoured, “I have something to discuss with you. It affects you as well, Aunt Felicity; do stay. It has to do with Rosamund’s illness, and what I have learned of it.” In some little time, she had explained the doctor’s orders, causing many exchanged glances betwixt Mr Dover and Mrs Penney in the explaining. “Did you know?” she asked, faltering, at the end.
“No! Oh, my dear, good heavens, no,” said her father. “I should have never permitted Rosa’s frailt
y to go on, had I known. But while I did not know, I am not surprised. I—we—had a brother,” he said after a moment. “I suppose you know this, although we have rarely spoken of him.”
“My Uncle William,” Elsabeth replied slowly. “He was between you in age, was he not? And he died quite young; I had always supposed it hurt too much to speak of him.”
“All of those things are true,” Mrs Penney answered. “But the manner of his death was...curious, and not easy to discuss. It was always clear, my dear Elsabeth, that John,” for that was Mr Dover’s rarely used given name, “was a magician. He was—not quite as bold as Leopoldina; perhaps more like you. Not brazen, but neither shy to use his talent when discreet opportunity arose. It appeared from an early age that both William and myself were unlike him; William was never seen to use magic, and I, try as I might, could not. Oh, yes,” she said with a smile at Elsabeth’s posture of surprise. “I have never quite given up on the hope that some day I might make flowers bloom with a touch, but I have no innate talent for sorcery.”
Her smile faded, and Mr Dover continued where she had ended. “It seems that William did. Perhaps an extraordinary talent, given what you have just told us, or perhaps it is merely that he quenched it so firmly that this sorcerous sickness took hold much earlier than it did in Rosamund. He was twelve and I sixteen when the frailty and fevers began to come upon him. He had always been of a more delicate bent than I—indeed, he was very like Rosamund, was he not, Felicity? Now that I think on it, she looks very like him. How strange, that I should never have seen it before.”
