Magic and Manners (An Austen Chronicle Book 1)

by CE Murphy

  “No; it seemed a waste of her joy to pull her into such a sordid mess when there is nothing at all she can do for it. I do not like to think what will come of all this, Elsabeth; I do not like to wonder what I will end up owing as the price of my own follies and indiscretions.”

  “It is too late to worry about that, John. You might have thought of it twenty years ago, but you did not, and as we have no magic for time-turning—” Mrs Penney fell into silence at Elsabeth’s thoughtful, warning look, but Mr Dover, unaware of the books they had brought, could only allow himself a broken laugh.

  “Had I such magic, I would work such changes as to make our lives unrecognisable.”

  “Would you?” Mrs Penney glanced at the two daughters present before returning her attention to her brother. “Would you, and risk all that you now know and love?”

  “Perhaps not,” Mr Dover said, softening. “But it is as well that no such magics are known, for their abuse would be irresistible. Elsabeth, to your mother now, and myself to my packing, and you will stay on, Felicity, will you not? Until I return and can send you back to your husband, or, better yet, until I bring him here to you.”

  “Of course, brother. Matilda, am I wrong in guessing that you have had the run of the household in Mrs Dover’s convalescence? Very good; show me what you have done, and, until Mrs Dover’s recovery, I will do no more than offer guidance should you require it.” Mrs Penney rose and, with Matilda eager to show her ability in running the household, departed; Elsabeth, making to follow them, was stopped by the sound of her father’s voice.

  “Do you condemn me entirely, my dear Elsabeth?”

  Surprised, Elsa turned to see him gazing pensively aside, unwilling to meet her eyes. Her natural urge was to run to him, to kneel at his side as a child would and to answer with adoring comfort, but, after a single step toward him, she found she could go no farther. Her answer came slowly, with more consideration than salve behind it. “No, Papa, I do not. Not entirely. Had you been more lenient last summer in the aftermath of the bridge, I might have held you in considerable censure indeed. But you were not: Leopoldina was made then to pay the consequences of her actions, and to spend a quiet winter that ought to have shaken some of the romance out of disobedience and selfish behaviours. She has been spoilt, it is true; she is Mamma’s favourite, and encouraged in silliness because of it, but even Mamma was obliged to recognise, however briefly, that Dina was quite in the wrong last summer, and even Mamma did not object on any material level to the penance of a quiet winter. Look at the good those quiet months did Matilda: that was the right and proper course of action for you to pursue then, and that it has failed so utterly reflects, I think, almost wholly on Dina.”

  “And if I had done differently in all the years of your childhood, would we have still ended in this terrible place?”

  “There is no knowing, Papa. I will allow you some of the blame, and Mamma an equal part. I will even take a part myself, as I knew better than anyone how wretched a creature Captain Hartnell could be. I thought he was gone from this household when I broke with him, and so did not think it necessary to warn you; now, knowing I was wrong, I wish dearly that I had spoken. Hartnell must also be assigned a portion of the blame, for no officer or gentleman should behave in such an unseemly manner, but in the end, Papa, I cannot release Leopoldina from responsibility for her own actions, nor the foolishness that prevents her from seeing or being concerned by how those actions reflect upon and affect her family. There is guilt enough to go around. I do not condemn you any more than any of the rest of us.”

  Before she had finished this measured speech, Mr Dover’s gaze had returned to her in sorrowful appreciation. “When you went away with Mrs Penney, Elsabeth, I was sorry for the loss of my dear girl. I see now that she has left me entirely, and that a woman of sense and compassion has returned in her place. Thank you, my dear, for doing me the honour of treating me as your equal, and speaking to me as another adult, rather than as my fond daughter. I think I will sit here a while longer and reflect on what you have said, and whether I am worthy of the forgiveness you imply.”

  “We do not forgive people because they are worthy, Papa. We forgive them because we love them, and because it gives us peace within ourselves to do so.” Elsabeth crossed to Mr Dover and kissed his forehead, and only then, finally, went to tend Mrs Dover and her nerves.

  (54)

  “My Elsabeth! My dearest, darling girl! My rock; however have I carried on without you these past dreadful days! Do not abandon me, my sweetest Elsa; I am surely never to recover and, in my frailty, must have the strength of one daughter whose heart is true, as my darling Leopoldina’s could not be! Oh, Elsabeth, what is to become of us? Mr Cox will turn us out; we have had a letter from him condemning us all roundly and your father most of all—”

  “Mr Cox cannot turn us out so long as Papa lives, and while he is as shaken as any of us are in this regard, I do not believe him in any immediate danger,” Elsabeth replied placidly. “As for what will become of us, that remains to be seen, Mamma, and as this is the third time this morning that I have said all of this to you, I shall not stir myself to say it again. I believe your nerves are in a state because you have put yourself to some effort to keep them there; instead, you should drink your tea and take some exercise, which will do you far more good than lying in bed, grasping at vapors.”

  “Heartless child!” gasped Mrs Dover, and sank once more into a shivering, tear-ridden shape beneath the covers, where she would almost certainly remain until she judged Elsabeth had suffered long enough for her sharpness. Then she would rouse herself to accept an apology Elsabeth had not previously, and would not now, offer, and the whole of the performance would begin again.

  Elsa had been subjected to this behaviour for the entirety of the afternoon before and some two or three hours that morning since rising and seeing Mr Dover off to London. In that time, she had gained a new appreciation for Tildy’s patience, for she, poor child, had been her mother’s primary nursemaid for the full fortnight since Dina’s elopement. She was to be commended and, if at all possible, relieved for an equal length of time from her duties. The prospect of remaining at Mrs Dover’s side for that length of time was more than dismaying but mitigated somewhat by the presence of the books of magic, for Mrs Dover did not care in the least what her nurses attended to when she herself was not demanding their full regard.

  She was well into a new examination of one of those books when a tentative knock sounded at Mrs Dover’s door. Elsabeth, curious, rose to open it, and found the housemaid, Margaret, burdened with a curious combination of apology and sympathy. “Miss Enton is here to see you, Miss Elsabeth. I told her you might not be able to go from Mrs Dover’s side—”

  “Go!” shrieked Mrs Dover from beneath the bedclothes. “Go, wretched child! Show me how not one of my daughters cares for my nerves; I am sure that I will carry on quite well here on my own, abandoned by those who ought to love me the most. A child’s passionate heart will carry her into the arms of friendship and—and—and lovers,” she wailed, “while an old and lonely mother waits at home in desperation, but think nothing of me! Go! I will surely be no worse than I am now when—if!—you deign to return—!”

  Beneath this caterwauling, Margaret’s expression of sympathy deepened. “I will stay with her a while, Miss.”

  “Left with the help!” Mrs Dover howled, and Elsabeth, perfectly balanced between gratitude toward Margaret and rueful amusement at Mrs Dover, embraced the former and hurried downstairs to greet Sophia.

  Miss Enton stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up with a pull to her mouth that Elsabeth thought echoed her own. “I hear Mrs Dover is in fine form,” Sophia murmured as Elsabeth ran into her arms, and, for a few breathless moments, they shared the laughter of two who had been friends since childhood, and knew every wart and wrinkle of the other’s family. “I came the moment I heard you had come home, as I have missed you greatly, but what on earth has happened, Elsab
eth? What has Mrs Dover in such a state?”

  “You must promise not to breathe a word to anyone, not even Miss Webber,” Elsabeth first insisted, and knew she was not wrong to imagine a moment’s hesitation on Sophia’s part. Her friend looked exceedingly well, just as she had every time Elsabeth had seen her since Christmas, but it could not be pretended that she was happy to think of keeping secrets from Julia Webber. “Please,” Elsabeth continued more soberly. “I fear my family’s reputation rests on it.”

  “Good Lord,” Sophia said in measured tones, then cut to the thrust of it: “What has Dina done, then? I will say nothing, Elsa; I could not do your family any harm.”

  “I knew you could not. Come, let us retire to my bedroom, as I do not know if I can as yet relate the story without tears.” In very little time, they had done so, and in a little more the story was told.

  At its conclusion, Sophia sighed. “Mrs Dover is in finer form than I might have imagined, then; I would not have been surprised if she had been rendered unable to complain, so great is this calamity. Elsabeth, I am so sorry, and sorrier still when I think I had come to share happy news of my own.”

  “You are engaged?” Elsabeth asked in delight, only to receive a look so peculiar from Sophia that, not knowing why, she blushed. “No, I see that you are not. Forgive me; it seemed the most likely source of happiness, knowing as I do how you are... were...so concerned about being a burden on your parents. Tell me, as I dare not guess again.”

  “I no longer fear that fate,” Sophia replied. “I have grown, Elsabeth; I know myself now, and I dare say that if I must, I shall cut my hair and don a red coat, and join a regiment to pay my own way. Oh, do not look at me so, Elsa! There are less drastic measures to be taken first, although I think I would make a better soldier than governess, and, at any rate, none of those is necessary. Julia has written to Robert and spoken of her intention not to marry. After an exchange and an assurance of her happiness with me, he has gladly released control of her inheritance to her. We are thinking of touring Europe in the autumn, or perhaps even going so far as Egypt and Turkey.”

  A blush, encouraged by her rapidly beating heart, seemed permanently fixed upon Elsabeth’s cheeks, although a cool awkwardness curled through her chest at the same time. “Her happiness with you, Sophia? And...and she will not marry, and... nor will you? Not...conventionally? And yet, would I be wrong to imagine that...that your tour of Europe might be, like Rosamund’s, a...wedding tour?”

  Now a blush leapt to Sophia Enton’s cheeks, and, for the first time since she had known Miss Webber, a discomfiture came over her. She glanced away, then with pretended bravery—for Elsa knew her well enough to see that Sophia only pretended at it, though the pretense might be driven by personal determination—replied, “You would not be wrong to imagine such a thing.”

  “I am a fool,” Elsabeth declared then. “A perfectly blind fool, and all the more so because Aunt Penney saw it herself at Rosamund’s wedding, and I could not see it even when she called my attention to it. You are in love with Miss Webber, and she with you! How extraordinary!”

  “It is not so extraordinary,” Sophia protested in embarrassment and defiance and laughter, and then with greater defiance at Elsabeth’s laugh. “But it is not, Elsa! There are more men and women of Society who prefer romance with their own sex than you would imagine! More than I would have imagined, and perhaps more than I might have ever known had Rosamund not fallen ill that night.”

  “What on earth has Rosamu—oh, dear. I recall now that you did not return to your own room—oh, dear, Sophia! Sophia! Sophia, I believe I am shocked! And giddy, perhaps, and—and you are happy?”

  “I am,” Sophia replied with a shyness unlike herself, and Elsabeth instantly embraced her.

  “Then, truly, I am happy. I may take some little while to recover from astonishment; I have not previously known—or been aware I knew!—any ladies with Sapphic tendencies. Indeed, I would never have guessed you, Sophia—”

  “Had I never met Miss Webber, perhaps I would have never guessed it myself. Since my enlightenment, I have wondered a time or two about you, Elsabeth; you have never shown any especial preference for any gentleman—”

  “Oh,” Elsabeth said in surprise. “No, or: I do not think so, at least. If so, I have certainly not encountered my Miss Webber, and I think any curiosity I might have—and I confess to being curious now, Sophia!—is of a textbook nature. Oh! Sophia! The texts! I must tell you! Oh, but no, you must want to talk—”

  “Most dearly!” cried Sophia, “but now I am alight with curiosity, and so we must exchange our stories a tidbit at a time, that we are both satisfied. What texts?”

  For the second time that morning, a story, albeit a happier one, poured from Elsabeth’s lips, and for Sophia, nothing would be done that she investigate one of the grimoires herself, in hopes of being able to read it. She could not, and laughed to find she had hoped to be able to. “I would never have considered myself eager to work magic, but if all else has changed, why not that, too?”

  “Why not, indeed,” Elsabeth replied, then paused as a thought came to her. “Sophia, you have just spoken of a—a so- ciety within Society, have you not? Of those you have come to know who pursue discreet love affairs like your own?” At Sophia’s nod, she continued. “Do you suppose—might any of them be equally discreet in other affairs? I wonder if a trust built upon sharing one secret might allow some few to make their sorcery known, if one seemed open to it? I feel, Sophia, that it will not be so very long before we Dovers are openly known as magicians, and if even one soul should be bold enough to approach you for your friendship with me, we might, bit by bit, find ourselves a—a school, or a society of its own...?”

  “Find or found?” asked Sophia, but she was disinclined to quibble over words, and nodded her agreement. “It cannot hurt to try. Although I think it would be wiser to wait until this business with Dina is resolved. There is no sense in adding complications to already complicated lives.”

  “You are very right. What will Miss Webber think of all this, Sophia? Not of Dina; I can imagine well enough what she would say there. But of sorcery and sorcerers.”

  “I think she will not like it at all,” Sophia said candidly, “but Rosamund is already married to Robert, and he has given Julia the freedom to pursue her own desires; she would be petty to condemn him for his own. In time, she will become, if not comfortable with it, at least accustomed to it, and that will be enough for peace.”

  “I confess that while I might have once thought peace to be dull, I would be grateful for a little of it now.”

  “I do not foresee it, Elsabeth. I do not think peacefulness is in your stars; I think you are too active a soul. I think for peace, you would need to set aside these tomes, and perhaps your concerns for Dina and Matilda in particular, and perhaps—for true peace—you would even need to allow me to fade from your life, and while it may be fearful vanity speaking, I like to think you would not want that to happen.”

  “You know I do not. You are as a sister to me, Sophia, and if I cannot cast away Leopoldina even with her wretched decisions, I could hardly turn my back on you, who has at least had the good sense to fall in love with someone wealthy.”

  Sophia laughed. “How ruthless and pragmatic you’ve become, Elsa.”

  “I believe I am only following the line you once drew for me. The purpose of marriage, in your eyes, was financial security; love was an unlooked-for benefit. Therefore, nothing could be more secure than love and wealth, or am I wrong?”

  “I can hardly dispute it now, when you throw my own words back at me! No, Elsabeth, you are not wrong, but neither am I: you are not destined for peace, and so, I await the culmination of these tumultuous events that surround you with interest.”

  (55)

  That her activities could be a source of concern—even ruin—for her family was not a thought made to enter Leopoldina Dover’s pretty head. She was by nature made up of too many other concerns,
all of which save her practise of magery had been implanted and fostered by a fond mother: a concern for dressing well, a concern for gentlemanly attention, a concern for gossip and a concern for having her own way were all that had ever mattered to her, and, when thwarted in any one of those concerns, she had not learnt a consideration for others but a petulance best suited to children. To her mind, she had been thwarted in the matter of Captain Hartnell, and so, upon his release from Elsabeth’s dubious charms—if they had not all been so certain that sorcery could not produce love spells, Dina might have thought Elsabeth to have used such a thing, in order to play with Captain Hartnell’s—David’s, as she now so affectionately thought of him—affections—upon his release from Elsabeth’s charms, it was only natural that he should return his attentions to the one who had most desired them: Leopoldina herself.

  In him lay the best of all worlds: handsome, an officer and a magician to boot. He might have been wealthier, Dina conceded, but his gift of magic outweighed all of that, most especially as he was privy to the Dover secret, and so, for the first time in her life, Dina did not need to hide. As spring had turned to summer, she met with the Captain in public as often as Society would allow, and far more often in private than anyone, most of all Mr Dover, suspected. Not even Matilda was aware of these private meetings, as Dina declared a desire to follow in Elsabeth’s footsteps in a literal sense, and began to spend her days enjoying long constitutionals. It did not occur to her to wonder how an officer of the army might escape his own duties as easily as Captain Hartnell seemed to; all she had a care for was that she wanted him, and he was there. They often met at a secluded bend in the river, away from the road and the curious gazes of passers-by, and hid beneath a long-branched tree that protected them from wind and rain and sun alike.