Magic and Manners (An Austen Chronicle Book 1)

by CE Murphy

  Elsabeth barked, “Silence!” and, to Hartnell’s own apparent astonishment, he acquiesced. “I know you, Captain Hartnell, to be a liar and a gambler who is eager to seduce where he feels he will find profit. Never imagine that I would believe your word over my sister’s. For Leopoldina’s sake, I might keep this quiet, but that would allow you the opportunity to behave in this manner again, either with Matilda or some other unfortunate who might not be rescued by timely intervention. Let me see you, Matilda, poor child; are you hurt?”

  “N-no. I d-do not believe so. Only—only frightened, Elsabeth; I did not want to kiss him, or have him make love to me in any way.”

  “Of course you did not. Inside; and as for you, Mr Hartnell—” Elsabeth reached out with such speed and confidence that he did not think to flinch away until she had his ear firmly in her fingers, and with such a grip as to garner a yelp of pain. She turned and strode swiftly into the Newsbury dance hall, where she flung Hartnell forward with such vigour that he fell full-length upon the floor. Dancers and music alike came to a sudden halt, and, for an instant, Elsabeth felt the weight of Society’s reproval upon her: a well-bred young lady did not cause such a scene for anything, and what she had to say would heap humiliation upon her family.

  In a room full of astonished, hesitant dancers, Elsabeth fixed her gaze on Sophia Enton, who stood with slow deliberation and met Elsabeth’s eyes with grave support. Sophia had had the right of it, in her enraged passion over the state of women in Society; it was absurd that the Dovers, that Leopoldina, that Matilda, who was innocent of all things, should bear the guilt of the captain’s bad behaviour; it was as absurd as Rosamund dying for Society’s censure of magic. Sophia could not know what Elsabeth would say, but she nodded once, encouraging her, and, with that single nod, Elsabeth found her voice.

  “I have just come upon this devil attempting to seduce Matilda in the gardens. There are certain of us here who cannot doubt Matilda’s word”—and, upon this, Elsabeth glanced to her own family, and to Mr Webber, all of whom were too aware of the elopement. Mr Webber looked wretched with embarrassment and Mrs Dover white with horror; for all her determination to pretend only the best of the Hartnells’ marriage, she did not disbelieve Elsabeth’s accusation.

  “What a terrible thing to accuse my dear Hartnell of!” cried Leopoldina. “No, you must not say such things, Elsabeth! Tildy is jealous of my husband, that is all! I am married and she is not, and she cannot bear it!”

  “Dina!” Matilda cried in anguish. “It is not so, Dina! I love you and want nothing more than your happiness! I could never desire your husband, because he is your husband! How can you think such a thing, when I have been your shadow for so long?”

  “How can I not, when you have been my shadow for so long! There is nothing to you, Tildy, that I have not made! If dear Hartnell is my husband, then you must want him, for you have no desires of your own!”

  Matilda swayed as though she had been slapped, and Elsabeth, hurrying to her side, was forced to make her way around Hartnell, who picked himself up from the floor to smile with undeniable charm at the Newsbury guests, who looked from one another in pained embarrassment that could not find a suitable method of extricating themselves from the emotional turmoil unfolding before them.

  “Forgive us all,” he said to them with such gallantry as to beget a nervous laugh from the onlookers. “There has been a terrible misunderstanding, heightened by the delight of a dance and the gathering of family that has been separated for weeks or months.”

  Matilda, in a lower and steadier voice than Elsabeth had ever previously encountered from her, said, “Once, that was true,” to Leopoldina, and although she spoke beneath Hartnell’s swift-flowing story, the calmness of her tone slowly overcame his theatrics, until it was she, and not Hartnell, to whom the gathering listened. “Once, I would have desired what you had; once, I would have acted only as you act. I am proud to say I have risen above that now, Dina. I have learned things which you will never know; I have grown closer to Papa and Elsa, and hope to look to Rosamund and Ruth for guidance now, rather than your self-centred silliness. I do not desire Captain Hartnell; indeed, now I fear him, for that which he would have pressed upon me despite my protests.”

  “I am a married man!” Hartnell protested in such shock that, in other circumstances, Elsabeth might have been inclined to believe his objections. “I will confess that I find each of my sisters fair, but what brother should not? And I find none of them so delightful as my wife—”

  “Whom you said to me not five minutes ago that you regretted marrying!” snapped Matilda, and, as one, the gathered members of Bodton Society gasped. Leopoldina began crying, great ugly gulping sobs, and Hartnell’s face fell into such dismay as to conjure immaculate credibility.

  “I’m afraid Mrs Hartnell is too correct,” Hartnell said with sorrow. “I am afraid Miss Matilda is caught in the throes of envy—”

  “Do not believe Captain Hartnell.”

  The soft statement came from such unexpected quarters as to silence the rising gossip in the crowd. Julia Webber, cheeks flushed from calling attention to herself, had risen to stand at Sophia’s side; they held hands so tightly that their knuckles were white, but Julia spoke again, no more loudly than before. “I have been loosely acquainted with Mr Hartnell for several years, through my brother’s friendship with Mr Archer. I do not like to speak of it, but some three years ago, Mr Hartnell presumed upon our acquaintance, reminding me of his own friendship with Mr Archer and thus assuring me he was, if not a gentleman, at least a man of some pleasantry and propriety. We met several times in the usual manner of friendship; carriage rides and walks in the Park, or at a dance where I was pleased to stand up for a set with him. This carried on some little time, in both public and private, until the afternoon that Mr Hartnell proposed marriage to me. I was taken aback, and when I refused his offer, he threatened my reputation unless I paid him the sum of one thousand pounds to disappear.”

  “Julia!” cried Mr Webber in agony.

  “I certainly had no such sum to hand, but, in panic, I gave him several pieces of my jewelry,” Miss Webber continued, her blushes now faded into an expression of contained fury. “I have regretted that act of cowardice ever since, and I will not now stand by and be counted a coward again. Do not believe Captain Hartnell; if Miss Matilda Dover has cast this accusation against him, it is not an aspersion. It is the truth.”

  “I am inclined to believe Miss Webber,” Miss Derrington reported from her chair by the fire. “I should not like to be pressed for details, but I am aware of a third situation in which Captain Hartnell’s conduct has been less than becoming. Mrs Hartnell, I am so dreadfully sorry to stand with so many others against your husband, but I think you might be wise to heed our words. It is even possible that, under the circumstances, you might be granted a divorce and thought well of for it.”

  Leopoldina’s colour had changed from high to pale: she stood now with her gaze snapping between one well-regarded member of Society and another, forced at last, Elsabeth thought, to face the consequences of her own folly. Mrs and Mr Enton, Lady Beatrice, even Mrs Dover, were reluctant to meet her eye; none of the gentlemen would at all. They did not know whom to believe, or where to lay the accusation; it was those who stood against her—against Captain Hartnell—who could meet her eyes without flinching or embarrassment. Miss Derrington and Miss Webber looked on her with sympathy; Matilda with hurt contempt, and the two elder Dover sisters with a love tempered by too much awareness that her own actions had, to some degree, brought her to where she now was.

  Finally, Dina’s regard settled on Hartnell himself, whose guileless expression now seemed strained, and grew more so as Dina spoke with a fond phrase that now seemed edged. “My dear Hartnell, is divorce what you want?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Nor do I,” Dina replied slowly, “but neither do I wish to be made a fool of. Oh, laugh,” she said bitterly as an uncontained titter ran ’round t
he ball room; “I know that I am silly, and that I have enjoyed that silliness, but it is one thing to make a fool of oneself, and another to be made a fool of. Do you know what I have wanted since I can remember, Mr Hartnell? To be my own woman. To be a wife, and to not chafe under my mother and father’s constraints; to have a husband whom I could adore, and who would allow me my little pleasures without censure. Do you know what has always been chief amongst my denied pleasures? Come, there is no reason to deny it now, when I am embarrassed by my husband and sister, when I am an embarrassment to my family; all of the damage is already done, and to confess to my most-neglected desire can do no more harm. It is, after all, that which brought us together at the start.”

  She lifted a hand, turning the palm upward, and although wind could not be seen, its effects could certainly be felt: it whisked around the room, freshening the air, and when Dina plucked a feather from her hairpiece, it danced into the magic she made and spun relentlessly above her hand. “Magic,” she whispered. “I have wanted more than anything to have the freedom to pursue my magic. Not boldly; that was never necessary to me, despite what my sisters must think. But freely, and without condemnation. Elsabeth told me once my time would come.”

  Leopoldina closed her palm. The wind died, and with it every other breath of sound in the room. Most eyes were round with horror or disbelief, but a strange pride rose in Elsabeth’s breast as her silliest sister took one step toward her husband. “I learnt the magical binding of a wound, my dear Mr Hartnell; did you know that? In our little wedding tour to Brighton, I learnt that bit of magic. How to tourniquet an injury with magic, when there was no cloth to be had; how to loosen it when necessary; and even how to use wind or water to cleanse the injury. But now—just now!—I have begun to wonder, Mr Hartnell. What do you suppose happens if one binds a wound that is not there?” She spun a finger in the air as if tightening a tourniquet and whispered a phrase Elsabeth did not know, but which had an immediate effect on Captain Hartnell.

  His face whitened, and, although he did not quite double, his military stance collapsed inward upon itself a little as though it were suddenly difficult to stand. Leopoldina tilted her head, expression hardly so much as curious as she twirled her finger again. Hartnell’s breath left him in a rush and he bent further, and, by the third twist, there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind what, precisely, Leopoldina Hartnell had chosen to bind. “How long, do you imagine, would it take for an uninjured body to give up its claim to health on what has been bound? How long before it is reduced to decorative, and not much of that?”

  “Miss Elsabeth,” Hartnell gasped in a high and thin voice. “I beg you. I beg you, stop her.”

  Elsabeth turned her head and touched a hand to her ear. “I beg your pardon, Captain Hartnell? I did not quite hear you. Perhaps you could—illuminate me as to the details of your request.”

  It was not necessary: she knew that it was not. But neither, in the end, could she abandon Leopoldina to exposing her magic alone, not if she meant to make any change in the world. With the word illuminate, she called on the spell that she had learnt at Streyfield, and placed innumerable darts of light in the air around Hartnell.

  A gasp ran through the assembly as Elsabeth walked to Dina and offered her hand. Dina, eyes filled with tears, grasped it as though Elsabeth had offered an unlooked-for thread of hope, then let those tears fall as Matilda, with more kindness and grace than Dina deserved, came to take her other hand. “Surely. it is not only Captain Hartnell who needs to see more clearly, Elsa,” Matilda said, and, with another whisper of wind æther, swept the sparks of light throughout the room, and sent them dancing with a word.

  Rosamund, smiling gently, came to put her hand in Elsabeth’s. “Let him go now, Dina; he has badly used you, and all of us, but I cannot bear to see him, or anyone, in pain.”

  “I will release him,” Dina whispered, “when I am sure he understands quite clearly the price of any further...breaches of etiquette...on his part.”

  “I understand,” Hartnell whispered harshly. “I entirely understand.” He collapsed to the floor as Dina released her hold on the magic, and whimpered without pride when Rosamund, always the gentlest of the sisters, extended her free hand and murmured a few words of healing magic.

  Hartnell’s sweat broke and his colour returned so swiftly that Elsabeth turned to Rosa in admiration, and found her sister smiling in something like embarrassment. “Perhaps a winter storm is the natural shape of my skill, but my heart has filled with joy in studying the healing æthers, Elsabeth. I could never allow him to suffer.”

  “You are all witches!” spat Lady Beatrice, and Miss Derrington, who had risen to her feet and reached for the still-swaying points of light in the air, replied, “Yes, and isn’t it magnificent? Oh, Miss Dover, had I but known, I could have told you of Oyo magic, and we might have seen what you could learn from it!”

  “It is uncivilised!” Lady Beatrice screeched, and Mrs Dover, who had been so stricken by the great lady earlier as to be unable to speak, now retorted, “Do not dare to judge my daughters so, madam!” and silenced Lady Beatrice entirely.

  She could not silence the whole of the gathering, though; what had been a convivial social encounter had become something far greater, and no one could determine what was appropriate protocol. There were several, including Mrs Enton, who swept to Lady Beatrice’s banner, taking up her outrage where Mrs Dover had silenced it, and others who slowly joined the Dover court. Sophia Enton was among them, of course; more surprisingly to Elsabeth was that Mr Enton drifted their way too, and Julia Webber went directly to Mr Webber and could be heard to demand if he had known when he married her that Rosamund Dover was a sorceress. “You cannot be one to chastise me for untoward choices,” Mr Webber replied in as strenuous a tone as Elsabeth had ever heard him use, which was to say, very mildly indeed, but enough to cause Julia to glance Sophia’s way and blush.

  Mrs Dover arrived in the centre of her daughters’ supporters with something like a sigh. “Well, I suppose we are ruined now,” she said without evident concern for that truth. “It is a shame that you and Tildy are not married, Elsabeth; I expect you never will be now. I do wish your father had been here; he would be very proud. Dina, will you return to Oakden or keep on with Mr Hartnell?”

  “I believe Mr Hartnell and I have come to an understanding,” Dina said placidly. “We will leave all of this behind us and go north to his station, where I expect he will be an exemplary husband, and I shall be a wife with as much freedom as I desire. Do not look at me that way, Elsabeth. I can be sensible if I must be.”

  “Then why were you not before?” Elsabeth asked softly. “Why risk condemning us all with your thoughtless actions regarding Brighton?”

  She discerned no comprehension at all in Leopoldina’s gaze. “What on earth do you mean? It all ended precisely as it ought, and there could certainly never have been any concern on that front. Now, I believe there is a dance to be finished, is there not? My dear Hartnell, won’t you stand up with me? Where is the music? Dear me, where is everyone going? Surely, they cannot imagine the party has ended!”

  “It has ended, Dina,” Elsabeth said firmly. “It has ended for all of us.”

  (58)

  Within three days, all parties were scattered to their destinations: the Hartnells to the North, Miss Derrington and Mr Swift back to Charington with Lady Beatrice, the Webbers at Newsbury and the remaining Dovers at home in Oakden. Mrs Enton would not visit; Mr Enton would not be kept away. This became a familiar manner amongst the townspeople; half would turn their backs upon seeing any member of the Dover family, and the other half would approach gladly, some with hopes of enchantments and others simply with shy admiration of the exposure of their secret. A handful came in sickness and in shame, hoping for a word of healing while fearing for their very souls; Rosamund, whose gifts flowered with her pregnancy, offered what she had learned with unstinting generosity, while Matilda, starry-eyed with appreciation for Rosa’s talen
ts, studied to emulate her.

  Ruth and baby Jonathan visited, much to Mr Cox’s chagrin, but it was conceded that he dare not ask if Ruth might have stood with her sisters on the fateful night at Newsbury. She would have, Ruth claimed coolly; she would have been suspect by sharing their blood, and preferred to be damned for what she was than for the suspicion of it. Gossip had reached the Charington parishioners, who now had no doubt where their bounty of winter vegetables came from, and yet none of them were inclined to say a word aloud about it, only smile and embrace Ruth when the opportunity arose. Mr Dover did the same upon her sharing this intelligence; Mr Dover, if still grievously aware of his debt to Mr Penney after Dina’s elopement, was much recovered from that shock, and wholly pleased with his daughters for flinging off Society’s conventions to support one another. He had made errors in raising them, perhaps, but, in the end, if they were inclined to throw together rather than pull one another down, he could not think he had done entirely badly by them.

  Indeed, his greatest regret was one he shared, if perhaps for different reasons, with Mrs Dover; he would have liked to have seen Elsabeth happily wed, for her happiness meant more to him than the world, and it now seemed an unlikely conclusion to her tale. Matilda, too, was expected to remain unwed, and Mr Dover finally began to practise a little frugality, that his remaining daughters would not go entirely wanting in his inevitable absence.

  Matilda felt the probable loss more strongly than Elsabeth, who remained comfortable in her own reliance, and content with a quieter existence. She studiously copied pages from the books of æther, incidentally memorising their contents until, given a cabinet of ingredients, she believed there were few magics she could not work on demand, and of those that required nothing more than æther to work, none at all. She favoured the Promethean æthers still, and had sent a box of Oakden kindling with Miss Derrington to take to Africa, so they might occasionally enjoy the intimacy of instant conversation from half the world away. Between bending over paper to commit spells to permanency, she abandoned the work for her beloved long walks, and, as autumn fell away into winter’s chill, felt a satisfaction with the world that she had thought beyond her.