“Then that apprentice will have to go to America too,” Lord Mycroft said.
He sighed. “You know it won’t be long before the French footholds in Britain are crushed, if they’re fool enough to fight to the last,” he said. “But overall, losing America could cause us a great many problems. The French embarrassed us when they managed to land on our soil, Lady Gwen; they made us look weak. Their raiding squadrons are already hammering our shipping too. We cannot afford many more such embarrassments.”
“I won’t let you down,” Gwen assured him. “When do you want me to leave?”
“We’re organising a convoy of ships to depart in seven days, depending on how the naval war goes,” Lord Mycroft said. “That should include a number of troopships, providing reinforcements to General Paget. Yes, that Paget.”
Gwen hid her amusement. General Henry Paget had run off his second wife while married to his first. The whole affair had been a major scandal at the time, she recalled; her mother had chatted about it constantly.. General Paget’s first wife’s family had not only demanded a divorce, they'd clawed back the dowry and a major payment from General Paget’s family in exchange for not chasing him through the courts. If the General hadn’t been competent, he would probably have been dismissed from the army. As it was, with polite society unwilling to tolerate his presence, he and the second wife had been dispatched to America.
“You should have enough time to organise matters so the RSC can cope with your absence,” Lord Mycroft added. “I suggest you leave Sir James in command, again.”
“Understood,” Gwen said. “Can I take other sorcerers with me?”
“I advise against it,” Lord Mycroft said. “We may well need them here, to cope with future French raids - and raiding the French ourselves. I understand you need more experienced sorcerers in America” - he held up a hand before she could say a word - “but we don’t have many to spare. Losing Britain would be the end of the world.”
Gwen nodded. The Royal Navy could retreat to America or India, but what would it find when it arrived? A colony willing to fight to recover the motherland or a rebellious society intent on shaping a future for itself, free of any obligation to a distant government? And the French would not be gentle, either. The terms they imposed to end the war would cripple Britain, once and for all.
“I know,” she said, finally. “I won’t let you down.”
“I suggest you have a long rest, then see to your daughter,” Lord Mycroft added. “I’ll have papers sent to you at Cavendish Hall. You’ll have a chance to read them before you depart.”
His voice hardened, again. “You may be asked precisely what happened to Major Shaw,” he warned. “Just tell them that he had an unusually bad reaction to Charm.”
Gwen nodded, once. “I understand what is at stake,” she said. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Chapter Four
“A tragic business, simply tragic,” Lady Mary Crichton said. “I would have considered young Carrington to be a potential husband for you.”
Gwen fought hard not to roll her eyes. She might get along better with her mother these days, but she never ceased to be amazed at her mother’s ability to dismiss unwanted or unwelcome facts. There was no way she would have considered marrying Carrington Shaw, even if he hadn't tried to usurp her authority. They would not have made a suitable couple.
“Men are hardly interested in courting me, mother,” she said, sipping her tea. “I have not received any proposals, let alone expressions of interest.”
“You did have Sir Charles,” Lady Mary pointed out. “He was interested in you.”
Gwen felt her cheeks heat. “Sir Charles murdered his best friend and was planning to betray Britain to the French,” she said, tartly. She'd allowed him to distract her during the investigation, she recalled. It could have ended very badly. “I don’t think it would have made for a happy marriage.”
“Marriages are not meant to be happy,” Lady Mary said. “They’re meant for linking families and wealth together and for producing children.”
“I want something more, mother,” Gwen said. She hated to admit it, but she knew it was unlikely she’d ever marry. What sort of man wanted to marry a sorceress? The only men likely to be interested were ones who thought that marrying her would be their ticket to wealth and power. They’d be very disappointed if they tried. “And I already have a child.”
She looked around. “Where is Olivia?”
“The maids are currently bathing her,” Lady Mary said. “I was planning to take her to the Windsor Ball tonight.”
Gwen frowned. “I trust you will not let them make fun of her,” she said. “It would be a shame if I had to do something about it.”
“Fear not, they know she has close kin,” Lady Mary said, briskly. “And this ball might be her best chance at making a good match.”
“You are not to push her into anything,” Gwen said. “To all intents and purposes, she is my daughter.”
“She’s adopted,” Lady Mary pointed out. “Do you not want a child of your own?”
Gwen hesitated. In truth, she wasn't sure. If she’d been born without magic, she would probably have been married off as soon as she turned sixteen, married to someone her parents chose. They wouldn't have sold her to a monster, she thought, but they wouldn't have put her happiness at the top of the agenda. By now, she might well have had a child or two, maybe more. She knew girls who were her age, perhaps even younger, who’d already given birth to four or five children. And others who had died in childbirth.
“I don't know, mother,” she confessed. “But I have no husband. I believe a husband should come first.”
“I will keep an eye out for you,” Lady Mary said. “But Master Thomas’s will has confused the issue.”
Gwen felt a hot flash of triumph. Master Thomas hadn't just apprenticed her, he’d practically adopted her. It had been a formality, just to ensure he could be alone with Gwen without causing scandal, but it had separated her from her biological family. And when he’d died, she’d inherited his wealth as a free woman, rather than a daughter. Whatever happened, that wealth was hers.
“I am sure no one would mind if you were to say you were acting as my representative,” Gwen said. “But I don’t think you would find many suitors.”
“Lord Mycroft is unmarried,” Lady Mary mused. “And he would appreciate you ...”
Gwen giggled. “He’s a danger to shipping!”
“Regardless, he comes from a good family,” Lady Mary said. “I could approach him on your behalf.”
“No, thank you,” Gwen said, quickly. The thought of copulating with a man who was not only forty years her senior, but fat enough to pass for a beached whale was alarming. And he’d never look her in the eyes again if her mother went to him to open negotiations. “I would prefer someone closer to my age.”
She shook her head. There was no way she could handle the duties of a housewife, particularly one of her social class, and those of the Royal Sorceress. And she couldn't step down, either. Master Thomas had made sure a Master Magician had to lead the Royal Sorcerers Corps, if only to keep the bickering among lesser magicians to a dull roar. Gwen was, quite literally, the only one for the job. Even Sir James, as resourceful and talented as he was, couldn't handled it indefinitely.
“Most young men of your age are already married or betrothed,” Lady Mary pointed out. “I could find a widower, but the youngest I can think of right now is ten years older than you.”
“Perhaps I’ll meet someone in America,” Gwen offered.
Lady Mary looked horrified. Gwen didn't bother to conceal her amusement. American peers - and merchants who had yet to be ennobled - had been marrying British peers, buying their way into the aristocracy. It hadn't been an entirely successful arrangement, from what she’d heard, but it had given a number of older families a new lease on life. And she couldn't deny that strengthening ties between Britain and America was hardly
a bad idea.
“One would hope not,” Lady Mary said. “How could anyone be sure of his breeding?”
Gwen opened her mouth to say something else, but closed it when she heard the door opening behind her. Turning, she saw Olivia being escorted into the room by one of the maids. Her adopted daughter looked uncomfortable in a long green dress that suited her blonde hair; indeed, Gwen couldn't help thinking that Olivia simply didn't look natural in such a dress, no matter what the maids did. But then, Olivia had been on the streets for most of her life ...
Being a captive in Russia probably didn't help, Gwen thought, as she rose. There were dull shadows in Olivia’s blue eyes, recollections of horrors that no girl should have to see. But, as Jack had pointed out so long ago, many of the horrors deemed too horrific for girls to see were happening to girls. And she wanted to kill herself not too long ago.
“Olivia,” she said. She gave her adopted daughter a tight hug. “How are you feeling?”
“Clean,” Olivia said. Her accent held traces of the streets, despite the best elocution teachers money could buy. “They scrubbed every last inch of me.”
“And make sure you don’t get that dress dirty before tonight,” Lady Mary said, aiming a pointed gaze at the grandfather clock. “We have to be on our way in less than three hours.”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine, mother,” Gwen said. She had horrific memories of being forced to dress herself time and time again, just to please her mother. Lady Mary was practically a force of nature in the dressing room. “And she might have to leave in a hurry, anyway.”
Olivia looked up, alarmed. “They might need me?”
“I don’t think so,” Gwen said, reassuringly. Lord Mycroft had talked about keeping Olivia’s necromantic talents in reserve, just in case the battle went badly, but Gwen doubted she’d be needed. The last report she’d read had stated that the French enslaves were under constant attack, wearing the French down piece by piece. “But you might need an excuse to slip out.”
“Gwen,” Lady Mary said.
She rose, stiffly. “I shall be in my rooms, readying myself,” she added. “It is imperative she does not dirty her clothes. A number of young men are coming to the ball.”
Gwen watched her go, then looked at Olivia. “You do look nice in that dress.”
“I feel like a mark,” Olivia grunted. She snorted in a very unladylike manner. “Do you know how much the jewellery alone is worth? And how easy it would be for me to lose it?”
“Watch yourself,” Gwen advised. The exact truth behind Olivia’s family roots - or lack of them - had been carefully buried, but it didn’t take much to start tongues wagging in polite society. “You don’t want a bad reputation now.”
Olivia snorted, ruder this time. “Do you think any of the toffs will want to marry me?”
Gwen shrugged. “Do you want to marry them?”
“No,” Olivia said. “But your mother insists that I need a good match.”
“There’s no need for you to have any sort of match,” Gwen said. She pushed Olivia towards one of the chairs, then sat down facing her. “But if you want to get married, this is the way to go about it.”
Olivia’s face darkened. She rarely spoke of her time on the streets, but Gwen had heard enough - from Jack, from Lucy, from Irene - to make a number of guesses about what life must have been like for Olivia, even if she had spent most of her time wearing male clothes and pretending to be a boy. It was quite possible that Olivia would never want to marry, or would have to have a very awkward conversation with her partner before they tied the knot.
“Leave it for the moment,” she said, sitting back. “There’s a more important matter to discuss.”
“You’re leaving,” Olivia said.
Gwen blinked in surprise. “How ...?”
“Your mother was saying that you did something bad,” Olivia said. “And that you would have to leave the country for a time.”
“I’m afraid so,” Gwen said. Now she’d had a wash and a long sleep, she couldn't help feeling a little ashamed of what she’d done. There had been other options. “And I can't take you with me.”
Olivia looked down at the wooden flooring. “You’re going to leave me here with her?”
“She won’t harm you,” Gwen reassured her. Lady Mary had to be very daunting, particularly to someone of no aristocratic blood. “And ... and you might be needed.”
“I won’t raise the dead again,” Olivia said. She looked up, meeting Gwen’s eyes. “Whatever happens, I won’t raise the dead. You didn't hear the whispers.”
“I heard enough,” Gwen said. “And I won’t force you to do anything.”
She shook her head. The people who had argued, a year ago, that Olivia should be put to death might have had a point, given what had happened in Russia. Reports from St Petersburg were vague, and the French weren't sharing what they knew, but British Intelligence believed there was a civil war underway. There was no way to know how many Russians had joined the ranks of the undead, or how many had survived the destruction of Moscow. Russia was cold enough to preserve undead bodies for years.
“They will,” Olivia whispered. “And I’ll kill myself before I let a Charmer get his hooks into me again.”
“You won’t have to,” Gwen said. She hoped devoutly that she was right. “The French have been beaten, I think.”
Olivia nodded, slowly. “When will you be home?”
“I don’t know,” Gwen admitted. Training a group of sorcerers could take months, if not years. But she doubted she’d have that long. The French armies in North America presumably knew that the invasion of Britain had failed. “At least a year, perhaps longer.”
Olivia’s face fell. “Are you sure?”
“I can send for you, once I know the lie of the land,” Gwen offered. She had no idea if Lord Mycroft would let Olivia go, but she could convince him that Olivia was unlikely to raise the dead on command. “Or I could try to get you into the Britannic School.”
“No, thank you,” Olivia said. “It’s hard enough trying to cipher on my own.”
Gwen smiled. Young women were normally educated at home, at least among the aristocracy. She’d certainly been home-schooled. For Olivia, who had never learned to read and write until she’d come to Cavendish Hall, trying to learn with a pack of aristocratic girls would be torture. It would be hard to blame her for trying to escape the school.
“As you wish,” she said. She sighed, looking at Olivia’s dress. “I would take you for a walk, but mother does carry on so.”
Olivia smirked. “We could go anyway.”
Gwen shook her head. “I have to head back to Cavendish Hall,” she said. “I just wanted to see you again, before I leave. There may be no time once the preparations start in earnest.”
“I understand,” Olivia said, reluctantly. “Just ... just ask your mother to stop nagging me about the dreams.”
“I will,” Gwen said. Olivia had started to have nightmares almost as soon as she’d been rescued, nightmares which had rapidly worsened to the point where she either tried hard not to sleep or woke up screaming. “And I love you.”
She gave the younger girl another hug, then spoke briefly to Lady Mary before hurrying back out to the carriage. Traffic in and out of London had dropped off sharply over the past few days, save for carts bringing food and drink into the city in case of a siege. Gwen had no doubt that it would pick up soon, once the last of the French enclaves were crushed, but for the moment it only took thirty minutes to drive from her father’s mansion to Cavendish Hall.
“Lady Gwen,” the guard said. He tipped his hat to her as she stepped through the gates and onto the ground. “Doctor Norwell asked you to speak with him as soon as you returned.”
“I see,” Gwen said.
She walked up the driveway and through the main doors. Cavendish Hall was almost empty; the sorcerers had been sent to the war, the researchers and support staff had b
een moved north to Oxford ... she was mildly surprised that Doctor Norwell hadn’t gone too. But he had always insisted on making sure proper records were kept. He’d claimed to have served the RSC since before Master Thomas had become the Royal Sorcerer and, judging from his looks, Gwen was inclined to believe him. He was definitely old enough to be her grandfather.
“Lady Gwen,” Doctor Norwell said, as she stepped into the library. “I trust your daughter is well?”
“Well enough,” Gwen said, glancing around before sitting down in one of the comfortable armchairs. “They made a terrible mess in here, doctor.”
Her lips thinned. The library was one of her favourite rooms, but it no longer looked like a library.. The books had been stripped from the shelves and transported out of the city, even though she knew that ninety percent of them were nothing more than nonsense. Writing down magic spells was pointless - magic simply didn't work like that - but hardly anyone outside the RSC or the government knew it. Conmen had been selling books of ‘magic’ to gullible idiots for years, then pocketing the cash and vanishing before the buyers realised that none of the spells actually worked.
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