Sorcery & Cecelia

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “Only that my mother has invited you to tea,” Tarleton replied. “I did not want your aunt to worry if we were a little longer than seemed reasonable.”

  “Why? What have you planned?” I demanded. I had been so busy with my plans for returning Sir Hilary’s book that it had not occurred to me that James Tarleton must have some purpose of his own for our ride, and I was most annoyed with myself.

  “Nothing you will object to,” James replied in a soothing tone. I cannot think how he came to imagine that he would know what I might or might not object to. “Do you remember my telling you I wanted to show your charm-bag to someone?” he went on. “I did, and he is anxious to meet you. He is waiting at Tarleton Hall.”

  “And if I would rather not meet him?” I said.

  A worried frown crossed Mr. Tarleton’s face, but he said, “In that case you need not.”

  “Well, I have no objection to meeting your friend,” I said, and paused. “Provided you let me run a little errand on the way.”

  James looked at me with a wary expression. “What sort of errand? Where?”

  “Bedrick Hall.”

  “No,” he said at once. “Good God, have you no sense? Miranda’s malice will be nothing compared to what you’ll face if Sir Hilary finds out you’ve been poking around there.”

  “I have no intention of poking around,” I said, trying to sound as if I meant it. “I have business at Bedrick Hall.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “I wish to retrieve the fan I dropped in the library, that day everyone else was lost in the maze.”

  “You weren’t carrying a fan that day,” James said positively. He looked at me with a grim expression. “The truth, Cecy.”

  It is most annoying to be faced with someone who refuses to accept even the most plausible subterfuge. I sighed. “I have to get into Sir Hilary’s library to return a book I took,” I said.

  “You stole a book from Sir Hilary’s library?” Mr. Tarleton looked positively aghast.

  “I most certainly did not,” I said. “If I had stolen it, I would not now be looking for a way to put it back. And before you make any foolish objections, you should remember that if Sir Hilary returns and discovers one of his wizardry books is missing, I will be in just as much trouble as if Mrs. Porter tells him I have been poking about. She won’t, though. My excuse is a perfectly unexceptionable one.”

  James argued a bit longer, but eventually he was forced to admit the good sense of my proposal. For, as I pointed out, it would look very odd for me to ride all the way over to Bedrick Hall simply to retrieve a fan, but it is quite reasonable that I would ask him to stop if we happened to be driving by. I did not add that Mrs. Porter, like many housekeepers, is of a romantic turn of mind, and will certainly conclude that I persuaded Mr. Tarleton to take me to Bedrick Hall out of a desire to be longer in his company. Somehow I did not think he would appreciate the fact that this erroneous conclusion would make Mrs. Porter even more willing to believe my tale.

  To my surprise, when we reached Bedrick Hall Mr. Tarleton handed his horses over to one of the footmen and requested that he walk them for a few moments. Then he accompanied me into the house. I told Mrs. Porter my fiction about the fan, and she looked at me doubtfully and said that she rather thought the room had been turned out since then, but I was welcome to look. She looked a little taken aback when Mr. Tarleton said very blandly that he would accompany me.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed at him as we followed Mrs. Porter down the hall.

  “Making sure you won’t go looking for a new way of getting into trouble,” he replied.

  I was forced to swallow the furious retort that rose in my throat in answer to this outrageous behavior, for we had reached the library. I made a great show of looking behind several chairs, then bent over as if to check behind the sofa. I had no difficulty in slipping Sir Hilary’s book out of my reticule, but I did not think I could replace it on the bookshelf without Mrs. Porter’s noticing. I therefore put my hand against the books and tipped a number of them onto the floor as I rose, trying to make it seem as though I were simply being clumsy. As they fell, I let go of the book on charm-bags (not without a pang, I promise you, for it has been not only interesting but exceedingly useful, as I know you will be the first to agree!).

  “Oh!” I said in accents of dismay. “Oh, dear, I’m so dreadfully sorry! I can’t imagine how I came to be so clumsy!”

  Mrs. Porter made soothing noises. I bent over the books again and began putting them back onto the shelf, continuing to apologize the while. James joined me, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Very clever,” he whispered as he returned a brown leather-bound volume to its place.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tarleton,” I said. I picked up the last book, a greenish gray volume. Epicyclical Elaborations of Sorcery was the title on the spine, and the author was Everard Tanistry. I hesitated, strongly tempted to take it away with me, for I remembered you writing that Thomas had said Miranda was a Tanistry before she married Mr. Griscomb, and I wondered if Everard might have been some relation.

  I was not given the chance. Mr. Tarleton plucked the book from my hands and shoved it back into position on the shelf as though he were disposing of a live snake. “That’s the last of them, I think,” he said in a pleasant tone, and held out his hand to help me rise.

  “I sincerely hope not,” said a familiar, vaguely supercilious voice from the other side of the room.

  I jumped, startled, and peered over the edge of the sofa to find Sir Hilary Bedrick standing in the doorway, just behind Mrs. Porter. He had obviously only just come in, for he had not stayed to put off his driving cape. Fortunately, Mrs. Porter was even more flustered than I; she curtseyed and began apologizing at once, which gave me time to collect myself. Sir Hilary dismissed her with a nod; then he turned and raised a quizzing glass to study James and me.

  “Tarleton,” he said, nodding a greeting. “No doubt the servants neglected to inform you that I was from home.”

  “He came with me, Sir Hilary,” I said quickly.

  “Indeed. Do come out from behind the sofa, Miss Rushton,” he said. “I cannot imagine why I find your presence in my library surprising, but I must confess I do. Perhaps you would be good enough to explain?”

  “Miss Rushton thought she had dropped her fan here,” Mr. Tarleton said. “Your housekeeper was good enough to allow her to come in to look for it.”

  Sir Hilary looked at him and snorted. “Naturally, you believed every word of her story.”

  Mr. Tarleton raised both eyebrows. “I don’t believe I thought much about it, one way or the other,” he said.

  Sir Hilary gave him a sharp glance and turned to me. “And have you found your fan?”

  “No,” I said with as much composure as I could manage. “I must have lost it in the maze. I do apologize for intruding like this, but I was very anxious to retrieve it. Oliver gave it to me for my last birthday, you see.”

  “Indeed.” Sir Hilary snorted again. Then he gave me a rather thin smile. “And how is Oliver these days?”

  “As caper-witted as ever,” I said disgustedly. “He was in London for a few weeks, but he has now gone to visit friends, and though he wrote Papa not to expect him home soon, he neglected to furnish us with his direction.”

  “Ah.” Sir Hilary looked closely at me, and smiled again. “Dear me, I have been so long on the road that I am forgetting my manners. Allow me to invite you to join me for some refreshment.”

  “I am afraid we must decline, Sir Hilary,” Mr. Tarleton said. “My mother is expecting Miss Rushton to take tea with her, and we are already late.”

  “Then, of course, you must go,” Sir Hilary said. He moved aside from the doorway, and I was surprised at the relief I felt at being allowed to leave. Sir Hilary accompanied us to the front of the house, and I gave him a completely spurious description of the nonexistent fan, in case one of his servants should run across it. He asked after Papa and Aunt Elizabeth, an
d I congratulated him on his recent election to the Royal College of Wizards. A peculiar expression crossed his face when I mentioned that, but it was gone so quickly that I may have been mistaken, and he handed me up into the curricle with unimpaired courtesy. As we drove away, I saw the servants unloading trunks from Sir Hilary’s traveling carriage.

  Neither James nor I said anything until we were well away from Bedrick Hall. I do not know about Mr. Tarleton, but I was thinking furiously. I know of no reason for Sir Hilary to return from London nearly a month before the end of the Season. I therefore have hopes that the ruse you played with Miranda has been successful, and he and she have had a strong difference of opinion, which has led to his departure. I do not wish to be overly confident in this opinion, however, for one can never tell with Sir Hilary.

  I had just reached this point in my deliberations when Mr. Tarleton broke the silence to say, “Perhaps I had better take you home.”

  “I thought you wanted me to meet someone,” I said, looking at him in surprise. His expression was one of concern, and I said without thinking, “Oh, you cannot think that I am overset by a mere encounter with Sir Hilary! It was startling, I must own, but—”

  “Forgive me, Miss Rushton,” James interrupted, “but Sir Hilary is precisely what is worrying me. I don’t believe he has given me a second thought until now, because Thomas’s dislike of Miranda extends to avoiding all her connections, however remote. After finding me crawling about on the floor of his library, however, he can hardly fail to become suspicious.”

  I considered this briefly, and decided that James was quite right. It is so provoking! For if Sir Hilary is going to be suspicious of me anyway, I could just as well have taken that book by Everard Tanistry, and perhaps learned something.

  “Well, I am exceedingly sorry,” I said at last, “but I do not think it fair for you to blame me. It was, after all, an accident.”

  “I am not blaming you,” James said. “I’m trying to keep you from getting further involved.”

  I did not pretend that I did not understand. “My cousin, who is my dearest friend, is engaged to your friend—” (I almost said, “Your odious friend,” but I stopped myself in time) “—Thomas; my brother Oliver has been turned into a beech tree and has now disappeared; Miranda has tried twice to have me killed or injured because I am fond of Dorothea. Pray tell me how much further it is possible for me to become involved.”

  He was silent for a time. “I don’t like it,” he said at last.

  “You don’t have to,” I said, feeling quite cross. “But I am involved. And if Sir Hilary finds out that you took me straight home, instead of to tea at Tarleton Hall as you told him, he is bound to become even more suspicious than he already is.”

  “I suppose you are right,” James said gloomily, and turned the horses toward Tarleton Hall. “How did you know your brother had been turned into a beech tree?” he said after a long pause.

  “Kate wrote me,” I said.

  He looked at me sharply. “How much has she told you?”

  “How should I know?” I retorted. “If one does not know the whole, it is impossible to say how large a part of it one does know. And in any case, what Kate tells me is none of your affair.”

  He relapsed into gloom, and we rode the remainder of the distance to Tarleton Hall in silence. In fact, he did not speak again until he escorted me into the pink saloon at Tarleton Hall. To my surprise, Mr. Wrexton was waiting in the saloon. (And he is not a “fusty, stuffed-up bore” in the slightest, Kate, even if I did meet him at the Reverend Fitz’s.) He rose as I entered and bowed. “Miss Rushton! What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Why, Mr. Wrexton!” I said, looking uncertainly at James from the corner of my eyes. “I had not thought to meet you here.”

  “You know each other?” James said, frowning.

  “Mr. Wrexton was kind enough to call on Papa last Friday,” I said.

  Mr. Wrexton was looking from me to Mr. Tarleton with a bemused expression. “My dear fellow! You can’t mean that this is…”

  “The person who made that extremely interesting charm-bag I brought you, yes,” James said.

  “Why on earth didn’t you say so?” Mr. Wrexton asked mildly. “There would have been no need for this subterfuge; I could have called on Miss Rushton at home.” He gave me a warm smile.

  “I am afraid that would not have served,” I said regretfully, returning his smile. “At least, not if you wish to talk about my charm-bag. Aunt Elizabeth would never allow me to do anything so improper as to receive a gentleman un-chaperoned, and Aunt Elizabeth has a strong aversion to anything that smacks of magic, however slightly. She would have shown you to the door as soon as you brought the subject up.”

  “I see.” Mr. Wrexton looked exceedingly thoughtful. “That does complicate matters. Well, now that you are here, won’t you sit down and discuss it with me?”

  He offered me a chair, then took the one beside me, leaving James to sit on the other side of the tea table. I took a cup of tea, and we began chatting about charm-bags. Or rather, Mr. Wrexton asked me a great many questions, and I answered as well as I could. Mr. Wrexton, it seems, is a magician of some note, and has even worked with the Duke of Wellington. I suppose that is why Aunt Elizabeth took him in dislike. He specializes in complex and powerful spells, and claims to have been most impressed by my charm-bag.

  “Spells of that kind depend a great deal on the power and ability of the wizard,” he told me. “Yours was quite remarkable; even after the bag had been opened, there was a significant magical residue. I wish I had had the chance to study it while it was intact.”

  “I’ve made another,” I said, and pulled it from my reticule. Mr. Wrexton did not seem surprised, but bent over it at once, turning it this way and that in his hands.

  “And the herbs?” he said at last.

  I told him the mixture I had used, and found myself explaining about the book I had taken from Sir Hilary’s library. He nodded thoughtfully. “You have a great deal of talent, my dear,” he said when I had finished. “It would be a shame for you to waste it. We must find some way of teaching you.”

  “Now, wait a minute, Wrexton!” Mr. Tarleton said. “You can’t—”

  “I would like that very much, Mr. Wrexton,” I said, smiling. “I have always been interested in magic.”

  Mr. Tarleton was plainly furious, but he could hardly quarrel with me in Mr. Wrexton’s presence. To avoid being shouted at on the way home, I accepted Mr. Wrexton’s offer to drive me back to Rushton himself. We had a marvelous time, and he gave me a number of hints about charm-bags and spell casting in general. When we reached Rushton, I invited him in, which did not seem to please Aunt Elizabeth, though she thawed a little when Mr. Wrexton said that he had the intention of continuing on toward town, to visit the Reverend Fitzwilliam. He offered to escort her, should she wish to see the Reverend Fitz herself. Aunt Elizabeth declined, but she was quite in charity with him by the time he left.

  So I am to have magic lessons, at least I will if I can contrive a means of keeping it from Aunt Elizabeth. I also intend to return to Sir Hilary’s library and get a better look at that book by Everard Tanistry, though that will have to wait a little. It would never do to arouse his suspicions (always assuming they are not already aroused) by being discovered a second time going through his library.

  1 June

  Your letter arrived yesterday, and I am glad to hear that you are feeling better. I am enclosing a spare charm-bag for you, just in case. (A wetting won’t hurt it; the only thing that will break the spell is opening the bag.) Oh, and I have asked Mr. Wrexton, in as general a sort of way as possible and without being too specific about names, just what might have made the stains on the Marquis’s handkerchief turn violet when you washed it. He said he couldn’t tell without actually looking at it, but that the color violet usually indicates safety or defense when it turns up in this kind of way. So the handkerchief may actually be doing you, or the Marquis, some good.
It is a great relief to me to think so; I hope you have it safe.

  Aunt Elizabeth and I paid a call on the Reverend Fitzwilliam yesterday. The Reverend Fitz does not recall having been at school with anyone named Strangle, and, in fact, became almost distressed in his efforts to recall the name. I said that I must have been mistaken in my understanding of what you had written me, and very likely you had only meant that Mr. Strangle was at some other school at the same time, or at Brasenose just after the Reverend Fitz. I do not, of course, think anything of the kind, but there are times when it is necessary to employ a polite fiction. Particularly with the Reverend Fitz. Whatever the explanation, I thought you should know about Mr. Strangle.

  Mr. Wrexton arrived barely fifteen minutes after we did, bringing a bottle of wine he had apparently promised Reverend Fitzwilliam on Wednesday. We spent a pleasant half hour in innocuous discussion before Aunt Elizabeth insisted that we leave. I have begun to wonder whether she suspects that Mr. Wrexton is a wizard, though how she could have discovered that is beyond me. It would explain her apparent distaste for his company.

  I have heard nothing from Robert, but I did not really expect to have any news from him this soon. I am, in fact, rather grateful. It has occurred to me that even if Robert does obtain Mr. Griscomb’s consent to marry Dorothea, Miranda would have no compunction about feeding him poisoned chocolate or making one of his cravats strangle him. I am very sorry this did not occur to me before I sent him off looking for Mr. Griscomb; still, something must be done about Miranda in any case. We cannot allow her to continue wandering around enchanting marquises, turning people into beech trees, frightening horses, and leaving ribbons about to strangle people. This simply means that we must deal with her a little sooner.

  I shall make up a charm-bag for Robert, in case he finds Mr. Griscomb and announces his engagement before Miranda has been dealt with, and one for Dorothea as well. I will send them with my next letter. It will take me a little while to get them finished, as I do not dare work on them in Aunt Elizabeth’s presence. I will also ask Mr. Wrexton’s opinion, in a very general sort of way, of what can be done about particularly unscrupulous and powerful wizards. In the meantime, perhaps you could tell Dorothea that Robert has been quite moped since she left. I am sure she will let this slip to Miranda, which will give Miranda the impression that Robert is still in Rushton.