I nodded and left the room as quickly as I was able. Upstairs, I went to my bedroom and indulged in a hearty bout of tears, which I can only put down to my extreme tiredness, for you know I am not usually a watering pot, Kate. But it seems most unfair for me to have gone to such trouble to extract Thomas from his difficulties with the chocolate pot and then have James scowl disapprovingly at me because of it. I comfort myself with the thought that he is not a wizard and does not see the necessity of what I have done, but it is still very melancholy.
I was quite exhausted after the encounter with James, and I slept for the remainder of the day. Mary told me, when she brought up my dinner tray, that Mr. Wrexton had called in the afternoon, so James must not have seen him. Fortunately, Papa came through the hall just as Danvers was conveying my regrets to Mr. Wrexton, and the two of them went off to Papa’s study for a comfortable cose about the ancient Sumerians, or the Babylonian Empire, or whatever Papa is currently eager to talk about with anyone who comes by. So I need not feel guilty that Mr. Wrexton drove out to Rushton Manor for nothing.
Aunt Elizabeth allowed me to sleep all day Sunday, but she came to my room very early Monday morning and fussed over me until I was driven nearly to distraction. She did not stop after I got downstairs, but kept on giving me tea and tucking up my lap robe. Finally I said something very cross, but Aunt Elizabeth did not scold me as she usually does. She did go quite stiff for a moment, but then she reached into her sewing basket and pulled out a charm-bag with my initial on it!
“I made this for you, Cecelia,” she said, and I could tell she was quite uncomfortable. “And I must apologize for ruining the one you made yourself.” She held out the bag and a pair of scissors.
I took them from her in silence and clipped off a lock of my hair for the charm-bag. As I closed it up, I studied the bag closely, and suddenly I gasped. “The charm-bag in Oliver’s room!” I said. “You made it!”
“It was the only way of protecting him from that Griscomb girl’s spell,” Aunt Elizabeth said stiffly.
“Oh, Aunt Elizabeth, I am sorry! I opened it the day we went on the picnic with Dorothea, because I did not know what sort of charm-bag it was and I was afraid it would do something horrid,” I said. “But I made another for him right away.”
“It was an understandable mistake,” Aunt Elizabeth said. “How are you feeling now, Cecy?”
“I am not so tired as I was,” I said, “but I still do not feel much like riding. I think—”
There was a rap at the sitting room door. “Mr. Wrexton,” Danvers announced.
Aunt Elizabeth paled slightly and sat up very straight. “Do join us, Mr. Wrexton,” she said. “Will you have tea?”
“Thank you, Miss Rushton, I will,” Mr. Wrexton replied. He took his teacup and sat down between Aunt Elizabeth and me. I’ve come to see Cecelia; I believe you know why.”
“Magic lessons,” Aunt Elizabeth sniffed. “Arthur told me.”
“Your brother is wise enough not to wish to stifle talent,” Mr. Wrexton said gently. “I know you cannot like it, but I hope you will understand.”
Aunt Elizabeth did not reply, and Mr. Wrexton gave a little sigh. Then he turned to me. “I understand you have not been feeling well, Cecelia. What’s that you have?”
“I have been rather tired,” I said. I fingered the charm-bag and glanced at Aunt Elizabeth. When she did not say anything, I held it up for Mr. Wrexton to see. “Aunt Elizabeth made it for me,” I told him.
“I see.” Mr. Wrexton’s voice was noncommittal, but he threw Aunt Elizabeth a speculative look. “May I examine it?”
I looked at Aunt Elizabeth again, but she made no sign, so I handed it to him. He studied it in silence a moment, then nodded. “Excellent work. Unfortunately, I do not believe it is quite enough for what is troubling the young lady.”
Aunt Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “You have some other suggestion?”
“I do, indeed,” Mr. Wrexton said. He drew a small jeweler’s box from his pocket and handed it to me. “Put that on, Cecy, if you would.”
I opened the box and gasped. It was the little gold locket and chain that Mama left me. “Mama’s necklace! But how did you get it?”
“Your father gave it to me when we discussed the matter on Saturday,” Mr. Wrexton said. “He felt it would be better for me to place the protective spells on something that you were accustomed to wearing. Please, put it on.”
I did so, and the moment I had the chain fastened around my neck I felt positively energetic. It was as if I had been wrapped up in cotton wool for several days, and it had all just dropped away. I gave a gasp of surprise and sat up very straight.
“Excellent,” Mr. Wrexton said with some satisfaction.
“Just what is going on here, Mr. Wrexton?” Aunt Elizabeth said in freezing tones.
Mr. Wrexton hesitated. “Nothing you need worry about any further, I assure you,” he said carefully.
I was thinking furiously, for it seemed that the cotton wool had dropped away from my brains as well as my muscles. Suddenly it was quite obvious that Sir Hilary had set some kind of spell to make me feel so very tired. I wondered for a moment whether it was the same kind of thing that he had been doing to Thomas, but I was forced to abandon this theory. For one thing, I had not had even a ghost of a fever; for another, Sir Hilary and I have not got a joint focus he could use to torment me. (And you may be quite sure I shall make certain he never gets one!) It is quite possible that he was simply trying to keep me out of the way for a while for there seemed to be no ill effects whatever now that Mr. Wrexton had given me the locket. I am not certain of this, however, as I am not knowledgeable enough to be aware of all the various things Sir Hilary might have been attempting to do.
While I was thinking, Mr. Wrexton gave Aunt Elizabeth some tale that did not at all satisfy her. She was extremely cool toward him for the remainder of his visit, though she warmed a little toward the end when it became obvious that I was my old self.
And so, Kate, I am wearing Mama’s—and Mr. Wrexton’s—locket everywhere, and I feel perfectly well. I even went riding this morning after your letter arrived, but James was not in the woods. So I have not had the opportunity to tell him why I broke the chocolate pot, nor that it worked just as I had hoped and Thomas is on the mend. If he is not there tomorrow, I will have to find some other way to let him know that Thomas is feeling better, for even if he is angry with me, I think he would want to be told.
I have made no effort to visit Bedrick Hall; there seems no need whatever, now that the chocolate pot has been taken care of. I hope that this has occurred to James, and that he has ceased lurking in Sir Hilary’s bushes. And you may be very sure I shall be on my best behavior at Sir Hilary’s party Saturday evening. I shall not leave Aunt Elizabeth’s side for a minute. So you see, I am being extremely sensible, just as you would like. I only wish Thomas and James would do the same; then perhaps this entire business would be quickly concluded.
Your,
Cecy
6 July 1817
11 Berkeley Square, London
Dear Cecy,
Robert Penwood is here in London at last. He ran Mr. Griscomb to earth in Leeds and accompanied him to London where they were both putting up at Mr. Griscomb’s club. Given Miranda’s short temper, I suppose it is understandable that Mr. Griscomb stays at White’s while Miranda and Dorothea lease a very desirable Mayfair residence.
I learned all this last Tuesday when Robert came to call. He stayed barely a quarter of an hour and questioned me about Dorothea almost the entire time. I was able to persuade him to accept an invitation to take tea on Thursday, but he was far more interested in learning everything he could about the attentions shown to Dorothea by the Duke of Hexham. All I could tell him was what everyone in London knows: The Duke is wellborn, well-known, well-to-do, and well over sixty. Much cast down, Robert left scowling.
On Wednesday I was asked to tea at Schofield House, where I expected to see Thomas. I did no
t. Instead, Lady Sylvia received me in the most formal drawing room I have ever seen. I had scarcely taken my place when Lady Sylvia fixed me with a searching look and asked in a very serious tone whether I preferred milk or lemon.
“Milk,” I said, tugging off my gloves and crumpling them in my lap.
As she poured, Lady Sylvia continued to scrutinize me. A little discomfited by the intensity of her regard, I took a bite of my biscuit and asked, “When did you first discover Thomas’s talent for magic? I expect he must have been very young at the time.”
Lady Sylvia said nothing but went on gazing at me as though she wished to peer through me like a window. Unnerved, I inhaled a biscuit crumb and went off in a coughing fit. When I blinked my vision clear, she was still regarding me with the same expression of stern interest.
“Is something the matter, Lady Sylvia?” I asked.
“You seem a nice girl,” Lady Sylvia replied, “and I know Thomas well enough to guess the sort of tricks he is likely to get up to. You needn’t be afraid to tell me the entire truth, you know.”
I spilt half my tea in my lap. It was still quite hot and the gloves did not soak up enough to make much difference. I dabbed ineffectually with my napkin as I tried to think of something to say that would relieve my feelings without giving Lady Sylvia the idea that I was badly brought up. “My goodness,” I said finally. It wasn’t very satisfactory. “Drat!” I said. That was better. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said to Lady Sylvia.
“I mean that Thomas might have made you think there was some reason for you to pretend to be betrothed, for his protection perhaps.” Lady Sylvia’s dark gaze had not altered. “You might feel very awkward about ending the betrothal before you were quite sure he was safe.”
Cecy, you know I can tell falsehoods. No matter who looks at me, for how long, I can tell bouncers so enormous even Aunt Charlotte does not think to question them. I know I can. Only, sitting in that perfect room of ivory and gold, dripping tea on the Axminster carpet, I just couldn’t tell a lie to Lady Sylvia. So I took refuge in silence. For several minutes (it seemed like several years), I gazed into the cloudy remainder of my tea and tried to think why I felt so miserable at the chance to rid myself of the burden of betrothal to Thomas. In a way I thought it would be better than jilting him, for I felt quite certain his Mother would disapprove strongly of his sham offer of marriage.
“He was perfectly honest with me,” I said at last. “He said I was the only young lady he could ask who would not misunderstand him. There is something about Dorothea, you see, that no man can resist. And he wasn’t certain he could resist either, until he saw her. He didn’t like to take the risk.”
Lady Sylvia was silent so long I looked up from my teacup. She was no longer gazing at me. She was staring at the teapot with an air of faint disgust. “So you were the only young lady in the Ton who would not misunderstand him,” she said. There was a twist in the corner of her mouth that boded ill for someone.
“He said I could jilt him whenever I please,” I continued. “I have given it a great deal of thought. I think perhaps the ball at Carlton House would be best. But perhaps you would prefer something more discreet.”
“That is entirely your affair,” replied Lady Sylvia. Her voice was still remote but much of the chill had gone out of it. “In the meantime, we must do the thing properly. There is a set of rubies that Thomas ought to present to you—”
I made an inarticulate noise of protest.
“—and I’m afraid I’ve been dreadfully selfish with the Schofield pearls. There is also a sapphire necklace, which won’t do for your coloring, of course, but will come to you all the same, and a brooch with a really splendid intaglio.”
“Lady Sylvia, I could not—truly—”
“There will be more tedious things to see to in the way of settlements and so on, but I won’t bore you with all that now,” said Lady Sylvia. “No, don’t argue, child. We’ll have the solicitors see to everything. After all, you don’t want to betray Thomas’s useless, stupid little charade now, do you? People will talk if you don’t do the thing properly. And those rubies will be really stunning with your complexion.”
“No, Lady Sylvia,” I said. “No.”
Lady Sylvia gave me another long, measuring look. The ill-natured twist of her lips smoothed itself away as she smiled at me. “No?” she asked. “Well, perhaps not just yet. Will you take more tea, Kate?”
To my relief, she let the subject drop and did not refer to it again. We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking tea and discussing Thomas’s youthful misadventures. Apparently Oliver was not the only child to have the firm conviction he could fly from the peak of the stable roof. Thomas did something very similar, only instead of breaking his arm, he broke his leg. I ought to write these things down so that if you and I ever have children, we will know at about what age these notions arise.
On Thursday, Dorothea came to tea in Berkeley Square. Robert was already here when she arrived and he stared at her, quite speechless with happiness, all the time Aunt Charlotte was pouring out for Dorothea.
“Will you have a cream bun?” I asked Robert, in an effort to distract him from Dorothea.
Robert merely shook his head and went on stirring his tea absently. Dorothea drank an entire cup of tea before she overcame her bashfulness sufficiently to look up at him, and when she did, he lost his grip on his spoon altogether. It flew in a sharp little arc over the tea table and landed on the carpet at Georgy’s feet.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Robert, flushing scarlet. “Let me get it.”
He rose and circled the table the long way around. As he walked behind Dorothea he made a sudden attack on the plate of cream buns and under cover of this distraction dropped a folded scrap of paper into Dorothea’s lap. Aunt Charlotte would certainly have discovered this piece of amateur subterfuge if I hadn’t had the presence of mind to upset the sugar bowl into the slops dish. To my disappointment, Dorothea was not goose enough to open the paper and read it there and then. She slid it into her glove while Aunt Charlotte was addressing me and ringing for more sugar, and was able to put her gloves on with perfect composure when it was time to take her leave.
On the whole, I would say romance becomes Robert Penwood. He does not talk nearly so much as was his habit, and he ate scarcely anything, not even his cream bun.
It is a pity that I cannot give them another opportunity to meet, but since Thomas warned me of Miranda’s intentions toward me, I have been avoiding her to the best of my ability. Unfortunately, this means I must also avoid Dorothea, except in those rare cases, as at tea, when she can escape Miranda’s company. Georgina teases me about it, telling me that this betrays my jealousy of the attention Thomas paid Dorothea while I was ill. But Georgy is usually teasing me about something. It is almost pleasant to have her roast me about something that I know isn’t true for a change. Much better than her usual instinct—she has only just stopped making references to gilding my toenails. This has been doubly annoying as the whole idea was Georgy’s to begin with. If she keeps on with her arch remarks on the topic, Aunt Charlotte is sure to find out after all, and it will be me that she makes sorry. An awful thought just struck me. Aunt Charlotte will certainly blame me for Georgy’s gaming—but do you suppose she would be right in doing so? Am I to blame?
Love,
Kate
9 July 1817
Rushton Manor, Essex
Dearest Kate,
Of course you are not to blame for Georgy’s gaming. If anyone is to blame (besides Georgy), it is Aunt Charlotte, for (as she has pointed out to everyone so often) she is Responsible For You Both. However, I doubt that she will see it this way. She probably will claim it is your fault, for she always does. I cannot imagine why she is so unjust. Nobody can do anything with Georgy when she takes a notion into her head, and she never listens to your advice any more than Oliver listens to me. It is a great pity you cannot tell Aunt Charlotte so to her face, and so bring her to
a sense of her obligations, but it would never work. If you tried, she would probably lock you in your room for the next twenty years, and Miranda would make away with Thomas in the meantime.
I am glad to hear that Robert has reached London, and gladder to know that Miranda has not yet arranged to have him set upon by footpads or poisoned with chocolate or thrown by his horse (though the way Robert rides, I do not think I could set such an accident down to Miranda’s account with any great degree of certainty, however much I might like to). I do hope Robert will do something useful, now that he is there. Staring happily at Dorothea over the tea table may be very enjoyable for them both, but I cannot see that it accomplishes anything. I suppose I must pin my hopes on the note he passed her, though it is probably only bad verse to her eyebrows. (And I cannot commend too highly your presence of mind in distracting Aunt Charlotte. Had she noticed what Robert was doing, she would certainly have considered it her duty to inform Miranda, and you know what that must have led to.)
I must confess that I cannot completely make sense of Lady Sylvia’s remarks to you regarding your betrothal to Thomas. However, she seems to have accepted the current state of affairs, which must make things far more comfortable for you. You must have found it excessively awkward, dealing with Lady Sylvia these past two weeks and knowing that she believed you to be really engaged to her son. I do think it rather unkind of her to refer to it as “Thomas’s useless, stupid little charade,” but no doubt she was slightly overset on first hearing the truth. And she is quite right; rubies would be perfectly stunning on you.
I have spent much of this week at Mrs. Hobart’s, having fittings on the gown she made for me from the amber taffeta you sent. Mrs. Hobart is nothing if not painstaking, and I cannot justly say, therefore, that the major part of my week has been lively.
Monday morning I went out for my ride as usual. I did not expect to see James Tarleton, though out of habit I rode toward the wood where we had agreed to meet. He had not been waiting for me since that dreadful tea the week before, when he seemed so upset at my having broken Thomas’s chocolate pot. I considered this most unfair, as it meant that I had still not been able to tell him why I had done it or that subsequent events had justified my actions (i.e., Thomas had begun to recover). So it was with mixed feelings that I saw James Tarleton’s bay coming toward me through the trees.
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