One Touch of Magic

by Amanda McCabe

  Mrs. Hamilton giggled behind her painted silk fan. “As would my friends in Bath, Miss Bellweather! I cannot wait to write to them and tell them all about my supper with a marquis.”

  Her husband looked away from her, out the opposite window into the night. “You are hardly having supper with him by yourself, my dear. There are dozens of other people here. You needn’t call it your supper with the marquis.”

  Mrs. Hamilton frowned at him. “Of course, I will not be alone with him, Neville! How can you say something so ridiculous? There will be many other people, perhaps even other titled people.” She turned to Sarah with one of her bright, brittle smiles. “Do you think there will be other titled people, Lady Iverson?”

  Sarah made herself smile back. Mrs. Hamilton was not the easiest person to be around, it was true; she giggled, and plucked at her ruffles, and knew nothing about history. But Sarah could not help but feel a bit sorry for her. In the last few days, the strain between the newlywed Hamiltons had been all too obvious, and Sarah feared for their future. She also feared for Mr. Hamilton’s scholarly ability. Ever since their return from their wedding trip, he had been short-tempered and forgetful. More than once he had forgotten to label objects from the bakery he was excavating.

  He had always been intense and serious, but now he seemed intense and—angry.

  Sarah had considered talking to them, but then decided the whole thing was patently none of her business. The Hamiltons would just have to work out their difficulties on their own. But she had resolved to be kinder to Mrs. Hamilton, and she hoped Mary Ann would, too.

  She glanced over at Mary Ann. Her sister watched the Hamiltons with a solemn look on her face, and Sarah couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking. Aside from a few glances and sighs, and references to a volume entitled Miss Anderson’s Secret Love, there had been no signs that her old infatuation had returned. Sarah wanted to keep it that way—she had quite enough to worry about without her sister’s romantic sensibilities causing trouble.

  “I am sure there will be some titled people,” she answered Mrs. Hamilton. “At least Lord Dunston, the nearest neighbor to Ransome Hall, and old Lady Eaton. She is never one to miss a rout.”

  Mrs. Hamilton smiled, as if satisfied. “Lady Eaton. I shall be sure to mention her in my letters, as well.”

  There was really nothing Sarah could think of to answer that, and fortunately she did not have to, as their carriage was stopping at the foot of the front steps. With great relief, she took the footman’s hand and stepped out onto the gravel drive.

  She had been to Ransome Hall several times in the past, even before she had taken tea there after Lord Ransome rescued her from the stream. The late Lord Ransome had been great friends with her husband, and they had often come here for supper and long discussions about the Vikings and ancient Britain. But she had never seen the vast house look like this.

  Old Lord Ransome’s collections of antiquities and medieval-style furniture were still in place, yet they were lit with tall branches of candelabra, and surrounded by banks of greenery and sweet-smelling white roses. The dark, echoing house was full of laughter and conversation, the clink of champagne crystal.

  Mary Ann laid her hand on Sarah’s arm, staring around her with amazed eyes. “Oh, Sarah! It is lovely. Like a fairyland.”

  “Indeed,” Sarah murmured. She handed her wrap to the waiting footman, still taking in the light and the flowers. It was like a fairyland, not like an ordinary supper party at all.

  And not like something a bachelor Army officer would arrange, either, she thought. Her own husband would never, ever have thought of flowers.

  She wondered if there was a lady who had helped him with the arrangements. A special lady.

  She felt a sour pang in her stomach, one that felt suspiciously like—jealousy.

  “I am not jealous!” she whispered, not even realizing she spoke aloud. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Sarah?” Mary Ann, who had wandered slightly ahead, looked back at her. “Did you say something?”

  Sarah smiled at her, and hurried to catch up. The other guests were gathered in the drawing room, and she could feel their merriment, their happy sociability, pulling her in. This was not a night for any conflicted emotions or uncertainties—it was just a night for enjoyment. It had been so long, too long, since she had been to a proper party.

  “I was just saying that the champagne looks lovely,” she said.

  “Could I have some?” Mary Ann begged. “Just a tiny, tiny bit? I am sixteen now.”

  Sarah laughed. “Maybe just a sip, dear, if you behave yourself.”

  They stepped into the drawing room, and found more flowers, more light and laughter. People, some that Sarah knew and a few that she did not, were gathered there. The ladies’ silk and satin gowns, a myriad of stylish colors, shimmered, their jewels sparkled. The gentlemen, though garbed in more somber colors, were no less fashionable.

  Sarah was very glad she had worn the black velvet, and the diamond necklace and earrings John had given her when they married. They seemed to shine even brighter after their long confinement in her jewel case. She reached up and touched one of the drop earrings, and smoothed back her upswept hair.

  “You look beautiful,” Mary Ann whispered. “And I am sure Lord Ransome will think so, too!”

  Sarah gave an unladylike little snort. “I hardly tidied myself up specifically for Lord Ransome!” Or whatever lady it was who had helped him arrange this party.

  “Of course not,” Mary Ann said. She stepped eagerly into the room, pulling Sarah with her.

  Lord Ransome waited just inside the doors, greeting his guests. He looked every bit as handsome in a dark blue coat and creamy silk waistcoat, his golden hair brushed back, as he did in casual attire standing about in the sun. He nodded at whatever the people in front of them were saying.

  Behind Sarah, the Hamiltons were talking in low, intent voices, obviously quarreling about something. Mrs. Hamilton’s lace-edged silk ruffles rustled, releasing waves of a lilac perfume that rivaled the flowers around them with its sweetness. Sarah paid attention to none of this. She only saw Lord Ransome. Even the sounds of conversation around her faded to a mere buzzing drone.

  He looked toward her, and smiled. His gloved hand reached for hers, and she released the breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. The voices rushed back onto her, bringing her back into the room.

  She hoped fervently that he had not seen her dazed expression, that he did not realize how ridiculous she became every time she saw him.

  “Good evening, Lady Iverson. Miss Bellweather,” he said. “I am very glad you were able to join us.”

  “Thank you, Lord Ransome,” Sarah answered. Her body leaned toward him infinitesimally, of its own volition, when he raised her hand to his lips, but other than that she thought she remained quite cool. “You have quite transformed Ransome Hall!”

  “It looks like an enchanted castle in a book,” said Mary Ann.

  He laughed. “Thank you very much, Miss Bellweather! I fear I cannot take the credit for the decorations, though. I have little imagination for such things.” He turned slightly, and Sarah saw the woman who stood beside him.

  She was beautiful, tiny and perfect, with moonlight-colored curls piled on her Grecian head and held by a band of sapphires and diamonds. Her artfully draped blue silk gown made Sarah feel a bit like a crow next to a shining bluebird.

  A few faint lines radiated from the corners of her blue eyes, indicating that she was a bit older than Lord Ransome, but surely no one could care about that when she was such an exquisite little doll.

  Lord Ransome took the woman’s arm in a fond gesture, and said, “This is the person who should be receiving your compliments—my mother, Mrs. Jane Browning. She surprised me with her arrival two days ago, and immediately worked wonders with these arrangements.”

  Sarah gave an hysterical little laugh, one that escaped before she could catch it. “Y—your mother, Lord Ranso
me?”

  Mrs. Browning smiled at her sweetly, and clasped Sarah’s hand in both of her own tiny ones. “My name is a surprise, isn’t it? Mr. Browning was my second husband, who passed away only three years ago. I see from your gown that you have also lost someone. I am sorry.”

  “Mother, this is Lady Iverson, and her sister, Miss Bellweather,” Lord Ransome said. “The ones who are working on the Viking village.”

  Mrs. Browning’s eyes lit up. “Of course! Miles has told me all about you and your work, and I am eager to hear more. I live in Bath, you know, and we have many scholarly lectures and meetings there. I would love to hear more about what you are doing here.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Browning. I am always happy to talk about my work.” To cover the confusion she still felt inside, Sarah turned to the Hamiltons. “Mrs. Browning, this is Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, who are also working on the village. Mr. Hamilton is a great expert on the Vikings, and Mrs. Hamilton lived in Bath herself until their marriage. Perhaps you will have some mutual friends?”

  Sarah stepped back a bit as Lord Ransome and Mrs. Browning greeted the Hamiltons. She felt like such a fool. This had become a feeling she was very accustomed to since she met Lord Ransome—was it only a week ago?

  It felt like a year. It felt like forever.

  She would just have to keep control of herself, she resolved, for what seemed like the twentieth time. But this time she meant it.

  Really, she did.

  Heavy silver clinked against delicate china as footmen served course after course. Laughter and talk wound down the length of the vast rosewood table, echoing through the arrangements of white flowers and the goblets of wine. Supper was a great success so far.

  Miles only realized this as something vague, at the edges of his mind, though. The merriment was like some half-heard conversation. He only saw Sarah, who sat on his right, talking to the man on her own right about the Viking village. Her dark eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as her slender hand sketched the outline of a building in the air. Through the sheer tulle of her sleeve, glimpses of pale skin shimmered. When she turned her head, her earrings shone and swung, tangling in the one long curl that lay against her neck.

  She was fascinating, he thought, like some exotic bird who had suddenly alighted in his dining room. He had seen her as the dashing phaeton driver, and the dusty, dedicated antiquarian. Now she was yet something else entirely—a beautiful, sophisticated temptress.

  He could not help but wonder what she would appear as next. It occupied his mind when he should be thinking of other things. Things such as his work, his new duties and responsibilities.

  Or, more immediately, his guests.

  Miles glanced down the table to where his mother sat at the foot. She gave him a knowing glance, then made a small gesture, as if to say, “Smile! Smile and talk.”

  She had always told him he did not smile enough, that he looked too serious and frightened people away. So he turned to Lady Iverson and smiled.

  She blinked at him, as if startled. Did he really always appear so solemn, that it surprised people when he did smile? Smiling had simply not been something one did very often in military camps. There was not the time, or the cause, for it.

  But you are not in a military camp now, he reminded himself. He was in England, in his own home, among polite society. Sitting beside Lady Iverson. He found himself wanting to smile more around her, to laugh and enjoy his life, as he never had before.

  He wanted to make her laugh, too, wanted to make her lose that wary tightness about her eyes that she sometimes had when she looked at him. Even when she talked and smiled with him, there was that watchfulness.

  Just as there was now. She gave him a tentative little smile, and said, “I was just telling Lord Dunston about the smithy in the village, and how you so quickly identified the link of chain mail.”

  “Excellent work, Lord Ransome! Your uncle would have been proud,” old Lord Dunston said. “Are you becoming a great scholar, as he was?”

  Miles almost laughed aloud at the thought of himself as a scholar, as his old tutors no doubt would have if they could have heard Lord Dunston. “I fear not. My uncle was a brilliant man, and I’m just a crusty old Army man. Identifying the chain mail was only a very lucky guess.”

  “Oh, come now, Lord Ransome, you are being too modest!” Lady Iverson said. “It would have taken me hours to label it, and it was a vital clue to what sort of equipment a Viking warrior might have in battle. You helped add knowledge to military history.”

  Miles had not thought of anything like that. “Really, Lady Iverson?”

  “Really.” She paused to take a sip of her wine. “Military history is really more Mr. Hamilton’s forte than my own—I am more interested in the domestic sphere. But I know that he was very excited by the discovery of chain mail.”

  Miles could not quite picture the taciturn Mr. Hamilton “excited” about anything, but he was nonetheless ridiculously gratified by the compliment. “I am glad to know I could be of some assistance, Lady Iverson.”

  Her eyes sparkled at him. “I can see that there is more of your uncle in you than you think, Lord Ransome.”

  “Perhaps the antiquarian bug will bite you in the end, just as it did him!” Lord Dunston said.

  For one instant, Miles had a tantalizing image in his mind of himself and Lady Iverson, happily digging in the dirt together. Her face lit up with joy as he showed her some newfound object, and she put her arms around him in delight and exuberance.

  Miles looked down at his plate. He knew that such images, no matter how delightful, could only be fleeting fantasies. Once he talked to Lady Iverson, and established a schedule for her to be off the land so it could be converted to farms, she would never look at him with any delight at all.

  Right now, some of her wariness had faded, and she looked comfortable and happy to be talking about her favorite subject—the Viking village.

  The blasted Viking village, that would always stand in the way of his knowing her better.

  But he also knew that if it was not for the village he would never have met Lady Iverson at all. So really, all he could do was enjoy this evening, this moment. Enjoy her presence next to him, for however long—or short—a time it lasted.

  “I doubt there is much of my uncle in me at all,” he said. “But I thank you for the compliment.”

  “Well, you are welcome to visit the village anytime you wish,” she answered. “We can use all the help we can find.”

  “I did hear that you were having some troubles with your workers,” Lord Dunston said. “That they were being frightened off by some superstitious nonsense.”

  Lady Iverson’s mouth tightened. “Unfortunately, you heard correctly, Lord Dunston. But we are doing well now. Many of the workers came back after I spoke to them rationally.”

  “Then you have great powers of persuasion, Lady Iverson,” said Lord Dunston. “The tale of Thora’s Treasure is one that has been told in this area for many years, long before anyone knew there was an actual Viking site. I’ve heard that mothers frighten their children into behaving by telling them that Thora will snatch them away if they are naughty. It is difficult to change such thinking, especially among the lower classes. They are so very superstitious.”

  “Indeed,” Lady Iverson murmured. She toyed with her wineglass, but did not take a drink. “But, as I said, we are doing well now. There have been no further incidents at all. There have certainly been no apparitions.”

  Mrs. Hamilton, who was seated on Miles’s other side, and had been chattering to her supper partner, turned to them at the mention of the word “apparitions.” “Oh, my dear Lady Iverson!” she cried. “Are you telling them about the ghost of the Viking woman?” She shivered, a small shadow passing over her blue gaze. “I do get such a chill at the tales of her. Sometimes I imagine I see her at night. . . .”

  Lady Iverson looked across the table at her, wondering at the obvious fear in her voice. “I was telling them that som
e people tell tales of her, Mrs. Hamilton, but that we have gotten past that nonsense.”

  Mrs. Hamilton shivered again, setting her rose-colored ruffles to trembling. “Nonsense? Oh, you must not call it that! She may come to haunt you for doubting her.”

  Miles almost laughed at the earnest expression on Mrs. Hamilton’s face. Despite her shivers, her cheeks were pink with delight. She was obviously one of those ladies who took a great interest in spiritual matters; perhaps she even held those newfangled séances in her drawing room.

  He just hoped she would never invite him to one of them.

  “I take it you have some belief in those tales, Mrs. Hamilton?” he said.

  She turned her guileless gaze onto him. “Don’t you, Lord Ransome?”

  “I believe in common sense, in things I can see,” he answered slowly. “There are enough things in this world for us to be frightened of without imagining such things as specters and demons. There are things like war and poverty, young men killed in their very prime, families left to grieve. There is carelessness, and good people starving in the streets.”

  Mrs. Hamilton frowned, as if she hardly knew what to say to that. She turned her attention back to the gentleman on her other side.

  Miles looked away from her to find Lady Iverson watching him closely. Her face was expressionless, but her eyes were no longer wary. For just one moment, they were sympathetic.

  Then she dropped her gaze down to the table, her sablelike lashes sweeping across her cheeks.

  “That was well said, Lord Ransome,” she said quietly.

  “Not exactly dinner table conversation, though,” said Lord Dunston. “Particularly not for the ladies!”

  Lady Iverson gave him a small smile, and raised her gaze back up to Miles. Some of the wariness was back, but there was something else, as well. Something Miles could not quite identify.

  “Perhaps not,” she said. “But it was honest, and all too often honesty is something sorely lacking in our society. We hide behind our politeness, our falsehoods.” She shook her head with a little laugh. “Now I am being maudlin! I apologize, Lord Dunston. Now, what shall we discuss? The weather?”