One Touch of Magic

by Amanda McCabe

  Mary Ann wanted to reach out, to grab his hand and hold him there. She tangled her hands in the folds of her cloak to keep them still. “Do you mean to say that you will not come inside for some tea?” That you will leave me?

  He relented a bit, and gave her a smile. “I have suddenly recalled an errand I must perform. But I am sure we will meet again very soon. Your friends will look after you now.”

  He handed her the basket, and, with a quick kiss on the back of her hand, set off in the direction of Ransome Hall. She wondered what errand he could have there.

  Men were such cowards sometimes, Mary Ann thought crossly, as she watched him until he disappeared. She hoisted up the basket, straightened her shoulders resolutely, and went into the hunting box.

  Only Mrs. Hamilton waited in the drawing room, with an untouched tea tray and no Mr. Hamilton. Mary Ann almost dropped her basket in surprise at the sight of her. Sarah had been quite right when she said Mrs. Hamilton did not seem well. Mary Ann had rarely seen anyone so changed in just a few days as Mrs. Hamilton was. She was properly dressed in one of her overly stylish gowns, a carriage dress of pink wool trimmed with gold braid and a gold-and-red Indian shawl, crowned by a gold-feathered pink hat. Her hair, though, fell in lank curls from beneath that hat, and her face was chalk pale, except for two hectic spots of red over her cheekbones.

  Mary Ann glanced behind her. No one had been there to open the front door for her, and she could hear no voices. Sarah had said that Mrs. Taylor, the cook, was gone to do the marketing, but surely Rose at least ought to have been there. It seemed the household was uninhabited today, except for the kittens, two of them sleeping in their basket and one perched on the fireplace mantel.

  Mary Ann slowly put her basket down on the floor just inside the doorway, and pasted what she hoped was a welcoming smile on her face.

  “Mrs. Hamilton! What a lovely surprise to see you here.”

  “My dear Miss Bellweather,” answered Mrs. Hamilton, her voice full of a strange, tense cheer. “I hope I have not come at an inconvenient time.”

  “Not at all.” Mary Ann came farther into the room, and perched on a chair across from the other woman’s. “Though I fear my sister has not yet finished the day’s work at the village. She should be here very soon.” At least she hoped Sarah would be. The rain seemed to be beginning in earnest now, tapping at the window, and Mary Ann was not at all sure what she should converse about. Mrs. Hamilton really only seemed to enjoy talking about Bath and gowns, two subjects Mary Ann knew little about.

  “Oh, that is quite all right,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “I was actually hoping to have some time to talk with you, Miss Bellweather.”

  Mary Ann wondered what about. “Indeed, Mrs. Hamilton?”

  “Indeed.” But, rather than going on to talk, Mrs. Hamilton fell silent, pleating her skirt with nervous fingers.

  Mary Ann tried to remember all the polite-hostess manners she had been taught. “I do hope Rose has been looking after you,” she said, gesturing to the tea tray that appeared untouched.

  “Oh, yes, but she said you have no cream cakes about. So I sent her into the village to fetch some. I do so adore cream cakes with my tea.”

  So that was why it was so silent in the house. Mary Ann felt a small chill of disquiet. She glanced to the window, but there was no sign of her sister and Lord Ransome. How she wished Mr. O’Riley had come inside with her!

  “What was it you wished to speak to me about, Mrs. Hamilton?” she asked.

  Mrs. Hamilton leaned forward, her eyes strangely bright as she looked at Mary Ann. “My husband thinks so highly of you, Miss Bellweather, you and your sister. He often asks why I cannot be more like you.”

  Mary Ann was nonplussed. Whatever she might have expected to hear, it was not that. “Well—we think highly of him, as well. He is a very respected antiquarian.”

  Mrs. Hamilton shook her head. More carelessly pinned curls spilled down onto her shoulders. “No! I mean to say, he respects your opinions—unlike mine. He thinks I am just a silly, uneducated chit.”

  “Oh, no, I am sure that is not true—”

  “Of course, it is true!” Mrs. Hamilton interrupted, her voice so sharply pitched it made the kitten on the mantel cease washing its paw and peer at her. “He thinks I know nothing, and he will not listen to me. But he would listen to you, and to Lady Iverson.” She reached out and caught Mary Ann’s wrist with her hand, her grip surprisingly strong for such dainty fingers.

  For the first time in her life, Mary Ann tasted the faint metallic tang of fear in her mouth. Not even being pushed down by the kitten-drowning farmer had scared her as much as the glow in Mrs. Hamilton’s eyes.

  She resisted the urge to pull away, to scream out in the empty house. She knew it would only make Mrs. Hamilton more desperate, so she took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. “What is it you would want to tell him?”

  “That he must take me home to Bath!” Mrs. Hamilton cried. “I miss it so. I miss the people, the balls and routs. Here there is nothing but dusty artifacts and country bumpkins.” She closed her eyes, and whispered, “There is nothing.”

  Mary Ann remembered how excited Mrs. Hamilton had been to be invited to Ransome Hall, and said, “You have been to supper twice at Ransome Hall, the home of a marquis.”

  Mrs. Hamilton’s eyes flew open. “Yes, and now he is just as obsessed with digging in the dirt as the rest of you! It is an illness here, and it has infected all of you. But it has not infected me! I will escape.”

  In the blink of an eye, so quickly that Mary Ann had not time to discern what she was about or stop her, Mrs. Hamilton shot to her feet, pulling Mary Ann with her. Mrs. Hamilton’s other hand snatched up a sandwich knife from the tea tray, and she drew Mary Ann close against her. The knife pressed to her neck. Even though it was a small thing, it stung when it made a tiny cut to her skin.

  Mary Ann almost fainted from the shock; dark spots danced before her eyes. Small, fluffy Mrs. Hamilton was going to stab her right in her own drawing room? It was absurd!

  But unfortunately all too real. Mary Ann was not much shorter than Mrs. Hamilton, but the woman had the fierce strength of some bizarre, inhuman anger behind her. Mary Ann could not pull away.

  “Well, he will listen to me now,” Mrs. Hamilton said, her voice suddenly as calm as if she was discussing the weather. “He will have to, if I have his precious Miss Bellweather.”

  She pulled Mary Ann toward the drawing room door, and Mary Ann panicked. She cried out, and felt a sharp stick, and the drop of some warm liquid on her flesh.

  Suddenly, there was a loud hiss and growl, and a scream from Mrs. Hamilton, who released Mary Ann and fell back a step, clutching at her arm. Mary Ann stumbled and fell at being so hastily freed, and she looked up to see that the kitten on the mantel had launched itself through the air and caught Mrs. Hamilton’s arm with its tiny, razor-sharp claws. Her sleeve was torn away to reveal two long, deep scratches, ruby with spots of blood.

  Mrs. Hamilton kicked the kitten away, and it mewled piteously once before lying still. She fell against the white-painted wall with a sob, leaving a crimson smear there.

  Mary Ann scrambled to try to grab one of the Viking blades laid out in their box, but Mrs. Hamilton was too quick for her. She lunged forward and caught Mary Ann by the hair, pulling her to her feet. She drew her once again to the door, inexorably, and Mary Ann could have cried with the helplessness and the fear of it all. It was Mrs. Hamilton all along, Mrs. Hamilton who had ruined the artifacts, and probably even killed that man. Mrs. Hamilton—who was obviously insane.

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” Mrs. Hamilton said, as she hid her knife behind the folds of her shawl and forced Mary Ann up into her carriage, slamming the door behind them, before her dozing coachman could see them. “He will listen to me now.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “The door is open.” Sarah paused at the first sight of the hunting box. She had been laughing at something Miles said to her, and
had opened her mouth to reply, but was brought up short by the sight of the front door standing open. Surely Mary Ann and the servants would not be so careless as to leave the door open, not at such a time as this, when there was a murderer roaming about.

  It was true that they had been longer at the village than she had thought they would be, but it had not been very long. Surely not long enough for some ill to befall Mary Ann in their own house.

  Surely not?

  She pushed the hood of her cloak back so she could see more clearly. Aside from the open door, the hunting box looked quiet and peaceful. Too quiet, perhaps.

  Sarah remembered how she had so blithely allowed Mary Ann to walk off with Mr. O’Riley. Had that been a mistake? Had she put too much trust in that young man?

  She pressed her hand to her throbbing temple. How her mind was racing, and all because of an open door! She ought to walk right over there and investigate, but her feet felt frozen to the earth. All the euphoria of only a moment before had vanished, replaced by nerves that screamed out of danger and caution.

  She looked at Miles, who stood stiff and straight beside her. His blue eyes no longer shone with laughter. They were narrowed speculatively as he watched her house. “Would one of your servants have left it open?”

  Sarah shook her head. “The only one home today is Rose, Mary Ann’s maid. It is my own maid’s day off, and Cook went to do the marketing. Rose is very protective of Mary Ann; she would never have done such a thing. She knows we must be vigilant right now.”

  “And Mr. O’Riley would never have allowed such carelessness.” Miles put down the basket he carried, and reached out to briefly squeeze her hand. “Stay here, Sarah, and I will go and see what is happening.”

  “No!” Sarah said. Her cowardly side urged her with all its might to stay where she was, but she knew she could not. “It is my sister, my home. I will come with you.”

  “I would rather you did not, my dear. There might be—something there that you would not want to see.”

  Sarah swallowed hard, a sudden horrifying vision flashing in her mind of Mary Ann’s lifeless body.

  She pushed it away. Surely she would feel it in her heart if her sister was dead. But she could be hurt, she could need her. “I want to go. I will not get in your way, I promise, but I must—must know.”

  Miles studied her closely for a long moment before he nodded. “Very well. I have learned enough of you to know that I cannot stop you, Sarah. But stay close to me.”

  “I will.”

  From the basket he took a sharp obsidian object, probably once used to grind grain, but now might have to serve a more sinister purpose, and walked toward the house. Sarah followed closely, her gaze scanning the windows for any sign of movement. She saw nothing at all.

  And heard nothing when they stepped into the tiny foyer. The house was so silent it echoed. One of the doors opening off the foyer, the one to the dining room, was closed, but the drawing room door was ajar.

  Holding his chunk of obsidian like a dagger in his hand, Miles nudged the door open farther with the toe of his boot.

  “Blast!” he cursed.

  “What?” Sarah crowded in next to him, and gasped.

  Her drawing room was in a shambles. A tea tray sat on the low table, its silver pot overturned and spilling amber-colored liquid onto the sandwiches and cakes. A chair lay on its side, as if kicked there, and the box of Viking blades was askew. The three kittens huddled in little black-and-white fur balls beneath the settee, one of them licking its left paw in frantic, obsessive motions.

  Worst of all, a smear of drying blood stained one of the walls.

  Sarah pressed her hand to her mouth, and pushed past Miles into the room. The basket Mary Ann had taken from the village was on the floor, but there were no other signs of her sister. Unless the blood was hers.

  Sarah sat down hard on the carpet, momentarily overwhelmed by that terrible possibility. The room spun about her dizzily.

  One of the kittens clambered onto her lap, and when she reached down absently to touch it, she saw that there was some blood there, tiny specks of dried-red crust on its white paw.

  “What could have happened here?” she whispered.

  Miles stared at the overturned chair. “What ever it is, I think it’s safe to say they are all gone now. But where is your sister and Mr. O’Riley?”

  They stared at each other in silence for a long moment, a moment broken only when they heard footsteps and rustling in the foyer. Miles lifted up his obsidian.

  “Oh, my lady, the rain is starting to come down ever so hard!” Rose said, stepping into the drawing room doorway. She shook off her damp cloak while balancing a white box in her other hand. “You will be wanting—” She broke off with a puzzled look when she saw Sarah sitting on the floor. “My lady, whyever are you there on the floor?”

  Then she saw Miles with his “weapon,” and screamed. The box fell from her hand, breaking open to spill cream cakes all over the carpet. The kittens sprang on them.

  “Rose!” Sarah scrambled to her feet and caught the maid before she could swoon. “Rose, it is only Lord Ransome. It is quite all right.”

  “Lord Ransome?” Rose murmured, daring to peek over at him. “But why does he have that rock thing?” Her eyes widened as she took in the full extent of the wreck of the drawing room. “And what has happened here?”

  “Now, Rose, I do not want you to swoon, but I fear someone has broken in here. And Mary Ann is gone.” Sarah found that having to keep someone else steady helped to calm her own nerves. She felt an icy clarity clear her mind, leaving only one thought—to find her sister.

  “Miss Mary Ann gone! But how could that be?” Rose covered her eyes with her hands. “I left her here not an hour ago. Miss Mary Ann was not here yet, but Mrs. Hamilton said she would wait for her.”

  Sarah was puzzled. “Mrs. Hamilton?”

  “Yes, my lady. She called here to see Miss Mary Ann. She sent me into the village to fetch some cream cakes for tea.” Rose let out a wail. “While I was fetching cakes, someone stole my lamb! My poor Miss Mary Ann. And Mrs. Hamilton, too.”

  Sarah exchanged a look with Miles. She remembered the last time she had seen Mrs. Hamilton, remembered how ill and frantic the woman had looked. She had thought it was because of a quarrel with her husband, but could it have been something more? An insane jealousy, perhaps, festering in her heart?

  It was almost impossible to imagine Mrs. Hamilton, with her ruffles and her giggles, as an insane criminal. But Sarah knew it could be possible; anything was possible.

  She saw that Miles was probably thinking the same thing. He slowly shook his head. “Mrs. Hamilton?”

  “It could be,” Sarah said.

  “But where is her husband? He was not at the site today; he could be a part of this, whatever it is.” Miles slapped his hand against the wall, causing Rose and the kittens to jump. “And, blast it, where is Mr. O’Riley? He was meant to be looking after the girl!”

  “I—I saw Mr. O’Riley,” Rose dared to peep. “When I was walking back here with the cakes, I saw him going toward Ransome Hall. He said he had left Miss Mary Ann here in the company of the Hamiltons, but he would be back later.”

  “I suppose he did not wish to encounter the Hamiltons’ rudeness again,” Miles muttered. “The fool. We were all fools.”

  And she was the greatest one of all, Sarah thought, to have left her sister alone for even a moment. “Where could they have gone?”

  Miles frowned. “The inn where the Hamiltons are staying?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Far too public. Whatever Mrs. Hamilton is planning, I am sure she does not want witnesses.”

  She and Miles looked at each other, and said at the same time, “The village.”

  “Of course,” said Miles. “That is it.”

  Sarah turned to the sobbing maid. “Rose, I know it is terrible to ask you to go back out into the rain, but could you go to Ransome Hall? Find Mr. O’Riley, tell him what
has happened, and that he should meet us at the Viking village. And then see if Mr. Hamilton is at the inn.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Rose wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “I will do anything that could help Miss Mary Ann!”

  After the maid dashed off, Sarah closed her own eyes tightly, and pressed her hand to her belly to quell the sour panic lodged there.

  She felt Miles’s warm hand on her shoulder. She covered it with her hand, holding on to it tightly.

  “We will find her,” he said quietly. “And she will be safe.”

  “Yes,” Sarah answered. “Oh, yes. She must be.” She tried to press her rising panic back down, but it would not be quashed. It still choked her, hard and cold and immutable.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Mary Ann huddled in the corner of the stable where the artifacts had once been stored, and pulled her cloak tighter about her shaking shoulders. The rain could not get into the stable, but she heard it pattering on the roof, felt the chill breeze that seeped through cracks in the boards. Thunder clapped overhead.

  Her shivering did not come from these things, though. It came from the fear churning deep inside of her.

  Across from her, Mrs. Hamilton sat on one of the low wooden stools, her skirts spread about her prettily, as if she was at a tea party in someone’s drawing room. She hummed a soft little tune beneath her breath, and occasionally gave Mary Ann a little smile, or waved her knife about like a fan.

  Mary Ann watched her warily. She understood social ambitions; her mother had followed them all of Mary Ann’s life, pulling her children from one town to another. And she had always seen that same ambition in Mrs. Hamilton. But she could not understand the depths of desperation it must take for someone to threaten another person in order to achieve their ends. There had to be something more than a need for society at work in Mrs. Hamilton’s disordered mind.