Against the Magic

by Donna K. Weaver

  “And he has never considered remarrying?” Reese asked.

  “No,” Ellen said. “He is five and thirty this year, but many men do not settle down until they are that age. Grandmama worries that Gareth must get an heir. Our father had a cancer, and she fears my brother might get one as well.” Ellen heaved a sigh. “She worries about a great number of things.”

  “Is this your mother’s or your father’s mother?” Reese asked.

  “Oh, we call her Grandmama, but she is our great aunt. Our grandparents died young. She is a spinster and lives comfortably in a little cottage in Bath. She’s quite large and doesn’t get out much.”

  “Well, I hope your brother finds someone who’s a good match for him,” Reese said. “With what you’ve said about him loving his first wife so much, it will be hard for a new wife to try to fill her shoes.”

  Ellen looked at her curiously. “You speak as though you know of this from experience.”

  “Not personally,” Reese said, “but I have a friend back home whose mother was a first wife. Her stepmother was always jealous of the memory of her mother and hid all the old family pictures. My friend didn’t find them until her father died. Her stepmother had stuffed them in a trunk and hidden them in the attic. You mentioned that you didn’t like the idea of giving up being your brother’s hostess here. Would a new wife resent you?” Reese gave her friend a shrewd glance. “Would you resent her?”

  “I have wondered about that,” Ellen said, a little pensively. “I would have to take on a very different role, though it would depend upon the woman he marries. If she is newly launched out of the schoolroom, she would not know how to manage a household like this.”

  “Do you think your brother would be good to his second wife?”

  Ellen gave her an appraising look, and Reese wondered what was going on inside that head of hers. Ellen might be only twenty, but she was smart.

  “I believe my brother would be kind to his second wife,” she finally said. “I think he would try to make her happy.”

  “But you don’t think he would give her his heart,” Reese concluded, “enough to be faithful to her.”

  Ellen turned discerning eyes on her. “It would not be a love match, and I am sure he would not make her think that it was. It is difficult to offer a lady a heart that has already been given away, don’t you think?”

  “I know you people often look at marriage like a business contract, but the human capacity to love is pretty incredible,” Reese said, thinking of her maternal grandparents. “My grandmother told me once that when her first child was born she thought she could never love anyone so much. She worried when she was pregnant with her next child, my uncle, that she wouldn’t have enough love for both of the children.”

  “And?” Ellen asked when Reese stopped talking.

  “She found that she had more love, not less. She said her capacity to love grew. When she died not long after the birth of my mother, my grandfather remembered that. He married again, and he adored his second wife. He didn’t marry her just to provide a mother for his children.”

  Ellen leaned back in her seat with a smile. “So, you do believe in love matches.”

  “I think that marriage, even a good marriage, is hard work for both partners,” Reese said, thinking of Kaitlyn’s parents. “It’s much easier to work hard to make it succeed if you care about each other. I don’t believe that marriage should be a business transaction, and I don’t believe in marriages of convenience.”

  “I like you, Clarisse Hamilton,” Ellen said. “Grandmama says I read too many of Jane Austen’s books, and that it is unbecoming a lady of quality to worry about love matches. But I want someone who looks at me the way I remember Gareth looking at Cecily, as though the sun rose and set with her.”

  “It says a lot about your brother that he had the capacity to love,” Reese said. “I’m not sure that young men of means are taught to care much beyond their own pleasures. He must have a lot of good qualities.”

  Ellen sat quietly for a few seconds before she finally spoke. “He had many good qualities, but he lost his way when Cecily died. I believe he is finding himself again, finding his purpose in living. I truly believe a good woman will bring him back fully to the man I remember as a little girl.”

  The carriage came to a stop, and the conversation ended. The footman opened the door for them and helped them down. Servants scurried over to collect the luggage.

  “You must be fagged after such a long day,” Ellen slid her arm through Reese’s. “Do you prefer to go to your room and rest before dinner, or would you like to stroll the shrubs first?”

  “If you mean stroll your gardens,” Reese said, “then yes.”

  “Wonderful. The servants will have time to unpack and prepare your room for you. I am most anxious that you are comfortable here. I hope to convince you to stay beyond a few days. After tea, I will show you the house.”

  “Let’s go.” Reese let herself be guided to the gated garden that rested on the first tier beyond the main house. It had pathways between the geometric and symmetrical planting beds, all surrounded by low hedges.

  Ellen seemed to know quite a lot about the plants and mentioned flowers that looked familiar to Reese, but she didn’t recognize the names her ladyship called them. An elderly man entered the garden through an arch, and she waved him over.

  “Miss Clarisse, this is Biggs, our head gardener,” she said when he reached them.

  “Nice to meet you.” Reese almost curtsied but caught herself.

  “Her ladyship has a fine eye for colors,” he said, his hat in his hands. “During the winter, she spends hours poring over the Thorburn & Sons catalogue to order for the next year. You can see for yourself the results of her efforts.” The old man’s chest swelled with pride.

  “It is quite a gift to be able to do that.” Reese glanced back at the house and the windows on the third floor. “I can’t wait to see what this garden looks like from above.”

  “I’ll let you get on with your work, Biggs,” Ellen said. “I hope Miss Clarisse will be with us for a week or two, so we will have a chance to give her a grand tour of the garden.”

  He bowed, first to Ellen and then to Reese, before putting on his hat and leaving.

  “Has he been here long?” Reese asked.

  “Since my brother married. Biggs’s father was the head gardener for my grandfather.” Ellen led her up the stairs toward the house again. “He is one of many servants who have been in the service of my family for generations. My father said Biggs started as a simple lad working in the gardens. He showed great promise, so Old Biggs took him on as an apprentice. This time of year, we have an army of gardeners.”

  Ellen continued to chatter about different types of flowers as they walked, noting which needed shade and which had to have full sun to thrive. Reese paid particular attention to the color combinations. She was no artist, but if the mixtures of hues and textures were Ellen’s idea, she was gifted. If she were to come back with them, she could go to school as a landscape architect.

  Reese wondered if Kellworth still existed in her time. It would be heartbreaking for Ellen, who loved the place so much, to live to see it in ruins. How much longer would this extravagant lifestyle continue? Reese had read somewhere that the events happening around the turn of the twentieth century had contributed to the breakup of many old estates. Industrialization meant jobs in cities that drew servants from the country. What would happen in a few years when the owners of Kellworth couldn’t get an army of gardeners to work for them?

  A shiver went down Reese’s spine. Ellen could still be alive in fifty years. Would she be like the Dowager Countess of Grantham of Downton Abbey, watching the world she knew disappear? In a few weeks, Reese would return to her own time. She intended to research what happened to the family.

  “It has cooled down, so tea will be in the sunroom,” Ellen said. A servant opened a door to a glass-enclosed room on the edge of the house. A small circular t
able sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by delicate-looking plants in pots. It had a sweet fragrance that Reese associated with florist shops.

  For the first time that day, she had an appetite and happily took a seat. She scanned the table, glad to see that it wasn’t only sweets. It also included cucumber sandwiches, several different kinds of thinly-sliced meat, cheeses, and even pickles. A three-tiered Lazy Susan held scones, fruit tarts, and some kind of cake.

  “We won’t be eating again tonight, will we?” Reese reached for a cucumber sandwich.

  “No, so feel free to eat your fill now. However, when my brother is in residence, we eat much later.” Ellen lifted the teapot and poured hot water into Reese’s cup. “Gareth does not like country hours and does not normally dine before nine. I prefer to rise early, especially on warm summer days, to work in the garden. He does not mind that I eat little and retire after dinner. I do stay up when he is having important guests, of course.”

  “Do you usually eat alone?” Reese asked.

  “I often do, but usually my companion Judith dines with me,” Ellen said, delicately moving a few slices of meat to her plate. “She has been visiting her sister who recently welcomed a new baby to her family. Judith should be gone another fortnight. If I desire companionship when I dine, Mrs. Hardy the housekeeper will sometimes sit with me, though it makes her uncomfortable to do so.”

  “It seems a lonely life,” Reese said.

  “There are other young women my age around the neighborhood, and when we were younger, we would spend time together.” Ellen’s expression turned contemplative. “But they are more interested in dresses and flirting. It does not suit me, and they can be disparaging.”

  “Earlier you mentioned being called a Bluestocking,” Reese said. “Where I come from, being one can be a good thing. It usually means you’re going places, that you’ll be successful. I can’t tell you how many times guys who were shorter than me would come up to ask how tall I am.”

  “I would call your figure statuesque,” Ellen said with a frown.

  “You’re kind, but I think ‘statuesque’ also means dignified,” Reese said, “and that one’s hard for me. I’m jealous of your slender figure.”

  “Mine?” Ellen shook her head. “I sometimes feel like I am still a little girl, but you have a lovely figure.”

  “Isn’t it funny how people always seem to want what they don’t have? If a girl has straight hair, she wishes it were curly. If she has curly hair, she wishes it were straight.” Reese nibbled a bite of one of the little fruit tarts. “Yum, this is good. I’ll have to work out extra hard tonight to burn up these calories.”

  “You are doing it again,” Ellen said with a small shake of her head, “using words I do not understand. It is almost as though in America you have a different language. What is this calorie?”

  “A calorie is a measurement for burning energy,” Reese said. “The foods we eat have them, and our bodies burn them for energy. But enough of that. I’m full.”

  “I will show you to your room then.” Ellen wiped her mouth and set aside her napkin before standing.

  Chapter 12

  JEM STARED AT THE LETTER again. She’d left without talking to him. What had happened? He’d recognized her tactics at the picnic for what they were, but he’d been helpless to do anything about it. Every time he thought he’d be able to get away, Nellie or one of her minions had shown up to ask him to help with something.

  And now. He felt lost, alone, in a way he’d never experienced before.

  “Hey, Geoffrey,” he said, turning to where the man was getting the bed ready for the night. “What if I rode over to Kellworth to pay a call?”

  “On Lady Ellen?” The valet’s brows creased in disapproval. “You may call upon her brother when he is at home. As a single man, you may not call upon an unattached female.”

  “Even if she has other people around her?” Jem asked.

  “Aunt Nellie has said you must not interfere.” The disapproval coming from the man was almost palpable.

  “But I’m her cousin. I need to check on her safety.”

  “You and Miss Clarisse are not cousins.”

  “All right. Don’t freak out.”

  “Aunt Nellie also said that you have had your opportunity to court her.” Geoffrey’s expression had turned sympathetic. “It is now time to let be what will be.”

  That sentient magic thing again. Jem didn’t buy it, but what was he going to do? He sat in the chair by his bed, staring at the short note. It looked like he was stuck following Kaitlyn and her crowd around until either Reese came back to Nellie’s or Lady Ellen’s brother finished in London.

  Jem had been sure he’d broken past Reese’s barrier. His body still tingled when he thought of their kiss in the library. What had gone wrong? He tossed the paper aside and rubbed his face.

  ***

  Reese enjoyed Ellen’s questions about America. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and her attempts at saying things with an American accent had them laughing. There was a depth to some of her questions that Reese found unexpected. Ellen seemed every bit the innocent and naïve Victorian girl, yet she showed herself to be older and more mature in other ways. The Earl would probably be shocked to find out just how much his younger sister knew about him and his activities.

  Maybe the losses Ellen had experienced had something to do with it. The time she spent alone must have impacted it too. Had her reading introduced her to more worldly things her brother would have kept from her? How broad a selection of books did the Earl have?

  “Tell me about your favorite books,” Reese said as they walked down one of the long hallways. Kellworth manor had a lot of them, with its square design and central court.

  “I read many different books. You know I enjoy Jane Austen,” Ellen said. “Have you read anything by Charlotte Brontë? Perhaps Jane Eyre?”

  “More than once,” Reese said. “I really related to her spunk, but I couldn’t stand Wuthering Heights.” She held her breath and shot the girl a sidelong glance. Had it been published yet?

  Ellen nodded. “Not a satisfying tale at all.” She glanced over her shoulder as though checking to see if any of the servants were near enough to hear and whispered, “Have you read anything by Nathaniel Hawthorne?”

  “I have.” Reese waited for Ellen to offer titles.

  “I recently read A Scarlet Letter.” Her cheeks went a familiar pink. “Judith would have told my brother if she had caught me. I felt quite scandalous reading a book about an adulterous woman.”

  “I’ll bet you did,” Reese said. “It was a very unforgiving society.”

  “Yes. We are near the gallery. Would you like to see my brother?”

  “Sure.” Reese was curious and Ellen pulled her into a room, similar to the picture gallery at Nellie’s house.

  “Is he not handsome?” Her ladyship pointed at a large portrait above the fireplace. “It was painted after he reached his majority and a few months before he married.”

  “A fine-looking man.” Reese studied the face on the canvas and wondered if it was accurate or if the painter had been instructed to make changes from the real man. The Earl looked like he might be tall. He had rugged good looks, and she could imagine that he preferred being outdoors. A sadness lurked behind his rather hard expression, perhaps because of the death of their father? Was it more pronounced now?

  “And here is one of our family.” Ellen pointed to a smaller painting of four people, done before tragedy had struck and taken both her parents. She must have been about five, and her brother stood behind her with a hand resting on her shoulder.

  “Is there a portrait of your sister-in-law?”

  “Yes, but my brother had it put away, so he would not be constantly reminded of his loss.”

  “That’s a shame,” Reese said.

  “I have often thought that too, but I have not dared to broach it with him.”

  Reese scanned the wall of paintings, taking in the differ
ent fashions. She laughed and pointed to one. “I can’t imagine Jem wearing one of those huge ruffled collars. Or those puffy breeches and tights.”

  “Nor my brother.” Ellen laughed. “I much prefer the styles of today.”

  Ellen led her back to the corridor, and Reese was struck again by its length.

  “Did you ever run the hallways when you were children?” she asked.

  “The boys did once.”

  “The boys?” Reese asked.

  “We have cousins who would visit for a few weeks each summer. One was a little older than Gareth, the other a little younger. They were quite mischievous. I recall one summer it rained almost the entire time of their visit. I was quite young yet, but it is one of my first memories. They decided to play a war game and sneaked the gatekeeper’s two sons inside to play the part of the French. They were going to beat Napoleon.”

  “Where did they do it?” Reese asked.

  “On the same floor as our father’s bedchamber,” Ellen said. “He had taken a chill and was trying to rest.”

  “I’ll bet he wasn’t happy,” Reese said. Somehow the image of the present Earl being a little boy whose antics irritated his father made her like him a little better.

  “Not in the least,” Ellen said. “They remembered not to be too enthusiastic while they fought Napoleon, but they completely forgot themselves when they decided to fight the red Indians. Oh, my. I recall the bloodcurdling screams. They gave me nightmares for days.” Ellen paused, watching Reese intently. “I have noticed whenever I mention the red Indians that you make a funny face.”

  Reese shrugged, wondering how to explain things like civil rights, genocide, political correctness, diversity, and cultural appreciation.

  “Where I come from—now—they’re usually referred to as Native Americans or just Natives, because they were there first. The government and the settlers treated them horribly, disrespecting their cultures and acting like they were inferior to the white man.”

  “But are they not heathens?” Ellen seemed interested and trying to understand.