“And for that, Miss Lockwell,” Mr. Baydon said, folding down his broadsheet, “you have my gratitude.”
A peculiar feeling came over Rafferdy, a kind of agreeable agitation. He wanted to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. He wanted to move, but he didn’t know where. What she had said fascinated him, but he had no idea if it gave him hope or a kind of irresistible dread. One cannot alter the world, so one is left with no choice but to alter oneself. A compulsion came over him to make himself anew. But into what?
He turned to address her. However, before he could think of something to say, Lady Marsdel gave her fan a beckoning flutter.
“Do come over here, Miss Lockwell. You have positioned yourself too far away. I would have you sit closer so my old ears need not strain.”
The object of this speech dutifully rose. Rafferdy hurried forward to lend his arm.
“Is there something you wished to say to me, Mr. Rafferdy?” Miss Lockwell said softly as he led her across the parlor.
“Why do you ask?”
“You were treating me to a rather odd look just now.”
“You are a rather odd creature, Miss Lockwell. You claim you are not utterly good by nature, yet everything you do demonstrates otherwise. Your actions are at odds with your words.”
“I can only say that it is not my intention to confound. But I will also say that you equally confound me.”
“How can that be? I am sure I am the simplest thing in existence.”
“On the contrary. While you claim to be utterly thoughtless, everything you do indicates that the opposite is true. In fact, I doubt there is a man alive who thinks more than you, Mr. Rafferdy.”
She sat down beside Lady Marsdel, and for the next hour he could only watch her and wonder what she had meant by that.
OVER THE NEXT several days, Miss Lockwell’s recovery continued apace. Indeed, her convalescence soon seemed a forgotten thing, and she was rarely given time to sit quietly in her room.
Her presence was needed at breakfast, for after listening just once to the specific proportions of lemon, milk, and honey, she was able to prepare Lady Marsdel’s tea perfectly—something the servants had never been able to do properly despite repeated instruction. She was needed after breakfast as well to keep her ladyship company, because Mrs. Baydon could seldom be counted upon to offer interesting companionship at so early an hour. Mrs. Baydon in turn wanted Miss Lockwell on long afternoons to play cards, and on shorter lumenals there was increased competition for her presence, as Lady Marsdel liked to have her read to her for an hour or two before they dined, her ladyship’s eyes no longer being up to the task.
“You do read nicely, Miss Lockwell,” Lady Marsdel said one evening. “You have no impulse to insert your own comments or observations. You are content to defer to the wisdom of the author at choosing the best words. Quite unlike Mr. Rafferdy, who turns everything into a comedy. You cannot trust him at all when he reads. He once tried to convince me that a book of famous members of Assembly contained an entire chapter pertaining to monkeys.”
“Well, if it didn’t, it should have,” Mr. Rafferdy said to Miss Lockwell in a conspiratorial tone.
“In fact, your ladyship,” she said when she no longer appeared in danger of laughing, “I have found Mr. Rafferdy to be an excellent reader.”
A flock of peacocks quivered in her ladyship’s hand. “Indeed! I find your words incredible, Miss Lockwell. But I know that, unlike some, what you say is to be trusted. Yet it is very curious.”
Evenings were the busiest time for Miss Lockwell; after dinner, in the parlor, everyone seemed to want her company and conversation—though the latter usually had to be coaxed from her, at least when she was the center of attention. However, Rafferdy found that if he could lead her aside to a secluded corner, she became talkative, even animated. He would spend as much time as he could conversing with her, until Lady Marsdel’s complaints that she could not hear what they were saying became too forceful to ignore.
It was during one of these times, when they sat together at the far end of the parlor as a protracted twilight hung suspended outside the window, that she noticed the ring he wore. He grimaced, twisting the hideous thing on his finger, pulling at it out of habit; but of course it did not come off.
Rafferdy thought he would make up some story about it—how he had lost a bet with Eldyn Garritt, perhaps, and was forced to wear the ugly thing as a sort of punishment. Instead, he found the truth spilling out of him: how he had followed Mr. Bennick that day; how it was a magician’s ring; how he could not remove it from his hand.
All the while he spoke, her eyes grew brighter, and finally she said, “Then you are a magician, Mr. Rafferdy!”
He winced as if she had struck him or had called his coat very handsome for one of last year’s styles. “On the contrary, I deny it utterly. I have no wish to put on airs. Well, not that sort of air.”
“But it is not an air, Mr. Rafferdy. This cannot lie.” She gestured to the ring. “I have read many—that is, I have read something about magicians, and they are always described as wearing rings that denote their House of descent. And at the party, Mr. Bennick told us that he knew you to be descended of one of the seven Old Houses.”
If Rafferdy had needed any further proof of who had sent him the ring, now he had it.
“Mr. Bennick, you say?” He looked at the ring. The blue gem caught the light, winking and leering at him. “Well, I do not know his motives, but power is nothing I crave or seek. I have no wish to be any sort of magician.”
“My father was a magician,” she said.
He regarded her with a new understanding. That explained her interest in magick.
“I do not think it was power he sought. I believe, rather, that it was knowledge. He used to have a ring like that.”
“Used to, you say. But Mr. Mundy told me that, without a powerful enchantment, a ring like this does not come off while the magician lives.”
“My father is no longer a magician. He has not worn the ring since he became ill years ago.” She looked out the window, and he could see the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat.
They sat quietly for several minutes. Again he regarded the thing on his hand, and it occurred to him that Mr. Bennick did not wear any sort of ring. But he had been a magician; Mundy had said so. Surely he had once worn a ring like this, which meant they could be gotten off. Which also meant an unpleasant task lay before Rafferdy, but one he could not avoid. He must speak to Mr. Bennick as soon as possible.
“I always wished I could do magick,” she said, still gazing out the window. She smiled, though it was a rueful expression. “I’ve even tried to work spells, but to no effect. The practice of magick is for men, as are so many things in this world. Whether it is right or fair is beside the point; I could no sooner be a magician than Mrs. Baydon or my sister Lily could attend a masque without garnering discredit.”
Now she turned to him, and color rose in her cheeks as an excitement came over her. “But you, Mr. Rafferdy. You are a magician. Or, that is, you could be if you chose to make a study of it. And how I wish you would become a master of it! For if you did, then you could be the one to bring him some relief, to help him at last.”
It was only after she spoke these last words that she appeared to notice what he had become aware of the moment it happened: she had placed her left hand over his right. He did not move; he dared not.
“Forgive me,” she said, pulling her hand back and casting her eyes downward. “It is not my place to tell you how you should occupy your time.”
He could still feel the warmth of her hand. “Of whom do you speak, Miss Lockwell?” he said at last. “Who would you have me help?”
He detected a quivering about her countenance. Nor could it be ascribed to her recent illness; she was all but recovered. It was something else that caused her distress, or rather caused her to hope. She started to speak, but at that moment Lady Marsdel called out to Rafferdy, complaining that
he was being quite selfish with Miss Lockwell’s company.
This pronouncement could not be ignored. They rose; he gave her his arm. Her hand alighted on it as light as a bird, and they joined the others.
AT LAST THE doctor pronounced Miss Lockwell well enough to return home.
“I will tell her the news at once,” Mrs. Baydon said. “I am sure it will be a great relief to her.”
“A relief?” Lady Marsdel said. “What cause can Miss Lockwell have to be relieved? Surely it has been no hardship for her to stay here. Nor can I imagine her mother has suffered in any way with her gone, what with two other daughters to attend her. It is we who shall suffer. Our society has been altered to accommodate her unexpected presence, but now it shall be altered again with her removal. It is all most inconvenient.
“I do say, Miss Lockwell,” Lady Marsdel said, when the subject of this speech was brought into the room and given the news, “will you not stay awhile longer? Your mother cannot possibly need you.”
Miss Lockwell gave many thanks for all the kindness that had been showed her. However, she could not be prevailed upon to stay. Rafferdy offered to deliver her to Whitward Street, but Mrs. Baydon interjected that she had already arranged for her father-in-law’s coach.
“The seats are larger, and it’s very warm inside,” Mrs. Baydon said. “The lumenals have been so short lately, and there is a chill in the air.”
It was just as well, Rafferdy decided. Better to make his good-byes here, where she was not yet distracted by the attentions of her mother and sisters. Only, Mrs. Baydon and Lady Marsdel and Lord Baydon all hovered about. In the end there was no chance to do anything but press her hand, a gesture from which she quickly withdrew. But her glance did not so swiftly leave him, and he liked to imagine it was his face to which her last look was directed before the coach moved away down Fairhall Street.
“I shall miss her company very much,” Mrs. Baydon said. “She is such a sweet thing. And, as I have noted, she presents herself exceptionally well for one of her class. I would go so far as to say, if given a proper dress, she would not stand out at any party we might throw here.”
“You are mistaken, Mrs. Baydon,” Rafferdy said. “I am certain Miss Lockwell would indeed stand out at such an affair. There can be no doubting, if she were properly attired, that everyone in attendance would think her the prettiest thing they had ever laid eyes upon.”
He spoke these words with unusual feeling. Had he been of less distracted mind, he might have thought twice upon noticing the startled look Mrs. Baydon gave him.
RAFFERDY WAS IN a fine mood all the way back to Warwent Square. His humor was so good that he chose to go on foot, and every little garden that he passed, every splash of color that he knew would be pleasing to her eye, pleased his as well.
However, upon arriving home, his spirits reversed. His rooms were small and dim. He meant to catch up on correspondence and other business, but he had no sooner picked up his pen than a compulsion came upon him to leave, and he quit his apartments after being there hardly an hour.
He thought it was his intention to go to his club, to enjoy some brandy and conversation with other young gentlemen who, while worth a great deal of money, had little of any worth to say—that is, to have a drink with his peers. However, when he opened his mouth, it was a different direction he gave his driver, and soon the cabriolet passed through the Lowgate, jouncing along the grim streets of Waterside.
When he exited the cabriolet, he found himself on a drab but not entirely unwholesome lane, in front of a shabby inn. The sign over the door advertised The Golden Loom.
It had occurred to him as he left Warwent Square that he had not seen Eldyn Garritt in half a month. It had not been by any intention that this was the case. Rafferdy had been cross with him at their last meeting, he recalled; however, it had been mere noise and air, like everything Rafferdy ever said. Garritt had to have known that.
Only no letters had come from Garritt. Perhaps he had been upset after all, the silly man. And Rafferdy had been preoccupied, first with the wretched affair of the ring, and then with Miss Lockwell’s situation. Well, he was here now, and if Garritt was still fool enough to be angry with him, Rafferdy would keep buying the punch until he won forgiveness, or at least until the both of them fell into a stupor. He spoke to the innkeeper, who led him upstairs. He rapped upon the door.
It was not Garritt who answered but rather his sister. Rafferdy had never met her, but her identity could not be doubted, as her resemblance to her brother was strong. She was a rather lovely thing, he thought at first, a young woman of about eighteen. She said that her brother was not in, then shuffled to the window and sat, staring outside at some beleaguered stick of a tree. It was only through great effort that he prized a few more words out of her. She did not know where her brother was. When did she expect him? But she never expected him anymore; he was ever out until odd hours, and she cared to know nothing about what he did.
What a sullen creature! Any beauty she possessed was marred by her listless air and pouting expression.
“When he returns, you will tell him I came,” he said, but she only shrugged, so he went to the table in the corner, rummaged until he found a scrap of paper, and scratched out a note for Garritt. He started to give it to the sister, then thought better of it and left it on the table.
By the time he returned home, a letter had come from Vallant Street, inviting him to dine with the Baydons. He wrote back, declining. They could imagine he had much business to catch up on.
However, the correspondence of the last several days remained unopened on the desk. His affairs were neglected. Over the next several days he did not go out. He did not even bother to dress, instead wandering around in his gown, eating hardly anything but drinking a great deal of whiskey.
A cloud of misery settled over him, such as he had never known before. Everything that usually held amusement for him now seemed dull and pointless. It was impossible to imagine how he had ever derived pleasure out of shopping for clothes, or gambling, or attempting to win applause from stupid people at stupid parties, as if such recognition was something to be admired rather than scorned. At any given moment he had no idea whether it was night or day; the umbrals and lumenals flickered by.
Each time a note arrived he checked the address to see if it was from Garritt; none of them was. Vallant Street invited him twice again, and Fairhall Street did not ask for but rather required his presence. He ignored these summonses. What pleasure could he bring to or derive from such affairs when the only thing he wished to behold would not be there? Why go to a dinner where he could not whisper behind his napkin and make her laugh? Why go to a party when he could not walk about the room and marvel at the sight of her upon his arm? He could see no purpose in going anywhere where Miss Lockwell was not.
So instead, he must go to her.
The shroud of fog lifted, and everything was bright and sharp-edged. How was it he had not thought of it before? Never in his life had he denied himself anything he had wished for, so why had he denied himself this?
There could be only one logical answer to that question. He had not known until that moment what it was that he wanted. Perhaps he never really had known. The clothes, the gambling, the parties—perhaps all of it had been a substitute for this one unknown thing.
Only it was unknown no longer. Rafferdy stood, filled with a sensation more intoxicating than drink had ever imparted him. He felt positively eager. He found his man and discovered it was the afternoon of a middling lumenal. Good, he thought, as he dressed and put on his best coat; it would be a perfect time, and they could have no other engagements. He told his man to summon the driver. He would go to Whitward Street; he would see Miss Lockwell. And he would confess how profoundly he both admired and loved her.
He started to examine his appearance in the looking glass, then turned away. Her eyes were the only mirror that mattered to him now. He hurried down the stairs and into the front hall. A clatter of
hooves sounded outside; the carriage had been brought around. Whistling a cheery tune, he took his hat, then threw open the door.
A carriage was indeed parked in the street before his house, but it was not his cabriolet. It was a four-in-hand: a large and grand conveyance, black with gilt trim, led by a handsome brace of chestnut horses.
Rafferdy’s momentum carried him to the base of the steps, and there he stuttered to a halt. His manservant had opened the carriage door and was helping a gray-haired man disembark. The older fellow limped, leaning on a cane, his left foot wrapped in a bandage. All the same, he carried himself in an upright manner. His progress was slow up the walk, but Rafferdy could only stand and watch him come.
“Were you going somewhere, Dashton?” the gray-haired man asked as he drew near. “You have a look as if you were just leaving.”
Rafferdy could not help glancing off down the street, and he fingered the hat in his hands.
“You need not answer. I see it is indeed the case. I suppose my arrival must keep you from some pressing engagement or lively affair. However, I trust you will not begrudge me this interruption in deference to the distance I have come.” The gray-haired man had come to a halt before him. “Well, aren’t you going to greet me?”
For a wild moment Rafferdy’s compulsion was to dash down the street like a madman. Then the light went out of the world, as if a cloud had passed before the sun. Only the sky was a clear, cold blue. He turned to the older gentleman and gave a bow.
“Greetings, sir,” he spoke. “You are very welcome here.”
“Am I indeed?” Lord Rafferdy said. “I imagine you will feel differently once we have talked, for it is time we addressed your future. It can wait no longer. Nor can I. For hours I sat in the coach, yet after even this brief walk to the step I must sit again. Let us go in.”
MINUTES LATER FOUND them in the parlor. Rafferdy’s man had brought them brandy and the tobacco box, as well as a stool on which Lord Rafferdy had settled his bandaged foot.
The Magicians and Mrs. Quent Page 23
