Theory of Magic

by Patricia Rice

  “I have never even organized a luncheon for two,” Christie clarified. “I am a marchioness with no social skills whatsoever.” Much less any ability to keep a stubborn man like her husband out of trouble, even if she knew where to look for it.

  Moira patted the final fold in the drapery and looked up with laughter in her eyes. “You have tamed the Beast of Ashford! How can you doubt your ability to take on society? Tell the servants what you need, approve the menu, order Ash to prepare an invitation list, and have someone to write and address them. Then you simply stand about, looking elegant. That’s what my mother does.”

  Moira’s mother was the daughter of an earl and the wife of a viscount. She knew the people she was inviting. Christie took a deep breath to steady her racing thoughts. “Would it be terrible to impose on your mother and ask her to help me?” she asked.

  “She’d love it!” Moira cried excitedly. “Especially if we’re all invited. Marrying off six daughters is an expensive nuisance, but if we can appear at Ashford’s affairs, that will be fewer she has to arrange. She’ll be ecstatic. What about Aster and Celeste? Will you ask them too? You’ll have an army of your own.”

  Christie nodded in relief—she loved having family. “Anyone who is inclined to help is welcome. I can direct menus and servants, but right now, I honestly do not even know what silver we possess. I had hoped I might have time to learn my way, but this is already Friday and they’re planning to vote on Monday. Apparently the fate of the kingdom depends on the outcome, so invitations must go out immediately.”

  “Resting the fate of a kingdom on the shoulders of one woman is about as efficient as depending on a volatile, blind marquess,” Moira said with laughter. “Obviously, the times are desperate.”

  “You are not helping,” Christie protested.

  Hartley appeared in the doorway, looking uncertain. “My lady,” he said formally, “might I have a word with you?”

  On top of all else, she was now a stepmother. Christie thought she might not have examined this marriage agreement as thoroughly as she should have. Steadying her incipient panic, she said, “Call me Christie or Chris, please. I cannot be your mother, but perhaps I can be like an older sister.”

  Hartley looked doubtful but nodded agreement. “There is a man in the mews who wishes to buy Chuckles now that he is healed. I don’t think Chuckles will like living in a kennel, and I can’t take him to school. How do I know if he’s a good dog owner?”

  “Oh, dear, you really can’t, not unless you’ve seen how he keeps his dogs. Why don’t you wait and talk to your Uncle William?” A man she had yet to meet, since he’d been in the north country when she’d so hastily wed. “You won’t be returning to school until the first of the year. Can it wait?”

  Hartley looked glum and scuffed his feet, but a new assortment of important-looking men arrived and had to be distributed in the anteroom to wait their turn. In the confusion, the boy disappeared.

  By evening, Christie had written the invitations for Sunday evening’s soiree, consulted with the cook over menus, and inventoried the silver and china with the butler. New plate was obviously needed, but this would be a buffet. She hoped busy men wouldn’t notice. Their wives probably would. Perhaps she could find something better for them to think about—like pushing their husbands to support reform.

  She waited until Ashford’s last visitor had departed that evening to approach her new husband. Looking lordly and grand in his tailored coat and starched linen, Ash was staring peculiarly in the direction of his inkpots, lining them up in some order explicable only to himself.

  You can help him, dear, the voice in her head reminded her. The family has healers, if you would only ask.

  As Ash certainly wouldn’t, she realized. Except she didn’t know anything about healers, and she doubted if Ash did either. One more lesson on her list to learn.

  Out of instinct, feeling his pain, Christie crossed the study to stand behind her new husband and rub his temples. “I fear you do too much and will wear out the only brain you will ever have.”

  He laughed tiredly and picked up a yellow ceramic inkpot. He seemed to be examining it in the lamplight. “My head is too hard to wear out, ask anyone. Those gentleman who just left—and I use the term loosely—want to be assured that the Whigs will not allow trade unions.”

  “If I am to speak knowledgeably to these so-called gentlemen, you must teach me the issues,” she suggested. “What is a trade union?”

  He gestured dismissively. “I will not trouble you to learn my headaches. Are the invitations sent out?”

  Christie grabbed a lock of his thick black hair and yanked.

  Ash yelped and grabbed her wrist. “What the devil was that for?”

  She leaned over and kissed his scarred temple. “I am testing to see if your skull is intact or if brain matter leaks out at night.”

  She had difficulty believing those words had come from humble Harriet’s mouth. But bold Christie had evidently found a home—and meant to shape it for her own.

  To her astonishment, a rumble of laughter met her audacity.

  “You do not shy away from the difficult, do you? I am sitting here wondering exactly that—how damaged is my head? Is this pot yellow?” He held up the ugly ceramic inkpot he’d been moving about.

  “It is, my lord,” she cried, forgetting to use his name in her excitement. “You can see it?”

  “Do not get too excited,” he admonished. “I can see that particular yellow. I can’t claim more than that. I know it’s an inkpot because I can feel it. I have a sense of where my desk is and where it is on the desk, but only the yellow one.”

  “I have a yellow gown I can try on for you upstairs,” she murmured in his ear. “And you can explain trade unions for me while you help me undress.”

  He shoved back his chair, rose to tower over her, and nipped her ear while caressing her breast. “We’ll have supper sent up.”

  25

  Married life suited her, Christie decided on Saturday morning. The bed part of it suited her, she amended as she nervously watched servants racing about, polishing the newly installed furniture in the salon.

  She liked to keep an eye on their activity. Otherwise, the lame scullery maid had been known to haul heavy coalscuttles and the one-handed servant had eagerly balanced enormous bouquets in the crook of her bad arm. Christie admired their zeal, but coal spilled on the new carpet and broken vases only increased the work load.

  She had experience with servants and easily ordered them about. When she was calm, she could block out their familiar resentments and jealousies. It was the upcoming festivities and the barrage of emotions from so many strangers at once that nearly paralyzed her with fear.

  Straightening out the eager maids and admonishing the new housekeeper to keep their tasks sorted appropriately, Christie caught a kitten escaping from the kitchen and looked around for someone to hand it to. The housekeeper had already bustled off. The new butler was nervously carrying out one of Ash’s bellowed commands. The maids had fled upstairs as the footmen introduced the first of the morning visitors.

  Christie held up the gray half-grown kitty and admired its blue eyes. “I can have a kitten of my own now, can’t I?” The kitten yawned, and pure pleasure seeped through her. This was how she’d hoped family life might be. She could be herself in the warm acceptance of familiar surroundings—as long as she could close her mind to the needs of dozens of strangers.

  The door knocker rapped imperiously, the kitten clawed its way out of her arms, and no servant appeared to direct the latest arrival.

  Well, that was also part of family life, she supposed, especially this family.

  Knowing marchionesses didn’t generally answer knockers, hoping this was the Malcolm ladies come to plan tomorrow’s soiree, Christie opened the door.

  A tall Gypsy woman in a gown of the latest fashion—except in a vibrant gold and purple no aristocratic matron would wear—waited impatiently on the step. Christie trie
d not to gawk—or compare her outmoded housekeeping gown and frumpy visage with the dramatic presence of this visitor. She glanced to see if even a maid accompanied this imposing personage, but she saw only a carriage rolling away.

  “I am here to see the marchioness,” the woman said haughtily, presenting her card as if Christie were a servant.

  Hidden Harriet almost emerged to take the card like any good housekeeper. But there was just enough bold Christie attached to see the humor and contemplate saying of course and shutting the door in the stranger’s face. Or perhaps she should say disdainfully, she’s not at home.

  Let her in, child, her inner voice scolded. Use your eyes. You know who this is.

  Christie looked at the card. Mrs. Pamela Weldon. No husband’s name. The name meant nothing. Still, she stepped aside to allow in the stranger while studying her surreptitiously.

  The woman was almost as tall as she, but far more dashing. Handsome, not beautiful, Christie decided. She had striking auburn hair rolled into an elaborate coiffure beneath a hat designed to emphasize her theatrically large blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, and wide, red mouth. The woman wore rouge! And kohl.

  And even though she’d thought the twins looked just like their father—Christie could see their wide mouths and mobile expressions in this woman. She nearly swallowed her tongue in awkwardness. This was the woman Ash had taken to his bed and who had borne his sons.

  “Ashford is entertaining visitors today. We can talk upstairs, in the family salon.” Uneasily, she gestured toward the stairs.

  Miss—or Mrs.—Weldon narrowed her eyes and studied Christie and her old gown. “You are the woman he finally married?”

  Trying not to wince at the visitor’s disbelief, Christie stiffened with the arrogance of the marchioness she must become. “It seems so, Mrs. Weldon.” She led the way up the stairs to the shabby family floor. The twins were apparently at their studies. She could hear nothing from the schoolroom above.

  “I am almost relieved,” her guest said. “I feared Duncan would choose another porcelain figurine like Margaret. Such a creature would never survive in this household. Where are my sons?”

  If she hoped to catch Christie by surprise with her familiarity with Ash’s household and mention of the twins, she failed—thanks to the voice in her head. “The boys have been sent down from school for objecting to being called useless bastards, I believe,” Christie said caustically. She had little sympathy for a woman who had abandoned her children to earn that fashionable gown on her back.

  “They’ll learn to deal with bullies.” Mrs. Weldon’s tone echoed Christie’s lack of compassion. “What have you done with them?” She scanned the drawing room they entered, as if expecting her sons to materialize.

  “If all is as it should be, they’re being tutored upstairs. I have not yet taken up boiling little boys in oil.” Christie wasn’t certain where that comment had come from, although it might have something to do with the anxiety her guest exuded. Despite her proud façade, Mrs. Weldon was treating Christie as if she might turn into a witch and fly off on her broom at any moment.

  Christie bit her wayward tongue and more carefully assessed the twins’ mother. She’d been reluctant to open herself up to such a strong character, but the woman seemed to be agitated and a little afraid. For her sons? Most likely. She tried to place herself in the visitor’s shoes and be more forgiving.

  “I had heard you were a Malcolm,” her guest said stiffly. “One hears tales.”

  So much for being forgiving. Rolling her eyes, vowing inwardly to behave herself, Christie gestured at the chair least likely to contain animal hair. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll ring for tea. The house is at sixes and sevens until the matter of the administration is decided.”

  Mrs. Weldon settled on the aging Louis Quinze chair. “Politics,” she said disdainfully. “Duncan has this marvelous ability to play Shakespeare, but I always knew he’d end up in politics.”

  Christie rang the bell and hoped someone was in the kitchen to hear it. “As a marquess, he has little choice. I admire his dedication to steering the kingdom in the proper direction. Not many men of his status would have the understanding of a working man’s concerns.”

  He’d taught her about trade unions last night, in between . . . other things. Her cheeks burned, and she hid the fact by tossing a few coals to engage the embers before the maid arrived.

  “I’m glad he found someone who understands him,” Mrs. Weldon said. “My concern is my sons. Do I need to take them off your hands?”

  Startled, Christie turned back to face Ash’s stunning ex-mistress. It was a good thing the man was blind. Christie knew her fair plainness could not begin to compare with that fire and drama, although— With a little paint, she might enhance her best features as the actress had. Interesting to contemplate.

  “Your sons are fine here. I think Ash needs them about to be reminded that he is human and not an automaton. Did you wish to take the twins?”

  “Good heavens, no.” The woman waved a gloved hand. “I can arrange my schedule to take them on regular holidays, but if they insist on getting sent down at midterm, they’d have to travel with me. I still play ingénues, and I’d much prefer that my audience not know I’m old enough to have adolescent sons!”

  Christie had heard the gossip about the boys’ actress mother. Pamela Weldon had grown up in the village near Iveston but apparently wanted to see a larger world. She couldn’t blame her entirely, except for the part of earning Ash’s support by bearing him sons, then deserting them.

  Christie ordered the tea and settled into a rattan settee across from the twins’ glamorous mother. “Ask me what you will. I understand your concern for your children and would like to assure you that they are in safe hands.”

  Mrs. Weldon gestured dramatically. “It is impossible to keep those two safe. I accept that. As we have seen, even Ashford is not safe, and he has more experience. It is the nature of life. But I would see them cared for and if possible, happy.”

  Having been sheltered every minute of her life, Christie was horrified by this attitude.

  She is right, you know, the voice said sadly. We cannot glue them to a shelf in a locked cabinet.

  Christie hid her wince at this description of her own life and focused on Mrs. Weldon’s agitation. “I never had siblings,” she said slowly, searching for the words to calm her visitor. “So I think of the twins as mischievous younger brothers who must be guided in the right direction. Did you have any particular plans for them?”

  Her guest’s posture almost imperceptibly relaxed. “I want them to be happy. They seem to be so at Iveston. I’m not so sure about London. It is a dangerous place.”

  The tea arrived and Christie poured it while pondering her reply. “I agree that they would prefer the country, but right now, Ashford’s brother has taken charge of the estate. It is awkward to ask him to look after the children too.”

  Mrs. Weldon’s expression brightened. “Ah, yes, I see. Theo must make a perfectly horrible farmer. And he is newly wed, I hear. My boys would be too much for a new wife. Which brings us back to you—how can you possibly look after them? They are adventurous.”

  “Only when they are together,” Christie said with humor. “Hugh fears nothing, and Hartley is impetuous. Together, they bring out each other’s most dangerous traits. At some point, it may be necessary to consider separate schools, or they’ll continue to urge each other to greater mischief.”

  “Exactly.” Mrs. Weldon relaxed and sipped her tea. “I had feared you would be too much like Margaret and order them sent to boarding school all year so that you needn’t put up with them. I am relieved to see the Great Ass has developed sense with age and chosen a woman with a heart in her chest.”

  Christie bit back a smile at this appellation. “Ashford loves his sons. He would not let anyone come between them. Shall I send for the boys? I think their studies can be interrupted for this occasion.”

  “If you would, please
,” she said eagerly. “We are only passing through London on our way to Bath. I should have a house rented there by mid-December so they may come to me then. I do miss them.”

  The Malcolm ladies arrived just as the twins raced downstairs to lead their mother to the garden to meet Chuckles. Relieved that the elegant actress didn’t object to a filthy hound, Christie returned to the downstairs salon to welcome Aster, along with Moira and her mother, Lady McDowell. Moira’s sister, Emilia, had also come to help prepare for the soiree. Slender, tall, and black-haired, Emilia looked every inch an idle, elegant lady in her fashionably billowing sleeves and sweeping skirt.

  “We need yellow,” Christie told them, sweeping her hand to indicate the newly-decorated chamber. “Ashford can sometimes see yellow.”

  Moira exclaimed in distress over her delicate design of blue and silver, but glancing around, she instantly rallied. “I have a very large gold decorative fan we can fasten to the mirror. Do you think he might see that?”

  “I have a bright yellow shawl we can drape over the chair, if that will help. The house has strong power,” Lady Aster declared in satisfaction. “It must be healing him. Emilia, you really should study the herb garden. There may be vital physics that can cure him entirely.”

  Moira’s fashionably bored sister actually appeared interested.

  “Emilia is a healer,” Aster explained. “She also studies the therapeutic quality of plants, much as Ashford’s great-grandmother did.”

  Tell her to look for the red ginseng, the voice said with what sounded like excitement.

  Christie rubbed her forehead and decided if she must go mad, she was in good company. “I believe that his grandmother just told me to look for . . . red ginseng?”

  “Red ginseng? That takes years to root and grow!” Emilia exclaimed, already aiming for the door. “It normally grows in a forest. How can there possibly be any here?”

  There was once India snakeroot at Iveston, in the conservatory. This was said a little sadly, as if it might not be there any longer.