I divided the powder between my reticule and Reardon’s. At Reardon’s suggestion, we sifted a bit of the powder over each other so that when we set off for the grove, I not only carried half a reticule of the stuff, I had it sprinkled over my hair and in my shoes, as well as liberally scattered over my gown.
We set forth again, as stealthily as possible under the circumstances, and I remember wondering how anyone could truly enjoy gambling. The gamble I took was unavoidable. How could anyone take such risks just for fun? My grandfather must have been mad.
On the other hand, I thought, remembering Lady Sylvia and the League of the Pimpernel, perhaps my father had taken his risks for fun, too. Perhaps in my way I am as big a gambler as anyone in my family. I just take after my father instead of my grandfather.
The undergrowth was thick indeed, but, mercifully, the footing was not treacherous. If it had been a wood back home in Rushton, there would have been leaves and twigs underfoot, as well as a good deal of mud to contend with. We were fortunate, given the time of year, that so many of the trees were oaks, for although oak leaves wither they do not fall from the branch until much later in winter. Good cover, as Cecy would say. Reardon and I were able to catch our breath and, incidentally, to restore order to our appearance at the foot of the slope. There, as James had described, the shrubbery yielded to a clearing in a grove. Reardon and I crouched in the bushes to give James and Piers the time they had asked for.
If we had been back home in Rushton, there would certainly have been birds singing. With the slightest breeze, leaves would have rustled. Very likely a dog would bark in the distance, or one might hear the lowing of a discontented cow. In an ordinary wood, there would have been some kind of friendly noise. In that place, at that moment, there was no sound at all. The quiet, the utter stillness, seemed uncanny. The very air conspired to create an oppressive mood, for there was not the slightest of breezes. Never before have I understood so well why we say “dead calm.”
I peered through the branches of the particular bush I’d settled behind. From my vantage point, I could see Mountjoy quite well. James had not exaggerated. He did look as sick as a sheep. Theodore, if anything, looked worse. He was wearing fancy dress of a sort, white robes draped toga-fashion. His countenance was waxen, he was so pale, and his gaze seemed fixed as he regarded one of the oak trees in fascination. There was the scent of vegetation burning, for at intervals around the clearing stood braziers in which fresh greenery wilted and smoldered over coals.
If I craned my neck, it was difficult yet possible to see Thomas and Cecy, tied back-to-back, hand and foot, and gagged, but I made myself ignore the distressing sight. A pair of footmen stood guard over them. The footmen seemed very ill at ease.
Given the behavior of the Contessa di Capodoro, I could see why. She held center stage in the grove as much by her demeanor as her extraordinary costume. I could not decide who, if anyone, her fancy dress was intended to portray, but the effect was certainly striking. She was all antique grandeur, with gauzy white draperies in the finest Grecian style. The Contessa’s hair was loose down her back and she wore a circlet of laurel leaves with all the majesty of a golden crown. In one hand she held a torch. In the other she brandished a small sickle, the kind one uses to harvest barley, both handle and blade bright with gilt. The Contessa was moving methodically about the clearing, intoning a soft chant as she danced. It ought to have been absurd. It wasn’t. Every step she took deepened the silence in the grove. Every syllable of her chant increased the sense of foreboding in that place. Every eye was upon her. Even Thomas watched, apparently fascinated.
I made myself take a few steps forward. I caught a whiff of the strange smoke. It caught in the back of my throat and made my eyes burn. There was a substantial oak nearby and I found myself leaning against it with my eyes closed. Only when Reardon poked me in the ribs did I recover my sense of urgency. I moved toward the spectacle with reluctance. Who was I, after all, to intrude on such mysteries?
From my new vantage point, I could see better. For the first time I noticed that the Contessa was circling an object—something grayish, something about the size of a large dog—in the center of the clearing. It was a goat. Apparently the creature was intended as a votive sacrifice, for it was not tethered but tied fetlock-to-fetlock, fore and aft, so that it lay helpless on its side. Despite its discomfort, the goat made not a bleat of protest, nor did it struggle against the cords that bound it.
The uncanniness of it, that goat’s meek, most ungoatlike behavior, made the power the Contessa wielded real to me. If she could do that—render a goat docile—what couldn’t she do? I felt despair.
Although the Contessa’s dance circled the sacrificial goat, all her attention seemed focused on Theodore. Theodore, whose draperies were as picturesque in their way as the Contessa’s, stood nearby, apparently leaning for support upon the largest oak tree of all. He, alone of us all, took no notice of the Contessa’s extraordinary behavior. Instead, he seemed engrossed in studying the pattern of the bark on the tree trunk.
I reached into my reticule, took out a handful of powdered writing desk, and scattered it before me. To be honest, I could not think of anything else to do. I took a few steps farther into the grove. It was my duty to provide a distraction so that Thomas and Cecy could be rescued. Yet I could not think of a suitable speech with which to distract the Contessa. I knew her taste for opera. From the circumstances, I could deduce her taste for drama. What I ought to do was stalk in like a Fury, demanding revenge. Not for the first time, I regretted the lack of my imaginary aria.
I might have stood there indefinitely, a prisoner of my own self-regarding thought, but James emerged from the shrubbery, slinking toward Thomas and Cecy. Desperate to distract the footmen, if only by asking the Contessa for directions, I started forward.
I was perhaps twenty feet from the Contessa, still wondering what on earth to say, when I came near enough to see that the sacrificial goat was a nanny goat. And not merely a nanny goat, I saw, but a nanny goat in desperate need of milking. Cruel as it is to restrain an animal in such a fashion, it is crueler still to restrain a creature that needs milking. Oh, it surpasses cruelty. Even to think of it now makes me indignant.
At the time, I was not myself. I had not slept well, or indeed at all, for three nights. My dear husband was in mortal danger, as were my cousin and her husband. There was no shortage of danger to any of us. Therefore, it may seem strange that I grew so angry at the way the Contessa treated a nanny goat. All I know is that my initial sight of the goat’s situation had filled me with fear for the Contessa’s uncanny powers. When I saw the true state of affairs, the nanny goat’s pitiful condition filled me with indignant rage. There can be no earthly excuse to treat an animal with such cruelty.
I shouted as I approached the Contessa. It was hardly the stuff of arias. To the best of my recollection, I said, “Contessa, release that goat!”
The Contessa stopped in her tracks, stared, and turned to confront me. She said nothing. Her eyes were blazing. I expected to be transformed into a frog on the spot.
From the corner of my eye, I saw that James paid no attention to my efforts at distraction. On the contrary, he carried on expertly, slipping between the footmen and crouching over Thomas. Mountjoy moved toward me, protesting. All Theodore’s attention was fixed on his tree. The footmen goggled at me.
Glaring at the Contessa, I pointed at the nanny goat. “I said, release that animal at once! You should be ashamed of yourself.”
To my consternation, the Contessa dismissed me with a sneer. Instead of transforming me into a frog, she returned to her dance. With unspeakable grace, she raised the golden sickle high and stepped behind Theodore, arm poised for a killing blow.
I screamed. I know that. I’m not sure what. Something along the lines of, “Theodore, look out!” Desperate to distract the Contessa, I threw my reticule and it struck her between the shoulder blades, puffing out powdered desk, and fell to the ground, spilli
ng more.
Stirred from his reverie at last, Theodore turned to find himself nose-to-nose with the Contessa. He caught at her wrist at the last possible instant, foiling her blow, and cried, “Contessa!” Theodore sounded as if he might burst into tears.
The Contessa twisted free, snarling words I could not understand. She tripped over the goat, which uttered a bleat of protest. Balance lost, the Contessa dropped her sickle and her torch and fell headlong at Theodore’s feet.
Reardon and I moved forward together, intent on catching her while she was down. For a moment, I was so close to the Contessa that I could see the bits of desk sparkling golden in the mud on her hands.
Then the Contessa made an economical gesture and spat out a word. I fell one way and Reardon another. By the time I picked myself up and looked around, the Contessa had regained her sickle and was coaxing the torch back to flame. I looked around.
A few yards from me, Reardon was back on her feet. She looked very angry. Beside her, the goat began to chew at the cords that tied its forelegs even as it kicked to loosen the cords that bound its hind legs.
Mountjoy was crossing toward Theodore, calling his name. He looked frightened. So did Theodore, who was staring around wildly as if he’d been wakened from a dream to find himself in a nightmare.
Across the clearing, James had freed Thomas from his bonds and turned to do the same for Cecy. As I watched, Thomas stood up and sat down again immediately. I deduced that the time he’d spent tied up had impaired his usual speed and grace. From his vantage point seated on the ground, Thomas intoned and gestured in a way that told me that whatever else was impaired, his magical powers were fine.
The Contessa, now satisfied with her torch, turned her attention to Thomas. Spell and counterspell flew faster than my senses could perceive. Deadlocked, the pair of them glared at each other across the clearing.
Cecy shook free of her bonds as James cut them and for a moment let James support her. Their embrace was brief, but I found it a touching sight.
The footmen seized James and pulled him away. Enraged, Cecy threw herself upon them. One footman held James and the other turned his attention to Cecy, actually lifting her from her feet. She struggled violently in his grasp.
Theodore, clutching his antique robes to preserve his modesty, eluded Mountjoy’s grasp and started across the clearing toward Cecy. “Unhand that lady!”
The footman did so at once and stood over Cecy where she sprawled. I don’t know which of them looked more astonished. James took advantage of the distraction to land a punishing blow square on his footman’s nose. The footman staggered back and fell to his knees, swearing.
Thomas and the Contessa continued their unseen battle of magical will across the clearing. I could see nothing, and I understood nothing of what little I heard, but I could almost smell the intensity of their conflict. It hung in the air like the smoke from gunpowder when cannons are fired.
“Cecelia!” cried Theodore, and something in the deep emotion that throbbed beneath his words made me very sure indeed that Theodore had a taste for opera. “Are you hurt?”
Cecy glared at him. I waved to attract her attention and put the back of my hand to my forehead. Unerringly, Cecy understood my hint and acted upon it, falling limp, as if about to swoon. She pantomimed helplessness as Theodore bent over her. No one on a stage could have done better. I was proud of her quickness and pleased that our methods of schoolroom signaling to each other worked as well as ever.
All indignation, James protested. “Unhand my wife, Sir.”
Mountjoy seized my wrist and hauled me to my feet. “You’ve ruined everything, you little goose.” He brushed Reardon aside as she came to my aid.
I resisted Mountjoy vigorously and called him many names. The goat, free at last, sprang up almost under our feet, intent upon escape. Thomas and the Contessa continued their duel, shouting in Latin and Greek and what might have been Babylonian for all I understood of it.
Theodore shouted, “Be quiet, all of you! Just stop it. Stop everything.”
We stopped everything, held motionless where we stood.
Thomas, caught between one word and the next, looked astounded. The Contessa glared daggers at Thomas but was as helpless to move or speak as any of the rest of us.
Motionless, Cecy was sprawled on the ground in a most becoming attitude. Theodore caught her in his arms. If looks really could kill, James, hardly an arm’s length away, would have done for Theodore then and there.
Cecy’s footman was looking more surprised than before. James’s footman, nose bloodied, was halted in the very act of rising to his feet. Reardon, at Mountjoy’s elbow, was frozen in her attempt to pull him away from me. I found myself curiously calm, despite the fact I was held as motionless as any marble statue.
Only the goat was unaffected. Distracted by the Contessa’s fallen wreath of laurel—it had ended up in the mud as a result of our struggle—the goat sampled a few leaves. It looked around with interest as it chewed.
I am sure we presented a quaint tableau.
Theodore, the only one among us not struck motionless, was oblivious. All his attention was focused upon Cecy. “Are you hurt? Oh, Cecelia, speak to me.”
The picture they made, Theodore cradling Cecy to his bosom, was as touching as it was ridiculous. I don’t think any gentleman, no matter how passionate, could overcome the supreme disadvantage of finding himself in such a situation whilst wearing a bedsheet.
When Cecy obeyed Theodore’s command and spoke to him, it was with admirable restraint. “Mr. Daventer, what are you doing?”
The crispness of Cecy’s tone seemed to remind Theodore of the proprieties. He loosened his grip upon her with commendable speed. “I thought you were—I thought you might be hurt. Please forgive my forwardness, er, Mrs. Tarleton.”
Calm despite the situation in which she found herself, Cecy said, “I’m fine, I assure you. Do help me up, Mr. Daventer.” When she was on her feet, Cecy brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes, took a keen look about her, and said something I could not catch. Then, dusting her hands together with an air of a job well done, she addressed Theodore in her most compelling tone. “You must tell James that he can move, Theodore.” After a moment’s reflection, she added, “Thomas, Kate, and Reardon, as well, if you please.”
“I don’t understand—” Theodore’s confusion was almost painful to behold.
“You will,” Cecy assured him. “I’ll explain everything in a moment. But for now, please do as I ask.”
“Very well,” said Theodore, abashed. “Mr. Tarleton, Lord and Lady Schofield, Reardon, please do as you wish.”
Theodore seemed about to add something more, but Cecy put her hand to his lips. “That will do to be going on with. Thank you, Theodore.”
“Yes, thank you,” I called. I found I was able to move as well as speak, and I pulled free from Mountjoy’s grip with alacrity.
“You are entirely welcome,” said Theodore. He really is a most amiable young man, despite everything.
The goat finished the Contessa’s laurel wreath, apparently finding it quite tasty. Across the clearing, Thomas’s first act, now that speech and motion were restored, was to tug his clothing into better order. Needless to say, Thomas denies this. He claims his first act was to kiss me. Despite my mock indignation when we discussed the matter later, in all honesty, at the time I found his unthinking vanity deeply reassuring. Nothing could have told me more clearly that Thomas was entirely himself. As he tugged at his neckcloth, I stepped past Mountjoy, Reardon, and the goat. Yielding to my most heartfelt inclination, I ran into Thomas’s arms.
The relief of feeling his embrace again, of knowing him to be safe—well, some things truly are beyond words.
From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.
I did not at once realize why it was that I felt so … clear from the moment Kate entered the grove, but when I saw the glittering dust she threw on the Contessa, I knew. Strong magic leaves a residue i
n the objects used for a ritual; turning the desk in the Palazzo Flangini into powder had been strong magic indeed, however uncontrolled. And it was my magic. I could feel it in the back of my mind—and I could sense the Contessa’s magic, too, for just that brief moment.
A moment was long enough. As she raised her sickle to kill Theodore, I cut off the power she was feeding to the spell that was keeping him dazed and helpless. It was all I could think of, but, fortunately, it answered very well. He turned in time to keep the Contessa from stabbing him in the back. He did not, however, seem to have the least notion what was going on, and as I was still bound and gagged, I could not tell him. (James had most sensibly begun untying Thomas first.)
I tried to use my unexpected magical ability to interfere further with the Contessa, but manipulating raw magical power is nothing whatever like casting a proper spell. On the one hand, one does not require words or symbols, so that it is possible to use magic even while gagged; on the other, one has no way of shaping the power into exactly the sort of spell one needs. Despite my best efforts, I could only manage to inflict the Contessa with a general clumsiness. Between this and Kate’s advance, however, she was sufficiently distracted to prevent any additional magical efforts for a moment. By then James had finished releasing Thomas, who immediately occupied her full attention with a duel arcane.
James released me next, and took a moment to assure himself that I was uninjured. The moment was too long—the two footmen who had been guarding us had by this time recovered their sense of duty and grabbed his arms. I could not use the loose magic of the powdered desk on them, for they had not been near enough to the Contessa to be sprinkled with the dust, and it was imperative to keep them from finishing with James and turning to Thomas. So I slapped the one nearest me.
This attracted his attention, and a brisk scuffle followed. James engaged in fisticuffs with the one footman, while I kept the other occupied. Then Theodore’s voice rang across the grove in fine dramatic style: “Unhand that lady!”
The Grand Tour Page 32
