I moved away from him as quickly as I could and paid my respects to Lady Tarleton. Then I went over to Dorothea, who did not look at all happy. I asked her what the matter was, and she whispered, "Mama is coming for me tomorrow! And, oh, Cecy, I do not want to go to London!"
"Not want to go to London!" I said in astonishment. "But I thought you told Lady Tarleton that you were anxious for your Season!"
"That was when Lady Tarleton was to bring me out, and I thought you would go with me," Dorothea said sadly. "But now I shall be in London all alone."
"Don't be a peagoose," I said. "The whole point of a Season in London is that one cannot be all alone."
"You know what I mean!" Dorothea said. She was practically in tears. "I don't know anyone in London!"
"You'll meet people soon enough," I said, and I forebore to add that with her looks she could hardly help it.
"You don't understand about Mama," Dorothea said.
We had walked a little away from the others, so I whisked her around the corner of the main house and found a bench. "All right, then, sit down and explain to me," I said.
"Oh, I couldn't!" Dorothea said, and turned quite white. "She'd find out."
"How?" I said, "I certainly won't tell her."
But all Dorothea would say was that her Mama is horrid and hateful. Apparently she is determined that Dorothea will marry some specific but unnamed peer (whom Dorothea paints as a cold-blooded ogre). Dorothea appears to think that there is some sinister scheme behind this determination and that her Mama will call on a variety of unprincipled friends to assist in achieving her ends. I suspect that she thinks this solely because she has formed a tendre for someone else, but the whole conversation was so dreadfully confused that I could not be sure of anything. Finally, I told her to call on you when she reaches London (assuming, of course, that her Mama really will carry her off without any notice at all, as Dorothea appears to fear).
We were interrupted by Robert Penwood, come to collect us to begin the tour, and for the next hour or so we all made polite comments about the beauty of the gardens, the wonderful views, etc. James Tarleton behaved with excruciating correctness in spite of the insipid conversation, which I am sure must have bored him to tears. I think boredom only his due for foisting himself on us as he did.
Finally we reached the part of the tour I had been waiting for—the maze. Aunt Elizabeth and Lady Tarleton begged off, but the rest of us went cheerfully in, and in a very short time we were all lost among the hedges. I let the others get ahead of me, and as soon as they were out of sight I headed straight for the shortcut. (You remember, the little gap in the far corner that we always used to use to beat Jack Everslee to the center of the maze.) It was still there, and I used it to get out of the maze instead of going farther in.
So in no time at all I was standing at the far side of Sir Hilary's maze, free to do as I pleased for at least an hour before anyone would come looking for me. I went up to the house at once (being careful to keep the hedges between me and the place where we had left Aunt Elizabeth and Lady Tarleton), and blushingly explained to the footman who answered the door that I would like to use the necessary. He was quite taken aback, poor man (I don't think it had ever occurred to him that Young Ladies of Quality ever needed such plebeian artifacts). He called the housekeeper, a Mrs. Porter, who conducted me to the proper place. She was a motherly type who was quite receptive to my suggestion that a glass of lemonade would be more than welcome, after running about the gardens in the heat all day.
The point of this whole charade was, of course, to be left alone in Sir Hilary's library. Mrs. Porter eventually did so, whereupon I made a rapid survey of Sir Hilary's books, looking for something that appeared to have information on charm-bags. At first, I was a bit daunted by the sheer number of volumes; I had no notion that a wizard was required to do so very much reading! I soon realized, however, that most of the books were the ordinary sort that one would find in any well-kept library, and after a brief search I discovered the section I wanted. I was quite prepared to take several, if need be (the pockets in that shawl are quite spacious), but I discovered a slim red book titled The Theory and Practice of Charms: Being an Inquiry into the Making of Bags, Boxes, and the Like by Country Witches and Their Ilk. I tucked it into my shawl and was about to take the book beside it when I heard someone at the door. I straightened hastily, thinking it was Mrs. Porter with my lemonade, and turned to say something innocuous about the number of books Sir Hilary has.
It was, of course, not Mrs. Porter at all, but James Tarleton, who ought to have been safely lost in the maze with Robert, Dorothea, Patience, and Jack. "What are you doing here?" I demanded.
"I believe I am the one who should ask you that," Mr. Tarleton said. His eyes were very hard and suspicious, and he looked exceedingly angry.
"That is none of your affair," I said.
"Indeed." He strolled over to the bookcase and began studying the section I had been looking at. I backed away as he came forward, not wanting to stand at all close to him. I was very glad I had done so, for he took one look at the books and turned to me, looking more thunderous than ever. "Just what is your game, young woman?"
"I do not have the slightest idea what you are talking about," I said with dignity.
"No? You take up with Dorothea Griscomb the moment she arrives, aid and abet her in all her schemes, and you expect me to believe you do it simply because she reminds you of some cousin of yours?"
"It is quite true," I told him.
He gave a bark of laughter that was not at all pleasant. "Too late, Miss Rushton. I'm not so gullible that I can be caught twice with a smoothly told tale. I might have believed you once, but not after I saw your reaction to the news that Miranda Griscomb is coming to Tarleton Hall, and not now that I find you poking through Sir Hilary's magic books. I'm afraid you're out of luck there; he keeps the really important ones in his laboratory, like most good wizards."
"I was simply admiring Sir Hilary's collection," I said, retreating around the end of a low couch. I felt better with something between me and that angry expression.
Mr. Tarleton snorted. "It won't wash, my girl. Miranda and Hilary have had a falling-out, I suppose, and she's taking advantage of all this to have you snoop through his things."
By this time I was quite outraged. "I was not snooping," I said. "How dare you accuse me of any such thing? If anyone is snooping, it is you, and I very much wish Squire Bryant had another goat, for I think you deserve it!"
Mr. Tarleton ignored this completely. "What is Miranda up to?" he demanded.
He was starting toward me, and in quite a menacing manner, when a knock at the library door announced the housekeeper, at long last bringing my lemonade. I took it gratefully and downed it with far more speed than was strictly ladylike (to keep her in the room; I did not want to be alone with James Tarleton again!). Mr. Tarleton took snuff while I drank; it is a habit he seems to resort to when under stress. (And I must say that I am still amazed that someone as well turned out in other ways as Mr. Tarleton would use such a vulgarly ostentatious snuffbox as that green-and-blue enameled one he carries. I suppose he must be sentimentally attached to it for some reason.)
When Mr. Tarleton and I were quite finished snubbing each other with magnificent unconcern, Mrs. Porter escorted us to the side door. This let out onto the veranda where Aunt Elizabeth and Lady Tarleton were sitting. Aunt Elizabeth was quite surprised to see us together, and coming from the house instead of the maze, but Mr. Tarleton passed it off with a remark about my having been overcome with the heat. Aunt Elizabeth looked at me suspiciously, for she knows I never swoon and am quite fond of warm weather, but she did not say anything, and the rest of the day passed off without further incident.
I was relieved to reach home with my pilfered book safe (do not scold, Kate; I shall return it to Sir Hilary anonymously, by post, as soon as I am finished with it, and how else was I to find out anything about charm-bags?). I spent the evening rea
ding it, and was quite impressed with how complex a charm-bag really is. Unfortunately, it is very hard to identify the type of charm unless one knows what herbs were used. I shall spend part of tomorrow trying to sort out the herbs in the bag Mary found in Oliver's room, but one dried bit of leaf looks very much like another, so I have little hope of success. The whole matter makes me dreadfully uneasy; I have taken to cleaning out my hairbrush every morning and burning the residue. I hope to finish Sir Hilary's book tomorrow evening; in the afternoon, I intend to pay a call on Dorothea and see whether I can get a peek at her Mama.
Yours ever, Cecy
10 May 1817
11 Berkeley Square, London
My dearest Cecy,
I'm afraid I've made a dreadful mull of it this time. I've told Aunt Charlotte that Oliver's gone back to Rushton for a few days, just on business for Uncle. And, of course, he may have, and oh, dear, how I wish he might have, but really it is just another bouncer of mine. But I had to think of something, because he's gone missing.
I do hope you can read my handwriting. I skinned my palm and even though it is much better this morning it makes it hard to hold the pen quite steady.
It was in Vauxhall Gardens I last saw him, and that was my dear sister's fault entirely. We had gone to dinner at the Grenvilles' and were meant to go from there to the opera with Alice Grenville and her twin brothers. But no sooner was the meal over than Alice Grenville and Georgina swept me upstairs, where they had dominoes for the three of us— and George and Andrew escorted us not to the opera but to Vauxhall, without paying the slightest attention to a word I said. (I wanted to see that opera particularly. It was the last performance of I Dilletanti.)
Because I knew perfectly well that I would get the blame for the entire expedition, I was in no mood to be pleased, but I admit Vauxhall is pretty enough. I doubt you'll have the chance to see it for yourself next Season, since it is nearly as vulgar as Aunt Charlotte said, so I'll just describe the place as best I can.
Vauxhall is a large garden with carefully arranged thickets and sandy paths. In the heart of the garden are boxes with flimsy chairs where one may sit to watch other people promenade about by the light of paper lanterns, or dance to a little orchestra playing popular airs (ever so slightly flat). As we entered the lantern-lit clearing, Alice Grenville declared there were nightingales in the thickets. So no sooner were we in the box George and Andrew procured for us than Georgina went off with Andrew to search for one, leaving me with Alice and George. George insisted on ordering rack punch and slivered ham, despite the perfectly enormous meal we had just consumed at Grenville House.
Well, of course, after a quarter of an hour, I expected to catch a glimpse of Georgina among the crowd walking past. I was a bit concerned for her, alone with her twin. By the greatest misfortune, Oliver chose that moment to arrive in pursuit of Georgy. He pounced on me and demanded to know what I was thinking of to let life in the Ton go so dreadfully to Georgina's head. I was taken aback for a moment but replied at once in a calm voice that I've almost grown to hate (for I seldom know what I'm going to say in it, and sometimes it comes out with the most dreadful lies, always in the same plausible tone) that Georgy and I had made a wager that she masked could dance with more men than I unmasked. My voice went on quite pleasantly to say that if he couldn't keep from interfering in a simple sportin' wager, he should go home and get Aunt Charlotte to make him a posset. Otherwise, he'd best sit down and join us.
"A simple sportin' wager," he huffed at me. "I should think you would know better than to jest about such things with a member of the family. And if you're not jesting, you must be mad."
"I suppose I must be," I agreed, "but at least I am not bacon-brained enough to preach a sermon in Vauxhall Gardens."
You may imagine Oliver's response. It was a masterpiece of priggish indignation that, reduced to its bare essentials, amounted to an accusation that we were having fun without him. When he was quite finished, he called me a rag-mannered chit and marched off to find Georgina, which, I own, I was hoping he would do for quite some time.
I apologized to Alice and George and went back to craning my neck to look for Georgy.
An hour went by, Cecy, and a worse hour I have yet to pass, in London or out of it. I saw Oliver in the distance twice, but there wasn't a sign of Georgy. As you may imagine, I grew worried and then more worried, until finally Alice and the twin agreed to stroll with me in the direction of the illuminations. After all, Alice told me bracingly, it was possible Oliver simply didn't recognize Georgy in her domino.
We walked down a winding path and reached a little Greek temple lit with paper lanterns. It seemed a good idea to separate and search the shrubbery round about. I took a wrong step somehow, and found myself in a thicket with no temple in sight and no reply to my call. After a moment of uneasiness, it struck me what seemed wrong. The shadowy coppice was altogether silent. No nightingale sang, nor could I hear any faint strain of the orchestra.
Puzzled and a little alarmed, I stood in the dark, the flat of my hand resting on the trunk of the tree before me. I was struck with a sudden sense of unreasonable apprehension (in addition to my perfectly reasonable apprehension, common to any girl foolish enough to lose herself at night in the woods of Vauxhall). You may therefore imagine my reaction when a hand covered mine and held me there, palm against the smooth bark.
"I thought I told you to stay in well-lit ballrooms," said Thomas Schofield in my ear.
I managed to stop my scream before it got to my lips. After a moment I said quite evenly, "Ill met by moonlight, my dear Marquis." I admit this was not exactly brilliant, but I think that under the circumstances I did fairly well.
"On the contrary, my dear half-wit," he replied, "for your sake, we are very well met. But a very little longer and you'd not have left this wood for quite some time." Right hand over my right hand, he moved to stand behind me. "Hold out your left hand," he said.
"Stop that," I said. "What on earth are you doing?"
"Rescuing you, silly," he said. "Hold out your left hand."
Cautiously, I did so. He took it in his and stood so close behind me that I have no doubt that but for the hood of the silken domino I wore, I could have felt his breath stir my hair. The fingers of his left hand laced with mine and he drew our clasped hands forward until our fingertips rested very lightly against my forehead, as though to shield my eyes.
I stood straight and still, trying to ignore his proximity, as he held me circled in his arms. For the Marquis's part, he seemed to ignore me in return. In addition to the oddity of our stance, he began to mutter. His voice was a very soft steady repetition of words I could not catch, a droning chant that almost had a tune. After about four bars of this, I realized I could hear the orchestra again, a faint distant music through the trees.
"There," said the Marquis. "Nothing elegant, but it ought to do the trick." His right hand still on mine, he clasped hard and pried it off the bark of the tree. And indeed, when it did come free, it felt to me as though I left every bit of skin on my palm stuck to the bark. It hurt like blazes and I would have liked very much to exclaim aloud, but I did not wish to do so before the odious Marquis. He kept my hand clasped firmly in his right while he fumbled in his pocket with his left. After a moment he produced a silk handkerchief and did a fairly clumsy job of bandaging my hand with it, muttering under his breath the while.
Perhaps it was the muttering or perhaps the silk handkerchief, but in a few minutes the pain eased and I was able to say, "I can't think how you knew I was here."
"Luckily for you," he said, "you shed hairpins the way Hansel and Gretel shed crumbs. I followed your trail." He pressed a half dozen hairpins into the palm of my left hand. "Now let us return to light, safety, and society."
He led me out of the thicket back to the little temple, and we found ourselves in the ring of lamplight. In the center of the ring were both Grenville twins, Alice Grenville, Frederick Hollydean, and Georgina, who had her head on Alic
e's shoulder, sobbing lustily.
I glanced back at Thomas Schofield to find him gazing down his nose at me in a most annoying way. "What's happened?" I demanded. "Is she hurt?"
"I suggest you ask her," he replied. "I do so hate to intrude in a family squabble."
"Truly," Georgina was saying, between sniffs and sobs that made the Grenville twins look thunderously upon Frederick Hollydean, "I never meant to flirt with all of you. I never meant to flirt with any of you. I only meant to make Oliver angry. And now it's all gone wrong, for I sent him a note telling him I would be here and he didn't even bother to come rescue me from the consequences of my folly."
"But Oliver is here," I said briskly. "I sent him after you. I can't imagine what's keeping him. He was quite angry enough to suit even you, Georgina."
Georgy lifted her head and regarded me with reproach. "Kate, where have you been?"
I looked back at Thomas but the wretch was gone, melted back into the shrubbery. If he guessed what the rest of that particular squabble would be like, I can't blame him. If I'd known, I'd have gone slinking off myself. At the end of Georgina's tirade I was finally able to distract her (for she seemed strangely eager to forget her behavior by complaining of mine) by asking, "Yes, but where's Oliver?"
And no one knew. We searched the gardens until the lamplighters came to put out the lanterns, without success. The Grenvilles brought us home so late Aunt Charlotte had dozed off in her chair beside the door, so we were able to avoid her first wrath. But now we are no better off, for I am confined to my room and we cannot send anyone to search for Oliver without giving the entire business away.
It's all the most dreadful muddle, and I'm sure I have quite a thousand other things to tell you but I can't think of a thing but poor Oliver. I'm so worried I could scream, and I can't betray more than faint concern lest I set Georgina off into tears again.
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