01 Sorcery and Cecelia

by Patricia C. Wrede

  "Oliver is quite well," I said, and took a bite out of one of my sandwiches.

  "I am glad to hear it," Sir Hilary said, swinging his quizzing glass absently on the end of its ribbon. "You have had news of him recently, then?"

  "Oh, Oliver has never been much of a hand at writing," I said. "But it is very kind of you to ask."

  I gave Sir Hilary my most brilliant smile, tore my eyes away from the chocolate pot, and turned to offer Aunt Elizabeth one of the macaroons, thus putting an end to a most uncomfortable conversation. This maneuver placed me facing the large windows that look out over the side lawn and the little pavilion just in front of the hedge where the maze begins. As I held the plate out to Aunt Elizabeth, I saw a flicker of movement among the bushes. In another moment, someone ran across the open space and disappeared behind the pavilion. I had just enough of a glimpse to make me quite sure that it was James Tarleton.

  I swallowed my dismay and irritation—really, the man is impossibly bad at sneaking about—and turned back to the Reverend Fitz. Sir Hilary was looking past me at the window, which made my spirits sink. There was nothing I could do but hope he had not seen James, or that he was uncertain of the identity of whoever was skulking in his bushes.

  Somehow, I got through the rest of that tea, but my feelings were in such turmoil that I did not think it wise to attempt to slip away to the library. Aunt Elizabeth and I left at last, and I promise you that I will never again complain of her insistence on limiting our calls on Sir Hilary to the formal thirty minutes.

  I spent the remainder of the afternoon at my embroidery, considering Sir Hilary's actions and worrying lest Mr. Tarleton had been discovered. (I spent the evening unpicking all the stitches I had labored over in the afternoon; my mind was not on my work.) Mr. Tarleton did not call Tuesday, nor Wednesday. On Thursday, Mr. Wrexton mentioned having ridden out with James the previous day, which let me know that at least Mr. Tarleton was not tied up in Sir Hilary's storerooms somewhere. I am quite out of patience with the man (James Tarleton, not Mr. Wrexton. Mr. Wrexton is a sweet lamb). He might have had the courtesy to call and let me know he was all right and what, if anything, he discovered at Bedrick Hall.

  Upon reflection, I have come to the conclusion that Sir Hilary was testing me by displaying Thomas's chocolate pot (or a copy of it, which seems more likely) so openly and under such circumstances. I flatter myself that I did quite well at concealing my reactions, but I have no idea whether I did sufficiently well to convince Sir Hilary that I know nothing of the chocolate pot. It is also very clear that Sir Hilary is, or was, suspicious of me. He would not otherwise have used the chocolate pot, for you know his taste has always been meticulous, and blue porcelain cannot be considered to go at all well with sprig-patterned china in green and purple.

  I am also worried by his interest in Oliver. It can only mean that he is well aware that Oliver is hidden away somewhere, and for some reason, he (Sir H.) is anxious to discover where Oliver is. Presumably Sir Hilary fancies that this will, in some way, discomfit Thomas, but it is far likelier to discomfit you and me. Could you find a way to drop a hint to Thomas that Sir Hilary is displaying an unwonted interest in Oliver's whereabouts? As Thomas is the only one who knows where Oliver is just now, it seems to me wise to inform him of the possible danger.

  I am enclosing the charm-bags I promised you for Dorothea and Robert. I am not at all sure what the exact effect will be of using the Marquis's handkerchief in your second charm-bag, but from what Mr. Wrexton told me about the violet bloodstains, it may actually enhance the power of the bag. Be very careful of it, however; if Miranda got hold of that charm-bag, she could do perfectly dreadful things to you. For it would not be at all difficult for her to remove the handkerchief, and once the bloodstains have been used for one sort of magic, they are more amenable to being used in other ways. I am afraid I am not being at all clear about this; you will just have to take my word for it, and be very cautious. I will post this entire packet in the afternoon when Aunt Elizabeth and I pay our weekly visit to the Reverend Fitz.

  Your curious cousin, Cecy

  12 June 1817

  11 Berkeley Square, London

  Dearest Cecy,

  Nerves of steel aren't sufficient. You must have nerves of adamant to sit at table with Sir Hilary, knowing what we know of him. I admire your calm all the more since you endured James Tarleton's attempted stealth at the same time. Brava, cousin!

  That said, I intend to try to follow Aunt Charlotte's favorite advice and tell first things first so that I don't leave anything out. The smallest details may prove to be important.

  Saturday last, Thomas invited Aunt Charlotte, Georgina, and me to the opera. It was a revival of Handel's Atalanta, which is very silly. The orchestra was first-rate (but despite his reputation, I'm afraid the tenor wasn't), and I enjoyed it very much. Aunt Charlotte was enthralled by the chance to survey the boxes in our circle. From the overture to the finale, for the benefit of Georgy's education, she pointed out all the people of whom she could not approve. She tried several times to get my attention so that I, too, could profit from this instruction, but I kept my eyes stubbornly on the stage.

  Rather to my surprise, Thomas did not interrupt the music with conversation, or even pointed remarks. Instead, he simply slouched in his seat, apparently indifferent to everything but the need to stay awake. Aunt Charlotte eyed him sharply at first, but when his lack of interest lasted through the appearance of the opera dancers, she relaxed her surveillance.

  At the interval, Georgy insisted on visiting the box adjacent to ours to greet some friends and allow them the chance to admire her new Mexican blue sarcenet gown. Aunt Charlotte accompanied her and I was left alone in our box with the somnolent Thomas.

  In the dim light at the back of the box, I could not read his expression, but I thought his apathy most uncharacteristic. Hoping to provoke some response, if only annoyance, I said, "You must have wondered at it when I mentioned James Tarleton to you in our last conversation."

  Thomas stirred slightly but his voice held little interest as he replied, "No, I didn't wonder. I was too busy being furious with you."

  "I believe he is a particular friend of yours," I said. "My cousin Cecy knows him."

  "Yes, yes," said Thomas wearily, "James is a splendid fellow. Bruising rider, crack shot, very handy with his fives—ought to be able to handle a dozen of your cousins. Why don't you leave my friends and your relations out of this and tell me the worst at once. What mischief have you been in since I delivered you in Berkeley Square?"

  "Why, none at all," I answered.

  "What, none?" he replied. "Not spilt anything, nor tripped, nor fallen down stairs, nor knocked anyone down, nor set them on fire?"

  "I have not set anyone on fire this age," I informed him. "I did step on Andrew Grenville's foot, but he's stepped on both of mine so often I can't think that counts."

  "Nothing more sensational than that? I commend you," Thomas said. A faint line appeared between his brows. "But I confess it makes me uneasy. I would expect Miranda to have acted by now. Long contemplation is not much in her usual style."

  "I thought she might be a rather impulsive person," I agreed. "Her attempt to poison you with chocolate suggested to me that her temper was a hasty one. Why did she do that, if I may ask?"

  Thomas looked down his nose at me. "You may always ask, Kate."

  "I do think you owe me an explanation," I persisted. "After all, I nearly drank it."

  "I doubt it would have done you any good," said Thomas, "but it wasn't poison, you know. I can't think where you got the idea it was."

  "What do you mean?" I exclaimed. "She told me it was."

  "I doubt that very much," sniffed Thomas.

  "She told me it"—I faltered for a moment, then continued—"wouldn't hurt a bit. And that it was appropriate for you to go that way. It was supposed to be your chocolate pot she was pouring it from, after all. And you yourself told me it would have been very unpleasan
t."

  "But it wasn't poison. It was a catalyst of Miranda's concoction. If I had drunk it, it would have acted upon that part of myself that the uneducated refer to as 'magical power' and released it from my keeping. An unscrupulous magician, and I assure you that Miranda is as unscrupulous as they come, could then use the magic for herself. The process is painful enough when it is done a little at a time. The catalyst releases it all at once—like draining a cistern of every drop of water. Or opening an artery. Very, very unpleasant."

  "Opening an artery—," I whispered, appalled. For a few moments, we sat in silence. Then I said, "Some splashed in Miranda's lap when I spilt it. It seemed to burn her."

  "It must have been very uncomfortable," he said. "The catalyst doesn't have quite such a drastic effect on contact, but it still works. Miranda hasn't been quite as powerful since that day as she was wont to be. She'll recover, though. And it certainly hasn't made her any less malicious in the meantime."

  I went on thinking for a moment, then said pensively, "I wonder why it burned my dress? There was a hole in the hem of my gown where it splashed me."

  "I doubt that it actually burned the fabric," Thomas replied. "But somewhere in the grass of that garden there are the threads from your gown that the catalyst soaked. After all, you can't bring anything back through a portal of that nature unless it was with you when you came. Which is why I wasn't tempted into the garden myself. Why try to retrieve a chocolate pot across the threshold of a door I couldn't take it through?"

  "Well, that was very thoughtless of Miranda," I said.

  "Very. But she was never good at theory, so perhaps she didn't realize. Not everyone would. But I worked on the equations with the owner, so I was bound to know." Thomas looked very smug.

  "I thought it was Miranda's garden," I said.

  "No, she borrowed it for the afternoon. It belongs to Sir Hilary, of course."

  "Of course," I said faintly. Really, it is very difficult for me to imagine Sir Hilary as a figure of Byzantine intrigue. What a good thing he has a more even temper than Miranda.

  You and I might have been turned into frogs anytime these past ten years.

  "I wonder what Sir Hilary thought of that little contretemps over the chocolate set," said Thomas lightly. "Doubtless he made short work of collecting the magic that got loose when Miranda was splashed with her own catalyst."

  The door of the box opened and Georgy returned with Aunt Charlotte in tow. They were both in high spirits, for Aunt Charlotte had just given Caro Lamb the cut direct and Georgy was pleasantly scandalized at the discovery that Aunt Charlotte was acquainted with the dashing poetess at all. As the orchestra struck up, both Aunt Charlotte and Georgy craned their necks to see if the eccentric nobleman Lord Byron had come to the opera in his tireless pursuit of the fickle Lady Caro.

  Thomas and I had no further opportunity for conversation until he had delivered us back at Berkeley Square. Georgy very kindly engaged Aunt Charlotte in a discussion concerning the next morning's church services, so I was left alone for a moment with Thomas.

  I'm not sure what form of leave-taking I expected from him, but I was surprised when he turned to me with a sigh of resignation and said, "Try to avoid Miranda, will you? I don't know when I'll have the leisure to follow you about collecting hairpins again."

  I must have let some of my disappointment show, for he paused for a moment to smooth back a lock of my hair that had escaped from its proper place to straggle down in front of my ear. "Save a waltz for me at the Grenvilles' ball next week," he said, and took his leave.

  Last night at Almack's, I looked for him in vain. Nothing of moment occurred all evening, save that I stepped on the hem of my new rose muslin gown and ripped out enough stitches to make the flounce sag, and Sally Jersey spoke to me while I was watching Georgy dance a quadrille with Michael Aubrey.

  "Thomas was very particular in his attentions to Dorothea Griscomb while you were ill," said Lady Jersey. At least, it took her a great deal longer to say what she actually said, but that was what she meant.

  "She is very lovely," I said.

  "And her Stepmama has undeniable flair," Lady Jersey agreed. "Miranda had a similar effect on young men when she made her debut. Really quite a sensation. I thought you should know, for often these things seem to run in families."

  I felt I must have misunderstood her. "But Miranda is Dorothea's Stepmama," I said.

  "Oh, not her family," Lady Jersey replied. "His."

  "Mr. Griscomb?" I asked, in a vain attempt to follow the thread of her conversation.

  "Who?" Lady Jersey asked. She gave a little impatient shake of her head. "Oh, I wish you would not confuse me so. I meant Thomas, of course."

  "Thomas Schofield?" I asked, determined to go cautiously.

  "Yes, yes! Thomas." She shook her head again. "Really, Miss Talgarth, you are betrothed to the man. I might expect you to have a little better recollection."

  I chose my words with painful care. "I beg your pardon, Lady Jersey. Were you going to tell me something regarding his family?"

  "I think you should be aware of it, yes. You knew he was the younger brother, did you not? Oh, yes, very much the younger. And his elder brother was even more sought after in his day than Thomas. Why, the caps that were set at Edward Schofield—he was far handsomer than his younger brother is, of course, and had twice the address. For, indeed, Thomas never can resist saying exactly what enters his head. Sometimes it is diverting, of course. In fact, it is always diverting to Thomas. But often very awkward for the rest of us. Edward was oblivious to all of them. Until Miranda Tanistry made her debut. Then he was still oblivious, but not to Miranda. Nor she to him, I assure you. For to be sure, she could see how soon she would be a marchioness once she married Edward. His father, the fourth Marquis, was still alive at that time, but Edward was still a most desirable parti. Indeed, highly desirable."

  I regarded Lady Jersey with wonder. "Thomas's elder brother was in love with Miranda Griscomb?" I asked.

  "Head over ears, my dear. Oh, yes, the Ton could speak of nothing else for days."

  "But she married Mr. Griscomb anyway," I marveled. "Why was that?"

  "Oh, that was much later," said Lady Jersey impatiently. "After Edward died. Why, she would hardly have settled for being mere Miranda Griscomb when she could have been a marchioness, would she?"

  I felt a curious lurch in my midsection. "He died? How?"

  "It was very tragic," said Lady Jersey, shaking her head. "Carried off by a wasting fever. The doctors were mystified. His father was terribly grieved, of course. They said afterward that the shock hastened him into his grave. The doctors, I mean."

  "And Thomas?"

  "Oh, Thomas was fighting in Spain. One would have expected him to sell out and come home at once, but he didn't. There's never any accounting for Thomas's behavior. It is as though he delights in puzzling us."

  "But Miranda would have married Edward Schofield if he had lived," I said. This report of our conversation makes me sound rather stupid, I'm afraid, but there is something about talking to Lady Jersey that makes me wish to repeat things to be sure I have got them right.

  "Very likely," said Lady Jersey, "though, of course, his brother was against it. Violently opposed to it, in fact."

  "Thomas?" I repeated. "I thought you said Thomas was in Spain?"

  "Well, he was, later. But he would hardly have left England while his brother was ill. Even Thomas is not that unaccountable."

  I would have liked to continue on this topic until I worked out the precise order in which things had occurred, but Lady Jersey was growing impatient with my obtuseness. With a final warning, which I took to mean that Thomas might display the same ardor to Dorothea that his brother had for Miranda, she left me to tell Lady Grenville how to conduct her ball on Saturday.

  I shall write again directly after I see Thomas, whether at the Grenvilles' ball or sooner still.

  Your, Kate

  13 June 1817

&n
bsp; Rushton Manor, Essex

  Dearest Kate,

  This week has been rather quiet, which makes a nice change from the stirring events of the past month. I had hoped to be able to tell you more about the Tanistry book (for I am sure it would tell us something to the purpose, if I could only get hold of it), but I am afraid I have been unable to hit on an acceptable reason to visit Bedrick Hall. I suppose I could call to see whether anyone has discovered my nonexistent fan, but I think this would be more likely to arouse Sir Hilary's suspicions than to soothe them. So, until I come up with a better plan, I am at a stand. I did, however, try a more roundabout approach to the question, with what success you shall judge for yourself.

  Yesterday afternoon, I came downstairs to find Mr. Wrexton in the sitting room, engaged in conversation with Aunt Elizabeth. He had obviously been there some time, and I was surprised he had not sent someone to tell me he had come, but perhaps he had noticed Aunt Elizabeth's misgivings about the frequency of his calls. In any case, she was quite in charity with him when I arrived, though she stiffened a little when she saw me. He invited both of us to drive out with him; Aunt Elizabeth was forced to decline, as she was expecting the Reverend Fitzwilliam and his wife to tea. I, of course, accepted, and when we were well away from the house, I complimented him on his stratagem. I assumed, you see, that he had expected Aunt Elizabeth to decline.

  "Not at all," he replied. "I would have been more pleased than you may realize to have your aunt accompany us."

  "Why is that, sir?" I said, feeling a little miffed.

  He turned toward me, his eyes twinkling. "Because it might have kept James Tarleton from glaring at me quite so fiercely next time I visit Tarleton Hall," he replied.

  "Mr. Tarleton has no business being annoyed with you because you are teaching me magic," I said indignantly. "It is nothing to do with him, after all!"

  "Oh, you think that is the reason?" Mr. Wrexton said. "Well, perhaps you are right. In any case, as your aunt is not here, have you any questions regarding what I have taught you so far? I am afraid I have not prepared anything new."