01 Sorcery and Cecelia

by Patricia C. Wrede

  "He was perfectly honest with me," I said at last. "He said I was the only young lady he could ask who would not misunderstand him. There is something about Dorothea, you see, that no man can resist. And he wasn't certain he could resist either, until he saw her. He didn't like to take the risk."

  Lady Sylvia was silent so long I looked up from my teacup. She was no longer gazing at me. She was staring at the teapot with an air of faint disgust. "So you were the only young lady in the Ton who would not misunderstand him," she said. There was a twist in the corner of her mouth that boded ill for someone.

  "He said I could jilt him whenever I please," I continued. "I have given it a great deal of thought. I think perhaps the ball at Carlton House would be best. But perhaps you would prefer something more discreet."

  "That is entirely your affair," replied Lady Sylvia. Her voice was still remote but much of the chill had gone out of it. "In the meantime, we must do the thing properly. There is a set of rubies that Thomas ought to present to you—"

  I made an inarticulate noise of protest.

  "—and I'm afraid I've been dreadfully selfish with the Schofield pearls. There is also a sapphire necklace, which won't do for your coloring, of course, but will come to you all the same, and a brooch with a really splendid intaglio."

  "Lady Sylvia, I could not—truly—"

  "There will be more tedious things to see to in the way of settlements and so on, but I won't bore you with all that now," said Lady Sylvia. "No, don't argue, child. We'll have the solicitors see to everything. After all, you don't want to betray Thomas's useless, stupid little charade now, do you? People will talk if you don't do the thing properly. And those rubies will be really stunning with your complexion."

  "No, Lady Sylvia," I said. "No."

  Lady Sylvia gave me another long, measuring look. The ill-natured twist of her lips smoothed itself away as she smiled at me. "No?" she asked. "Well, perhaps not just yet. Will you take more tea, Kate?"

  To my relief, she let the subject drop and did not refer to it again. We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking tea and discussing Thomas's youthful misadventures. Apparently Oliver was not the only child to have the firm conviction he could fly from the peak of the stable roof. Thomas did something very similar, only instead of breaking his arm, he broke his leg. I ought to write these things down so that if you and I ever have children, we will know at about what age these notions arise.

  On Thursday, Dorothea came to tea in Berkeley Square. Robert was already here when she arrived and he stared at her, quite speechless with happiness, all the time Aunt Charlotte was pouring out for Dorothea.

  "Will you have a cream bun?" I asked Robert, in an effort to distract him from Dorothea.

  Robert merely shook his head and went on stirring his tea absently. Dorothea drank an entire cup of tea before she overcame her bashfulness sufficiently to look up at him, and when she did, he lost his grip on his spoon altogether. It flew in a sharp little arc over the tea table and landed on the carpet at Georgy's feet.

  "Oh, I beg your pardon," said Robert, flushing scarlet. "Let me get it."

  He rose and circled the table the long way around. As he walked behind Dorothea he made a sudden attack on the plate of cream buns and under cover of this distraction dropped a folded scrap of paper into Dorothea's lap. Aunt Charlotte would certainly have discovered this piece of amateur subterfuge if I hadn't had the presence of mind to upset the sugar bowl into the slops dish. To my disappointment, Dorothea was not goose enough to open the paper and read it there and then. She slid it into her glove while Aunt Charlotte was addressing me and ringing for more sugar, and was able to put her gloves on with perfect composure when it was time to take her leave.

  On the whole, I would say romance becomes Robert Penwood. He does not talk nearly so much as was his habit, and he ate scarcely anything, not even his cream bun.

  It is a pity that I cannot give them another opportunity to meet, but since Thomas warned me of Miranda's intentions toward me, I have been avoiding her to the best of my ability. Unfortunately, this means I must also avoid Dorothea, except in those rare cases, as at tea, when she can escape Miranda's company. Georgina teases me about it, telling me that this betrays my jealousy of the attention Thomas paid Dorothea while I was ill. But Georgy is usually teasing me about something. It is almost pleasant to have her roast me about something that I know isn't true for a change. Much better than her usual instinct—she has only just stopped making references to gilding my toenails. This has been doubly annoying as the whole idea was Georgy's to begin with. If she keeps on with her arch remarks on the topic, Aunt Charlotte is sure to find out after all, and it will be me that she makes sorry. An awful thought just struck me. Aunt Charlotte will certainly blame me for Georgy's gaming—but do you suppose she would be right in doing so? Am I to blame?

  Love, Kate

  9 July 1817

  Rushton Manor, Essex

  Dearest Kate,

  Of course you are not to blame for Georgy's gaming. If anyone is to blame (besides Georgy), it is Aunt Charlotte, for (as she has pointed out to everyone so often) she is Responsible For You Both. However, I doubt that she will see it this way. She probably will claim it is your fault, for she always does. I cannot imagine why she is so unjust. Nobody can do anything with Georgy when she takes a notion into her head, and she never listens to your advice any more than Oliver listens to me. It is a great pity you cannot tell Aunt Charlotte so to her face, and so bring her to a sense of her obligations, but it would never work. If you tried, she would probably lock you in your room for the next twenty years, and Miranda would make away with Thomas in the meantime.

  I am glad to hear that Robert has reached London, and gladder to know that Miranda has not yet arranged to have him set upon by footpads or poisoned with chocolate or thrown by his horse (though the way Robert rides, I do not think I could set such an accident down to Miranda's account with any great degree of certainty, however much I might like to). I do hope Robert will do something useful, now that he is there. Staring happily at Dorothea over the tea table may be very enjoyable for them both, but I cannot see that it accomplishes anything. I suppose I must pin my hopes on the note he passed her, though it is probably only bad verse to her eyebrows. (And I cannot commend too highly your presence of mind in distracting Aunt Charlotte. Had she noticed what Robert was doing, she would certainly have considered it her duty to inform Miranda, and you know what that must have led to.)

  I must confess that I cannot completely make sense of Lady Sylvia's remarks to you regarding your betrothal to Thomas. However, she seems to have accepted the current state of affairs, which must make things far more comfortable for you. You must have found it excessively awkward, dealing with Lady Sylvia these past two weeks and knowing that she believed you to be really engaged to her son. I do think it rather unkind of her to refer to it as "Thomas's useless, stupid little charade," but no doubt she was slightly overset on first hearing the truth. And she is quite right; rubies would be perfectly stunning on you.

  I have spent much of this week at Mrs. Hobart's, having fittings on the gown she made for me from the amber taffeta you sent. Mrs. Hobart is nothing if not painstaking, and I cannot justly say, therefore, that the major part of my week has been lively.

  Monday morning I went out for my ride as usual. I did not expect to see James Tarleton, though out of habit I rode toward the wood where we had agreed to meet. He had not been waiting for me since that dreadful tea the week before, when he seemed so upset at my having broken Thomas's chocolate pot. I considered this most unfair, as it meant that I had still not been able to tell him why I had done it or that subsequent events had justified my actions (i.e., Thomas had begun to recover). So it was with mixed feelings that I saw James Tarleton's bay coming toward me through the trees.

  He was looking very stern and solemn, but not, I thought, actually furious. Considering that he had had all of a week in which to let his temper subside, this was
not notably encouraging. However, it was at least an opportunity to provide him with my explanation and news, which I felt honor-bound to do in spite of his attitude.

  "Good morning, Miss Rushton," he said coldly as he came up with me.

  "And to you, Mr. Tarleton," I said in similar tones. I could not but feel that this was an inauspicious beginning, so I added more warmly, "I suppose you have come at last to hear the rest of my news of Thomas?"

  "No, Miss Rushton, I have come to ask you to stop your well-intentioned interfering in Thomas's affairs. There is no further need for it."

  I gaped at him, amazement warring with indignation. Indignation won out very quickly. "If I had not broken that chocolate pot, Thomas would probably be dead by now," I said in as cold and stiff a tone as ever Aunt Elizabeth managed. "It was necessary, Mr. Tarleton, and if you do not see that, you are as feather-headed as—as my brother, Oliver. Furthermore, I will have you know that I have no particular interest in the affairs of the Marquis of Schofield. My cousin Kate's affairs are, however, another matter, and I hope I shall always be willing to lend her my assistance when she is in need of it."

  Mr. Tarleton's eyes narrowed. "Then it is to oblige your cousin that you are attending Sir Hilary Bedrick's dance on Saturday?"

  "Is that what you're cutting up stiff about?" I said. "I was sure you were still annoyed about Thomas's chocolate pot."

  "Damn Thomas's chocolate pot!" James said. "Can you think of nothing else?"

  "Mr. Tarleton!" I said, more surprised by his vehemence than shocked by his language. "Have you and Thomas had a falling-out?"

  "You might say that," he replied. "But you are not going to divert my attention this time, Miss Rushton. Are you going to Sir Hilary's party?"

  "Yes. Aunt Elizabeth has accepted on behalf of all of us," I said.

  "And I suppose you had no hand in that?" he said skeptically. "No plans to slip into Sir Hilary's library during the party? No intention of poking around the house to see what you can discover?"

  "None whatever," I assured him. "Now that the chocolate pot is disposed of, there seems not the slightest need for such stratagems."

  "I am glad to hear you say so," he said in a dry tone.

  "Well, it is obvious," I said. "Without the chocolate pot, Sir Hilary cannot do much to Thomas without returning to London. He cannot do that before the party, so Thomas will have plenty of time to recover from any lingering ill effects. And as long as neither of us does anything to annoy Sir Hilary, he can have no reason to put spells on us to keep us out of his way."

  "So you do suspect that Sir Hilary was behind that convenient illness of yours," he said, and his tone was not so hard as before.

  "Well, of course," I said reasonably. "And I will take the greatest care not to irritate him again, you may be sure."

  He laughed suddenly, but there seemed very little humor in it. "The only thing I'm sure of is that taking great care is not something you're particularly good at," he said. "I suppose I'll have to come to Bedrick Hall and keep an eye on you."

  I frowned. "Is that wise? I shall be quite all right because I will stay with Aunt Elizabeth all evening, but if Sir Hilary suspects you of spying on him, you won't be safe."

  He looked at me with a twisted little smile. "Don't worry about me, Miss Rushton. The only danger I'm likely to be in comes from quite another quarter."

  "Miranda? But she's in London—" Then I remembered the garden you stumbled into at Sir Hilary's investiture, and Thomas's remarks about a portal. "Oh, dear, I hadn't thought of that at all," I said.

  "Not Miranda," he said. For a moment he seemed about to explain further; then he shook his head. "I seem to have spent our last few conversations ripping up at you, Miss Rushton," he said after a moment. "I beg your pardon for it."

  "It is quite all right," I said. "For I know how worried you must have been about Thomas, and being worried always seems to make people cross." His expression seemed to be darkening again, so I hurried on, "Kate's news of Thomas has been very good; if you would not mind riding a little way back with me, I can tell you of it."

  "Of course," he said with a sigh, and nudged his horse to walk. "Tell me about Thomas."

  I gave him a complete description of what you had told me in your last letter but one. I was forced to confess that you had not actually seen Thomas this past week, but I was careful to point out that Lady Sylvia did not seem the sort of person to allow him to be out disposing of Frederick Hollydean if he were not entirely recovered from Sir Hilary's machinations. Mr. Tarleton made no objection to this; in fact, he seemed somewhat preoccupied. I enjoyed our ride nonetheless. I was even rather sorry when we reached the hill near the house, and James took his leave.

  I did not have time to fall into a groundless fit of the mopes, for Aunt Elizabeth pounced on me directly I came in, and we went out to collect my dress from Mrs. Hobart. Then Mr. Wrexton came in the afternoon to resume my magic lessons (and I must say, Kate, it is far easier to apply oneself to such things indoors instead of perched in a carriage with a groom riding ahead).

  Mr. Wrexton says that the spell that made me feel so tired has faded, and has not been renewed. He seems inclined to think that it was simply in the nature of a warning, but he recommended that I continue to wear the locket, just in case. I had already formed that intention, but I thanked him gravely for the advice.

  Sir Hilary has sent Aunt Elizabeth a note acknowledging the apology she sent him and particularly requesting our presence at his party. This may be only because he wishes to stop the rumors that resulted from the tales Mrs. Everslee has been telling of Aunt Elizabeth's behavior that day I broke the chocolate pot. On the other hand, he made a point of saying that if Oliver came home unexpectedly, we were not to stand on ceremony but to bring him along.

  It occurs to me that the last few times we have seen him, Sir Hilary has made a great point of inquiring about Oliver. That strikes me as sinister, for you know he has never before shown a particular interest in any of us. It bothers me even more that I cannot imagine why Sir Hilary should be concerned with Oliver. If he were inquiring about you, I could understand it (since you are engaged to Thomas). But what can he want with Oliver? I find that I am very glad your odious Marquis has Oliver safely hidden away somewhere.

  Your puzzled cousin, Cecy

  11 July 1817

  11 Berkeley Square, London

  Dear Cecy,

  Forgive me for this letter. I shall give you all the news, I promise, but I must be merciless and tell it all in order or my head will start to spin and I'm sure to leave things out. I'm sure to leave things out anyway, but this is the only way I can make sense of it for you at all. You would not have me be like Lady Jersey and tell the story hopscotch fashion, would you?

  On Friday, Lady Sylvia and Thomas came to supper before we were to depart for Carlton House. Just as we were going in to dine, a message arrived from Dorothea. She said that Miranda was indisposed. Unless she could find a proper chaperone she would be unable to attend the ball, and would Aunt Charlotte be able to oblige? After much coaxing from Georgy, Aunt Charlotte agreed we would call at Miranda's on the way to Carlton House and collect Dorothea. (Doubtless the importance of the party counted for something with Aunt Charlotte.) I was surprised at Dorothea's willingness to be leered at by the Duke of Hexham, but suspected she might have learned that Robert Penwood would be there. Lady Sylvia and Thomas exchanged dark looks over the news that Miranda was not planning to attend the Prince's ball after all. As soon as the meal was over, Thomas took his leave, with the unstated intention of investigating Miranda's sudden change of plan. It developed that with Dorothea along there would be no space in the carriage for me, so I was able to accept Lady Sylvia's offer of a place in her coach, instead. The others departed and we waited in the blue saloon for word that Lady Sylvia's coach was ready.

  From the instant the others left, my heart began to lift. It was true that Thomas and I were not really engaged. It was understandable that he ha
d abandoned the ball to hunt Miranda. But it was also true that on the strength of my sham betrothal, I had been allowed a silk dress—far grander than anything I've ever had—the color of a ripe peach: rich gold with shifting highlights of deep rose. And it was also understandable that I felt my spirits rise when I was alone with Lady Sylvia, whose opinion of me, even when she is frowning at my coiffure, is so much easier to bear than Aunt Charlotte's.

  "I can't understand how you produce that effect," she said, squinting at my hair critically, "but I wish you would not, my dear. Do you have a comb?"

  I did, of course (and a clean handkerchief), but to get at it I had to turn out my reticule on the side table. Among the hairpins and other small debris I carry, she spied the pair of charm-bags you made for me. I returned my own to my reticule when I bundled up my things again, but she took the one containing Thomas's handkerchief and turned it over and over in her hands with a pensive expression.

  "So you carry this with you," Lady Sylvia said.

  I explained what you told me about the bloodstains.

  "They turned violet?" repeated Lady Sylvia. She regarded the charm-bag in thoughtful silence for a moment, then nodded. "You are wise to guard it well. The handkerchief links you with Thomas, did you realize? Oh, yes. And such a link may not always be to your benefit. Remember the headache he gave you at Countess Lieven's? You had a charm-bag and it ought to have protected you from such slight magic as that. Of course, charm-bags can't protect you from everything. They work best when their existence goes undetected, or when a spell has been cast and left to do its work unattended. If Miranda were to try to enchant you this evening, for example, it would be very little use against her, save perhaps to delay the spell's effects a trifle. Of course, it would be the worst of bad taste for Miranda to employ magic at Carlton House. The magical precautions cast over that place are very precise; it would be rank folly to interfere with them. And after all, whatever his personal habits, the Prince is still our heir to the throne. Still, you must remember that since you and Thomas are both in this charm-bag, you are linked. It is a small thing, but sometimes small things can cause more misery than you might expect. These magical bonds can sometimes prove painful."