Instead of being humbled, Spinrod grinned. He let go of the cart’s poles and applauded. “Excellent, my lady. Perhaps you ought to go on stage yourself. That was a fine imitation of one of the Almack’s hostesses, telling some poor blighter that he could not enter their sacred portals without knee breeches.”
“How do you know about Almack’s and— No, you would only tell me another taradiddle. If you are to continue here, you need to understand that I will not suffer disrespect or disobedience. I have made allowances for your age, but I must demand the proper attitude, especially in front of my staff.”
He bowed. “Your servant, madam,” but the twinkle in his eye told her he did not really mean it. Before she could protest, or dismiss him, he said, “Forgive my presumption, my lady. But we have to establish defenses around your property as early as daylight permits. No one will be safe otherwise.”
“Rubbish. We have never had any crime in this area, no more than some boys stealing apples.”
“You have never had bogeymen at your borders, either.”
“But I did not hire you to protect me.”
“Nevertheless, my dear, that is my job.”
She could not toss him out with night quickly falling. She would have her butler do it in the morning, inform old Spinrod that his services would not be required, give him a coin, and send him on his way. Meanwhile she had merely to find him a cot somewhere and see that Cook fed him, and she’d be done with the attics-to-let actor.
Somehow, though, her butler, who had never before mistaken a peddler for a peer, accepted the presence of a sorcerer in their midst as if he were visiting royalty. He escorted Spinrod to one of the best guest chambers, ordered a hot bath for him, unearthed a cigar and a bottle of aged cognac, and even raided the attics for some of the late Mr. Mumphrey’s attire.
Without a by-your-leave, Laurel found herself sitting down to dinner…across from a cork-brained conjurer. He was washed and trimmed and garbed in almost fashionable, albeit ill-fitting, attire. He was quite attractive, Laurel thought, for an older man, of course.
“What?” she asked, laughing to cover her surprise at finding her newest employee at her table. “Did you cast a spell on the servants?”
“Only a small one. I told you, I try not to use magic when I do not have to.”
Laurel ate the rest of her meal in silence. She was not about to encourage the poor man in his madness. That handsome Cauthin was a scoundrel, that was all, and the others were oddities and eccentrics, nothing more. She should never have placed her address on that advertisement, Laurel admitted to herself, but word would quickly go out that she was no longer interested in hiring a magician for her Christmas Eve party.
She credited the day’s tumult to lack of sleep, the headache, excitement over the coming celebration, and a vivid imagination. Looking at the older man now, one could never suspect him of anything worse than falling on hard luck. His bearing was refined, his table manners excellent.
Not so her sister-in-law’s. Bettina arrived during the fish course, having heard from the servants that Laurel was entertaining that strange old man. Very strange indeed, Bettina declared Spinrod, as if he were not sitting right there. Bettina had arrived in the nick of time to protest, to protect her brother’s wife’s reputation…and to enjoy a free meal.
She went on and on, as course followed course, about people knowing their place, about the proper conduct of a lady toward her inferiors, about wasting money on charlatans and churls. She refused to acknowledge Spinrod, no matter how nicely dressed he was nor how politely he put up with her insults. Her husband and her brother might have been working men, in Trade, but they held respectable, profitable—until Captain White’s ship sank—positions. They were not itinerant tinkers!
Embarrassed, Laurel tried to stem the tide of Bettina’s tirade, to no avail. Spinrod kept eating, as if he had not had a decent meal in ages or as if he were deaf.
Then he winked at her and rubbed his chin. He jerked his head in Bettina’s direction and winked again.
Laurel looked, and saw a mole on her sister-in-law’s chin that she had never noticed before. As she watched, it grew bigger. Bettina put down her fork long enough to scratch her chin, then went back to her meal and her maligning of Laurel’s intelligence, upbringing, and intentions.
Laurel took a hasty swallow of her wine. Then she started choking when the mole on Bettina’s chin sprouted three long black hairs. The butler hurried to pound her back, and Spinrod asked if she were all right.
All right? Heaven help her, she might never be all right again. There really was magic in the world. More astounding, it was in her house!
*
She dreamed that night of ogres and elves and enchanted earls, which is to say she barely slept at all. Her maid awakened her at dawn “on Mr. Spinrod’s orders, ma’am.”
Who the devil did the man think he was, giving orders in her household? Laurel dressed and marched into the breakfast parlor ready for a fight. Spinrod and her bailiff were poring over maps—of her estate!
“Eat well, my lady,” he told her, “and quickly. We have a lot of ground to cover.”
“But I—”
Her bailiff spoke up: “Odd things are happening, ma’am. I don’t rightly know how those sheep got on top of Mrs. Gilding’s cottage, or who wove all that mistletoe you wanted into a huge nest on top of the tallest oak, or why three of Sam Hooper’s eggs hatched two-headed chicks, but it’s worried I am. Mr. Spinrod here says he can tend to matters, and I have to believe in something. He already filled in the moat.”
“What moat? We do not have any moat.”
“Not anymore, we don’t, thanks to Mr. Spinrod here. If he thinks you ought to go along instead of me, I’ll add my tuppence. Please go with him, ma’am.”
“Oh, very well. Have my carriage brought around as soon as I finish my coffee.” She had decided tea or chocolate were simply not fortifying enough for this morning’s work. “And have hot bricks placed by the feet, for there is frost out.”
“No, my lady, we will be walking.” Spinrod looked up from his—her—maps. “I have asked your maid to bring your heaviest wrap and your stoutest boots.”
He was already dressed in his own old cape, now darned and brushed clean of the road dust.
“You might be used to traipsing the countryside, Mr. Spinrod, but I assure you, we shall cover a great deal more territory, faster and far more comfortably, in the carriage.”
“That may well be, but horses do not like me. Besides, our feet need to be on the ground we would protect in order for the charms to work.”
“You go on, then, and sprinkle your garlic and silver crosses. I shall follow in the coach.”
He shook his white-maned head. “Those are for vampires. But you are the keeper of this land that is rife with potential. You have to be the one to say the words.”
“Gammon. My husband would not have bought an estate that was encumbered with enchantments and such.”
“Mumphrey? He would not have recognized magic if a flying pig bit him on the nose. You do. You are starting to, at any rate. Furthermore, you are the one who most needs protection. It is you they seek.”
“Me?” Laurel was dismayed at the squeak she heard in her own voice. “But I am nothing out of the ordinary. There are far wealthier widows, with better connections.”
“You are this marked land’s keeper,” he repeated. “And your blood shows promise of breeding back to that grandmother with the old arts. You are the prize, but your tenants and servants will be pawns in the game they play.”
“Game?” she whispered.
“It is all a game to them, the competition for more power, more slaves, more territory under their sway.”
Before she had time to think—or panic—Laurel found herself wrapped in her cloak and sent out the door. She had a wool scarf around her throat, wool stockings and extra petticoats under her skirts, and a fur muff for her gloved hands.
Spinrod wore neither ha
t nor gloves. He did not slow his speed for her shorter legs, either. If an old man could set such a pace, she decided, then she could jolly well keep up, even if it killed her.
Every so often he would stop and bend a twig, or leave a feather, or sprinkle on the ground a bit of something he took out of his pockets. He spoke words she could not understand, and then had her speak.
“What am I to say?”
“You must merely declare that you will not accept anyone’s bargain, that you refuse their gifts.”
“What gifts?”
He pointed to a cherry tree she had not noticed. The tree was in blossom…in December.
“The fruit will be tainted, subverting the eater’s will. And see here, this pool?”
Laurel could not recall a pond here, but the vista was lovely enough for an artist’s brush. The clear water was reflecting the December sunlight and the last of the autumn foliage. “How pretty!”
“How deadly. One drink of the water would make you slave to the pool’s creator for the rest of your life. That stand of wild roses? A prick of a thorn unites your blood with its maker. That new well beside the gatehouse? A water-dowser lurks in its depths, ready to snatch the soul of anyone leaning over. Those are the gifts hunting wizards bring to bait their traps.”
Laurel licked her suddenly dry lips. “What am I supposed to say again?”
“‘I decline’ ought to do the job.”
It had not worked with the vicar, but Laurel decided to humor her odd companion and the prickle down her spine. She declined from one end of her estate to the other, through fields and woods, across streams and over rock walls. Surely the old man would tire soon, she thought, desperate for a hot drink, a warm fire, a stool for her aching feet, and an end to this accursed magic.
Besides, her nose was running. What kind of heroine had a dripping nose?
Chapter Six
Spinrod was striding as fast at midday as he had in the morning.
To slow him down and give herself a rest, Laurel tried to engage him in conversation. Perhaps interrupting a wizard mid-spell was not the best course, but how was she to know? Laurel was as confused as the spotted frog that kept croaking “Miss me, miss me” before Spinrod sent it back to whatever realm the addlepated amphibian ruled.
Spinrod spoke intelligently—if one ignored the occasional intonation and incomprehensible chant. He obviously had a gentleman’s education, and, unlike any gentleman she had ever met, seemed interested in her opinions too. He was widely read and widely traveled, far more than she on both scores, yet he did not speak of himself or his origins. Nor did he stop their mad dash from pigsty to fence post to pianoforte.
What the deuce was a pianoforte doing in the cow pasture?
While he dealt with the aberration, Laurel leaned against a tree trunk, wishing she had a pot of hot tea, a smaller estate, and an extra handkerchief. As soon as he was done with the ill-gotten instrument, he handed her his, a once fine linen square, somewhat frayed at the turned hems, embroidered in one corner with an S and an R. He did not offer an explanation, and she did not think she could pry.
Spinrod consulted the map, plotting their next course. Laurel blew her nose, and then had a dreadful thought.
“You are not ensorcelling me, are you? I mean, what other reason could there be for me to be alone with a stranger, out in the empty fields, in freezing weather? I must not be in my right mind to have accompanied you at all.”
He looked up from the map and smiled at her. Suddenly Laurel was not half as cold. In fact, she felt quite warm now, under his seemingly fond regard. She even forgot for a moment that he was old enough to be her grandfather. “There, you see? You must be casting spells on me, too.”
“No, that would not be allowed. I have to win your kiss fairly, without paying for it or coercing it by force or by manipulation.”
Laurel ignored that bit about the kiss. “Could you, if you wished?”
“What, seduce a woman with glamour? I would not.” He appeared affronted, muttering that he had never needed to resort to subterfuge or spells, not when he was a carefree youth, and not now, when he was a wizard. He marched off, leaving her to follow or not.
“Yet you are using magic here,” she called out to his back, hurrying to catch up. The pianoforte had disappeared, leaving nothing but a tinkling chord behind in the chill air. “I thought you said you would not use sorcery,” she said as he followed the owl’s flight to the next suspicious spot on her property’s perimeter, “because it drained one’s humanity.”
He slowed down a little so she could walk beside him. “These are minor spells, for defense, not attack. Besides, I would have to use a great deal more sorcery if any of the others truly gained a foothold here, fending them off. More magic than I possess, possibly. One has to weigh the risks. I chose to ward off the danger rather than confront it later.” His head was cocked, listening for the owl’s call. “If I lose, I lose my humanity. You and your people could lose your lives and your wills.”
“But why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why are you taking such a chance? You say you do not want money.”
“Money puts food in your belly; it does not feed your soul. But what good is being a man—or a magician—if I cannot save the woman who can save me?”
She was supposed to save him? That was the first she had heard of it. All she had been doing was declining December-blooming daffodils and sugar-coated caterpillars. “What am I supposed to rescue you from, and how do you expect me to go about it? I know nothing of your spells and potions.”
“Later. You will know the way later. I am wagering my future on it.”
“On me?” Laurel had never been responsible for another person her entire life until Mr. Mumphrey died. Then she had solicitors and bailiffs to help her manage the staff and tenants of the Hall. Now this odd person was counting on her, if she believed a word he spoke.
“Of course you. That is why I came. I trust your wisdom and your goodness of heart to know what to do.” She knew nothing but cold, sore feet. “Bah! Conundrums on top of confusion. I wish I had never thought to have a party, much less a magic show. Perhaps the vicar was right after all and such a thing is indeed doomed to failure because it offends the heavens.”
“How could a Christmas party be offensive?”
“Because it is frivolous, Mr. Chalfont says. And because he believes magic to be sacrilegious, not in keeping with the spirit of the Holy Child’s birth.”
“What is more magical than that? Magic or miracle, who is to say? One’s vision of the supernatural dictates one’s choice of words.”
“Now that is heretical. Do not let Mr. Chalfont hear you say that or you shall be the subject of Sunday’s sermon.”
He shrugged. “I shall not be in church to hear it.”
“You do not believe, then?”
“It is hard to believe when one’s prayers are not answered.”
“But that is what faith is, of course.”
“For now, I have faith in you. Come, we must complete our circle before darkness falls.”
By hurrying her along, Spinrod made sure they did. In fact, they returned to their starting point at Mumphrey Hall’s front door late in the afternoon, hungry, tired, and cold At least Laurel was worn out. Spinrod seemed as spry as ever.
The man must thrive on thin air, Laurel thought bitterly, for the loaf of bread and wedge of cheese they had eaten at one of her tenants’ kitchens had not sustained her for an hour. Her nose was still dripping, her stomach was rumbling, and her feet had blisters. At least she thought they did. Her toes were so cold she could barely feel them.
As Spinrod helped her up the last few steps, he said, “I know you are weary and irritable, but it was worth it. I do not think we missed any evil incursions.”
They had. Three suitors were waiting in Laurel’s parlor. They refused to leave, her butler reported, until they had seen her for themselves. They had heard of dire happenings at Mumphrey Hall and demanded to wait unti
l Lady Laurel was home, safe and sound. Otherwise they were prepared to ride hell for leather across the country to rescue her. That is, the hunting-mad Sir Percival Cotter was ready to ride. So was Major Gilmartin, despite his missing limb. Mr. Boone of Boone’s Bank was ready to call out the militia.
Laurel knew all of the gentlemen, by sight, at least. They were no wizards, thank goodness. They were not much as prospective husbands, either. Sir Percival was a penniless rake, toadying up to a wealthy aunt in the neighborhood, Major Gilmartin was a penniless recluse, usually inebriated, and Mr. Boone was a bore, with a penchant for boys, although no one spoke of it in the town.
They brought her gifts: flowers, a book, a picture. Unfortunately, the flowers were her own, from her forcing houses; she had been saving them for the party. More unfortunately, Major Gilmartin’s book was his own, recounting his war years and injuries. Mr. Boone’s print was of his bank.
Laurel declined all the gifts. Her tongue could have spoken the words without her brain behind it by now. She rejected the flowers on grounds of a sudden sensitivity to pollen, proved by her reddened nose. She gave the book back to Major Gilmartin, saying her sensibilities were too tender. She refused the bank’s portrait because she already had one, Mr. Boone’s gesture of condolence after her husband’s passing. It was lining her glove drawer.
Still the three men sat on, sipping tea and exchanging sneers and barbs. No one wanted to be the first to go, leaving the field to the others. They all wished to reserve dances with her at the party, except for Major Gilmartin, naturally, who asked to sit out a set of dances with her. She declined all three again, saying that, as hostess, she would not be dancing much.
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