Laurel was worried that he looked tired, too, so she declared an early celebration in the kitchens, with ale and cake for everyone.
When the others had gone, he remained in place, not speaking, hardly looking at her at all. She embraced him anyway. “You are a good man, Mr. Spinrod. And a good friend.”
The owl opened its eyes.
“I would like you to stay here forever.”
Merlin fluttered his wings.
Spinrod’s voice was raspy and low. “Do you know, lady, how easy it would be for me to accept? To stay, to bind you to me? To ensnare you, yes, and all of your people who are so eager to shake my hand. Do you understand that now, because of who I am and what I did, I could cast a spell over all of you, stealing your wills? You would be mine, forever, to do my bidding, be it for good or ill. Your lives would not matter to me, only my own. I could be master, with a snap of my fingers.” He held up his hand, as if he were going to do it, click his fingers together.
Laurel took his hand in hers. “But you won’t.”
“How do you know? I am hungry for the knowledge that lies here in this place, starving for the power dominion over it and your friends will bring. You especially. I want to own you, Lady Laurel, body and soul, so no other man can ever look at you, so I can make you adore me and serve me and restore my youth, against your will or not.”
“I have only to say ‘I decline.’ You taught me that.”
“But I could teach you glories, show you hints of a paradise you cannot imagine so you will not want to decline.”
“But you won’t,” she said, still holding his hand. “You will not do any of those things.”
Merlin stretched out a taloned leg.
“You cannot know. You cannot comprehend the yearning for power, like a landed fish strains toward the water. Run, my girl, run while you can.”
“I will not, sir. I could never run from you. Your wiles could catch me if you wished, anyway. But you would never hurt me, or anyone. You are not that kind of man.”
“I am hardly a man any longer.”
“You are a man! A fine, caring, wise man. The best man ever put on this earth, for whatever reasons and with whatever skills. You are a man!”
The owl flew to his shoulder.
“And you will trust me to entertain your guests without ensorcelling them?”
“I would trust you with my life. I think I have, bringing you into my home. You say words I cannot decipher, and I believe them. I believe you, and I believe in your goodness. Stay, Spinrod, stay and help us rejoice at the gift of Hubie’s return and at the Holy Child’s birth.”
“And your birthday, my lady.”
“Help make it a happy one, please. Say you will stay.”
The owl bit his ear.
“Ow. If we are staying, you better feed us, so we might practice our performance. I think you mentioned cake and ale?”
*
Laurel’s party was the finest, most lavish, most enjoyable assembly in anyone’s memory. Lanterns lighted the entire carriageway, welcoming those who drove in wagons and carts and fine carriages, as well as those who walked from the village at dusk. All the children were presented with whistles and gingerbread men. The men were given sprigs of holly and berries to pin to their lapels, and each woman received a silk rose, tied in silver ribbon.
Food and drink were everywhere, with music for dancing and music for listening and Christmas music to sing along with. Laughter filled the ballroom and the barn, with groups of friends and neighbors going between the two locations, men of the land greeting lords and ladies, shepherdesses dancing with sirs, a viscount’s children playing snap-dragon with the vintner’s.
Some of the titled guests found it a novel experience, delightfully different and in keeping with the season, where the Three Kings visited the humble manger. Such blending of the classes need not be repeated, of course, but for one night they could all celebrate together.
The circus folk mingled with the partygoers, juggling, tumbling, walking on ropes tied between rafters in the barn. Two men walked on stilts, and an old woman told fortunes in the orangery. There were waltzes and jigs, country dances and minuets, children’s games in the morning room, card tables in the library, charades in the drawing room. Wassail bowls were kept filled, as were the tables of shaved ham, lobster patties, stuffed geese, and Christmas puddings.
What the wine and the music did not make merry, the mistletoe did. Kissing boughs hung from every doorway, it seemed, far more than Laurel had planned. Giggles and good cheer rang from almost every inch of Mumphrey Hall and its surrounding buildings. Truly, this was the best party the neighborhood had ever known, and Laurel was overwhelmed with praise and felicitations and so many offers of friendship that tears of joy filled her eyes. This night was everything she had wanted…almost.
At nine o’clock, she had the servants announce that the children would perform the Nativity in Mumphrey Hall’s chapel, renovated for the occasion. More people than could fit walked to the stone building, but no one minded standing outside, watching the Sunday school students reenact the Christmas story. The Star of Bethlehem fell off the ladder, and two shepherds fought over who held the lamb. Melchior forgot his lines, and Mary was too frightened to say hers above a whisper.
In other words, it was beautiful. Laurel was not the only one who needed a handkerchief. Even the vicar nodded his approval.
Then Laurel invited all who wished to return to the barn for a magic show.
Some eyebrows were raised, and some of the villagers carried their sleeping children home. A few of the gentlemen chose another round of cards instead, and a handful of dowagers chose a nice round of gossip in the drawing room. They had had enough of egalitarian entertainment, amateur acting, and plebeian performances.
The remaining children were awed. The adults were amazed—and Spinrod had simply stepped onto the makeshift stage. He wore a red velvet robe with trailing sleeves and white fur trim, with a white feather in his scarlet cap. His snowy hair and beard flowed loose, and a small white owl sat on his shoulder. He was a figure from a fairy tale, a mystical being, a living legend.
Laurel could not have been prouder than if she had produced him out of thin air herself. Then he began with simple tricks, ones any fairground magician could perform. He pulled coins out of the air and flowers out of his silver wand. He made a white rabbit appear in an empty sack, then he made six eggs disappear into the same empty sack.
That was what Laurel had wanted for her guests, especially the children: the enchantment of the unknowable.
One guest was not enchanted whatsoever. The Reverend Mr. Chalfont stood at the foot of the stage, making certain, he swore, that nothing blasphemous was done. Now he said, “Bah! This is sleight of hand and trickery. Keep an eye on your watches, gentlemen, and your jewelry, ladies.” He looked at Laurel, standing at one side of the stage. “Your magician is nothing but a Captain Sharp. I warned you how it would be.”
Laurel was ready to order him from her property, but Spinrod laughed and said he was simply getting started. He made a halo of smoke appear over the vicar’s head, then turn into horns. The watchers laughed uproariously, more so at Chalfont’s confusion when he could not see what was above his eyes.
Spinrod turned away from the vicar, as if he were too minor an annoyance to be given heed. He motioned for Laurel to come forth and began to pull silk scarves from her hair, her sleeves, her neckline, and her hem. He handed all the silk squares to little Hubie Eckles, who was at least an inch taller than he had been yesterday, all puffed up with pride. When he was done gathering the silks, Spinrod waved his wand over them—and they changed into white doves that flew over Laurel’s head in another, swirling halo.
The applause was thunderous. It was so loud, no one noticed the vicar creep out of the barn, or Bettina, Mrs. White, follow him, a determinedly matrimonial gleam in her eye. Ah, there was magic in the air. And mistletoe.
Spinrod went on to make a dragon out of s
moke, a phoenix out of fire, a maiden out of water. He plucked the silk rose from Laurel’s hair and made it multiply until he held a whole bouquet—of real flowers, the scent filling the barn instead of the smell of hay and manure and all the human bodies pressed close to the stage to see better. He presented the bouquet to Laurel with a flourish and wished her a happy birthday, which was loudly seconded by every person there. Then he wished the audience a joyous holiday, bowed, and started to step down from the makeshift stage.
Marveling at her bouquet, Laurel could only smile.
The crowd cheered wildly, stamping their feet, calling for an encore.
“More, more! Give us one more trick!”
Spinrod raised one eyebrow at Laurel, who shrugged. “If you are not too tired. Or think it might be dangerous.”
He thought a minute, then held up his hand. There was instant silence. “I cannot perform more tricks for you, forgive these old bones, but I can offer a different kind of entertainment. What say you to a tale of magic and marvel, spells and sorcery?”
“Aye! We say aye! Let’s hear it, Master Spinrod.” Someone carried two chairs up to the stage, one for Spinrod, one for their hostess. Spinrod sat, but he held onto Laurel’s hand. He paused for effect, and then began: “Once upon a time…”
Chapter Nine
“All good fairy tales begin that way, you know,” he said. Everyone nodded. The haberdasher’s daughter sighed.
“Yes, well, once upon a time there was a foolish youth.”
“What one isn’t?” a woman called from the side.
Spinrod smiled. “But this one was more foolish than most. The son of an earl, he had every boon and blessing known to man. He had an honorable name and a respectable fortune, a loving family and a fine education. The young men considered him a good sport, and the young ladies considered him handsome.”
“Where is this paragon?” one of the Londoners shouted. “I have three daughters.”
“Ah,” Spinrod went on over the laughter. “But I said he was foolish. And he was the earl’s third son. The eldest son was a fine young man, taking his responsibilities to heart. The second went for a soldier, making his mother weep but his father proud. The third son, Spencer, was meant for the clergy.”
The lord with three daughters clucked his tongue. “More’s the pity to waste such a promising parti.”
“Young Spencer thought so too. He argued with his father and went off to London, to learn more of the world.”
“I’d wager he learned more’n our good vicar knows from all his books!”
Spinrod nodded. “He learned to gamble and wench and drink and outspend his allowance. His family was furious. His father decided to cut off his allowance until young Spencer came to his senses, came home, and took up the profession chosen for him.”
“Hear, hear. That’s what you have to do with headstrong boys,” shouted someone who had never tried to raise one.
Spinrod held up his hand again before a disagreement arose in the audience. “Spencer did not go home. He wanted to prove to his father that he could manage on his own, in his own manner. He sold his horse, his watch, and his fine clothes, and tried making his living with the pasteboards, but he had no head for numbers. He left London and worked as secretary, tutor, and newspaper reporter. He even took a position as barkeep at an inn. When he was at the inn, an itinerant magician came by to hang broadsides for his show. Spencer went to the performance and was fascinated. The magician sawed his own wife in two!”
“Go on with you. He never did!”
“I swear to you, he did. And yet she was whole after the performance. Now here was something Spencer thought he would enjoy doing, traveling the countryside, entertaining the folks.”
“But he were a swell, not a common actor!” someone protested.
“Oh, he did not intend to be a common conjurer—he intended to be the best ever. To that end, he apprenticed himself to the traveling magician. He rode along with the man, Abamista, he called himself, and his wife, Clorisande, who read fortunes in the tea leaves. In return for caring for the horses, hanging the playbills, and collecting the fees, Spencer learned the secrets of Abamista’s act. To his sorrow, he also learned that Abamista was not what he appeared.”
“Stole the lad’s money, did he?”
“No, far worse. Abamista was no mere magician. He could perform tricks that were impossible, that could never work in this world.” Spinrod looked at Laurel. “He performed real magic. Wizardry.”
No one said a word to that, but they looked at their neighbors with fearful glances. There had been rumors…
Spinrod went on. “Abamista’s wife was a true sorceress too. Spencer learned that all of their former apprentices had suffered fatal ‘accidents.’ Still, he was young and fearless. He thought he could learn from them without risking anything, and he did, for a while. Spencer became a competent magician, but not a great one. Then one day Clorisande took a fancy to the lad.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Precisely. How do you refuse a sorceress?”
Laurel jumped to her feet, dropping his hand. “You say ‘I decline!’”
Spinrod stood too, looking at her, his blue eyes asking for understanding. “Yes, but Spencer did not know that yet. Perhaps he was ensorcelled, or perhaps he was merely young. And foolish, as I said. He dallied with the wizard’s wife. Abamista discovered them, of course, and called a curse down upon the young man’s head. ‘You want to learn magic?’ he shouted. ‘Then here is your magic!’ He struck Spencer with his wand, and the boy became an old man, a silver-haired, careworn ancient with powers he never dreamed of. Spencer was suddenly a wizard, set apart forever from his fellow men.”
“What’s so bad about that?” someone called out. “A wizard can have anything he wants, can’t he?”
The old man stared at his empty hands. “He could not go home.” Spinrod paused to clear his throat. “He found out years later that his parents had both perished in a carriage accident. His older brother, the heir, had succumbed to a putrid throat. And his middle brother had died a hero, in battle. Spencer Roddell never got to make his peace with them or say good-bye. He was now the Earl of Roddermore, but no one would believe him.”
“Why, I knew the Earl of Roddermore,” Viscount Thaxter declared. “I sponsored a bill in Parliament with him. He was heartbroken about letting his youngest go off, and sent Runners across the country looking for him. They sent the Runners out again when the old earl died and both of his other sons shortly after. Never found the lad, by George. Are you saying that he…? That you…?”
Laurel was staring at Spinrod, who had always said he was an earl’s son, who carried a handkerchief embroidered with “SR.” He did not answer the viscount.
One of the dairy maids started weeping. Someone handed her a cloth and told her to stubble it so they could hear what happened next.
Spinrod shrugged. “Next? Why, Clorisande took pity on the old man, knowing she had caused his downfall. She could not lift her husband’s spell, but she could temper it with a counter-curse. She said that Spencer could be restored with a kiss, an honest, heartfelt kiss, freely given from a loving woman.”
“So what happened? Did he find a willing wench? Did she kiss him?”
“I think— That is, not yet, I fear.”
“Lord love you, I’ll kiss you!” Mrs. Eckles, Hubie’s grandmother, rushed up and smacked Spinrod on the lips. Everyone laughed, but the old magician was still an old magician.
They all looked at Laurel.
“No, no, it cannot be true,” she cried. “It is a story only, to pass the time.”
“Why not try, mistress?” called one of her tenants. “You’d be a countess.”
Another tossed her a sprig of mistletoe. “So no one can say you’re being forward.”
Two youths who had imbibed too much wassail started chanting, “Kiss him. Kiss him.” The crowd took up the call, laughing and slapping one another on the back, not really believing, but enjo
ying the good-natured joke. This was a party, after all, and Christmas kisses were part of the merriment.
Laurel’s cheeks were as red as Spinrod’s scarlet cap. To stop the tomfoolery, she told herself, and to put an end to this madness once and for all, she held the sprig of mistletoe aloft and pressed her lips to Spinrod’s. They were soft and warm and made her lips tingle and…and his beard tickled.
“You see?” she called to the cheering crowd. “He is still our Spinrod the Sorcerer. Now it is time to leave for church, unless we wish the good vicar to be cursing us, as well. I bid you all a good night and a happy Christmas, and thank you for sharing my birthday celebration.”
Everyone cheered and filed out of the barn to join those from the house in a long line of lantern-lit coaches, wagons, and walkers on their way back to town for the midnight service of Christmas.
Laurel and Spinrod stayed behind on the steps of Mumphrey Hall.
“I am sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“Because the kiss did not work. I have no magic to offer you.”
“You are magic, my dear. You have brought joy to so many tonight.”
“But not to you. You are still sad.”
“I am still an old man. Too old to offer for a beautiful young woman like you.”
“Would you, if it were otherwise?”
“In a flash.” Fireworks flew from his fingers.
“Don’t!” She reached for his hand, ignoring the sparks. “You have done enough magic tonight.” Still holding his hand, she whispered, “I would accept, in a flash. You are already dear to me, and everything a husband should be. I wish…”
“Don’t! Your wishes brought you trouble.”
“My wishes brought me you, my love.”
He dropped to his knees, groaning just a little when his bones creaked. Another bouquet of flowers appeared in his hand.
An Enchanted Christmas Page 24
