Jo Beverley

by Forbidden Magic

  It was soup for dinner. She’d bought some vegetables—mostly potatoes and cabbage—and the butcher had given her a shinbone. Charity, but she was beyond pride. It would give a little substance to the meal, and the pot would probably stretch until tomorrow, when one way or another, their fate would be sealed.

  Bread she always had because her earlier stone-brought suitor now ran his father’s bakery. He was married, and to a very pleasant young woman, but perhaps some trace of the magic lingered. Whenever Meg went into the shop, he always had old loaves he needed to get rid of cheap. They always seemed to be remarkably fresh, too.

  Even so, Sir Arthur aside, her family couldn’t go on like this. They were all thinner, and that couldn’t be good for growing children.

  The knock on the back door froze her to the spot.

  What if he’d come in response to her note?

  What if he saw her like this and instantly changed his mind? She pushed uselessly at the tendrils of hair straggling over her hot face.

  What if he was a monster she simply couldn’t endure?

  While she hesitated, Richard ran carelessly to open the door. Susie stepped in, brightly smiling. “All’s set!” she announced, pulling out a different piece of paper.

  Aware of her fascinated siblings, Meg took it with unsteady hands and broke the crested seal. Smoothing out the sheet she saw the same crest embossed into the heavy paper. The handwriting was a little careless, sloping to the right and with vigorous loops. There was nothing palsied about it, however, or suggestive of a disordered mind. Of course, he had a secretary who might write for him.

  She looked at the signature, a boldly scrawled Saxonhurst. Though even more careless, as signatures often were, it was in the same hand as the rest.

  My dear Miss Gillingham,

  I am delighted that you are inclined to accept my offer of marriage, and happy to assure you that your brothers and sisters will instantly become as my own, to be raised and educated with the same care, and suitably provided for.

  À demain,

  Saxonhurst.

  Meg read it through again, though it was direct enough. It even included a clear recognition of his offer of marriage that she could take to a court of law and use to claim damages. Susie was right. He was a rash man.

  But the handwriting soothed her. It had been her observation that handwriting indicated personality, and the earl’s showed nothing too terrible. She could handle a rash, impetuous man with eccentric ways. And if he was physically unattractive, she certainly had no right to balk at that.

  “Very well,” she said to the maid. “Tomorrow at eleven.”

  Susie’s smile was blinding. “You won’t regret it, Miss Gillingham! You’ll have all the servants on your side if he gives you any trouble.”

  As the door banged shut, Meg sank into a chair. Gives me any trouble? Oh dear . . .

  “What’s happening at eleven o’clock tomorrow?” Rachel demanded rather shrilly.

  How scared the twins were. She’d thought she was doing a better job of hiding the seriousness of the situation.

  She called up a bright smile. “I’m getting married.”

  They all just stared at her and she laughed, a genuine laugh of relief. Whatever the consequences, they were surely better than the worst. “I’m not mad, sweethearts! I’m getting married. We’ll move to a big house. There’ll be no more scrimping and saving, and you’ll have good food to eat.”

  The twins still looked doubtful. “Truly?”

  “Truly!”

  “But who?” asked Laura, rather pale. “Not . . . not Sir Arthur.”

  Meg leaped up to hug her fiercely, thanking heaven for their escape. “Not Sir Arthur. The Earl of Saxonhurst.”

  “An earl?”

  Meg looked her in the eyes, knowing that none of them, but especially Laura, must suspect that she was doing this for them. “Do you not think me worthy of an earl?”

  Laura flushed. “Of course. You’re worthy of a prince! I just didn’t know you knew any noblemen.”

  Meg hastily assembled a story. “We met at the Ramillys’.”

  “But why tomorrow? There’s no time for any preparations!”

  “When you know the earl, you’ll know he acts on impulse. Our situation is dire, so why wait? Which reminds me,” she said, turning back to the chopping block, “we still have to eat today.”

  Laura started to cut onions, but said, “Aren’t you going to describe him to us?”

  “No.” Meg set the bone to simmer. “You can wait and see.”

  When Jeremy returned home, however, it wasn’t so easy. A stocky seventeen, he was very like Meg in looks, with their mother’s soft brown hair and their father’s square chin. He was far cleverer, however, and loved to study. Walter Gillingham had predicted that his elder son would far outstrip him in scholarship.

  That was back in the good days, when it had been assumed that Jeremy would follow his father to Cambridge. Recently, he’d talked of finding employment as a clerk. He couldn’t even have continued with his studies if Dr. Pierce hadn’t insisted on carrying on without pay.

  New joy brought the sting of tears to her eyes. She was going to give him back his dreams, his destiny. What he deserved. He must never, however, know the truth. He was as stubborn and resolute as she, and would never let her sacrifice herself.

  He didn’t accept the story as easily as the others, but after a few searching questions, he gave up. She knew she’d have to deal with him later.

  Though clearly concerned, Jeremy and Laura followed her lead and scarcely mentioned plans for the next day, but the twins were not so easily suppressed. When Meg laughingly refused to answer questions, saying it was all to be a surprise, they settled into wild speculation, ending up with an idyll full of cakes and ices, gold plates and jewels, and fiery horses, half a dozen for each of them.

  When they’d finally been settled in bed, Meg rubbed her aching head and hoped they’d not be too disappointed by reality. She supposed they’d at least get the cakes and ices on special occasions.

  And now she had to deal with Jeremy.

  He drew her into the chilly privacy of the parlor, leaving Laura darning in the meager light of a tallow candle. They couldn’t go to the church with holes in their stockings.

  Meg repeated the story she’d thrown together. She’d met the earl at the Ramillys’, he’d offered for her when he learned of her situation, and she was delighted to have the chance to marry so well.

  “But why in such a rush, Meg?” he asked, managing to look astonishingly like their father in a stern mood.

  Good heavens. She’d never imagined that anyone might think she had to marry! Already hot-cheeked, Meg told him about the earl’s grandmother.

  “Good lord, Meg. He does sound ramshackle to be forgetting such a thing, then insisting on going through with it.”

  “It’s not ramshackle to keep his word.”

  “I suppose not, but even so . . .”

  “Even so, I’m going to do it.”

  “You admit you don’t know him all that well. I don’t think this is very wise.”

  She reminded herself that he didn’t know about the awful alternative.

  “It is a gamble of sorts, Jeremy, but the chances of winning are high. And if at the last moment I change my mind, I can refuse to go through with the ceremony.”

  “I’m coming with you.” His jaw set in a very resolute way.

  “Of course, you are! Would I get married without my family?”

  That seemed to calm him, but as he went off to his books, he muttered, “It all sounds pretty rum to me.”

  Meg had to admit that it did. That it was. She pushed anxious questions out of her mind, however, and went to help Laura with the darning. She still had her pride and didn’t want them to look like the paupers they were. By the time everything was as neat as possible, her back ached and her eyes stung from straining in the poor light.

  Wax candles. Surely an earl would have wax candl
es. She prayed an earl would be willing to replace worn-out stockings.

  Laura rubbed her back, too, then packed needles and thread in their mother’s inlaid wooden sewing box. Meg had kept it till last, but it would have been the next thing to go. She’d already inquired of a dealer how much he would give for it. She touched it tenderly. Another blessing . . .

  “Now you!”

  “What?” Meg looked up at her sister, trying to disguise her weariness.

  “What are you going to wear for your wedding?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Not matter! Nonsense. Let’s check your wardrobe!”

  “Rachel’s asleep.” They’d taken to sleeping two and three to a bed for warmth.

  “We’ll be quiet.”

  “I don’t expect that a suitable gown will appear by magic. Everything I have was chosen for a governess in a sober household.”

  “There has to be something. Come on!”

  A few moments later, Laura was easing open drawers in Meg’s armoire, frowning at the dull gowns within. “You could always ask that stone thing,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  At Meg’s tone, Laura looked over. “The sheelagh-maging.”

  “Sheelagh-ma-gig.” Meg drew her sister out into the corridor. “I wasn’t sure you knew about it.”

  “Mother showed me.” Laura shrugged. “She assured me it had these powers, but I wished and wished for a pianoforte and it never appeared. She said it worked for you, though. So you could—”

  “No! It’s dangerous, Laura. Definitely not to be used for trivial things.”

  “A wedding dress isn’t trivial!”

  Meg hid a smile at this evidence of how young her sister was, of how right her decision was. “There’s a cost to the sheelagh, Laura. Too high a cost for vanity. You do know never to speak of it.”

  “Oh yes.” She looked as if she would say more, but returned to the room to dig through the drawers. “Everything is awfully dull.”

  “Suitable for a governess. And very practical.”

  She pulled out a gown in light blue. “It’ll have to be this.”

  “Good,” Meg said, glad to have it settled. The gown was her Sunday best—a serge walking dress with dark blue trimming.

  “It’s awfully plain for a countess, though,” Laura whispered, draping it over a chair. “We could retrim it—”

  “No.” Meg was shocked—almost appalled—by the idea of being a countess. “I’m sure the earl will be pleased to buy me new garments more suited to my station.”

  “But—”

  “No. Get to bed.”

  As they helped each other undress, Meg sighed at the thought of being a countess. She was ready to marry an eccentric earl, but had not thought it through. Why it should seem so terrible to be a countess she couldn’t say, except that she was a very unlikely person for the part.

  As she plaited her hair, she studied herself. Shouldn’t a countess have a chiseled nose and a long swanlike neck? She shrugged. She would be a dutiful wife to an earl. That was the best she could offer.

  Laura’s fussing about clothes had raised another problem. As she settled into bed, Meg thought about her underwear.

  In her years with the Ramilly family, there had been many quiet evenings. She supposed some people might have thought of them as lonely, but she had found them peaceful. The main reason she’d sought employment, after all, was to escape the ramshackle chaos of her home. She loved her family dearly, but the constant disorganization, and her parents’ blithe dismissal of all concerns, had driven her distracted.

  The Ramilly household had been extremely well-organized. The family were sober and kind, the children well-behaved, the servants meticulous. Once her charges had been in bed, her evenings had mostly been her own, spent in her own private room, amid peace and quiet. Often she read, or wrote letters home. But she also spent much time in embroidery and lace-making, tranquil, delicate arts that gave her great joy.

  At some point she had tired of trimming handkerchiefs and making sober bands for severe gowns. She had begun decorating her plain, functional underwear. It had started mildly with a few sprigs of flowers on shifts and nightgowns. Then she’d settled to a narrow trim of Renaissance lace on a petticoat, which had certainly taken a nice long time.

  When that was finished, however, she couldn’t stop. Openwork and cutwork, drawn thread and counted thread, satin stitch and hardanger, her plain cotton garments had become canvasses for her imagination. She kept the colors subdued, for the laundry woman had to see everything, and most of it ended up blowing on the line to dry, but the designs were complex and satisfying to work.

  It had taken her some time to realize that she had two sorts of garments which no one but she ever saw—her corsets, and her drawers. Her corsets could not be washed, and her scandalous drawers she laundered for herself.

  On her corsets and drawers, therefore, Meg had let her wildest fancies break free. These clothes were her guilty secret, ridiculous for a plain young lady of a serious turn of mind, but so very precious. It had been easy to keep them from others. What of a husband, though?

  It shouldn’t be a problem. He would come to her when she was in her bed, wouldn’t he, and her nightgowns were very plain. What, however, if he intruded when she was in her underlayers?

  She turned over, begging sleep to come. She’d buy new, that’s what she’d do. She’d claim her old clothes were all worn out and buy new. Giving up the others would be a sacrifice, however, a sacrifice of a special part of herself.

  Sleep eluded her.

  This was apparently her last night as a single woman.

  Untouched.

  A virgin.

  She could hardly bear to think that tomorrow she would have to let a total stranger have access to the most private parts of her body.

  Beneath these worries ground another fear.

  The sheelagh’s gift was too much. An earl, even a rather peculiar one, would never, of his own will, marry Meg Gillingham.

  What price would she have to pay for that?

  And worse, she had stolen his free will. She’d felt guilty enough over summoning the baker’s son with a cake. Now she’d trapped someone for life!

  It had to be a sin.

  She’d always suspected that the sheelagh was evil, and now she knew it was true.

  But she had no choice. She’d give even her soul to save her sister.

  Chapter 4

  Owain still wasn’t sure whether his friend’s course was wise or not, but he knew he had no chance of changing it now. So, he thought, as they returned to the house from White’s in the early hours of the last day of the year, he’d better smooth the way.

  Despite the freezing temperature and a bitter wind, they were walking. Sax always needed to burn off energy after sitting around for hours, and for once he had been sitting. Most of the time had been spent in casual gaming for idle stakes, but he’d also made up doggerel with Vane and Petersham, and then indulged a homesick Scot who needed to talk of Hogmanay. Poor McCallum had invited Sax to his rooms the next night for a proper greeting of the New Year, but Sax had told him he was already engaged. Only a slight twitch of the lips had registered the pun.

  It was generally best to be blunt with Sax, so as they turned into the quiet square, Owain said, “Don’t you think you should make some preparation for your bride?”

  “Devil take it, why didn’t you say something earlier? She’ll need a bed at least.”

  “At least. And don’t forget her brothers and sisters.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to look after these details for me?”

  “Only when given instructions.”

  “Doesn’t usually deter you.” Sax ran up the stairs to ply the knocker. He never carried keys, so a servant was always available when he was out. Tonight, it was Stephen, the running footman when required, who’d developed his speed fleeing honest citizens after filching their handkerchiefs. He took their hats and canes, smotheri
ng a yawn.

  Brak leaped up from his patient vigil by the door to fawn around and be greeted. Once the dog was appeased, Sax grabbed a lit candle from the hall table and headed straight for the stairs, dog at his side, flame flowing behind like a banner. Owain followed, hoping the whole house wasn’t about to be roused. It had happened before.

  Owain knew Sax was right, though. He should have taken care of matters himself. He suspected he’d been trying to wash his hands of the whole business.

  Sax went into the room next to his own bedroom, his breath puffing in the unheated air. “The countess’s.” He put down the candle and flung back the curtains as if daylight would magically appear. “More candles!”

  Owain had already gone into the other bedroom and returned with a branch of them. In moments, Stephen ran up with another candelabra.

  In the shimmering light, Sax looked around at dark wood and olive-green hangings. “Dull, thirty years out of date, but good enough for the moment. Tell someone to light a big fire and get this bed aired.”

  “It’s two in the morning.”

  “In the morning,” Sax added, as if he’d always intended to say it. And perhaps he had.

  He’d stopped in front of a small painting of a simple, white-capped woman cutting a yellow cheese. “Dammit, it’s that Dutch artist.” He snapped his fingers. “Vermeer. Lovely, isn’t it?”

  Owain could never tell if Sax was joking about art or not. He himself liked the quiet simplicity of the picture, but could it really appeal to his friend, who seemed to have different tastes? Sax had purchased quite a number of works by Fuseli, who was inclined to put fruit and animal faces on his subjects, and Turner, who reduced everything to a wash of color.

  Sax touched the plain frame. “I wondered where this went after I bought it. I’ll have it in my own room. Stephen—”