Lord Merlyn's Magic

by Marcy Stewart

  As they voiced their thanks, the owner closed the door, and the threesome stood quietly until the sounds of his ponderous footsteps faded away. Then, trying to ignore the eloquent glances Harriet and Francis were exchanging beside him, Julian removed his mask and began unfastening his cloak.

  After another moment of silence, Francis said, “I’ll go gather the equipment.”

  When he left, Harriet asked, “What did happen tonight?”

  The magician winced and continued unbuttoning his shirt. Harry could be subtle, but never with him.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” She watched him toss his shirt into the corner. When he still didn’t answer, she said in exasperation, “That man and girl. They weren’t the ones we’d agreed upon. Francis found out about the couple in the fourth row during intermission, just as he always does, but you didn’t call on them.”

  He reached for a white linen shirt hanging in the wardrobe. “You know I don’t have to use trickery for everything I do.”

  “But I thought you didn’t like to do it the other way.” She paused a moment, watching with fascination the movement of the muscles beneath his skin as he put his arms into the sleeves. “You’ve always said it’s too chancy.”

  He had no answers for her. He had none for himself. And where was Francis? He was never around when needed. Leaving his master to deal with a curious Harriet alone, indeed; of what use was he?

  Suddenly too tired to button his shirt, the magician sat on the stool, propped his elbows on the dressing table and rested his head in his hands.

  Her expression softened. “I know that sometimes you are … compelled to do things. Was this one of those times, milord?”

  He hesitated. “You are making too much of a little lapse. You heard what I told Tankersley. It was merely a variation in the program.”

  A flare of anger sparked in her eyes. “Do not talk to me as though I’m an infant. Why won’t you tell me? Is it because you’re ashamed? You were drawn to that young woman because she was so pretty, weren’t you?”

  “And if I were?” His eyes were cool as they met hers in the mirror.

  The pulse at her throat gave a wild leap and began to race. She took a step toward him and wrapped her arms around his neck, caressing his chest with her palms while leaning her cheek against his. “I’m sorry. I know you better than that. In the past you’ve most often learned something important, something needful. What was it tonight?”

  He clutched her fingers, stilling them. Ignoring her question, he asked, “How many weeks of our tour remain?”

  Harriet straightened suddenly, her arms falling to her sides. “Three, counting London.”

  “Cancel the week in London.”

  “Cancel … London?”

  “Yes. That will give them time to schedule another act. The other dates are too near to change.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “We don’t want to ruin our reputation for reliability.”

  “But why, milord? We’ve waited so long for this opportunity.”

  “The opportunity will come again.”

  In the mirror, her face reflected shock. “Why?” she repeated.

  His eyes darkened, cleared, then became apologetic. “I can’t explain myself in any way that would make sense. Not yet. I haven’t even sorted it out myself. Besides, I’m tired, and I know Francis will be glad of the rest.” He lowered his lashes. “You’ll appreciate the time at home, too, won’t you?”

  Her face whitened with anger. “Before you left the stage, you said something to that girl. What was it?”

  He reached for a silver-plated brush lying on the table and began thumbing its bristles, hoping the gesture would hide the slight tremor in his hands. “You must have imagined it,” he said finally, wishing he spoke truth.

  Until this moment, it had been his desire that he had imagined the words he’d whispered to Miss Lyons. But Harriet’s question and the memory of the young lady’s shocked face proved he had indeed spoken as rashly as he remembered. It now appeared that not only his thoughts were beyond his control, but his speech as well. What was next? Would he start walking into walls?

  Harriet stared at him wordlessly for a moment, then whirled and strode to the door. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said.

  You are not alone, he thought with great feeling.

  Steeling himself for the sound of a slamming door, he looked into the mirror and saw that Harriet continued to watch him wrathfully from the threshold. He closed his eyes and began massaging his temples vigorously. The visions were returning, and he could not make them stop.

  Behind him, Harriet closed the door without making a sound.

  *

  On the morning following Lord Merlyn’s performance, Abby entered her grandmother’s bedchamber while fingering the locket at her throat and smiling. Even the sight of Matilda Lyons’s probing and critical face, swathed between a lacy mob-cap and a frilled cambric gown and robe, could not diminish her feeling of pleasure.

  As she often did, Matilda was lying on the velvet settee beside the window, her head framed by lacy pillows, her thin body warmed by numerous crocheted and knitted throws. Abby could not blame her for swaddling herself like a button in a cushion; it was always drafty at Sharonfield House, and especially so now that autumn had arrived. Like the regal old lady who ruled it, the ancient house was cold, over lofty, and without ornamentation that might have softened its stark lines.

  “You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” Matilda said, her low voice carrying well across the distance between them. “Sit down, girl, don’t stand there like a broom. Is that your mother’s locket you’re fiddling with?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” There was only one comfortable chair in the chamber, but it was across the room near the fireplace; and Jane, Matilda’s maid, was sitting in it and snoring softly. Abby pulled a tufted bench beside her grandmother and, without thinking, closed her hand around the tiny golden heart of her necklace.

  “Well, don’t look at me like I’m going to take it away from you. I’m not the one who lost it, am I?” Matilda raised herself on one elbow, reached for a glass of barley water on the small table by her head, and took several sips. Suddenly she seized her hairbrush and hurled it across the room toward the maid. “Do stop that infernal racket, Jane!” she demanded. “You sound like a wild boar snorting in the woods!” While the maid came to astonished wakefulness from the impact of the hairbrush and rubbed the side of her head, Matilda turned back to her granddaughter. “Was the locket where the magician said it would be?”

  “It was,” Abby said, startled. Her grandmother had been sleeping when they returned last evening, and Matilda’s sudden knowledge of the prophecy was surprising. “How—how did you know?”

  “Philip told me.” She gave a bark of laughter. “Yes, he was here this morning. Don’t looked so shocked, girl! Not everyone lies abed as late as you.”

  That was unfair; Matilda knew she usually rose early. In injured tones, Abby said, “I had trouble sleeping last night.”

  “So I would imagine, from what Philip told me. He ‘twas mightily upset with you. Said you made eyes at Lord What’s-his-name, who is of course lord of nothing but his own feeble dreams, and complained you wouldn’t tell him what that feller whispered to you. Didn’t ask to meet you somewhere, did he?”

  Abby drew herself up. “He most certainly did not.”

  “I thought not, especially since the whole lot of ‘em are gone.” Seeing the question in Abby’s eyes, she said, “I sent Redmond to the Pendragon to find out. The owner said they cleared out right after the performance.”

  Although she tried to tell herself it could not have been otherwise, Abby’s spirits plunged like a stone in a well.

  Matilda narrowed one eye. “What did he say to you, Abigail?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, not entirely untruthfully.

  Again and again, for at least half the night through, she had heard his words echoi
ng in her brain: You must marry me. But she’d surely misunderstood him. A man, even if he were a mysterious magician, simply did not ask a stranger to marry him.

  What he must have said was something like, Thank you for your help, or perhaps, It was nice meeting such a pleasant young lady. That the words had translated into a proposal of marriage was no doubt a trick of her ears born of wishing for romance in her life. It couldn’t possibly be otherwise; for if he had asked her to wed him, he would hardly have left town within minutes, would he?

  Not that she would have seriously considered such a proposal, of course. However, seeing her grandmother’s other eye narrowing in shrewd assessment, Abby couldn’t help thinking it would have been a nice memory to stroke on a cold winter’s night.

  “I believe you know what he said, but you’re not telling.” Matilda’s lips stretched, creasing her cheeks and revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth. “ ‘Tis all right with me. A woman needs secrets to intrigue a man.”

  She straightened the bow at her neck, her gaze never leaving her granddaughter’s face. “Ha! You’re surprised I said that. Like all the young, you think your elders don’t know anything about the ways of love or youth. Well, I’ll tell you, there was a time … there was a time indeed …”

  The old woman’s eyes grew distant, peering past a curtain of memories that Abby could only imagine. Then Matilda pressed a frail hand to her heart and sighed. “But that was long ago, long before my strength failed me.”

  Abby moved her slippers restlessly, hoping Matilda wouldn’t go down the old trails again. It was difficult to believe she was ill, even now, aged as she was. Years ago, Abby’s sire had wryly informed her that Matilda had claimed to be dying since his birth.

  But Matilda’s abdication to her sickbed had never relaxed her dictatorship over the household or Abby’s grandfather, who died of apoplexy following a row over whether to plant the fallow field with wheat or carrots.

  “ ‘Twas good of Philip to take you to the performance, wasn’t it?” Matilda asked slyly. “You’ll be a fortunate woman indeed when you become his wife.”

  Abby’s jaw set. “I’m not going to be his wife.”

  Matilda clenched her fists on the coverlet. “You have no more sense than a cabbage! Heed my words, Abigail. Life is disappointing. People never meet your expectations, and only the attainment of worthy goals satisfies. You’ll find the truth in that as you grow older. And you know that my goal is for future generations, not myself. You must not be so selfish.”

  It was an old argument, and Abby felt herself drifting away. A small part of her feared she might come to believe her grandmother’s philosophy, simply from the weight of many repetitions.

  Besides, Matilda’s loftily spoken goal was for Philip’s estate to be joined with Sharonfield’s, and for that to be accomplished, Abby would have to marry Philip. It hardly seemed fair that she should be sacrificed to satisfy Matilda’s dream.

  She decided to appeal to her relative’s sense of reason. “But Grandmother, if I wed Philip, the land will pass into his control, not yours.”

  “A moot point, surely, when my remaining days are as few as hairs on a fish,” Matilda said, her voice becoming suddenly weak. “I told you my vision is for future generations. We shall be the start of a great dynasty, I know it.

  “Now, get you off and make certain that pretty jonquil gown is cleaned and pressed. Philip is returning after luncheon tomorrow, and you’ll want to be prepared. I suspect he means to make a formal declaration only to please you, since you’ve whined more than once that he’s taken your assent for granted. If he does, you’d better say yes, for I shall cut you off without a groat if you don’t.”

  Abby moved to her feet and took her leave, her spirits sagging. The time had come to make a decision. She would run away, just as her father had so long ago.

  *

  But it was not easy to prepare for escape.

  By the following morning, reality had dampened Abby’s decision considerably. She had no money and no friends to whom she could flee. Acquaintances would think her foolish for refusing such an eligible bachelor. And there were countless stories, all of them bad, about young women who sought their fortunes alone.

  Still, she would think of a way. Until then, she must accept her grandmother’s orders.

  Though luncheon had been served only an hour before, there was a hollow feeling in the pit of Abby’s stomach as she descended the stairs that afternoon and entered the parlour. When she caught sight of Philip’s tall figure at the bay window, the gnawing sensation increased. He did not appear to have heard her arrival, but continued to stand gazing at the workers who were picking apples for the third day in a row.

  He’s probably estimating the harvest’s worth and deciding how he would improve production, Abby thought. Would that I could disappear in a cloud of smoke as Lord Merlyn did.

  She blinked away her imaginings and cleared her throat. “Good day to you, Philip.”

  “Good afternoon, Abigail,” he replied, turning and walking forward to press her hands. “How lovely you look in that yellow gown; the shade complements your coloring.”

  Abby thanked him and gestured toward one of two armchairs set into the bay. He stood until she sat opposite him, then settled into the worn depths of the chair with a pleasant look on his face.

  She noted his appearance was especially immaculate today, even for Philip, who never ventured in public less than well-dressed and with every shining hair in place. He wore a brown waistcoat, buff vest, tan pantaloons and a brown-striped cravat. If her grandmother had been correct about his intentions, he’d probably attired himself for the occasion. The thought sent her stomach into fresh paroxysms.

  She had to admit he was a handsome man, though. If only he didn’t frighten her so. And leave her in a constant state of anger, because he made her feel so small.

  “Abigail,” he said, leaning forward, “I want to apologize for my behaviour the other night.”

  Before she could express her surprise, Walters, the butler, entered the room and asked, “Did you ring for tea, miss?”

  She gave a little start and said, “Er—no, Walters, but I meant to do so.”

  The butler nodded and backed from the room. In the past, her grandmother had instructed Abby to call the servants frequently to serve as chaperones of a sort, since Matilda considered herself too ill to come downstairs. But in the dread of the moment, Abby had forgotten.

  “Impeccable timing,” Philip muttered, bringing her attention back to him. “What I started to say is that I behaved rudely at the theatre and afterwards. The only excuse I can offer is that I’ve no patience for trickery and only went to please you. Unfortunately, once I was there, I expressed my displeasure childishly.”

  Abby hardly knew what to say to this. She couldn’t help thinking he was trying to soften her resistance.

  “I don’t expect you to forgive me right away,” he said, watching her carefully, “But do you think you might?”

  “Of course. I—I forgive you, Philip.” She glanced toward the hall and wished Walters would hurry. Hoping to distract her suitor from further declarations, she added, “Were you not amazed that Lord Merlyn knew so much about us?”

  Philip looked scornful. “There’s an explanation for everything he did.”

  “Then I wish you would tell me how he knew about my necklace and your mother’s slippers.”

  Philip moved impatiently and crossed his legs. “You are such a child; you’d believe anything.”

  “Do explain it to me, then,” she challenged.

  “They plant someone in the audience to discover our secrets or some such. If I knew exactly, I could be on the stage myself, if I were that sort of inferior person.”

  She had not considered the possibility of deception, and the thought brought a feeling of heat to her cheeks. Was she being childish to believe so readily? But who could have told Lord Merlyn about her locket?

  “Do you truly think stage people a
re inferior?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Everyone knows they are. Actors, dancers, musicians, magicians—they have no morals at all to speak of. They don’t work at a proper job, you see, and earn an honest wage like normal folk. Instead, they play at what they do, then expect decent people to pay them for their exhibitions. Pah! Thieves and tricksters, all of them!”

  He rose to his feet, paced across the room to the fireplace, then strode back to tower over her. “You were attracted to that magician, weren’t you? That’s why you’re asking all these questions. Like a silly schoolgirl instead of the woman you’ll soon be, you were dazzled by jeweled masks and ridiculous capes. I expected better of you.”

  “You are wrong,” she said, but wondered in her heart if he was. It was true she couldn’t remove Lord Merlyn from her thoughts but had hoped it was because she was overstimulated from the entertainment. Was she foolish enough to be infatuated?

  It would certainly explain her delusion that he’d asked her to marry him.

  “I’m seldom wrong,” Philip said. “And the fact that you won’t tell me what he whispered proves it.”

  “I’ve told you before, I couldn’t understand what he said.”

  Philip glowered down at her, then blinked suddenly and relaxed. “I’m sorry,” he said, and reseated himself. “I have the devil of a temper. It’s been so since I was a child. You aren’t aware of that because you’ve only known me this past year, since I’ve mustered out. You would be accustomed to it by now if you’d always lived here.”

  His eyes were bleak as he looked at her, and she almost felt pity for him.

  He moved his hands expressively. “Controlling my temper has become even harder of late, and it’s your fault. No, I don’t mean to quarrel again. The fact is, I am driven mad by your refusal to regard me favorably.” He laughed bitterly. “If you don’t change your mind, I shall begin to think Harold Crumb was right when he deemed me unlucky. I—I love you, Abigail, though it’s hard for me to say the words. I’ve never said them before, not to any woman, but now that I’ve broken my long silence, I’ll say it again: I love you.”