Lord Merlyn's Magic

by Marcy Stewart

  Abby did not mention it had probably been Francis’s pretty face which had attracted Charlotte Ann to him. Instead, she reached over and patted her hand. “You’re right. Men are animals.”

  “I still can’t believe Lord Julian treated you that way, though. He seemed so nice.”

  “Yes.” Abby leaned back and pulled the shawl tighter. “He did, didn’t he? But it appears it was all an act.”

  “Maybe we’re thinking wrong, my lady. Maybe she’s a friend or relative.”

  Abby’s eyes darkened with scorn. “A friend whose child just happens to call him Papa?”

  “She said Papa Julian. Maybe that means something.”

  Abby’s mouth twisted. “It might if the girl didn’t look so much like him. Did you see her eyes?”

  Charlotte Ann signed and shook her head commiseratively. “He should’ve told you about the child. But what I can’t understand is why that woman would put up with you being here. She didn’t look surprised when you got out of the coach. Just waltzed up to him like she’d known you was coming. That don’t make any sense to me. What mistress would go along with such doings?”

  What mistress indeed? Abby regarded the maid without visible emotion. The shawl slipped from her shoulders. She sat a little straighter in the chair, recalling the bold expression in Hilda’s eyes. Had there been a hint of desperation there?

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “That is rather strange, isn’t it?”

  “I guess it’s like you said before; there’s no understanding some people.”

  Fire ignited in Abby’s eyes. She stood up abruptly, her bones creaking as if she were a hundred years old. What had she been thinking, sitting there so long? What she needed was exercise. And food. She was starving.

  “See if you can remove the travel stains from my yellow dress,” she commanded. “I’m going down to breakfast.”

  *

  By the time Abby arrived downstairs, the others were gathered around the table. She had been unwilling to venture from the bedroom until Charlotte Ann had done her finest work in dressing her hair. Abby knew she had never looked better, not even on her wedding day. It was not a remarkable accomplishment, since she was wearing the same dress now that she had then. But it was her best one, the only one she owned that did not have something wrong with it.

  Thus, she knew she had nothing to be ashamed of when she walked into the dining parlour and saw Julian ignoring his newspaper and chatting familiarly with Hilda and the child over plates of food. And yet, the cozy domesticity of the scene pierced her like thorns.

  At her entrance, he became hospitality itself, exclaiming her name and hurrying to escort her to a chair directly opposite him. “I hope you’re feeling better this morning. It was heartless of me to push you ladies for so long without making more frequent stops on our journey. No wonder you collapsed with exhaustion. I myself slept like the dead last night.”

  The motion of his brows and the shadows beneath his eyes belied the truth of this statement, but Abby felt no empathy for him. Moreover, he knew it was not tiredness which caused her to faint. Perhaps he was trying to spare her further humiliation, but it was past time for such measures.

  “Traveling is deadening, isn’t it?” drawled the woman by his side, her hazel eyes sparkling cynically. “And Julian is always in a hurry. In all the years we’ve toured together, in all the places we’ve been, he promises and promises to take a more leisurely pace the next time and the next, but he never does. I can understand why you would swoon.” Affecting heavy concern, she added, “I trust you won’t become ill.”

  “I won’t,” Abby said firmly. “I feel quite recovered today.”

  “I hope you didn’t faint because of me,” said the girl. “Tommy told me I look like a ghost in my white dress. I guess you don’t know Tommy. He’s the muck-boy and is always saying silly things. Did I frighten you?”

  “No, of course you did not,” Abby said.

  “Oh.” The child’s face fell.

  Julian replaced his teacup in its saucer, making a loud clatter. “My manners have deserted me. Abby, may I introduce my assistant, Harriet Snell, and her daughter, Colleen.”

  So, they were not married. Abby could not decide whether to feel relief or distress that her own wedding had not been an act of bigamy—unless, of course, Julian had more beautiful ladies hidden at Avilion, one or several of whom would prove to be his wife, or wives. One never knew.

  While she exchanged nods with her new acquaintances, Julian rang the bell beside his dish. Immediately, a sturdy-looking footman entered through the service door and offered to serve Abby’s plate. She accepted a boiled egg and toast. While the servant filled her teacup, she noticed Harriet studying her. Something nasty stirred within Abby’s breast, and she smiled sweetly.

  “I shall have to be careful not to call you Hilda, for that is how I first knew you,” she said. “I suppose you don’t like using your real name on the stage, since such an occupation is … unusual for a woman.”

  “Oh, you may call me anything you like,” Harriet returned, laughing lightly. “Only do not call me Harry, for that is Julian’s particular name for me.”

  Abby ducked her head as if she had been struck. She tried to disguise the motion by sipping her tea. The scalding liquid was hot enough to boil chestnuts. She pressed her lips together painfully and vowed not to be disparaging in the future.

  Into the uncomfortable quiet which followed, Colleen said, “I have something to show you, Papa. Are you finished with the newspaper?”

  The magician’s eyes widened. “I’m almost afraid to say yes.”

  “I promise not to spill anything. I’ve been practicing and practicing, and besides, there’s no water in this trick.”

  He slid the newspaper across the table. “Very well then, you may have it. But count yourself warned, Abby. Quick movement may become necessary.”

  Colleen threw him a look of disgust and lifted the newspaper. After tearing off one sheet, she halved it, gathered the fragment and her empty water glass and walked to the end of the table. Standing on the chair, she wrapped the paper around the glass, leaving only the mouth and an inch below it uncovered. She then pulled a button from her pocket and placed it on the table.

  “Do you see this button?” she intoned. “I am going to push it through the table.”

  “Impossible,” Julian declared loudly.

  Colleen grinned. “You shall see.” She covered the button with the upturned glass, waved her hands over it, then pushed. Breathing deeply in concentration, she lifted the glass, stared at the button which remained on the table, and frowned. “Oh, dear!” she cried, apparently in great distress. “Something has gone wrong!”

  Harriet’s mouth twitched. “No! And you have practiced so hard!”

  “Perhaps you should try again,” the magician ventured.

  “Very well,” Colleen said tiredly. “Whatever you wish.”

  Puzzled, Abby watched as the child again placed the glass over the button and pushed. To her astonishment, the newspaper collapsed flat.

  “Goodness!” Collen exclaimed. “Now I have pushed too hard and the glass has gone through the wood!” To prove her statement, she brought the water glass from her lap and set it on the table, then dissolved into giggles,

  “Well done, sweetheart!” Harriet enthused, clapping her hands.

  “It’s evident we shall have to add you to the tour before long,” said the magician.

  “You’re very young to perform so well,” added Abby, impressed, as she tried to ignore the look of fatherly pride in Julian’s eyes.

  Colleen frowned as she returned to her seat. “I’m eight.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t realized you were that old,” Abby amended, smiling. “But even so, I couldn’t learn to do such a thing, not at any age.”

  “Yes, you can,” the girl said expansively. “I’ll teach you how. Would you like to learn after breakfast?”

  “That’s good of you,” Julian said. “But Ab
by is scheduled for a session with Mrs. White, and later she may want to explore Avilion or rest.”

  “Oh, you’re to have some new gowns,” said Colleen. “Mrs. White is the best dressmaker in the world, isn’t that so, Mamma? She makes Papa Julian’s costumes, too. She stitched this dress I’m wearing. Do you like it?”

  “Yes, I do,” Abby replied. “The sprigs match your pretty red hair precisely.” Her expression cooled as she turned back to the magician. “However, I need not trouble your Mrs. White. I’ll hardly be here long enough to warrant new clothes.”

  Before Julian could reply, Colleen bubbled, “Oh, do you think my hair is pretty? Tommy says red-haired women are mean and ugly and have nasty tempers.”

  Harriet’s nostrils flared. “Miss Shelley is allowing you to spend entirely too much time with the stableboys.”

  “Oh, Tommy doesn’t mean you, Mamma. Everybody knows you are kind and beautiful.” She stirred her porridge sadly, leaving them to draw their own conclusions.

  “But you are beautiful as well,” Abby declared reassuringly.

  At the same instant, Harriet said, “You are far prettier than I, sweetheart.”

  The women exchanged startled glances. A grateful light flashed in Harriet’s eyes, then disappeared. Abby felt a brief kinship with this woman who so obviously doted on her child.

  The moment passed.

  Julian cleared his throat. “There is not a lady at this table who is not lovely. But I must insist on the dress-fitting, Abby, since you were unable to bring many clothes with you. Besides, we don’t know how long your stay may be.”

  Abby placed her knife and fork in her dish and nodded for the footman to remove it. She glanced at Harriet and her daughter, then lowered her gaze. “If you have a moment, I would like to speak with you.”

  “Is that terrible man still after you?” Colleen asked. “Mamma said you and Papa were pretending to be married so he couldn’t hurt you.”

  The magician rose so abruptly he almost knocked over his chair. “If you are finished, Abby …”

  She nodded and followed him from the room. Behind her she heard Colleen asking, “Did I say something bad, Mamma?”

  Abby pretended not to hear, as did Julian. He led her to a parlour across the hall and gestured toward a pair of chairs separated by a low table with legs carved to resemble snarling dog’s heads. Staring at the table, she sat in one chair while he took the other.

  “Now, about the dressmaker …” he began.

  With difficulty she tore her gaze from a vicious-looking set of canine fangs and looked at him. “How can you speak to me of dresses? I believe there are more important things to discuss.”

  “The only important thing is keeping you safe.”

  “Indeed. I thought a great deal about that last night, and I have concluded that I am safe enough already. Philip must believe we are married and will have abandoned any plans for interfering. If it were otherwise, we should have seen him by now. Therefore, I’m confident the best course for me is to journey to a new city, find employment, and have our marriage annulled. If we are married, that is.”

  “If we are—Abby, what do you think the past week was all about? Why did we go to Scotland?”

  She averted her eyes from his bewilderment and forced herself to speak calmly. “I cannot say with certainty. Since we’ve come to Avilion, I have learned the most surprising things about you; in particular, that you are capable of hiding information that even the most inconsiderate person would give. Nothing you do shocks me now, so perhaps you will understand my doubts concerning the legality of our wedding.”

  He leaned toward her beseechingly. “Abby—”

  She motioned him back. “Don’t waste your concern on me. I will not weep or faint anymore so that you may inflate your opinion of yourself by pretending to help me.” Her words gathered heat. “How I must have amused you, throwing myself at you as I did. One might believe you would have mentioned a mistress and daughter to me, but that is only how I think. It appears that you possess a different thought process altogether.”

  She stopped, breathless. Her blood pounded at her boldness—she had not intended to tell him how she felt, had planned to act cool and indifferent—but how astonishingly right it seemed. He’d deserved every word she’d spoken. The sight of his closely reined distress did not subtract one whit from her sense of vindication.

  Or if it did, it was only the most niggling amount.

  “Very well, Abby,” he said quietly. “It shall be as you say, but I beg you to allow at least a fortnight to pass before you leave. We should know Philip’s mind by then.”

  She was surprised to feel a rush of disappointment. She had not expected him to give in so easily. And had she detected a glimmer of relief in his eyes? Well, he was a man for playing games, wasn’t he?

  At the very least he could have offered an explanation for his behaviour. A portion of her heart had hoped desperately for him to deny that Harriet was his mistress. She wanted to hear him say it was only a coincidence Colleen resembled him, and that she called him Papa because she liked him so much. Since he appeared disinclined to do so, she raised her chin and stood, not daring to risk speech now.

  He escorted her into the hall. “You must, however, spend the morning with Mrs. White. To be brutally honest with you, I have grown tired of your yellow and green gowns, and that brown thing you wear offends me. Please, for my sake, allow her to work up a few alternatives.”

  Abby’s eyes flamed with renewed indignation. Without speaking, she turned and mounted the stairs, leaving him to watch her in eloquent silence.

  *

  A short while later, Powell, the butler, brought a salver laden with correspondence into the parlour. He was a little man—a midget, in truth—who had been discovered by Lord Julian on a fairgrounds sideshow during the early days of his career. Powell made up for his lack of stature by a natural gracefulness and a great affection for the man who had rescued him from the hard life he’d been leading.

  Powell hesitated a moment when he saw his master sitting and staring at his boots. Softening his tread, he approached him and whispered in his high, compressed voice, “Your mail, milord.”

  “Thank you, Powell. Leave it on the table.”

  “There’s a lot of it. You’ve been gone a long time.”

  Julian glanced at the pile. “Yes. I’ll look at it in awhile.”

  “Miss Harriet wouldn’t let me give it to you last night. Said you’d be too tired.”

  “She was right. Get off with you now, I want to be alone.”

  Undeterred, the butler continued, “Did I tell you how sorry I am about your papa?”

  “Yes, yes, you did.”

  “Last night when Francis told us, we were all sorry, the whole household was. I hope you’re not feeling bad about him. Miss Harriet said you didn’t want any fuss, that we’re not to go into mourning.”

  “That’s right, she’s always right. Now go before I make you disappear.”

  Powell snorted. “You’d cut off your right arm before you’d let anything happen to me.”

  “I wouldn’t depend on it.” He waved him toward the door.

  “I’m leaving, I’m leaving. But at least the mystery’s solved now.”

  “Mystery?”

  “Yes, about the black-bordered note in your mail. It came right after you left. Don’t mind telling you it worried me. Now I know it must be about your papa’s death.”

  Julian looked up. “Black-bordered note?”

  “Yes, milord,” Powell said, adding in an aggrieved voice, “It’s in your mail over there. I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  The magician jumped to his feet and began scattering letters in all directions. Within seconds he found the missive, an elegant page of stationery that was sealed with the Donberry crest. While the butler bent to retrieve the castaway mail, Julian walked a few paces away and broke the seal with shaking fingers.

  Moments later, he said in a flat voice, “Fetc
h Francis.”

  Powell had never seen his master look so lost. He ran to obey.

  Julian was pacing when Francis arrived. “The most surprising thing has happened,” he said without preamble. “I have received a letter from my father’s steward. It’s the first letter from my birthplace that I have ever received. In it he tells me the most astonishing news. Did you know my family has had my location all these years and never once attempted to contact me?”

  Francis stood silently, knowing there was no answer to his wrath.

  “My father had me followed, it seems. Lord Merlyn and Avilion have never been a secret to any of my family. Nor were the early years, the years when I nearly starved. None of them lifted a finger to help me. Perhaps they found it amusing that I struggled to earn my living performing magic. I wonder what they made of it. I wonder what my father thought.”

  He clenched the note and brought it close to his face in helpless rage. “And now I shall never know! I shall never speak to my father again, nor to Edmond, nor Seth either, for they are all dead! All! And now Carl is ailing, and the steward suspects foul play. He does not state it openly, but his suspicions are hinted between the lines: Michael. So, I am to abandon the life I have made and rush to Donberry Castle to settle things. I am cut from my father’s will and my brothers’ affections, you understand, but only I can help! Well, what think you of this, Francis? You, who are more brother to me than any of my natural ones. What say you?”

  Francis allowed none of the compassion he felt to show in his face. “I think we’re in for another journey.”

  Julian’s breath exploded through his mouth. He turned abruptly and stalked to the window. “You’re right, of course. Start packing at once, Francis. Powell, tell Bugbee to see to the carriage.”

  Both men hurried to obey, but before Francis left the room, Julian called him back. “You’ll need to inform Abby and her maid that we’re traveling again. I am too much of a coward to do so myself.”