A Midsummer's Magic

by Mary Chase Comstock

  Rather than merely offering his hand, St. Ives reached up, grasped her tiny waist, and lifted Hippolyta from her airy perch as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  He set her lightly down in front of him so that she stood atop the volume which had just fallen. They faced each other for a long moment, mere inches apart, her green eyes engaged by his grey.

  Suddenly, Hippolyta flushed, settled her spectacles more firmly on her nose, and hurried to take refuge behind her huge oak desk.

  St. Ives frowned. He knew that he and Lady Polly got on famously in conversation, studies, evening entertainments—anything, it seemed, so long as it was not intimate. What in heaven's name could be the trouble? He was almost certain that she held him in some degree of fondness. His action just now had undoubtedly been somewhat forward, to be sure, but it was not as if she were a green girl in her first Season!

  And yet, perhaps it would be best if he proceeded as if she were. He would like to have set her at her ease; it was unfortunate that an unseemly degree of privacy was needed in the matter he meant now to discuss.

  "You wished to speak with me, St. Ives?" Hippolyta asked, her voice trembling a little.

  Although he knew it might prompt some further alarm, St. Ives turned and shut the door before crossing to her. As he did so, he heard her sharp intake of breath. Could she truly hold him to be such an ogre? he wondered incredulously. Taking pity on her, however, he took care to sit himself down on a chair at some distance from her desk. He noted as he did so that her agitation seemed to abate considerably.

  "I hoped I might confide in you about one of your guests, my lady," he began.

  Hippolyta greeted this statement with a good deal of relief and she felt herself relax. For one horrifying moment, she thought he was going to beg leave to pay his addresses. It was not, of course, that she disliked St. Ives. Quite the contrary. She felt for him an enormous sense of kinship and—well, yes—affection. If only he would not spoil it all with romantical notions! Why was it that gentlemen seemed so resolved on it?

  St. Ives pulled his chair a tiny bit closer and lowered his voice. "It is a bit complex, I'm afraid. You see, it is Sir Godfrey."

  "Sir Godfrey?" she repeated quizzically.

  "You see, my lady… Well, it is rather difficult to explain. The fact is, he is in love with Lady Bristlethwaite. I have been watching them closely, and it is my belief that she returns his affection."

  "And she so sensible!" Hippolyta exclaimed softly. "I would not have thought it of her."

  St. Ives heard this last remark with some bewilderment, but continued nonetheless. "Indeed, the lady is all that is admirable, but there is… how shall I describe it? There is an impediment."

  Impediment! Hippolyta's imagination raced. Surely Sir Godfrey could not have a mad wife locked up in the attic of Mimms Manor. He did not seem at all the type, she was sure. "And what," she asked slowly, "is the nature of this impediment?"

  "It is," he told her, schooling his tone, "the Curse of the Mimms."

  "The Curse of the Mimms?" She frowned slightly and cocked her head. "Surely that should not be."

  "Well, I own I should not have thought so myself, of course…"

  "Why, to be sure," she continued, "it ought to be the Curse of the Mimmses."

  St. Ives hesitated a moment. "I beg your pardon, Lady Polly?"

  "Well, grammatically, you see. One Mimms. Two Mimmses. Curse of the Mimmses."

  "Ah, I take your meaning." St. Ives smiled inwardly. What an adorable, unaccountable creature she was. "I shall have to ask him about that. But, you see, this curse…"

  "Go on," she nodded, clearly intrigued.

  "It seems," he began again, "that several centuries ago, one of Sir Godfrey's ancestors had the bad luck to insult a witch…"

  When at last St. Ives had repeated the whole of his friend's misfortunes and conveyed his notion of assisting the gentleman to find a remedy, Hippolyta sat in a deep study, staring fixedly before her. He watched her quietly, until at last she leaned forward in her chair and folded her hands on the desk in front of her.

  "Not a pretty story, St. Ives, but I imagine we shall find a solution to poor Sir Godfrey's woes. It may take us some little time, but if there is an answer to be found, it will be in this library. And my laboratory, I imagine, is equal to anything. It is pleasant, is it not, to have such a task!" she said brightly.

  "Yes, we are most fortunate." It rankled him that the lady was so clearly relieved by the direction of their conversation. She seemed almost frightened by the notion of even the most harmless intimacy. A puzzle indeed. Perhaps working together to address Sir Godfrey's difficulty would bring them closer.

  "I shall, naturally, rely on your guidance. I am a rank novice in such matters, as you know quite well. I have wondered, though, Lady Polly—did you develop this interest in arcane matters before your marriage or was it the influence of your late lord?"

  "Ah, it was indeed my Trevalyen," Hippolyta told him, her expression growing wistful. "I had not the least notion of such things before I came here. But I was instantly fascinated, as who could not be? He and I used to spend hour after hour in this room, peering into grimy volumes and trading bits of lore. It seems that I am possessed of some degree of talent in this area—as long as I remember to concentrate, mind you—which Trevalyen saw fit to encourage in me."

  "Trevalyen," St. Ives mused. "You call the bird Trevalyen, do you not? What do you mean by it?"

  "It is just an odd notion I have, I suppose." A little smile played at the corner of her lips. "I do not, as some have suggested, believe that the raven actually is the earl. Not that such a thing would be impossible, mind you—I simply do not think it is so in this case."

  "But I do believe," she continued, "that the bird was sent to me for some reason I have yet to discover. It came fluttering out of the night just after the funeral and into my chamber window. It has stayed on ever since, coming and going like one of my other guests. I imagine I shall know why in good time."

  Just then, their cozy tête-à-tête was interrupted as the door was flung abruptly open and Mrs. Bannock and Bertie appeared.

  "I beg your pardon, my lady," Mrs. Bannock began, a trifle flustered. "I did not mean to intrude on you and Mr. St. Ives, but I had promised young Master Bertram here a tour of the house to set his mind at rest. Poor lad was fretting himself something dreadful."

  With the boldness of one who is assured of his welcome, Bertie strode forthwith into the room and planted himself before his aunt.

  "Mrs. Bannock," he began in a plaintive tone, "will not give me leave to see your laboratory, Aunt Polly, and I have been longing to do so!"

  Mrs. Bannock stepped forward with similar alacrity and planted her fists on either side of her generous waist. "It is only that you have said, time and time again, my lady, that you wanted no meddling in there and so have I told the child, but he will have it that—"

  "I am sure you did just right, Mrs. Bannock," Hippolyta interrupted her. "Now come to me, Bertie, and let Mrs. Bannock return to her kitchen."

  Without so much as a backward glance at the good woman, the fickle Bertie approached his aunt and immediately crawled up onto her lap. Thus deserted, Mrs. Bannock shrugged and departed, mumbling dire threats of brown bread and butter for the nursery tea that afternoon, instead of the cream cakes and raspberry trifle she had promised.

  "Now, Bertie," Hippolyta sighed, "I cannot think the laboratory is any place for you just now. I have not the least desire for you to be turned into something odd and hop away down the hall! You must own your mama would find it most ineligible!"

  Undeterred by this monition, Bertie twined his sturdy little arms about his aunt's neck and pouted for a moment before lamenting, "But, Aunt Polly, last time I was here, you promised me faithful that I should see your laboratory when I was a trifle older, and now I am!"

  "I comprehend," said Hippolyta gravely, "that you and I must hold a considerably different notion of what span
of years a 'trifle' encompasses. What do you suggest, St. Ives?"

  He laughed briefly and leaned back into the depths of his chair, "I am no Solomon, my lady. In answering, I fear I must bring the censure of one or the other of you down on my head."

  On making this noncommittal pronouncement, he noticed that the otherwise angelic-appearing Bertie fixed him with such a baleful stare that his heart gave warning of the unwisdom of impeding the child's desires. It had been many years since St. Ives had found a frog between his sheets or a thistle in his boots, but he had no desire to reacquaint himself with such antics.

  The two adults were, however, delivered from making any farther commentary by the entrance of the other members of their party who, having breakfasted, now made their way into the library. Lady Bristlethwaite and Sir Godfrey Mimms did so of habit, each espousing an intent to spend the remainder of the day in pursuit of their various studies. Edward, having been a disappointment to his late father by evincing only a passing interest in occult matters, came along merely to be sociable. The Honorables, chatting energetically, followed on his heels.

  Diana, whose morning had, thus far, been altogether odious, made her way there as well. She had greeted the day with a good deal of chagrin as she recalled her hot-tempered reception of Edward's greetings on the previous evening. How could her civility have deserted her so quickly—and in company? The memory of the company's startled reactions had risen up like an unpleasant reminder of a childhood transgression.

  Breakfast had been an ordeal as well. It was bad enough that Mr. St. Ives failed to make an appearance (and after she had taken such pains with her costume!), but maintaining her composure in the presence of her hateful cousin was beyond anything. He would keep staring her out of countenance! Then there was the hauteur of those decidedly repellent blond creatures. One of them—who could tell which?—had had the effrontery to call her "child"! Diana had wanted to sink into the carpet. The whole morning had set her teeth quite on edge.

  Joining the group in the library had been a difficult choice. Even though her sleep had been uninterrupted and her dreams quite sweet, she was still reluctant to be left by herself in this rambling house. If she repaired to her chamber, she would only have that dratted Jane with whom to converse. On the other hand, the brief glimpse of her aunt's magical talents on the previous night had aroused more curiosity than dread. She was determined to familiarize herself with this intriguing room and look into some of the volumes herself.

  She approached one of the shelves and ran her finger along a row of leather bindings. The titles were certainly intriguing: The Oracle Speaks, The Curious Lore of Herbs and Flowers, Charm Bags and Witches' Knots, Love Philtres and Other Useful Devices.

  Diana stopped at this last title and carefully pulled the book from the shelf. Even though it was quite large, it seemed, after all, to weigh very little. She carried it to a table, cleared a spot among the papers, and opened it. As she turned its pages, a very curious thing began to happen. She stopped and stared.

  The page she was looking at showed a branch of apple blossom on which were perched a pair of bluebirds. There was a verse on the page as well, but it was very difficult to read. The letters seemed to swim before her. Suddenly, she could swear she heard the chirping of birds.

  Turning quickly, she glanced about the room. Her aunt sat staring out the window, apparently lost in thought. St. Ives was speaking with the older gentleman. Bertie pouted in a corner. The others seemed engaged in conversation. She shook her head. The chirping had stopped.

  As soon as she returned to the page, however, it began again. Even more strange was the faint scent of apple blossoms. Extraordinary! Diana averted her eyes from the page. The scent and sounds disappeared. She looked down. There they were again.

  She turned a page. A roar of wind and waves sang out as a ship tossed at sea bobbed before her. A startlingly cold spray of saltwater mist blew suddenly on her face. Her hands trembled, but, enthralled, she continued to turn the pages. Words and letters danced about as knights jousted, snakes coiled, and mermaids frolicked. At last she came to a page she could read:

  Spelle for Revenge

  The names of villains havynge writte

  Three times upon them shall ye spitte

  Then toss the scrap onto the fyre

  To build a pleyefulle vengeance pyre.

  Useful, she thought, and easy to remember. But what would be the results of such a spell? Probably very little. After all, it hardly seemed likely that Aunt Polly would leave anything dangerous lying about. Besides, it said "pleyefulle vengeance," did it not? Surely, nothing more than a wart or something equally harmless. What would Miss Varney look like with a wart? she wondered.

  Seven

  "Diana!"

  Hippolyta stared down at her niece who immediately closed the volume before her and guiltily pushed it aside. She had been drawn inexplicably to the girl's side as if by some invisible magnet.

  Diana raised her huge brown eyes and blinked once. Twice.

  Hippolyta frowned inwardly. A countenance that innocent must always mean mischief! Besides, the atmosphere had fairly buzzed with the tingle of magic just a moment ago. Now it was gone. She remembered suddenly that Trevalyen had explained to her how the propensity for magic sometimes ran in families. Could it be that Diana shared the talent, too?

  Recalling her niece's high-strung nature, Hippolyta sincerely hoped that she did not. Goodness only knew what unnerving manifestations might arise from a girlish fit of pique! But mere hoping made no odds, she quickly realized. Something must be done. Perhaps she might contrive to divert Diana's attention from the stacks of spell books all about her before too much harm was done. Suddenly, she recalled Sadie's reminder of the night before. The maiden rituals surrounding Midsummer's Eve festivities might be the very thing.

  "Sophia! Maria!" she continued hastily. "Do join us here. I must confer with you for a moment. Lady Bristlethwaite, you had best come as well. This is a matter for all the ladies."

  The older woman at once set down the chart she had been perusing and made her way to Hippolyta's side. Her stepdaughters arose slowly, however, obviously unwilling to pull themselves from Edward's side.

  When they had joined her, Hippolyta began, "It is only two days until Midsummer's Eve is upon us. Here in the countryside it is high holidays, you must know, with a fair during the day and a bonfire and country dancing at night. However, tradition dictates certain rituals for the maidens of the district, secret rituals."

  "What sort of rituals, Aunt Polly?" Diana asked, her eyes round.

  "Rituals… of the heart!" a voice from behind her intoned dramatically.

  "Now, Edward," Hippolyta scolded as she turned to face her stepson's mocking smile. "What do you mean by eavesdropping on us? This has nothing to do with the gentlemen."

  "Rituals of the heart? I should think they had everything to do with us, do you not agree, Diana?" He shot her a teasing smile which she reciprocated by lifting her chin imperiously and turning her back on him.

  If the scowl on her niece's face was any indication of how poor Edward stood in her affections, Hippolyta sincerely hoped that Diana's explorations into the magical realms had been curtailed in time. She did not in the least wish for her stepson to suffer any unnatural transformation. The practice of magic was a chancy thing at best, but, in the hands of such an immature miss, it seemed downright dangerous.

  "Really, Edward! Do not tease Diana. Perhaps we ladies had best retire to my sitting room," she said firmly, tucking her niece's hand under her arm. "There, we shall not be plagued by any interferences."

  The desertion of masculine company was not at all what any of the other ladies wished, but the combination of mystery, romance, and good manners proved too potent for any to protest. They resignedly followed their hostess out of the library, the younger set casting many a veiled and languorous glance over their shoulders toward the abandoned gentlemen.

  When they reached Hippolyta's chamber, sh
e rang for her maid who appeared almost immediately. "Sadie, find Dorcas and take her with you up to the attics and bring down the trunks of maiden gowns. We shall try them here and see if there must be any alterations."

  The maid's eyes brightened with excitement and she bobbed a quick curtsey as she exited the chamber.

  "The rituals," Hippolyta went on, "demand that the maidens of Rookeshaven, at first light of dawn, must dress themselves in white gowns and conduct certain rituals in a secret glade."

  "What sort of rituals?" Diana asked.

  "I came here as a bride," her aunt explained, glancing away, "so, in fact, I do not know. But when the maidens return, they are crowned with blossoms which they cast upon the bonfire."

  "Then what happens?"

  "The stories vary," her aunt replied slowly. "Some claim a vision of the man they will someday marry. Others hear a voice which proclaims his name. Still others will not say."

  "Oh," Diana sighed, looking quite cast down. "I thought perhaps there might be such a thing as a charm for love."

  "Why, there is, my dear," Lady Bristlethwaite informed her.

  Hippolyta groaned inwardly. Of all times for that lady, so customarily timid, to volunteer information! "All one must do," the lady went on breathily, "is secure a lock of hair from the gentleman in question and toss it on the flames along with a bouquet of rosemary tied up with a white riband. Then his affections are unalterably fixed on the lady."

  Hippolyta was not in the least pleased to see the expressions of each of the younger ladies become decidedly calculating. Indeed, the Honorables now seemed to regard their stepmama with somewhat more respect, at least for the moment.

  "That is quite true," she told them guardedly. "But much of the difficulty, you must realize, lies in securing a lock of hair from a gentleman whose heart the lady has not already engaged. And, if that is the case, there is no need for charms in any event."