The Age of Witches

by Louisa Morgan

  In less than a minute, his mother cleared her throat, jerked the velvet curtain decisively, as if she had gone to the window merely to adjust a fold of it, and turned to him. “You’d better ring for Perry,” she said. “It’s time to dress and join our guests in the morning room. The solicitor will be here at eleven.”

  She marched away from him toward the bedroom door, and he stood helplessly watching her. They were rarely affectionate with each other. That wasn’t done in their social class. He had spent most of his youth at boarding school, and even when he was home on holidays, his parents were often abroad. Lady Eleanor was in many ways a hard woman, with old-fashioned principles and a spine as stiff as American iron.

  Still, he admired her, and he certainly respected her. She was a fine example of a woman of her class, a true noblewoman who accepted her duties and responsibilities without demur. She would, of course, expect him to do the same.

  He stood frozen in place as she went out and closed the door behind her with a decisive click. He wished he had found the words to tell her what he thought. A new century was coming, he wanted to protest. A new age was just around the corner. There had to be something he could do to save Seabeck, something practical, businesslike. Streamline farm production. Sell a parcel of land. Cut some corners.

  The idea of putting himself on the marriage market, as if he were one of his Andalusian colts, filled him with self-loathing.

  Other men in his position had done it, of course. They attended the balls and teas of the London season, singled out the richest heiress they could find, and secured their futures that way. There was a regular business associated with the process.

  He wanted nothing to do with it.

  He crossed to the bellpull and summoned his valet. He would go through the proper motions. He would listen to the provisions of the will and examine the finances of the estate.

  As he waited for Perry, he moved to the window and took up the spot his mother had occupied. He gazed past the gardens and the drive to the woods beyond, and past those to the gentle slope of the coombe rising to the top of the hill.

  If there was one sentiment he shared with Lady Eleanor, it was the love of Seabeck, of the house and grounds and stables and farms, the woods and hills and streams. Seabeck had been in the family since the Wars of the Roses. James felt his roots here as surely as if he were one of the great beeches growing in the woods. His heart seemed to beat with the rhythm of the life of Seabeck, and he wanted nothing more than to live and work right here, raising his horses, assisting his tenants, managing his estate.

  The new Marquess of Rosefield would take his seat in the House of Lords as expected, but his heart would always be here, in Dorset, in the family seat. Surely, as the century drew to a close, a man should choose his own path.

  If he could find it.

  11

  Annis

  Annis enjoyed the sea voyage despite herself. The Majestic seemed to her a wondrous vessel, with decks to explore and a bountiful library. Dinners were elegant affairs, with waiters in white coats and gloves, officers in their dark coats with shiny buttons, women in beaded gowns and long white gloves. She usually prided herself on her disdain for such luxuries, but aboard ship they seemed part of a different life, a separate life.

  She worried about Bits, of course, but Robbie had promised to watch over him. She had made a fresh poultice, adding the recommended powdered ginger, and had wrapped it around his leg herself, with instructions to Robbie to see that it remained for at least three days. On board the Majestic, however, there was nothing further she could do. She had to trust that Robbie would see to Bits’s welfare. She decided she might as well give herself over to the adventure.

  And adventure it was. Frances, who found herself queasy at the slightest rise of the sea, spent most of her time in the stateroom, which set Annis free to roam the deck, breathing the pungent sea air, watching the waves splash against the hull. She spent hours in the library, dipping into history books and novels and a well-thumbed Baedeker. She took satisfaction in administering doses of ginger tea, which she made in her stateroom, to Velma, and watching her maid’s greenish complexion turn back to its usual sallow color. She made tea for her stepmother, too, and received a nod of gratitude that made her feel, briefly, like a real herbalist.

  She was surprised, on one of her exploratory tours, to discover half a dozen horses several decks below her own. They traveled in specially constructed stalls with padded walls and straw-covered floors. Annis watched their grooms struggle against the swaying of the ship, filling water buckets and scraping out soiled straw. When one of them slipped and fell, spilling a bucket of grain, she leaped forward, thinking she could help him, but he looked shocked at the sight of a girl from first class coming toward him across the soiled floor, and pretended not to notice her.

  She hurried away with her cheeks burning, and she didn’t visit that deck again.

  She was not the only American girl being escorted to the marriage market of the London season. She encountered two others in the first-class lounge. One was a haughty-looking girl with a high forehead and a voice to match. Her maid was at her side every moment. The second was tiny and thin, dwarfed by her gowns and scarves and jewels, and accompanied by an overbearing woman who Annis guessed must be her mama. The girl had a frightened look that gave Annis a twinge of sympathy.

  She made no attempt to meet either. She was not one of them.

  When the rooflines of Liverpool came into view, she was surprised to feel regret that the voyage had reached its end. It had been a week of peace, of relative freedom from duty and obedience. She wondered if she should ever have another like it.

  The train journey from Liverpool to London was another matter. Annis had no time to savor the scenery, to enjoy the variety of accents, to marvel at the different food, the wonderful tea, the excruciating courtesy of every servant and official.

  Frances fussed endlessly, counting their luggage, ordering Antoinette and Velma back and forth from the dining car, making Annis check and recheck their documents. The peace of the ocean voyage vanished in the steam of the train’s engines and was not restored by their chaotic arrival, the calling for porters to handle the trunks and valises, the hailing of horse-drawn taxicabs until one finally agreed to carry them to their hotel. By the time they reached it, Annis was tense and snappish, Velma was on the verge of tears, and Antoinette had gone silent, behaving as if she no longer understood English.

  Their hotel, called the Swan, was a small one. Furniture crowded the lobby, crimson velvet settees and chairs upholstered in gold brocade. The suite was just as crowded, with wardrobes and bureaus filling every wall. Even the extra dressing room Frances had insisted on was jammed with furniture. The two maids had to stay on a separate floor, which Frances didn’t mind, but when she realized she and Annis would be forced to share a bath, her already-frayed temper broke. The bellhop sent for the manager, who sent for the hapless clerk who had booked the rooms. Complaints and demands flew, and there was much running up and down the staircase as the staff tried to placate the American lady.

  The hotel might not have met Frances’s exacting requirements, but for Annis it was perfect. Just across the road was a park with sun-washed grass, stands of trees, and a broad, manicured drive. She whispered a question to one of the bellhops and learned that it was called Regent’s Park.

  From the bit of it she could see, she thought it must be every bit as beautiful as Central Park at home. In the distance a fountain’s jets of clear water sparkled in the afternoon sun. Horses trotted along the path, their riders wearing handsome jackets and tall hats. She spotted two female riders in sidesaddles, elegant habits draped over their horses’ hindquarters. Small carriages bowled along with liveried drivers at the reins and well-dressed women seated behind them, holding parasols. It was a scene as bright and cheerful as the hotel was dark and grim.

  Annis seized her moment while Frances was engaged in complaining about the linens. It wasn’t q
uite fair to leave Velma unprotected, but she could scarcely breathe in the airless rooms. She yearned for the fresh air and sunshine.

  She sidled out of the room while Frances was scolding a housemaid. She lifted up the short train of her traveling suit, that pointless extra fabric that always threatened to trip her, and dashed down the stairs, nearly colliding with the doorman. He hastened to pull the doors open for her, and she darted outside to dash across the road and on into the park.

  She had expected London to be a cold place, beset by fogs and showers, but on this day the early-June sun poured over the stands of ash and cedar. A shrub she didn’t recognize edged the raked ground of the path. She found a scrolled iron bench where she inadvertently frightened off a squirrel as she sat down to feel the sun on her shoulders and to watch people and horses enjoying the beautiful afternoon.

  The horses appeared to be mostly Thoroughbreds, blacks and chestnuts and bays, with arching necks and the small, delicate heads typical of the breed. She eyed them idly, picking out the ones who might be a match for Black Satin, though there was an ocean between them. Content with this pastime, she stretched out her legs and leaned back against the bench, enjoying the familiar sounds of hooves on hard ground, well-oiled leather creaking, bridles jingling as the intermittent parade of equestrians passed by.

  When a different horse appeared, she straightened in surprise. It was a heavier breed than the ones she had seen so far, a handsome white mare with a short, muscular neck, wide shoulders, and a hawklike profile that implied strength and nobility. Her mane and tail were golden brown, and wavy, as if they had been braided and then brushed. Her gait was clean and crisp, and she bore her rider, a tall man with long legs, as if he weighed nothing at all.

  Suddenly England was interesting. This mare would be perfect to cross with Black Satin, if the obstacle of the Atlantic Ocean could be overcome. She was sturdy. She appeared to have a level disposition, paying no attention to the other mounts who passed her or the rattle and bang of the occasional landau. She carried herself beautifully, with a nice balance between the set of her head and the movement of her hindquarters. She held her silken tail high, a sure sign of joy and pride.

  Annis jumped up, admiring the flex and stretch of the mare’s hindquarters as she trotted past.

  “I want that horse!” Annis exclaimed, making a gentleman and a lady strolling by look at her in surprise. Startled, she put her gloved fingers to her lips. In her enthusiasm she hadn’t realized she was speaking aloud.

  The horse and its lanky rider disappeared around a bend, leaving her gazing after them. She wished Robbie could have seen the mare. She would be interested in his opinion. She wished she had flagged the rider down so she could ask about the horse, perhaps even see if she might be for sale.

  And she wanted to ride the horse herself, to feel that strong movement, that stout back, to know if the mare’s mouth was soft or hard, if her gait was as smooth as it looked.

  But it was a big park, and the path was long. There was little chance she could find the horse and rider if she went looking for them. The sun was beginning to sink beyond the trees, and though a few pedestrians still lingered on the grass, all the horses and carriages seemed to have gone. Frances would be looking for her, no doubt wanting her to dress for dinner. Velma would be getting anxious.

  Annis took one last look behind her at the spray of the fountain glistening in the lowering rays of the sun. She was still watching it shimmer against the fading sky as she picked up her skirts to cross the path.

  She heard the rattle of hoofbeats, but too late. She leaped back, out of the way of a horse coming at full gallop along the now-deserted path. The train of her traveling suit caught on her left boot, and she stumbled, then fell to the ground with a thump. Her eyes watered at the impact. Her hat flew off her head as if she had tossed it.

  “Oh damn! Miss? Are you all right, miss?”

  She struggled to a sitting position, fighting the tangle of her skirts and the constriction of her bodice. The rider of the horse dismounted in a leap and crouched beside her, one hand under her right elbow, the other reaching for her left hand. He said again, “Oh, do tell me you’re all right! I didn’t see you there! I was sure this part of the park was deserted, now it’s getting so dark, and—oh damn!”

  She leaned on him as she got to her feet and shook out the troublesome skirts. “I’m not hurt,” she told him. She was sure to have an embarrassing bruise under her chemise, but there was no need to admit that. “I’m the one who must apologize. I was looking at the—so silly of me—looking back at the fountain when I should have been watching the path. I thought everyone had gone, too.”

  Standing straight at last, she looked up and saw that the horse who had almost run her down was the white mare she had so admired. “It’s you!” she exclaimed.

  The man misunderstood. “Me?” he said. His voice was nice, quite deep. She was surprised to find he was a full head taller than she, something that didn’t often happen. He said, “Have we met? I’m sorry, but I don’t—”

  “Oh no, not you, sir! I meant the horse!”

  He stared at her, openmouthed. She realized how strange that must have sounded, and how odd she must look, hatless and disheveled.

  She straightened her jacket, bent to retrieve her hat, and tried to regain some dignity. “I should explain,” she said. “I saw your mare earlier and wished I could see her again. I was startled and spoke without thinking.”

  He closed his mouth and regarded her solemnly. He really was very tall, rather young, and too lean for his height. He had a shock of pale hair worn long on his collar, and quite good hazel eyes, darkened now with alarm.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said again. She put out her hand, saw at the last moment that her glove was grimy from her fall, and retracted it. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just—I love horses, you see.”

  “Then we are well met. I love horses, too.”

  “What’s your mare’s name?”

  “This is Breeze. She’s an Andalusian.”

  “Is she? Oh, that’s marvelous! I did wonder. I have the perfect stud for her.”

  The young man’s eyes widened, and Annis couldn’t resist a laugh. “Oh dear,” she said. “I keep shocking people. I never intend to, truly. I’m a horse breeder, you see. I have a marvelous Thoroughbred stallion at home, called Black Satin, and I’m looking for mares exactly like this one to start my new bloodline.”

  “Ah. Well.” He turned to his mare as if seeking refuge from Annis’s barrage of words. “Well, here she is. I—This seems rather an improper topic to be discussing with a young lady, but perhaps…”

  Annis was tired of being told she was improper, and thoroughly bored with people pretending she couldn’t know about such a practical thing as breeding animals, but she tried to hide her impatience behind courtesy. “May I examine Breeze more closely?”

  He stepped back a little, letting the reins go slack. Annis saw with approval that the mare didn’t shy away from her in the least, although she twisted her head to see the newcomer. “Lovely girl,” Annis murmured as she held out her hand for the horse to sniff. “Lovely big girl, aren’t you, Breeze?”

  She ran her hand under the thick mane, down the ridge of muscle to the point of the shoulder. She bent to feel the strength of the forearm and the knee, and the mare immediately lifted her hoof. Annis grinned at this familiar action and accepted the hoof, balancing it on her thigh, examining the pastern with her fingers. It was getting too dark to see, in truth, but she didn’t want to miss a moment with this horse.

  When she straightened, letting Breeze set her foot down, the young man said, “You do know horses. You surprise me.”

  Annis brushed at the smudge of dirt the mare’s hoof had left on her skirt. “Why? Because I’m a female?”

  “I don’t know any girls who would pick up a horse’s hoof that way.”

  Annis patted Breeze’s warm shoulder. “I take care of my horses myself.”

&nb
sp; “Even the stallion?” His fair eyebrows rose.

  “Especially the stallion,” she said, with a lift of her chin. “I supervise everything that happens with Bits. I mean, with Black Satin.”

  “You don’t mean… surely not everything.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course! It can be a delicate process, don’t you think? The servicing of a mare by a stallion can sometimes be complicated—”

  He gave an audible gasp and actually drew away from her as if her crudeness might be infectious. “Miss,” he began, and then seemed to have run out of words.

  She exhaled an exasperated breath. “You’re shocked. I told you I shock people.”

  “Oh no, no,” he said, but he sounded as if he would choke on the words.

  If she hadn’t been afraid she would startle the mare, she would have stamped her foot. “Why should it shock you that I understand how foals are created? If the horses do not join together—their bodies, I mean, so that…” She could see she had lost him.

  He cleared his throat, probably to stop her speaking. He looked away from her, out to the road beyond the park, as if he were searching for something. “I—I must be on my way, I’m afraid. An engagement. Please excuse me.”

  “Of course. It’s getting late.” She stepped back to give him room to mount. When he was in the saddle, resettling his hat on his head, she couldn’t help asking, “Do let me see Breeze again, though, when the light is better. Is she stabled nearby?”

  He hesitated, just long enough that she knew he was choosing how to refuse. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’re due to start back to our country house tomorrow.” He lifted the reins and touched the brim of his hat.

  “Wait, sir—could we—perhaps I could—”

  “Sorry, miss,” he said again. “Must dash. Very nice to have met you.”

  It was clear he couldn’t wait to escape the American girl’s blunt talk.