The Age of Witches

by Louisa Morgan

  A hair. One single, very fair hair, long and curling, caught on the fabric. Swiftly, as she turned away, she snatched it up. As she made her way out of the dining room she wound it around one finger for safekeeping.

  Now she unwound the hair and laid it in a careful curl on the surface of the dressing table. The napkin with its stain, and the crumbs of cheese she had scooped up, she set beside the hair, taking care so as not to brush the crumbs onto the floor. She took up the lump of wax and warmed it between her hands.

  When it was malleable enough, she made a rude image of a man with stubby arms, longer legs, a middle. She pressed the wooden bead into the top and then used the mucilage to secure the single hair to it, curling it around and around the bead. She had no paint, but she drew eyes onto the bead by upending her pen over it and letting two drops of ink fall onto the wood. The eyes were rather blurred, but they were more or less in the right places. She drew a line for the mouth, straight and uncompromising.

  Last she pressed the crumbs of cheese into the waxen middle of her manikin and folded the napkin around the whole, so it looked more or less like a nightshirt. She propped the thing against the mirror and regarded it for a moment. It was inelegant and unconvincing, but it would do.

  She sighed and stretched. It was going to be a long night.

  She had thought it strange, when she first saw Rosefield Hall, that the house’s facade faced the wrong way, looking away from the sea. Her bedroom faced in the opposite direction, with a beautiful vista of a narrow stone terrace, a shrubbery and lawn dropping down a gentle slope, and the English Channel in the distance.

  Best of all, for Frances’s purpose, was a small mock-Greek temple at the end of the lawn. It was pillared, open to the air, and partially hidden by some sort of large bush that grew beside its steps.

  A folly. It was perfect.

  Wearing her dressing gown and a pair of soft boots, and with the valise cradled in her arms, she crept along the corridor toward the servants’ stairs. With an excuse ready on her lips should she need it, she slipped out through a baize door and into a narrow staircase. A half moon glowed through a single small window, shedding just enough light for her to pick out the treads. It seemed a good omen to her that she didn’t encounter anyone, neither the butler nor the housekeeper nor any of the dozens of other servants. The house was peaceful, sleeping like a many-headed beast, quiescent under the moonlight. Her body throbbed with excitement, and though she felt as if she could have flown down the staircase, she forced herself to move with care, lest a tumble put an end to all her plans.

  She had to unlock the back door. She left the door off its latch as she sidled through, her valise close to her chest. She kept to the shadows as she made her way across the terrace and down the steps.

  Shards of moonlight striped the folly through its pillars. A few leaves littered the floor, and branches of a huge rhododendron, its blossoms spent but its leaves thick and dark, hung over it. A stone bench curved along the inside, and Frances laid out her things on it, one by one, herbs, vials, and the two manikins. Poppets, her ancestresses used to call them, but that word was too trivial for what she had created.

  “It’s a new age, grandmothers,” she whispered, smiling into the dark. “A modern age of witches, one you could never have imagined.”

  She had brought a needle, and she pierced her left forefinger to harvest more of her blood. Her last rite had worn off too quickly, allowing Annis to flaunt her rebellious ways much too soon. This one would have to hold for the length of their visit, long enough to achieve an offer of marriage and an acceptance of the offer. A betrothal.

  She squeezed her finger until the blood ran, half filling the little vial.

  She mixed her ingredients, stirring in the wine and blood. She reduced her potion over the candle flame, tilting the saucer to test its thickness. As before, she painted the syrup onto Annis’s manikin, and then, baring her teeth with the sheer joy of doing it, onto the manikin representing James, Marquess of Rosefield. She spoke her cantrip with relish, enunciating every word, feeling the power in every line.

  The power of witch’s blood and claws

  Bends your will unto my cause.

  Root and leaf in candle fire

  Invest you with impure desire.

  She added, to intensify the spell:

  For each other you will yearn,

  Your body will ache and your blood will burn.

  Have each other you will, and must,

  Nothing less will slake your lust.

  It was a strong, clear cantrip. It stated her purpose and focused her mind, just as Beryl had taught her. Beryl would have hated this cantrip. Harriet would have been shocked by it, but that didn’t matter. Harriet was half a world away.

  Had Harriet ever employed the maleficia, she would understand the intoxicating effect it had, the irresistible pull of its magic. She would never do it, of course. She was too cautious, too fearful of what such power could do. She would never know this glorious sense of invincibility.

  Giddy with the power of it, Frances held her manikins, one in each hand, and waited for their response.

  It came with astounding swiftness. First the simulacrum of Annis began to warm and quiver against her palm. That made perfect sense, as she had already begun the process with it. It was attuned to her.

  The manikin representing Rosefield took longer, but when it finally answered her summons, there was no doubting it. It grew so warm she feared the wax might melt, and its ugly, awkward limbs trembled in her hand.

  Trembled before her cleverness. Her magic. Her maleficia.

  The energy of the spell triggered the deep ache in her body, but she was prepared for it this time and barely noticed. Her heart swelled with pride in her achievement. She had done it again.

  “You see, grandmothers,” she whispered. “A modern age of witches, and I am the strongest of them all.”

  17

  James

  James went to bed that night in a foul mood, and woke up in an even worse one.

  The American girl had humiliated him at dinner. He knew—Perry had confessed as much—that all the staff were talking about it. He had disliked the girl already, but this embarrassment was intolerable. It was mortifying.

  The American girls who came to England husband-hunting had the reputation of being spirited, but Miss Allington was more than spirited, beyond outspoken. Her behavior was nothing short of scandalous.

  Lady Eleanor came to his room before breakfast. “Rosefield,” she said cheerfully. “Not dressed yet? Good. I want to talk to you.”

  He held the door for her and reluctantly followed her to the hearth, tightening his dressing gown around his waist. She took a seat by the fire and he sat opposite her, his hands on his knees, his head aching with tension.

  She said, “Well? What did you think of her?”

  James was too tired and too angry to be tactful. “Think of her? I don’t want to think of her at all, Mother! She’s utterly unsuitable.”

  “What do you mean? Because she refuses to ride sidesaddle?”

  “You’ve heard the story. I expect everyone in Rosefield Hall knows it by now.”

  “I’m sure they do.” Lady Eleanor leaned back, pulling up the collar of her dressing gown. “You shouldn’t have been so silly, Rosefield.”

  “Silly!”

  “Silly. The custom of riding sidesaddle is ridiculous.”

  “It is not! What about—I mean, young ladies who are unwed—”

  “Oh good God!” Lady Eleanor snapped. “Unwed? You don’t really subscribe to the notion that riding cross-saddle destroys a girl’s virginity?”

  “Mother!” James gasped. “I don’t want to have this conversation with you!”

  “Why?” She leaned forward, and her eyes glittered with impatience. “Rosefield, when did you grow into such a prude?”

  “I am not a—”

  “Clearly you are! It’s no wonder the staff are having a laugh at your expense!”
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  “You’re hardly helping matters.” James threw his head back against his chair and closed his eyes. “Surely you don’t want such a—a hoyden bearing our name.”

  “Why is she a hoyden? She spoke the truth. I find it refreshing.”

  James didn’t open his eyes. It was easier that way to speak his mind to his mother. “Everyone knows riding cross-saddle is a clear statement that a young lady has no virtue to protect.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” Lady Eleanor snapped. “You know, Rosefield, we expect girls to marry and produce heirs—to breed, if you will, like your precious Andalusians—but we don’t expect them to understand how it’s accomplished. Is that fair?”

  “Oh my God,” James groaned. “A man doesn’t want to speak of these things with his mother.”

  “No? Then with whom will you speak of them? Your father is no longer here. You must marry, and I’d far rather embarrass you than have you make a muddle of things right from the start. Being coy about the facts won’t help.” She reached out her slippered foot and jostled his knee, making him open his eyes, though he didn’t lift his head. “Too many marriages fail because neither the bride nor the groom understands what goes where, you know.”

  “Mother,” James moaned.

  “Son,” she said. “Let us speak plainly. You have no male relative to advise you, so it falls to me. Not to speak ill of the queen, but her obsession with modesty is ruining the upper class of this country. I suppose I can’t blame you, since all our set seem to think the same way, but I swear—the aristocracy will die out if we don’t encourage more frankness.”

  “Well,” James said sourly, “when it comes to Miss Allington, you won’t have to worry about that. I suspect she knows more about what goes where than I do.”

  Lady Eleanor surprised him with an indelicate guffaw. “Does she, indeed! I do like that girl.”

  “She likes horses better than people, I’m fairly certain.”

  “So do you!”

  He scowled at her. “I didn’t like her in the first place, Mother. I like her less now.”

  “What first place?”

  “She’s the one I met in Regent’s Park.”

  “What? She was?”

  “Yes, and she had no manners at all.”

  “Manners can be learned. You and she share an interest in horses, which is no small thing.” His mother’s smile vanished, and she fixed him with a hard stare. “We need her, you know. Our situation is serious.”

  “I know that better than anyone, Mother. Just the same, I—”

  Lady Eleanor raised a hand to stop his thought. “You’ll have to give her a chance, Rosefield. Look at her again, without all your missish sensitivities. The girl may not be a beauty, but she has lovely skin, wonderful hair, brilliant eyes. She also has the body type that will never run to fat.” She patted her own soft midriff. “Lucky.”

  She stood up and started for the door. “Give her a tour of the stables. If she wants to ride, indulge her. Remember what’s at stake here.”

  She was gone before James could think of an effective protest. He sighed and rang for Perry. He would breakfast in his room so he didn’t have to face the guests. He would dress for riding and have Perry take a message to Miss Allington.

  It was not at all the way he wanted to spend his day. Irritably he kicked off his slippers, first the left, then the right. They both flew across the floor and slid under his bed, disappearing into the darkness.

  Cursing, but not wanting Perry to have to hunt for them, the Marquess of Rosefield got down on his knees and scrabbled under the bed until he found the slippers. He set them side by side in front of the wardrobe.

  When he straightened, he caught sight of himself in the mirrored door. “Damn,” he said, shaking his head. Stubble covered his chin, and his hair stood out every which way, as if he had slept standing on his head. His neck, poking out of the wide collar of his dressing gown, looked as scrawny as that of a farmer’s nag.

  “Hardly an appealing figure,” he muttered. “Chances are the dratted girl wouldn’t have me anyway.”

  Two hours later a reluctant James walked down the main staircase, intending to await Miss Allington in the library as his note had promised. Instead he found her waiting in the foyer, pacing back and forth on the parquet floor. She caught sight of him and went to the foot of the stairs, gazing upward.

  As he looked down on her, a strange thing happened. He had thought of her, at dinner the night before, and certainly in Regent’s Park, as unremarkable in her appearance. She had struck him as boyish-looking, with her modest bosom and those narrow hips no bustle could disguise. Her eyes were good, the cool blue of the forget-me-nots that grew in the meadows of Seabeck, and her hair was dark and thick, but her nose was a bit long, and her chin too strong, almost masculine.

  That had been his impression, but this morning—oh, this was indeed odd. He experienced a jolt of disorientation, as if he had opened the wrong door and gone into a room he didn’t recognize.

  Miss Allington stood in a shaft of sunlight falling through the leaded glass windows that flanked the front doors. Perhaps that was what made her seem, ever so faintly, to sparkle. Or perhaps it was that her riding habit, a severely cut deep forest green, suited her better than the pink-and-cream creation she had worn last night. Her hair was twisted up under a matching hat with no decoration other than a row of three large jet buttons. The same buttons adorned the riding jacket, running in two flattering rows from her collar to the points at her narrow waistline.

  His step faltered so that he nearly missed a stair. She didn’t look so different, surely, even with the tailored habit and subdued hat, the sunshine picking out the light freckles scattered across her face, but…

  He cleared his throat. “Good morning, Miss Allington.” His voice surprised him in its steadiness, because his stomach quivered and his pulse beat a swift rhythm in his throat. He felt, inexplicably, that he wanted to touch her. He wanted to take her gloved hand. He wanted to put his hand on her slender waist. Indeed…

  He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to taste the texture of that smooth, freckled cheek, breathe in the fragrance of her hair.

  What artifice could have created this change in his reaction to her? What alchemy could be wrought by a different dress, a comely hat, the glow of June sunshine?

  There was no time to ponder the question. She said, “Good morning, my lord,” and her smile, white and happy, flashed out. “I can hardly wait to see your horses. Thank you so much for the invitation!”

  He managed, somehow, to take himself in hand. He gestured with his arm toward the doors. “We have a beautiful day, it seems.”

  “Yes, it’s lovely! A perfect day for riding, don’t you think?” He reached the bottom of the staircase, and she turned to walk at his side toward the doors. Her head easily reached the top of his shoulder, something he rarely experienced in a girl. “I admit, though,” she said, “I ride in all weather. Unless the paths are too icy for Bits, of course.”

  It was an unremarkable comment, but somehow one of the most charming things he had ever heard a young lady say. He glanced down at her and was stunned by the clarity of her eyes, glistening like sapphires. He just stopped himself from clearing his throat again. Such an irritating habit. He said, “I don’t mind weather, either. Rain or sun, I would rather be astride a horse than languishing behind a desk.”

  The word astride should have recalled their argument, but somehow it did not. It seemed foolish now to have fallen out over something so trivial. His mother had been right, and now, to his great surprise, he found himself eager to give Annis Allington a chance. What had been shocking at dinner, and in Regent’s Park, now seemed wonderfully bold, delightfully daring. The girl who had seemed unfit for the company at Rosefield Hall now cast the elderly couples as staid and out of touch. Surely this tall, slender girl, with her modern ideas and outspoken ways, was a young woman perfectly suited to the coming new century.

  He couldn’t guess ho
w the change in his perception might have happened. He also couldn’t resist, as he escorted her down the broad front steps to the drive and around to their left, where the stable block and paddocks beckoned, putting his hand under her elbow.

  She glanced up at him, her lips curving. “I’m in no danger of tripping, my lord.”

  He dropped her arm, and his cheeks burned. “No, of course not. I can see that, Miss Allington.” They walked on, James lost in a cloud of bemusement.

  What, he wondered, had happened to him? What did this overnight transformation of his feelings mean? It had brought with it, he was appalled to realize, a strange and shameful feeling in his groin.

  It was as if he had been bewitched.

  18

  Annis

  Annis was grateful for the distraction of the horses. She had woken that morning with the sick feeling in her belly once again. It was an odd, yearning ache, utterly unfamiliar to her. She felt hot, too, not feverish, but heated, with an excruciating awareness of every part of her body.

  She couldn’t have described the feeling to Velma, nor would she have tried. It was embarrassing, somehow—not an illness, exactly, but an uneasy discomfort, as if she were hungry, although not for food. She hungered, it seemed, for…

  Well. She wouldn’t name what she hungered for, even to herself. It made no sense. It was, in a way, repulsive.

  It also confounded her that the marquess seemed a different person this morning. The figure she had thought so painfully thin the night before now seemed merely lean. It was nice that he was so tall, too. She was often self-conscious about her height. She could appreciate the autumn color of his eyes today, because he appeared to have overcome his distaste for her, looking directly into her face, even taking her arm as they left the house.

  She didn’t know how to manage the confusion of her feelings. Fortunately, there was no confusion when it came to the Andalusians.