The Age of Witches

by Louisa Morgan

  “We’re still going to do it, aren’t we?”

  “I believe we can do it, but as to its being right or not, I would say that whether an action is right or wrong depends greatly on your viewpoint.”

  “I think you know what my viewpoint is.”

  “Yes. And mine is the same. I did give this some thought, Annis, because it matters how we use our ability. It seems to me, though, that the man who bought Black Satin has hundreds of horses to choose from. They are his business, not his passion. As long as he is repaid, we’re not going to cause him any harm. Further, I suspect your father sold your horse to offset the considerable expense your dowry was going to be.”

  “And now there won’t have to be one.”

  “Evidently not.”

  Annis thought Harriet sounded amused, but it didn’t show on her face. Annis said, “This isn’t the maleficia, then.”

  “No, most definitely not. Just a tiny spell of persuasion, for a horse and a bit of money. It doesn’t need the maleficia to succeed. Were you worried?”

  “I remember you said the maleficia can corrupt the person who uses it.”

  “As you have seen.”

  “I was part of it, wasn’t I? I worry that it’s still inside me, in my blood, in my mind.”

  “I know that feeling, Annis. The choice will be yours to make, as it was hers. She gave in to it. You don’t need to do that.”

  Harriet turned back to her work, pulling down swatches of herbs. She laid a cutting board and knife next to the mortar and pestle.

  Annis asked, “Does your housekeeper know what you do?”

  Harriet sliced a twig of dried rosemary with the knife. “Grace has been with me for a long time. She knows I’m an herbalist. I sometimes think she suspects I am something more, but she never says so.” She went back to her task, smiling over it. “She would tolerate it, I think, out of loyalty, but she’s an old-fashioned woman with a prosaic turn of mind. She might not even believe it.”

  Annis pondered that as she watched Harriet grind leaves of wormwood and chop a bit of mandrake root. As her aunt began to gather the prepared ingredients in a small copper bowl, she said, “I wonder how many other women are like us? They wouldn’t dare to say, would they?”

  Harriet spoke without looking away from her work. “Women like us don’t reveal themselves as a rule. That’s why we try to track the Bishop descendants, so we can watch over them, nurture their ability.”

  “Do you think there are others—not Bishops—who have the ability?”

  “I know there are.” Harriet dusted her fingers over the bowl, then set it on the counter next to a fat white candle. “They keep to themselves, out of necessity. I met one once, though. At the herb shop. We just—” She smiled at the memory and finished in a voice of nostalgia. “We just recognized each other.”

  “Did you speak of it?”

  “I wish we had. I would have liked a friend who understood. A colleague to share with.”

  Annis sighed. “So many secrets. It’s sad.”

  “You’re right. Secrets are kept because people—men in particular, but women, too—are quick to judge. To condemn.” Harriet lifted her amulet from around her neck and settled it against the candle. “Frightened people are dangerous.”

  Annis took off her moonstone and set it opposite the ametrine, with the candle between them. It made a pretty tableau, the yellow-and-violet ametrine in its puddle of silver chain, the creamy moonstone surrounded by pearls, the white candle in the center. It looked as innocent as a decorative display in a curio cabinet, but she could imagine that someone observing what she and Harriet did, seeing the effect they were about to create, might be frightened by it. It was a shame. How many people denied their ability out of fear? How much magic was wasted?

  She reflected, as she and Harriet began their rite, that Frances would never again do this. She would never again employ her knowledge or her ability to affect events or manipulate people, for good or ill. Frances’s power—Frances’s magic—was gone forever.

  38

  Harriet

  With a freshly concocted and magicked salve in a tiny jar in Annis’s pocket, Harriet and Annis rode in a hired carriage to the commercial stable on Third Avenue and Twenty-Fourth Street. The Herald had reported that one Mr. Albert Neufeld had added Black Satin to his breeding stock. Sally wasn’t important enough to warrant a mention in the newspaper report, but they hoped to find out something about her when they arrived.

  They had chosen their clothes deliberately. Annis wore her most expensive suit, cream linen with a peach-colored vest, a jacket embroidered in peach thread, and an elaborate hat with a peach-colored feather. She appeared the very picture of a wealthy young socialite. Harriet wore a walking dress in a summer print, clearly not new, with a modest straw hat.

  Mr. Neufeld was the proprietor of a hired-carriage business, with an office adjacent to his stables. He clearly assumed, as they were ushered by his clerk into his private office, that Harriet was Miss Allington’s chaperone, and that the daughter of the owner of the Allington Iron Stove Company had come to rent a carriage.

  He bowed to Annis and nodded to Harriet. “Miss Allington,” he said, actually rubbing his plump hands together. “A pleasure to meet you, after my happy association with your father. How can I help you? A landau? A brougham, perhaps, and a pair? I understand you have a grand wedding coming up!”

  Annis curtsied prettily. “Thank you, Mr. Neufeld,” she said, skirting the issue of her wedding. “I’ve learned you bought my horse while I was abroad. I long to see him one more time, and I thought—I hoped—you might be kind enough to let me visit his stall.”

  “Well!” This request evidently startled Mr. Neufeld, and the eager expression on his round face sagged into one of bewilderment. “Well, Miss Allington, of course I—I mean, the black is a stallion, and I’m not sure a young lady—”

  “I do realize it’s unusual, Mr. Neufeld,” Annis said, with impressive smoothness. Her upbringing, Harriet could see, had prepared her for dealing with tradespeople. “It’s just that since I gave up riding my dear little pony, Sally—”

  “I have your pony, Miss Allington!” Neufeld exclaimed, with an air of relief. “Her stall is just up on the second floor. Would you like to see her? I’ve already rented her out for two birthday parties, and all the children found her most amenable.”

  “Of course, I would love to see Sally,” Annis said. “But, Mr. Neufeld, truly—I’ve been riding Black Satin for three years, almost every day. He knows me well, and he’s no danger to me. I promise you it’s perfectly safe for me to say hello, stroke him a bit. I just—I do so long to see him one more time!”

  It was clear Neufeld was still uncomfortable, but after a few more exchanges, during which Annis became more and more tremulous, and Neufeld’s thick features drooped in confusion, they were on their way, up a cleated wooden ramp to the third floor of the stables. Neufeld stood close to the gate as Annis approached the stall, adopting a protective stance, as if he was afraid the horse might try to break free.

  Tears glimmered in Annis’s eyes as she stepped forward, holding out her gloved hands to the horse. Black Satin threw up his head and whickered, and then, in a movement that startled Neufeld, he pressed his chest against the gate so he could stretch out his neck and drop his head into Annis’s waiting hands.

  Annis slid her hands up over Black Satin’s cheeks and onto the arch of his neck. She pressed her forehead to his, and the two stood there for a long moment, the beautiful black horse and the tall, slender girl. It was an embrace between two creatures devoted to each other. Harriet could have shed a tear or two herself.

  Neufeld was not so sensitive. He cleared his throat and tugged his jacket over his protuberant belly. Harriet guessed he wanted to intervene but was wary of offending the daughter of George Allington, soon to make a brilliant marriage.

  Nervously Neufeld turned to Harriet for reassurance. She gave him a frosty nod, even as she saw, beyon
d his shoulder, Annis stroking a palmful of their salve onto Black Satin’s neck, beneath the fringe of his mane.

  Annis, as they had planned, took charge. “Mr. Neufeld, I believe there is a scratch on Black Satin’s neck. A wound, perhaps from a protruding nail or a splinter. It might be bleeding. Have you ascertained the safety of this stall?”

  Neufeld, with a grunt of anxiety over the condition of his expensive purchase, reached to examine the spot Annis had just smeared with their salve. He slid his hand beneath Black Satin’s mane and ran his fingers along the horse’s neck. Neufeld stepped back, looking curiously at his fingers. They shone, as if with sweat, or oil.

  He said, “I don’t find any wound, Miss Allington. This is not blood, but—well. I don’t know what it is. It is very hot today, and perhaps…” He rubbed his fingers together, then wiped them on his trousers.

  “Oh, what a relief,” Annis said coolly. Still with one hand on Black Satin’s neck, she said, “Mr. Neufeld, please. Will you consider selling my horse back to us? My father misunderstood my situation. I want to have Bits back in our stables. Black Satin, I mean.”

  Neufeld licked his lips uncertainly. “I don’t—Miss Allington, this is—does your father—”

  As the salve took effect, the change in Neufeld was neither subtle nor slow. His frown of confusion transformed into a genial, avuncular look. His eyes brightened, and his brow smoothed. He said, as if it gave him pleasure to do so, “But of course, Miss Allington! Anything I can do for the bride-to-be! Anything that will make you happy! There’s to be a title, I understand? Now, I am sure we can come to an arrangement that will please both you and Mr. Allington, and—”

  He burbled on for a bit, happy now that his anxiety had eased, eager to do anything Miss Allington asked of him. Harriet stood silent as Annis made the arrangements.

  A plan was easily agreed to. Black Satin, and Sally as well, would be delivered to the Allington stables the following morning. The payment for the horses would be refunded by Mr. Allington, with an allowance for their care and feeding during the period of Mr. Neufeld’s custody of them. Miss Allington, of course, would recommend Neufeld’s carriages for hire to all her friends and wouldn’t dream of using any others for her wedding arrangements.

  They stopped for a brief visit to Sally before making their way out of the stables, Neufeld making jolly comments all the while. The alteration sat oddly upon his thick features and stolid manner, like a costume that didn’t quite suit. Harriet contained her amusement until she and Annis were safely in the privacy of their hired car.

  Once the carriage horse had begun to trot northward, she began to chuckle. “You, Annis Allington,” she said, “were born for this! You must have confidence in our work now, I hope?”

  “I do, Aunt Harriet, I do!” Annis glowed with relief and joy over her reunion with Bits. “Mr. Neufeld seems perfectly happy, and as you say, he has a stable full of other horses! I will see to Papa’s dose of our salve the moment we’re home.”

  “I wish you good luck with that. We’ll drop you there, and I’ll go on to the Dakota.”

  Annis turned glowing eyes to her. “When do we begin my apprenticeship, Aunt Harriet?”

  “Why, my dear Annis,” Harriet said, still smiling, nearly as joyful as her great-niece at the success of their mission. “It has already begun.”

  39

  James

  Autumn wound to its close with clement weather that brought

  an abundant harvest from every sun-drenched Seabeck farm. The spring foals were thriving, bounding around their pasture with all the joy of youth and health. The fall foliage painted the hills and the coombe with red and gold and bronze. James had at last fully recovered from his strange illness in the summer.

  There was no peace, though, for either the Marquess of Rosefield or the dowager marchioness. Despite the good harvest and the prompt rents of their tenants, expenses spiraled upward. The roof of Rosefield Hall sprouted two new, serious leaks. A hundred-year-old chimney gave way under the unusual bout of heat, its bricks tumbling over the gutters and nearly decapitating a gardener. One wing of the stable block suffered a small fire that destroyed the tack room and ruined half the hay stored in the loft. A bank loan with a steep rate of interest, taken out by the old marquess, seemed to grow larger every month. Lady Eleanor and Lord Rosefield were falling further behind than ever.

  Though the London season was over, Lady Eleanor managed to invite a dwindling stream of young heiresses to Rosefield Hall. James did his best to be polite, to take an interest, but to no avail. Even the prettiest face, the most delicate waist, the loveliest curls, seemed bland and uninteresting to him in comparison with the height and athleticism and carelessly freckled nose of Annis Allington. If the hair was fair, he wished it were dark. If the eyes were brown, he longed for forget-me-not eyes that looked so coolly onto the world. Mostly, the flow of inconsequential small talk made him yearn for the frankness of an American girl now lost to him.

  “Rosefield, you must choose someone. You’re twenty-one. It’s time.”

  “I don’t think, Mother, that my age has anything to do with it.”

  She sniffed and wriggled a bit against the strictures of her corset. “Perhaps not. But our finances have everything to do with it. I’m not sure we can survive another year.” They were lingering over their coffee in the morning room. The weather had turned at last, causing Lady Eleanor to order a fire built.

  “It’s the debt that’s holding us back, Mother. If we can’t pay down the principal, we’ll never get ahead.”

  “I know. I warned your father this could happen.”

  “Did you? You knew?”

  “It was the house in London. Its roof was falling in, and your father was short of cash, so he took out a loan. He wasn’t a practical man, I’m afraid. He may have ruined us.” She sat stiffly, as always, and her face was as impassive as if she were reciting someone else’s history. “That,” she added, in a hard voice James had come to understand hid her real distress, “would be a shame, would it not? When all we need is an infusion of cash.”

  “Well, Mother,” James said, trying to speak as evenly as she had. “I’m going to sell the High Point parcel. I can get a good price for it from Hemmings.”

  “I’m against it.”

  “I know. But unlike Father, I’m a practical man.”

  “I’ve brought you a half dozen suitable brides, Rosefield. Any one of them would have a generous settlement made on her by a father who will hardly notice the loss.”

  “I would rather lose the land than marry someone I don’t care for.”

  “Care for! What does it matter if you care for her?”

  “It matters to me.” He rose abruptly and went to the fireplace. He put one hand in his pocket and the other on the mantel as he gazed down into the flames. Did he dare confess the truth to his mother? He heard her draw breath to press her argument, and he spoke in haste to forestall her. “I’m in love with Annis Allington, Mother.”

  “Goodness.” Lady Eleanor, with a grunt, pushed herself to her feet. “Not that I think being in love is a real condition, Rosefield, but if you feel that way, why did you let her slip through your fingers?”

  “She was never in my fingers,” he said bitterly, staring down into the dancing fire. One of the small logs fell into two pieces, sending a drift of sparks up the chimney. He felt a bit like that log, falling into two pieces. One was here, arguing with his mother. The other was on a ship to New York to try again to woo his American girl.

  “It’s a figure of speech,” his mother said. She smoothed the skirt of her morning dress as she came to stand beside him.

  “I know. But Annis—between Mrs. Allington and you, and me, I suppose, she felt trapped. Manipulated. She never wanted a titled husband. She never wanted to leave New York.”

  “You’ll get over her,” Lady Eleanor said. She didn’t reach out to touch him. That was not a gesture that often passed between them. She did, however, allow a
bit of warmth to creep into her voice, a tinge of sympathy. “But I’m sorry, Rosefield. I believe I understand. I liked her very well myself.”

  He straightened, facing her. “Did you? You haven’t told me that.”

  “She’s a clever girl, and not afraid of hard work. She’s reasonably attractive, and though her stepmother is rather obviously nouveau riche, Annis is not. She has—I would say she has substance. And dignity.” Lady Eleanor spread her hands. “I suppose it makes no difference, if she won’t have you. My own feelings are of no consequence.”

  James smiled down at her. “Mother. Your feelings are absolutely of consequence, even though you pretend you don’t have them.”

  Her lips twitched, as if she might smile back, but she evidently suppressed the urge. “What are we going to do, Rosefield?”

  “Well.” He cleared his throat and made himself hold her gaze. “You won’t like it, but I’ve made decisions. Selling the High Point parcel will catch us up with the bank, although it won’t reduce the principal. I would like you to sell some of the old jewelry you don’t wear. I won’t order you to do that, though. I’ll leave it up to you. I’m afraid, however, we have to sell the London house.” He didn’t allow his doubts to show in his face or in his voice. The title was his, after all. It was time he behaved like it.

  She didn’t pull herself up and glare as if she were the queen and he were an unruly subject. She had done that often enough, but this time she didn’t scold or repeat her stance that families who began to sell things off were doomed. She only gave a small, resigned sigh and said, “Yes, of course, Rosefield. I’ve set out a diamond brooch and those hideous rubies, and I’ll take them up to Marsden in the city. Of course if we must sell the London house, then we must. It will all be just as you wish.”

  He had prepared for an argument, and he was a bit disconcerted by her acquiescence. He said, a bit too eagerly, “I can go with you to Marsden’s.”