by Zen Cho
“For Bloxham would never have retreated to the country and contracted consumption if Mrs. Wythe had not made it impossible for him to remain in London,” said Mr. Stapleton’s friends. “It is a scandal how she used him. It is not as though he had even succeeded in assassinating her!”
It was surprising that gentle Henrietta should be on intimate terms with such a female, but then there were a great many surprising things about Henrietta’s conduct of late. None of her sisters had conceived that she would dare defy their parents as she was now doing, for she had always been the most tractable of them all. It was only in the matter of magic that she had ever given their father and mother a moment’s concern, and even there Henrietta had not misbehaved deliberately—she simply could not smother her magic, any more than she could stop her hair from being yellow, or prevent her fingernails from growing.
Yet for two years Henrietta had been doing what she must know their father and mother would frown upon. She was not practised at misconduct and she had never had any particular gift for deception. It had required the joint exertions of Amelia, Louisa and Charlotte to conceal the fact that Henrietta was practising thaumaturgy from their parents, though the sisters had never dared to betray to Henrietta that they knew her secret.
They had sought to preserve the secret from the servants, too, but in this they had not been altogether successful. Fortunately the labouring classes took a more kindly view of women’s magic, for it was not uncommon for maidservants to rely upon enchantery to ease their labours. The servants thought it eccentric in Henrietta, as a gently born female, to wish to cast spells, but so far none had betrayed the fact to Mr. and Mrs. Stapleton; indeed, they did what they could to help the girls. But with the best will in the world, the maid Porter would not find Henrietta now.
With that thought Amelia came to a decision.
“We shall have to let out Not Henrietta,” she said grimly.
Her sisters’ faces fell.
“Oh, not that!” said Louisa. “Cannot we go to Mrs. Wythe and explain she must let Henrietta come back to us?”
Amelia shook her head. “Perhaps we ought to have done that sooner, but we haven’t the time for it now. Papa will begin to wonder.”
They had had to persuade their father and mother that Henrietta was unwell whenever she was called upon to make an appearance in the past few days, and they had been hard put to it to prevent Mrs. Stapleton from summoning an apothecary. Amelia did not like Not Henrietta any more than Louisa and Charlotte, but this was a time for desperate measures.
Before her resolve could falter, she went to her wardrobe and flung open the door. At the bottom of the wardrobe lay a long cylindrical object, wrapped in linen.
“Come,” said Amelia, “we must get her out.”
Louisa and Charlotte helped her lift the object and heave it out of the wardrobe onto the floor.
Steeling herself, Amelia bent and undid the cloth, grimacing when her fingers brushed against the yielding substance beneath. It was almost like flesh, but not quite; it always made Amelia shudder to touch it.
When she was done, a young woman lay on the floor, her blond curls fanning out around her head. Her eyes were shut, faint blue veins tracing the pale lids.
“Good morning, Henny!” said Charlotte loudly, making the others jump. “Wake up!”
The eyes snapped open.
“Good morning,” said Not Henrietta. She sat up, smiling, just as though the three had not set upon her and bundled her into the wardrobe when, a few days ago, they had agreed that they could no longer endure her society.
Perhaps it was only to be expected that Not Henrietta would not remember. Amelia did not think she had a mind, or any thoughts or memories of her own. It was this that made it so awful to look into her eyes.
“Nobody could believe that is Henny,” whispered Louisa.
“You did, once,” replied Amelia.
At first they had all been deceived by the creature that took Henrietta’s place at home when the original was occupied elsewhere. Not Henrietta was a tolerable simulacrum when the enchantment worked—she could pass as Henrietta for half an hour or so—and in earlier days Henrietta had not depended upon her as much as she later came to. The sisters had only discovered the deception when, one day, Not Henrietta had horrified them by losing an ear without seeming to notice it. Louisa had been persuaded that Henrietta must have been stolen away by fairies and replaced by a changeling. In her alarm she had been on the verge of giving the game away when Henrietta herself had returned and the simulacrum was banished.
But Not Henrietta was never gone for long. As the Academy took up more of Henrietta’s time and her absences grew more extended, the sisters had seen more of the simulacrum. Yet they had never grown used to Not Henrietta. It was eerie to look at a countenance so familiar and beloved, and see behind it not even a stranger’s mind, but a brute intention, bloodless and boneless.
“I should not think Mr. Hobday will notice any difference,” said Charlotte.
None of them had a high regard for Mr. Hobday. He was proof, if proof were needed, of Henrietta’s sense of duty. All three girls had burst into tears when Henrietta told them she meant to marry him. She had said it in such a noble manner: “Just like a martyr submitting herself to the lions,” sobbed Charlotte.
Their distress was the chief reason news of the engagement had yet to be published abroad, for Henrietta had begged Mr. and Mrs. Stapleton to give Mr. Hobday more time to ingratiate himself with her sisters before any announcement was made.
Mr. Hobday had tried, but unfortunately his manners were not such as to overcome the girls’ prejudice against him. He could not help betraying his consciousness that they—indeed, the entire family—were dependent upon his goodwill and fortune. He patronised Louisa and Charlotte, and made gallantries to Amelia that bordered upon the offensive. If Amelia was ever inclined to become impatient with Henrietta and her inconvenient secret, the recollection that Henrietta intended to marry Mr. Hobday for their sake always brought forbearance with it.
Amelia leant over the simulacrum. “Mr. Hobday is here and wishes to see you. Will you see him?”
Not Henrietta looked up with that horrible empty smile. Amelia had never realised what a strong mind Henrietta possessed under her appearance of pliancy, till she had encountered her sister’s simulacrum. Not Henrietta was wholly yielding; she gave way wherever one touched her. The real Henrietta might be gentle, but her mildness was only a type of armour that disguised an indomitable will of her own.
“By all means,” said Not Henrietta agreeably.
* * *
• • •
“IT is a bad business, what has happened with the Midsomer girl,” said Mr. Hobday, shaking his head. “To think the rot could have spread so far! I should never have expected it of a family like the Midsomers.”
Mr. Stapleton’s powers of concentration were not what they had previously been. To lose all that was once the basis of one’s self-estimation is a grave bereavement, and grief makes men forgetful. It took him a moment to emerge from his distraction.
“Miss Clarissa Midsomer, you mean?” he said, after a pause. “What has happened to her?”
“Have not you heard?” said Mr. Hobday, surprised. “It has been the talk of the Society. Miss Midsomer has joined the Sorceress Royal’s school for witches.”
Mr. Stapleton had been so preoccupied with his own affairs that he had paid little attention to the gossip in thaumaturgical circles. He was deeply shocked. “Does Miss Midsomer mean to study thaumaturgy?”
“No. She means to teach it!” said Mr. Hobday. “And the fact that Mrs. Wythe has accepted her suggests that she, at least, believes Miss Midsomer capable of it. The girl must have been studying magic in secret for years. One shudders to think how her family must feel! It requires a peculiarly depraved character to perpetrate such a long-running deceptio
n.”
“I had no notion,” said Mr. Stapleton; indeed, he could scarcely believe it. Clarissa Midsomer and Henrietta had been girls together at school, and unlike Henrietta, Clarissa had always kept a decorous distance from the Sorceress Royal. A memory of the infant Clarissa rose before him—a little redheaded, roly-poly creature, cowering behind her nurse when she was summoned to the drawing room to greet her father’s friends. “The Midsomers did not suspect it?”
“No. You can conceive of their dismay. Midsomer will not say a word to anyone. Of course, no one has seen much of Mrs. Midsomer since the son was sent away, and this latest scandal is not likely to bring her out of her shell. If Miss Midsomer had cared for nothing else, she should have thought of her mother. Shocking!” Mr. Hobday shook his head.
“If it were my daughter, she would not be received at home again,” he continued. “But Midsomer will not be drawn on whether he means to countenance her. I hope he does not. Thaumaturgy looks to him as the representative of one of our oldest families. He should not be seen to lend his sanction to such misconduct.”
It was not as though Mr. Stapleton approved of the Academy, or its founders—Zacharias Wythe, brilliant but misguided, and the wild young Sorceress Royal. The displeasure of his last encounter with Mrs. Wythe was still fresh. Warmth rose in his cheeks at the recollection.
Yet though he understood Mr. Hobday’s sentiments, he could not quite agree. Mr. Hobday had no daughters.
“Certainly one would not wish to lend one’s countenance to such behaviour,” said Mr. Stapleton. “But Miss Midsomer is very young, at an age when excitement and admiration mean a great deal. No doubt Mrs. Wythe seduced the girl with promises of a thrilling career.”
“Or perhaps it was Mr. Wythe who carried out the seduction,” said Mr. Hobday, leering.
Mr. Stapleton bridled. It was one thing to suggest that a high-spirited girl might be taken in by a dashing female, who was feted by the beau monde and possessed considerable personal charm—quite another to insinuate that she had been swept away by a married man. Fortunately he was not obliged to pick a quarrel with Mr. Hobday, for there was a knock at the door, and Henrietta appeared.
“Ah, Henny,” cried Mr. Stapleton in relief.
It struck him at once that something was amiss. Something had often been amiss with Henrietta of late, though Mr. Stapleton could not put his finger on what it was. He watched Henrietta with more than usual anxiety, which was not soothed even though she greeted Mr. Hobday with all her usual quiet civility.
He was not so deluded as to think Henrietta bore any extraordinary affection for Mr. Hobday. It was not a love match, but Henrietta had been brought up properly. She would never have expected that her own inclinations would determine her choice of a husband; she knew she must marry to oblige her family.
But her inclinations were nevertheless a matter of some importance. Mr. Stapleton did not intend that his daughter should fall prey to the misery and vice that were often consequent upon an ill-suited union. He had hoped that Henrietta liked Mr. Hobday enough for marriage, and it concerned him that all the signs he could read suggested the reverse. She was always courteous to Mr. Hobday, but there was a worrying detachment in her manner—an inner withdrawal of self, which he could only hope was attributable to maidenly reserve and spoke of no deeper antipathy.
Today there was no hint of that inner withdrawal. Somehow that was even more worrying.
“Your father and I were speaking of this sad business concerning Miss Clarissa Midsomer,” said Mr. Hobday. “I daresay you knew her well at school?”
Mr. Stapleton might feel sorry for Clarissa Midsomer, but he had no wish for Henrietta to be associated with the erring girl in her affianced’s eyes.
“They were never on intimate terms,” he said quickly. “Is not that so, Henny? Your letters from school scarcely ever made reference to Miss Midsomer.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Henrietta. Though the import of her words was somewhat unclear, her tone certainly resounded with agreement.
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Hobday. “As I recall, it was Mrs. Prunella Wythe who was your dearest friend at school!”
“Yes, indeed,” said Henrietta with just the same enthusiasm.
“They were thrown much together as children,” said Mr. Stapleton. “At an age when Henny lacked the powers of discrimination she possesses now . . . and of course she compassionated Mrs. Wythe, as an orphan living on the headmistress’s charity. Henny had no means of knowing what Mrs. Wythe would become.”
“No, indeed,” agreed Henrietta.
Mr. Stapleton looked at her in irritation. This failure in tact was most unlike Henrietta; he would have expected her to have steered the conversation to safer waters by now. She returned his look with no apparent consciousness of having done ill; her expression was mild and attentive, betraying nothing.
“Was there anything of interest in the latest Gazette?” he said to Mr. Hobday. “I confess I have yet to glance at it.”
But the wickedness of magical females was something of an obsession of Mr. Hobday’s, and he would not be put off by so feeble a diversion.
“You must have noticed some defect in Mrs. Wythe and Miss Midsomer’s characters even then,” he said to Henrietta. “They could not have brought themselves to practise magic so openly if there had not been some canker at the root, which must have been discernible even in infancy.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Henrietta.
This rang a particularly false note, and Mr. Stapleton glanced at her, disturbed. Henrietta was a good girl, but if she had a fault it was an overly tender heart—a reluctance to sever bonds that should rightly be consigned to the past. She had learnt not to defend Prunella Wythe to Mr. Stapleton and his friends, but she would never usually consent to condemning her.
As always whenever he thought of his daughter’s friendship with the Sorceress Royal, Mr. Stapleton reproached himself for not forbidding the connection. But with Henrietta it was difficult to forbid anything but that which was truly out of bounds. She was not like the other girls, who were perfectly happy to storm and scold. Henrietta only submitted and looked sad, so that it was impossible to tyrannise over her, unless one had a heart of stone.
“Are you quite well, Henny?” said Mr. Stapleton.
Henrietta bounced up, startling him.
“No!” she said, in a faint die-away voice that sat oddly with the vigour with which she had moved. “I feel most peculiar! If you will forgive me, sir”—this to Mr. Hobday—“I shall take my leave. I have a headache.”
Mr. Hobday was all solicitude, but he had hardly begun to wish her a swift recovery when Henrietta clattered out of the room. He stared after her, disconcerted.
Mr. Stapleton cleared his throat.
“Miss Stapleton has not been herself,” he said. He could not of course state his true suspicion, which was that Henrietta’s odd behaviour likely arose from trepidation about her engagement. He reached for another excuse.
“Our circumstances weigh upon her,” he said.
He was shaken by a pang of guilt, for there was truth in what he said, though it was not the whole truth. He had striven to hold his creditors at bay, to protect his family from the worries that besieged him. But it was he who had put them in this impossible position—his failures that exposed them to the wearing necessity of maintaining a facade, when they knew the family was on the brink of ruin.
The explanation served its purpose. Mr. Hobday’s countenance cleared.
“That is natural,” he said. “But that will all be dealt with soon enough!” He patted Mr. Stapleton on the back with a comforting hand.
It was impossible to forget what he owed Hobday, reflected Mr. Stapleton, and yet he had never before been so glad to see his friend leave. It struck him for the first time that Mr. Hobday as a friend, an equal, was a very different person from Mr. Hobday the benefactor a
nd prospective son-in-law. Mr. Stapleton was not altogether sure that Mr. Hobday was improved by the change.
* * *
• • •
THERE was no response when Mr. Stapleton first knocked on the door to Henrietta’s bedchamber, or when he tried again, though her sisters had confirmed she had retired to her bed. When a third attempt was no more successful, he pushed the door ajar.
“Henrietta?”
There was no answer. Henrietta lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. She was under the sheets, but as far as he could tell, she was fully dressed.
“Are you well, Henny?” said Mr. Stapleton, beginning to be alarmed. “I could summon your mother . . .”
“Oh no!” said Henrietta brightly, without stirring. “I have a headache, but it will pass with rest.”
She did not rise, or even turn to him. Clearly she wished to be alone but was unwilling to say so. She had never behaved in this fashion before, but perhaps he no longer knew his daughter. She was no longer a girl, but grown to woman’s estate, old enough to be married—and rescue the family’s fortunes.
Mr. Stapleton paused at the door, hesitating. He could not quite bring himself to go.
“Hen,” he said abruptly, “are you quite certain you wish to be married?”
“Yes, by all means!” chirped the sunny voice from the bed.
Even now she did not look at him. Feeling like a man groping in the dark, Mr. Stapleton made a final attempt.
“I do not forget that your happiness is in my care,” he said. “To betray that trust is the last thing I would wish to do. You know what the connection would mean for us, but if you dislike the idea . . . if you do not feel you can esteem Mr. Hobday enough to marry him . . .”
“I have the highest regard for Mr. Hobday,” said Henrietta in the same unvarying cheerful tone.
“Then you do not mind it?”
