Lessons in Enchantment

by Patricia Rice

  “We’re so glad to have a chance to meet you in person, Mr. Blair,” the taller, more authoritative of the pair announced. “We hope our niece is filling the position to expectation.”

  “We apologize for the intrusion,” the rounder, more placid one said, settling a flutter of silk shawls and ribbons before reaching for her teacup. “It is kind of you to see us.”

  The back and forth between the two kept Drew’s head swiveling but didn’t allow him to say much, for which he was greatly relieved. The two ladies wore the airs and fashion of the grandes dames of his childhood, the ones who left charity baskets at Christmas and nodded coldly as they swept through meager schoolrooms. As a child, he’d been taught never to speak to those above his station, which meant he had no notion of how to address Phoebe’s aunts.

  “Here she comes now,” the pleasant one introduced as Lady Agnes said. “You need not entertain us longer if you must return to your work, sir.”

  “I think Mr. Blair should remain to hear this,” Lady Gertrude said in a tone of finality, lifting her pince nez to observe as her niece entered.

  Drew hid a grin as Phoebe swept in wearing one of her usual crinoline-free gowns, chalk dust on her bodice, and her spirited hair springing in wisps around her face and nape. She determinedly did not look at him but bobbed a brief curtsey to her aunts.

  “My ladies, to what do we owe this visit?” she asked in a crisp voice that didn’t welcome a repetition of the unexpected call, leaving Drew to wonder about the relationship between aunts and niece.

  Lady Gertrude snapped out the folds of what appeared to be a telegram. “Your mother, to be precise.”

  Phoebe paled, and Drew instinctively took a step toward her, knowing her mother had been ill. A telegram was seldom good news.

  Lady Agatha, apparently the more sensitive of the pair, hurriedly added, “She is coming home.”

  Phoebe held a hand to her bosom and sank into a chair. Since neither aunt offered, Drew poured a cup of tea and handed it to her.

  Was this fascinating female about to be swept from his life before he knew what to do about her?

  “She’s well then?” Phoebe asked in a voice of hope after taking a sip of tea.

  “Of course. Did I say otherwise? She’s taken one of her notions,” Lady Gertrude said disapprovingly, handing over the telegram.

  After reading it, Phoebe frowned and looked relieved. “It simply says she’s coming home.”

  “Telegrams are expensive,” Lady Agatha said. “She would never have sent one if it weren’t urgent. That’s why we’re here. It means she’s concerned about you.”

  “What have you been doing that would bring your mother home?” Lady Gertrude demanded.

  Drew felt his collar tighten, but he wasn’t a coward. He wouldn’t retreat.

  Phoebe, apparently reassured that her mother wasn’t dead, coolly lay the paper down, sat back in her chair, and sipped at her tea before responding. Drew had to give her credit for resisting the doughty old dowagers and their blatant curiosity.

  “It may be a matter of what Uncle Albert is doing. The twins believe he may know the identity of a killer. We have been debating whether I should call on him.”

  “We are debating no such thing,” Drew said decisively, stepping in on this nonsense. “You will go nowhere near the man.”

  “You do understand that our niece is no servant?” Lady Gertrude responded icily. “She is a woman of exceptional talent who has already identified what is troubling her charges. You and your friends may deal with Drumsmoore as you please, but you will not order Phoebe about. That is for us to do.”

  Phoebe rubbed at the place between her eyes—as a means of controlling her temper, Drew thought, reading her tension. If he’d learned anything at all about his governess, it was that she couldn’t be brought to reins. He waited with interest to see how Phoebe responded.

  Apparently controlling her tongue, she replied in uncompromisingly aristocratic tones. “I am a grown woman and will not be dictated to. The question here becomes—what will we do with Mama when she arrives? I cannot desert the children if they are in any danger, but I cannot leave Mama alone.”

  Drew noted the old biddies nervously gathered their bags and shawls, sending him hooded glances, and behaving as if they’d rather he disappeared. He had no intention of doing so. Did they expect Phoebe to provide a home for her mother when they had a perfectly adequate one?

  Apparently reading her aunts’ minds, or understanding what he did not, Phoebe stood, as if in dismissal. “Fine. I shall speak with our solicitor and see what he suggests. I thank you for coming all this way to inform me.”

  Drew sensed he was missing some underlying message here, but the ladies were not his to question. He assisted Lady Agatha with her shawl, handed her gloves she’d left on the table, and asked if he should bring his carriage around.

  They assured him they had a vehicle waiting. Phoebe handed her Aunt Gertrude her umbrella.

  “My bicycle is broken, so I cannot visit easily, I’m sorry. I’ll have Mr. Lithgow send a message when he’s found a place to settle Mama. I don’t know how well I’ll be able to divide my time, but I’ll wait until she’s here before deciding what needs to be done. If you can think of any way of approaching Uncle Albert before she arrives, I’d appreciate it. Once the children are out of danger, I’ll feel better about taking time for Mama.”

  Drew could hear the distance in her voice, and a cold chill iced his blood. She was thinking of leaving—which no doubt meant she had taken some hare-brained female idea of tracking down her uncle and killers first. If her formidable aunts couldn’t control her, how would he?

  He had the terrible notion that he couldn’t, not as an employer, and that was not a state of affairs he could accept.

  Phoebe fought a sinking feeling in her middle as she waved off her aunts.

  It was good that her mother was feeling well enough to travel was the thought she held uppermost in her mind. She should be jubilant.

  But that thought inevitably led to the gaping maw that was now her mother’s uninhabitable home. Such loss might cause a terrible setback in the countess’s recovery.

  She brushed aside her fear for the moment to deal with her puzzled employer. She might not be able to read human minds, but Mr. Blair was an open book most of the time. His puzzlement was understandable. Men liked to comprehend events in their universe, and her family did their best to send up smoke screens to prevent that.

  “Couldn’t your aunts have simply sent a message?” he asked, reasonably enough.

  “Not if they wished to send a warning,” she answered absently, trying to think through a dozen problems at once. “I dislike interrupting the children’s lessons, but I fear I really must see my solicitor. I’m sorry for my aunts’ intrusion.”

  She started for the door but Mr. Blair blocked her path. She had to think of him as Mr. Blair, her employer. To do anything else would completely confuse an issue that was already too muddled.

  “What warning did they wish to send?” he demanded.

  She sighed and studied his dark expression. She’d really like to believe his concern was for her, but she didn’t have the luxury of such self-confidence. And she truly couldn’t tell him that her aunts—and possibly her mother—probably suspected what was happening between them. Her family’s abilities were. . . exceptional.

  “It is impossible to explain the dynamics of my family,” she settled on saying. “My mother is the youngest sister, but in some ways, she’s the most powerful and upsetting. She would not be leaving a home she’s come to love for a Scotland winter if she did not sense a very real danger.”

  That her mother had not come when the building had fallen spoke more to this than she could explain to Mr. Blair. She didn’t wish him to realize they were homeless. Her mother was a countess, the wife and daughter of earls, and once a very wealthy woman. Unlike Phoebe, she did nothing lightly.

  “If she senses danger, then I should re
move you and the children to a safer place. Perhaps your mother should go with you?”

  “The children should spend the rest of their lives in hiding? I don’t think so, although I shall try to keep an open mind. First, I must see my solicitor and find a place for my mother to stay.” And there went their nest egg and her very distant dream. A solid roof over her mother’s head was more important than a university education.

  Tears welled. She had so hoped she’d have time to earn money for tuition. . . Paying rent for a home for her mother destroyed any possibility of that. She’d have to spend the rest of her life in service.

  She could not deal with that realization now. Defeat hurt too much.

  Before he could respond, Mr. Morgan and Simon—she didn’t even know his cousin’s full name—arrived. Mr. Morgan waved what appeared to be correspondence. Andrew’s cousin was filing a. . . dirk?

  They waited expectantly for her to leave. She dipped a brief curtsey, eager to do so, except Andrew—Mr. Blair—grabbed her arm and held her back.

  “The Countess of Drumsmoore will be staying here,” the dratted man proclaimed. “That will alleviate the proprieties and give us time to regroup and plan.”

  He enjoyed exploding that little bomb in their faces, Phoebe decided, watching the trio. The other two looked fairly dumbfounded.

  “You might at least properly introduce me to your cousin so I may use the correct address when I assure him at least one of us hasn’t lost her mind,” Phoebe said waspishly.

  “Simon Blair, at your service, milady.” Older than Andrew, with darker brown hair than hers, the children’s father bowed. “We’re Sy and Drew to our friends so as not to confuse which one is about to be murdered.”

  That riposte almost softened her, until Andrew—Mr. Blair—spoke over her head.

  “The countess apparently has the Sight, like Letitia, and she knows the earl. She may be our ticket to learning his associates. We’ll need to clean up the dining room and pretend we’re not a lot of heathens.”

  “Do not pretend to be what you are not.” Phoebe pried his fingers off her arm. “Despite all expectations, my mother is a delicate invalid accustomed to a solitary life. She does not involve herself in quarrels.” Quarrels that became dangerous if her mother entered them, she could have added, but then she would have to explain the countess’s manipulative propensities, and she truly would sound like one of the spiritualist charlatans who haunted low places.

  She skirted around Mr. Blair and his companions and stalked out, leaving them to their plots and plans. She practically ran up the stairs to her room to fetch her wrap.

  After checking in on the children and promising them a romp when she returned—she feared to take them outdoors again—Phoebe gathered coat and gloves. She pinned on her new veiled hat so she looked moderately respectable and took the back stairs. She could hear the men arguing in the parlor as she slipped out the back.

  The large wheel of her bicycle leaned against the stairs, looking as if someone had started hammering the rim and spokes back into shape. But the rubber tire was sadly damaged.

  Summoning Raven to be certain no strangers lurked, she marched—limping—out to the main street. Despite her bruised knee, she knew how to walk distances, and it was a crisp autumn day, fine for an outing. By taking the mews, she avoided the parlor window and notice by the men inside.

  Mr. Lithgow was all that was solicitous when he learned the countess was returning.

  “Oh, my, yes, this does complicate things,” he admitted. “I’ve placed the lien on the tenement, and notified the buyer.”

  “Will our savings tide us over until the matter is settled?” Phoebe asked anxiously, squeezing the gloves she’d removed. She hated looking shabby at times like this.

  “Oh yes, yes, but it will reduce your income,” he explained anxiously. “Your mother may have to lower her expenses.”

  Or Phoebe would have to use her income instead of saving it—and not jeopardize her position with inappropriate behavior. “We’ll manage. Could we impose on you to locate a small place where she might live comfortably for now?”

  He frowned and tapped his pen on his desk. “I shall make inquiries, but it may be that she should take a room in the household of a friend or relation who already has servants. Setting up a new household is expensive.”

  Phoebe’s heart sank. “She won’t like that,” she murmured. “She has a maid and a nurse who look after her. Perhaps something could be found in the country?”

  He brightened. “That might be better. I’ll look into it for you.”

  Phoebe left the office not feeling much better than she had when she entered. If only. . . But that list was a mile long and a mile wide.

  She should not have been so hasty in rejecting Mr. Blair’s offer to put up her mother, but as she’d told the lawyer, her mother was unaccustomed to sharing with strangers. Besides, Phoebe didn’t wish her mother to see how she lived. She knew that was foolish, but she was supposed to be a veterinarian by now, performing miracles.

  She resisted the urge to cross the bridge to see how her old home fared. It would never be her home again. She must keep looking forward. Wiping away a tear, she strode back up the hill to the terraced housing she currently called home.

  She knew Mr. Blair’s house was only a temporary refuge. Perhaps she could move in with her mother once she was settled. In the country. She’d never lived in the country. She supposed she’d have more creatures to work with there, but less reason to do so.

  Thinking to check on Wolf, Phoebe returned via the mews. As she approached the back gate, a large bicycle rim rose on invisible wings and wobbled in the air above the fence. Enoch! Why weren’t the wretched men watching a lonely little boy?

  Her bruised knee ached after the morning’s excursion, and she wanted nothing more than to sit down with a cup of tea before tackling any more challenges. But she straightened her back and marched through the kitchen gate as the rim crashed into the garden.

  Enoch sat forlornly on the back step, one small arm around Wolf’s neck as he bravely attempted to right the rim with his mind.

  “You know, using your hands in this case would be much more productive,” she said crisply, removing her gloves to scratch behind Wolf’s ear.

  “What am I supposed to lift?” he asked plaintively.

  “A most excellent question.” She sat beside him. “You must learn to be unobtrusive, so people don’t know you’re helping.”

  “Or they’ll think I’m a freak,” he said morosely.

  “Well, you must understand that you’re the only person people will know capable of lifting things with his mind. I know thousands and thousands of people, and I know of no other like you, so you’re very special.”

  Phoebe crossed her fingers as she said that. She didn’t know that many people, and she knew of one possibly capable of duplicating Enoch’s feats, even if she never used the ability. But hyperbole tended to impress children.

  Enoch looked interested, if not impressed. “Mama said I should never brag about what I have in front of others who don’t have as much.”

  “That is exactly it. It is very rude, and you’ll make no friends that way. But if things. . . are made a little easier in your company, then people will enjoy being with you. But that requires that you think real hard about what you can and should do.”

  “How will I ever have friends if I must hide in the nursery all day?” he asked gloomily.

  “You will be going off to school in no time at all. So now is when you must practice. Remember how happy your sisters were when you guided the ball into their hands?”

  He nodded. “But they’re little. They don’t know anything.”

  “Well, neither does anyone else when it comes to your ability, so you’re in charge. Come along, we’ll look for tests.” She stood and offered her hand.

  He took it but dragged his feet as he followed her inside.

  Men shouted and cursed overhead. A large object hit the
floor, rattling the lamps. Holding Enoch’s hand, Phoebe hurried down the back corridor, wondering if the men were engaged in battle.

  When she came in view of the front staircase, her eyes widened, and she froze in place. Hugh and Simon struggled to move a large wardrobe down the stairs. She had the distinct impression that was the wardrobe she’d been using.

  Before they broke their foolish necks, she whispered to Enoch. “There you go. Can you add just a little lift to the wardrobe so they might maneuver it easier?”

  The wardrobe slipped and the men shouted as it tilted dangerously.

  Enoch scrunched up his little face and concentrated.

  Seventeen

  “It could have been much worse,” Lady Phoebe insisted. “Enoch saved your silly necks.”

  Drew shoved the wardrobe he’d meant to impress her with into the corner of the room, while the damned woman coddled Hugh’s smashed hand and called Drew silly.

  Enoch’s effort to help had unbalanced the furniture and sent everyone crashing into the banister. It was a miracle they hadn’t broken their necks.

  Instead of banishing Enoch, she had reassured the distressed child and allowed him to hang about underfoot to practice helping with the smaller pieces. She hadn’t so much as acknowledged Drew’s effort to provide her and her mother with creature comforts.

  He damned well ought to send her home with Simon and the children. Then he could return to real work instead of playing at padding his own damned nest.

  In disgust, Drew sat down on the fancy carpet to tighten the leg on a vanity. As he wrenched the screw into its socket, the kitten crawled onto his leg and proceeded to purr.

  Hugh sneezed.

  With exasperation, Drew glanced up at the governess. In an instant, the kitten dashed out of the room in pursuit of the invisible. Phoebe smiled covertly in his direction, then ducked her head as she patted Hugh’s hand and told him he would be fine in short time.