As she gnawed, she surreptitiously observed the Marquess’s reaction. Firelight flickered across his face, illuminating the stubborn set of his chin, the patronizing lift of his lips that bordered uncomfortably upon a sneer. What right had he to judge that which he did not understand? She wished that she could escort him to the door and slam it at his back, but her mother had decreed otherwise. “Dominick has known me since I was in swaddling clothes. In fact, the members of his tribe have been serving the Wodesbys for nigh above two hundred years now.”
“I have never known Gypsies to serve anyone but themselves,” Lord Brand remarked.
“Perhaps ‘serve’ is the wrong word, milord,” Miranda said, easing herself into a chair and helping herself to another biscuit. “‘Tis more of a relationship of mutual benefit. Dominick’s people spend winter and fall at our London residence, certainly a more comfortable venue than camping in the open. Come spring, they wander the countryside according to their custom, but every autumn, some of them return to wear the Wodesby livery. Many grandfathers ago, they swore their allegiance to the first Lord Wodesby.” She nodded toward the portrait of a man in a ruff and doublet, his eyes the same blue as her own. “Their King had been accused of witchcraft and condemned to burn. Lord Wodesby used his considerable influence with the Queen to save him from death.”
Lord Brand studied the portrait. “He was part of Elizabeth’s circle then?”
“One of her most trusted advisors,” Miranda said with pride. “He was her chief astrologer and her Majesty credited him with no small part of the victory over the Spanish Armada. It was then Sir Wodesby was elevated to a Baron.”
“What a fortunate coincidence for your ancestor that England won.”
“There was no happenstance involved, milord,” Miranda said, forcing herself to ignore the acid in his voice. “That portrait that you see was painted just before the attempted invasion. As you may note, his hair is much the shade of mine and his brow, youthful. However, a second likeness in honor of his ascension to the title hangs at the Wode. Although it was completed barely a month later, it shows his appearance horribly altered. His face is lined, much as that of a man twice his forty years and his hair transformed to a shock of white. The weather sorcery that he wove to bring a storm for Elizabeth was most powerful. A spell of such magnitude exacts a most heavy price.”
Wine spilled over the lip of his glass as Adam set it down. At this late hour, he had endured more than his fill of this magical madness. With three swift strides, he stood before Miss Wilton’s chair, intending to tell her just what he thought of the Wodesby family’s outlandish claims. But before he could speak, a small body streaked from the hearth, swiftly interposing itself between Adam and the woman. Thorpe’s fur rose like a battle flag, his warning hiss giving voice to his disapproval of Adam’s menacing posture and proximity.
“Tell your feline chaperone that I mean no harm,” Adam said, taken slightly aback.
“His judgement is usually most reliable,” Miss Wilton said, clearly amused at the marquess’ startled reaction. “I recall, during my Season, when Lord Hatfill tried to corner me in the garden, Thorpe was similarly on the spot. His lordship claimed that it was the roses that had shredded his legs so. A foolish claim on his part, since there was not a rosebush in the entire garden. However, I am no longer an inexperienced child, Thorpe, so you may sheath your claws and return to your place at the fire. The Merlin knows you deserve it after your efforts this evening. I can deal with Lord Brand.”
His furry pelt grew smooth once more. However, Thorpe settled himself firmly at Miss Wilton’s feet.
“It would seem that Thorpe does not entirely trust your ability to ‘deal with me,’ Miss Wilton,” Adam said, groaning inwardly as he realized the implications of his words. “Not that I actually believe that Thorpe has the capacity to-”
“I know, I know!” she said, jumping to her feet, exasperation in her expression. “You believe in nothing, in nobody but yourself, sir. You alone have the keys to all truths and there are no things in Heaven or Earth that cannot be explained by your prosaic natural philosophy. Miracles could happen all around you, but you would not see them. Or worse still, you would make those wonders into commonplaces and ridicule us all for seeing rainbows instead of a chance result of lighting conditions. How empty your world must be, sir; a place without faith or magic, where man dwells entirely alone. I pity an existence so sterile.”
Horrified by her loss of control, Miranda went to the hearth and leaned against the mantel, staring into heart of the flames. There was no explanation for her outburst but weariness, she decided. Times beyond count she had faced ridicule, considering it an irksome but inevitable consequence of the Wodesby name. Derision was infinitely preferable to the fear and persecution that resulted from ignorance, she had told herself. But before, pride had always proven an adequate defense, shielding her from the flogging of the ton’s scorn. Never had she felt this need to lash back. “I am sorry, milord,” she said, subdued by the force of her own rudeness. “‘Tis a poor excuse, but I am bone-tired and much as I hate to admit it, more than a trifle overset. I had no right to say those things, especially since I have no real knowledge of you, or your motivations.”
“All the more remarkable then, that you have come uncomfortably close to the mark, Miss Wilton,” Adam said softly. Her head leaned against the marble of the mantle and he cursed himself for a boor. Only a blind man could have missed the obvious signs of exhaustion. She could barely keep her lids from drooping. From the longing looks that she had directed toward the biscuits, it was simple to deduce that she was famished as well as frazzled. He walked to the tray, picked up the plate and went to her side, silently proffering the biscuits.
“A peace offering, milord?” she asked.
“Call it a temporary truce. If you have not eaten since you set out for Town, you must be more than half starved,” Adam ventured, encouraged by the hint of a smile lurking in the corner of her mouth. “I must confess that I found Lady Enderby’s repast less than satisfying.”
“I am ravenous, milord,” she admitted, taking a handful of biscuits. “and I fear that I am beyond nectar and ambrosia, in fact beyond this light fare. Shall we repair to the kitchen and see what we can find in the pantry? Difficult conversations are usually easier on a full stomach,” Miss Wilton declared. “But first, I had promised to locate a book for my mother.” She picked up a branch of candles and walked to the shelves on the far wall.
Adam followed. Leather bound books covered the walls from floor to ceiling. “The Constitution of Honorius!” Adam exclaimed as he took up a volume at random.
“You are acquainted with it?” she asked in surprise.
“One of the first grimoires ever printed,” Adam said, opening the pages reverently, scarcely able to credit that so ancient a copy existed. “They are quite rare.”
“And utterly useless as a guide to conjuring,” Miss Wilton remarked as she scanned the upper shelves for the book she sought. “Some of the suggestions for calling up spirits would be rather laughable were they not so gruesome. Still, it is a curiosity. The Seal of Solomon.” She handed him a bound packet of parchment. “Now, here is a grimoire with some meat to it. Unfortunately, so much was garbled when the book was transcribed. In fact, that is a common problem with most printed grimoires, especially popular works such as Le Veritable Dragon Rouge. So much of our tradition is oral in nature, handed down from parent to child over generations. In a proper spell, every word, each intonation is vital; a muddled formula gets no results.”
Adam did not even attempt to challenge her statement, so awed was he by the beauty of the illuminated manuscript, with its carefully drawn seals and pentagrams. “By Jove,” he exhaled sharply. “Have you any idea how valuable this is, Miss Wilton? This must be at least three centuries old.”
“Closer to four-hundred years actually, but there is an older, more accurate version of The Seal at the Wode,” she said absently, as she peered at the s
helves. “This collection is rather paltry, I fear, when compared to the one at home. When I began to catalogue our libraries, it became obvious that there were serious gaps among the references. Papa would take a grimoire to while away a journey, for instance, and forget to return the book to London. So as a consequence, we have three copies of The Ars Magus in the country and not a one here. I keep telling Mama that she really ought to supplement this library, but since she so rarely comes to London . . .”
“Supplement? I cannot see what you lack,” Adam said enviously, running a loving finger across the vellum bound spines. “There are titles here that I have only heard of in legend, books known only by means of a passing reference that were believed lost forever. You have nearly every recent work on magic that I know, Decremps, Guyot, Ozanam . . . And I have never even come across some of these arcane titles The Art of Potions, Philtres D’ Amour and . . . Jane Austen?”
“Ah! Thank you, Lord Brand, just what I was seeking,” Miss Wilton said, slipping Pride and Prejudice from the shelf. “Mama finds Miss Austen most relaxing. However, I cannot think why she shelved it here, though; this section deals with potions and philters.”
“Perhaps she thought that a good philter would have saved Elizabeth a great deal of trouble,” Adam remarked, shaking his head as he spoke. This could only be a wild dream, he told himself. No other explanation was possible for the library, the cat and especially the woman who seemed to be giving serious consideration to his foolish words.
Surrounded by an aureole of firelight, Miss Wilton was the incarnation of a conjuror’s vision. Her hair had come half-undone, caressing her bare shoulder, a shining blonde mantle. Like Persephone in Pluto’s realm, she seemed a fantasy of verdant emerald. The jewel at her throat broke the shimmer of the hearth into a thousand facets, drawing him into its cool green center. When she spoke at last, her voice seemed to come from somewhere within the heart of the night.
“A potion might have brought Darcy to the point sooner,” she agreed, her words prosaic as if they were engaged in a logical argument. “Certainly, he was inclined toward Elizabeth from the start despite his stubborn pride. But love is a very delicate blossom, not some hothouse flower to be forced at will and even a simple philter exacts a price. I suspect that she would have spent the rest of her life wondering whether he loved her for herself, or whether Darcy’s regard came from a witch’s brew.”
“And an instantaneous proposal would have left scarce material for Miss Austen’s book,” Adam said, striving to return the conversation to a more sensible plane, telling himself that this was a type of sorcery that he could well understand. Night was creeping into morning and the unholy combination of a beautiful woman, too much wine, fatigue and darkness was a potion almost guaranteed to muddle a man’s mind. A few seconds more, and he would be tempted beyond reason to sample the pleasures that her full lips promised. Was she real or woven from the strands of his secret imaginings? Involuntarily, he took a step forward.
Thorpe gave a hiss that sounded suspiciously like a warning.
“Really, Thorpe, he would not!” Miss Wilton said, starting for the door. “Thorpe views the world through a cat’s eyes, you must understand,” she apologized, “and for him there is scarce difference betwixt a gentleman and an alley tom.”
A dream or madness, one or the other, or perhaps a bit of both. Adam cast a reluctant backward glance at the shadowed shelves, then followed behind Miss Wilton. The sensuous grace of her walk beneath the clinging folds of silk was glorious to behold. If he was experiencing some strange form of lunacy, then Bedlam might have something to recommend it, and if this was a dream, then he would wake all too soon.
“Lead on Thorpe,” Adam said, abandoning himself to the fantasy.
. . .
The sound of a violin wafted up the stairway, along with a scent that tantalized Adam’s nostrils. “Paprikash,” he whispered in wonder. A turn on the landing and he no longer doubted that he was in the midst of sleep. In the corner of the kitchen, bubbling on the Rumford stove was a huge kettle, charred with the smoke of many an open fire. A boy in bright garb stood upon the table, playing the instrument, while an elderly woman brandishing a wicked knife chopped garlic in time to the music. The boy’s bow halted in mid-note as he caught sight of them.
“Tante Reina?” Adam asked uncertainly. “You old bag of bones, is that you?”
The Gypsy woman quirked an amused brow. “Did I not say we would meet again, Englishman? You do not believe when I tell you that destiny does not part us for long.” She whacked an onion for emphasis. “My grandson tells me the Gajo guest speaks like a son of Rom. Then I know.”
“You are acquainted with Lord Brand, Tante?” Miss Wilton asked, going to the stove and lifting the lid.
“Aye child,” the old woman said. “With my son Alexi’s caravan he travelled, six summers ago. He has some skill with coins and cards, the English Gajo, but no real knowledge of magic. I read his palm.”
Adam laughed. “I had almost forgotten about that.”
“Still you mock, eh? Has not everything that I saw in your hand that day come to pass? You have come safely home. You have now great wealth-”
“And what of those other things that you promised, Tante?” Adam asked.
“I tell you then, gajo,” she said with a wave of the knife, “there will soon be two roads before you. Now, it is the parting time and you must choose- between trust and loneliness, between peace and restless spirit. From what the Lady has told me, danger accompanies you upon either path.”
Miss Wilton set two steaming plates down upon the table and gestured toward a chair. “At present, Tante, starvation is the immediate danger. Lady Enderby’s table left much to be desired.”
Adam was content to avoid further discussion of the Gypsy’s predictions. Eagerly, he applied himself to the savory stew, with its tender bits of chicken floating in rich paprika gravy. Fresh bread, savory with saffron, sopped up the juices. Plate followed upon plate until he sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. “Upon my oath, Tante, I have tasted the cooking of the best chefs, but even Prinny’s Careme could never hope to equal your paprikash.”
“Beware, Miranda, a shameless flatterer is this one” Tante Reina warned.
“He speaks no more than the truth,” the younger woman said, using the heel of her bread to wipe up the last bit of broth. “Damien says that any caravan that travels with you eats royal fare.”
“Pah! Do not talk to me of that young cub! Your brother should be at home, tending to his people,” the old woman said, attacking the vegetables with a vengeance. “Instead, he goes off to play at war and your poor Mama is left to shoulder the burdens that should be his. At least she has summoned him-”
“Mama must not summon Damien!” Miss Wilton rose from her chair in agitation. A summoning over vast distance required considerable effort, even with two minds as closely attuned as her mother’s and Damien’s. The exertion necessary to send a clear mental message might prove too much of a strain.
The elderly woman put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Is already done, little one, and all is well. You do not know your mother’s strength.”
“Perhaps it is just as well that Lady Wodesby has sent for your brother,” Adam said, secretly relieved. A firm masculine hand was just the ticket. During his wanderings, Adam had been in an excellent position to pass on information. Although the family had a decidedly odd reputation among the ton, young Lord Wodesby was well known among his contacts at Whitehall. An excellent soldier, an extraordinary tactician whose brilliance had already distinguished him on Wellington’s staff, he would have no difficulty in marshalling this chaotic household into order. Unfortunately, even if a messenger had already been sent, it would be weeks, at the least, before any dispatches would reach Wodesby in the field.
“I suppose so,” Miss Wilton said. “For until Damien arrives, there is only Mama.”
“You discount yourself, little one,” Tante Reina said.
Miss Wilton’s laugh was tinged with sadness. “I? What magic do I have beyond this?” She pulled a coin from behind the boy’s ear, sent it flipping into the air, caught it and made it seemingly vanish. “Check your pocket, Tante.” she said. The woman plunged her hand into her pocket and pulled forth a coin.
“Not even did I feel you slip it there, Miranda. Since last I saw you, your skills have improved,” she said with a toothy grin of approval.
“Fakery,” she said disparagingly, “no more than deceiving the eye. The type of magic that any child in your camp can do.”
“It took me quite some time to perfect the skills that you deem childish, Miss Wilton,” Adam interposed, impressed by her dexterity. “Years, in fact. I spent well over a month with Tante Reina’s grandson, just learning how to work locks.”
“Why?” she asked. “Why would the son of a well-to-do English lord bother to acquire such a repertoire?”
“Why would an English lady need such knowledge?” Adam countered.
Miranda knew that he was evading her question, but it was as good an opportunity to broach the subject as Miranda could have hoped for. “By the time I was five, Lord Brand, my brother had taught me how to make my dolls disappear. At nine, I could shuffle and force a deck of cards nearly as well as my Mama. Before true magic, one must learn the illusion of magic; how to create an atmosphere conducive to sorcery.”
She could see the dubious expression on his face and continued hurriedly. “Witchcraft works best if the desired results are in concert with nature. A cloud that is headed, shall we say east, can be hurried along to its destination with a minimal effort. However, to make that same cloud go west, would require far more exertion. Similarly, it is simpler to work a spell with belief than against it. Basic illusions help to produce a certain amount of faith, which makes the work of a witch easier by far.”
The Would-Be Witch Page 8