by Nina Clare
Celia gave her old nursemaid a kiss on her cheek. ‘Cheer up, Agnes. When the first crop of cabbages goes to market I will have a new pair of shoes ready for winter, and you shall have a new shawl, and Robin can have a proper coat, instead of that old blanket he wears, and we will have plum pudding for Christmas. Things will be better.’
‘I don’t know how you keep your spirits up as you do,’ said Agnes, dashing something from her face that looked suspiciously like a tear. ‘You’ve your mother’s spirit.’
‘Oh, I wish I did,’ sighed Celia, pulling open the door to the courtyard. ‘She was good naturally. I can assure you I have to fight every minute not to be bad.’
7
‘What do you think?’ Neville asked, as they left Roseleat Manor, tugging their riding hats into place.
Lord Marbury searched for the right words. He couldn’t find them. He only shrugged and untied his horse from the splintered hitching post.
‘She’s a pretty little thing,’ said Neville, dodging his own horse, who was trying to nip him.
‘If you like curls and ribbons,’ said Lord Marbury. ‘She didn’t say much.’
‘You don’t want a chatterer,’ said Neville cheerfully. ‘Leave off biting me, will you!’
‘That brute needs to go back to his own stables,’ said Lord Marbury, swinging himself into his saddle. ‘I shall send the groom away with him in the morning.’
‘He’s not so bad,’ said Neville, managing to untie the animal. ‘High spirited is all. He’s the kind of horse you need to make friends with. Once they trust you, they’re devoted to you for life. Ow! You vicious beast!’
Lord Marbury rolled his eyes. ‘He’s going back today, before he hurts someone.’
‘Was just a friendly nip,’ said Neville, rubbing his arm. ‘I think he’s starting to like me.’
‘I think your taste in horses is no better than your taste in women.’
‘You’ve got to give them a chance,’ said Neville, managing to mount his horse who made his customary rear as soon as Neville gained the saddle. ‘It’s not all love at first sight, you know, despite what your poets tell you.’
‘Did you have to invite them to dinner so soon?’ Lord Marbury complained. ‘Tonight is rather short notice.’
‘You’ve got ten days, Marbury. The whole scheme is short notice.’
Lord Marbury could not argue that point. ‘We’re to look over the tenant farms next,’ he said resignedly, turning his horse towards the carriageway. ‘Those are my aunt’s directions for today.’
Neville said something in reply, but his words were lost, for his mount decided that it wished to break into a gallop once the weed-ridden carriageway was gained, and it took off at a thunderous pace with Neville whooping ‘Woah! Woah!’ in vain.
Celia felt the need to escape from the house for an hour before it grew too dark to take a walk. If she heard one more word about tonight’s dinner at Highmott she would throw something at her stepsister. And if Lavinia’s mix of ecstasy and anxiety were not bad enough, Agnes was as fierce as a bear, storming about the kitchen, fuming because Celia was not included in the invitation. It was no use Celia repeating that she did not want to be included in the invitation, Agnes would not be appeased.
Celia left them all to it, and escaped to the one place no one would find her – to the hazel tree in the woodlands. But when she reached the spot, she stood and stared. The hazel tree was covered in leaves for the first time ever. And something small and shiny, like a little gold nugget, hung from a low branch.
It was a golden hazelnut. Just a single one. She lightly stroked it, wondering what its appearance signified. She touched the branches, newly swathed in spring buds and crinkly summer leaves that had not been there two days ago.
‘What is happening?’ she asked aloud, half expecting an answering wind in reply. But it was a human voice she heard – a man’s voice, humming a tune – and it couldn’t be Robin, for he only ever whistled. She spun round, startled.
‘Who’s there?’
A young man stepped into view, ceasing his tune, and looking as surprised to see her as she was him.
‘Are you Lord Marbury?’ she demanded, ready to upbraid him regarding Robin’s hand.
‘I am…George Neville,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am…from Roseleat.’ That was all she would concede. She did not want to go through any formal introductions and explanations. ‘And you are trespassing.’
His dark, arched eyebrows lifted in surprise at her angry tone, but she didn’t care. She only wanted him gone from her private place of refuge. ‘I understood half the woodland was Highmott land, he said.’
‘It is. That half.’ She pointed northward.
‘I see. My apologies for startling you, miss.’
She gave a slight nod to acknowledge his apology and turned her back to him, hoping he would now go away.
‘Do my eyes deceive me, or does that tree have spring leaves in December?’ Before she could reply, he had stepped inside her sanctuary, walked up to her tree, and began examining it as though he were a keen scientist marvelling over some unexpected discovery.
‘Do not touch it!’ she said sharply, as he reached out to take hold of the golden hazelnut.
Too late. He held it between his fingers, watching in astonishment as the golden husk split open to reveal a silvery nut inside. Celia tried to snatch it back, feeling indignant that he should have one of her fairy godmother’s gifts.
‘I cannot believe what I am seeing,’ said Mr Neville. ‘What is this? Sorcery?’
‘Give it back,’ said Celia, trying again to snatch back the fairy nut. As she grabbed at his hand, her palm brushed his, and something like a flash of lightning crackled all around them and passed through them with a strong tingling sensation. They cried out, clasping each other’s hands.
‘What…is…happening?’ Mr Neville’s voice was faint and juddering, as though the force wrapping round them and through them were shaking every particle of his body. Celia could not reply. She felt as though a great wind had lifted her up and was hurtling her through the air. It was impossible to say how long the sensation lasted; all sense of time vanished. But as suddenly as it began, the noise and motion ended. Celia’s head ceased whirling, and her eyes slowly adjusted to their new surroundings.
They stood in a great hall, brightly lit with candle lanterns and old-fashioned torches in braziers, and a great crackling fire. The room was full of dancing couples, formed into squares. Recorders and lutes and a harpsichord played bright music, there was laughter and chatter and the stomp of the dancers’ feet, softened in part by the rush matting on the floor.
Celia wondered why her right hand was hurting, and realised it was because she it was still held tight by Mr Neville. They were squeezing the other’s hand as though their life depended on it.
She met his eyes, which showed their mutual amazement. ‘Where are we?’ they gasped at the same time.
A serving boy ambled towards them, bearing a tray of goblets and a pitcher of wine. Celia was about to call out a warning, for the boy was walking directly at them, but before she could call out, the boy and his tray passed right through her. The pitcher and cups rippled, and the boy glanced round in alarm, as though he had felt something. He hurried away.
‘He cannot see us,’ said Mr Neville, letting go of Celia’s hand to run his hand over his chest. ‘Did you see that? The tray went right through us! I felt something touch me, but it was so light and – what is happening?’
Mr Neville looked shocked, and Celia concluded he had no experience of magic in his life until now. There was a bench against the wall, and he staggered a few steps as though to sit down, but a matronly woman, fanning herself and declaring to her partner that she needed to sit the next dance out, was about to sit directly where Mr Neville stood. He leapt aside, but the woman’s descending bottom brushed against his hand. She gave a start, and thumped her companion on the arm.
‘Ow! What
was that for, Bessie?’
‘For forgetting your manners, Ned Pike! Don’t you be touching what’s not yours to touch yet.’
‘I didn’t lay a finger on you!’
‘My right eye, you didn’t.’
‘I swear I didn’t—’
‘Hush! Here she comes! Now isn’t she a sight to see? Look at that gown, there must be three yards alone in the train. Are those diamonds on her stomacher?’
‘Blow me down, I think they are,’ marvelled Ned Pike. ‘So, it’s true enough about the Marbury diamonds.’
‘Marbury?’ whispered Mr Neville. ‘He said Marbury diamonds.’
Celia nodded. Now that she’d had a moment to look about her, a realisation had dawned. ‘I know where we are,’ she whispered back, not sure why they felt the need to whisper. ‘We are in the great hall at Highmott.’
Mr Neville looked around – up at the ceiling with its distinctive carvings, and over at the fireplace, with the shield of the Earl of Marburyshire above it.
‘So we are! And it must be a masque ball, for they’re all in strange costumes.’
The guests dancing and milling and laughing and talking and watching one another, were indeed dressed in old-fashioned clothes, as though from of a previous century. The ladies’ gowns were full-skirted with low, square necklines and three-quarter length bell-shaped sleeves. Celia could see that their stays were long and narrow at the back, giving them an upright figure, their shoulders blades almost touching. The wealthier-looking ladies had wide panniers. Some had powdered wigs and some had lace caps over their natural hair; some wore rice powder and rouge and patches. The beautiful lady in the diamond stomacher wore a patch by her left eye. Celia thought back to what she knew about the meaning of a patch on the left cheek – it meant engagement; she was sure it did. The young woman was declaring that she was engaged.
The men were attired in long, embroidered coats that hung past their knees, in line with their breeches, with silk stockings and long powdered wigs.
‘What is going on?’ said Mr Neville, looking ill as he touched the panelled walls and saw his hand pass through it. ‘You are the only thing that is real,’ he said, grabbing hold of her hand again as though to reassure himself.
A thought struck Celia. ‘Have you got the hazelnut?’
He showed her that he had.
‘Do not let go of it,’ she urged. ‘Or we may not be able to get back.’
‘Get back? Do you mean…in time?’
‘We’re here for a reason. Only I don’t know what it is.’ Celia felt a wave of compassion for her companion. She had some experience of the magic of her godmother; not that she had ever experienced it as strongly as this!
‘It will be fine,’ she assured him, with more confidence than she felt.
He didn’t look entirely convinced, but both their attention was now drawn away. The great hall had a large entrance door of solid oak. The entrance hall that currently existed at Highmott had not yet been built, Celia realised. The door had been flung open with such force that the servants either side of it leapt away. A young woman, tall and wearing a gown of deep scarlet beneath her cloak stood in the doorway, her eyes flashing, her face fierce.
‘I know her,’ said Celia in amazement. ‘It is Lady Violet Asher.’ She would recognise those eyes and that flame-red hair anywhere; she had seen that blazing expression daily from the wall of the drawing room at Roseleat.
The musicians screeched to an ominous silence; the dancers all turned to stare at the arrival. Someone cried out, ‘She’s come to curse us!’
The words hung in the air and a hush fell over the hall.
‘My lady,’ said a man’s voice, breaking the spell. There was a rustle of skirts and coats as the crowd made way for the speaker. He stood before the woman. A wintry wind hurled through the door, lifting her hair, scattering snowflakes onto the rushes. The candles and torches flickered, and the servants hurried to close the door against the storm.
‘Is it true, Robert?’ said Lady Violet. ‘Is that your betrothed?’ She stared at the woman in the diamond stomacher.
‘Why…yes. It is.’ He looked sheepish, ashamed, then defiant, by turn.
There were whisperings from the guests. Celia caught the words jilted and spurned. So the stories were true. Lady Violet had learnt of her lover’s betrayal at the Yuletide ball held in honour of his betrothal to another.
‘Does your word mean so little, that you could break it so easily?’ said Lady Violet.
‘Now, do not be hasty, madam,’ said Lord Robert, holding up his hands as thought to ward her off. ‘We made no legal contract.’
‘Are your words of love worth less than any legal contract? Were any of them true? And the embraces, were they a lie?’
Lord Robert seemed to shrink a little.
‘You said you loved me.’ There was pain in Lady Violet’s voice. It was more poignant to hear it from one who seemed so strong.
‘She loves him,’ whispered Celia, gripping Mr Neville’s hand more tightly without realising what she was doing. ‘He has betrayed her.’
‘I am sorry, madam,’ was all Lord Robert Marbury would say. He would not meet Lady Violet’s eyes. If he had, he would have seen how they darkened with anger. Celia could not take her eyes from her.
‘I curse you,’ said Lady Violet in a low voice.
There was a little scream from Lord Robert’s betrothed.
‘My lady, I beg you—’ said Robert, stepping forward, but dropping to his knees with a cry, as though some force had struck him. The whole assembly gasped and drew back. Lady Violet stood beneath the kissing bough of holly and mistletoe above her head, with her faithless lover on his knees.
‘I curse your bloodline that it might die out. You shall feel the same pain as I do.’
Lord Robert put his hands over his ears, as though to block out the words.
‘Your line will end and all that you have shall pass away from your family.’ She turned to leave.
‘Then I curse you in return!’ shouted Lord Robert Marbury, scrambling to his feet and staggering a few steps after her. ‘No man will ever marry you, and nothing will ever go right for your family again!’
‘You have already taken everything from me,’ she said, turning at the doorway.
The servants hastened to open the door, anxious to see her go. She disappeared into the snowstorm, and the wind howled round the hall, extinguishing candles and causing the great fire to roar up the chimney like a wild animal.
The room grew shimmery. Celia and Mr Neville gripped hands more tightly, the charm still between their palms. The brightness of a lightning flash cracked, the tingling sensation began, and Celia felt herself lifted, as though in a funnel of wind. When the sensation ceased, she was back before the hazel tree, and Mr Neville was clinging to the tree trunk, bent double as though about to be sick.
‘Are you ill?’ Celia asked, not liking the thought of him being sick under her tree.
He nodded, taking a few breaths before slowly straightening up. ‘Some kind of travel sickness. What just happened?’ he said, clutching at his head, so that his hair stood up on end.
‘I do not know,’ Celia admitted. ‘Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.’
‘Perhaps those kippers at breakfast were off,’ he muttered, rubbing his forehead and hair again.
‘Kippers?’
‘I don’t suppose you had kippers for breakfast?’
She shook her head, wondering if he was a little mad from the strange experience. She could almost laugh at such a ludicrous question. Kippers indeed. It had been years since she had eaten more than a paltry slice of bread for breakfast.
‘Are you well?’ he asked when he had recovered himself. ‘You are not harmed?’
‘I am fine. Just a little dizzy.’
‘It was like magic,’ he said, his hair completely on end now. He began pacing round the tree. ‘Do you believe in magic?’
‘Yes,’ Celia said simply.
‘I suppose you grew up with folktales and notions of such things,’ he mused, still pacing. ‘But I have been educated. Science, Mathematics, Euclid. I am a rational man.’
‘I have read science and mathematics,’ said Celia indignantly. ‘And history and all kinds of books. I am not some uneducated cottager.’
He stopped pacing and stared at her. ‘Who are you?’ he said, as though seeing her for the first time. His eyes travelled over her dark red hair, her faded, patched up gown. She felt herself flush at such scrutiny.
‘You must work at Roseleat. I suppose your mistress taught you to read. She seems a kind lady.’
Celia restrained herself from a snort of disdain. If her stepmother had had her way, every book from her father’s library would have been sold long ago. She was about to say something of who she was, and stopped herself in time. She had promised not to let the new earl know anything about her, and thus she must take care not to let this friend of his know anything either.
‘We must go,’ she said, whirling away. ‘It will be getting dark soon.’ A thought arrested her. ‘The nut?’ she said.
He opened his hands. ‘It vanished as we were… travelling back.’ He looked at his empty hand. ‘Does it seem like a dream to you?’
She stared at his empty hand, suddenly reminded of how it had felt to have her own hand held tightly in his. It was all rather dreamlike now. The whole experience seemed hazy.
‘Come on,’ she urged, when he remained standing beneath the hazel tree, looking all over its branches. ‘We must go.’
‘You are very bossy for a maid,’ he said, but he did follow. She was sure she could feel his eyes on her, which was ridiculous, but on glancing back, she saw that he was indeed scrutinising her, as though trying to puzzle her out. She walked faster.
‘That is Highmott land,’ she said, pointing at a trail through the woodland leading northwards to the Hall. ‘This is Roseleat.’ She pointed at the path beneath them. ‘Good day, sir.’ She marched homeward, leaving him behind in the onset of dusk.