Chemistry of Magic

by Patricia Rice

  Well, he had told her to be honest.

  Fighting a cough and the gnawing in his gut, Dare acknowledged her demand with a curt nod. He could scarcely complain of his bride’s unfeminine lack of interest in the household when he’d married her as a business proposition. “Can you be ready within a half hour?”

  She gave a commanding nod at the driver instead of replying. The man got up from the bench where he’d taken his meal, deposited his plate in the pan, and with a tug of his forelock, left to prepare the horses.

  Dare tried not to splutter around his cough. “Who elected you queen?” he muttered, offering her his arm as he rose from the table.

  “Queen?” she asked in genuine puzzlement, shaking out her skirt.

  Today, she wore some pinkish-red thing without the enormous fashionable sleeves. Dare found himself abnormally fascinated with her attire, perhaps because he kept trying to see beneath whatever folderol she covered her bosom with.

  He coughed into his handkerchief without answering.

  “I’ll need the equipment from the wagon before I can make more horehound,” she said regretfully. “I do hope they arrive soon.”

  That was probably a safer topic than explaining that he was accustomed to women waiting for him to take charge. If she was to live as a widow after he was gone, it was no doubt a good thing that she knew how to command the male servants.

  “I can buy horehound in the village,” he said as they entered their shared chambers.

  “Not medicinal horehound.” She picked up her skirts and departed for the dressing chamber.

  Medicinal horehound? She complained about his perfectly legitimate prescribed medicine and fed him doctored candy?

  It finally dawned on him, his wife was a quack.

  “Good morning, Mr. Thornbull. I don’t know if you remember me, Sir Harry’s great-granddaughter?” Emilia lay a packet of writing papers on the counter, along with the rest of her shopping list.

  Mr. Thornbull was a stout man just past middle-age, with thinning hair, spectacles, and a round face. He peered over the top of the glasses. “Miss McDowell, as I live and breathe. We thought you had forgotten us.”

  “Of course not.” She removed one of her gloves so she might count out coins for the paper. “I have only just married. We came directly after the service was said. I had hoped to find Mrs. Wiggs and Mr. Barton still with us. I should like to visit them if they’re nearby.”

  He looked suspicious, but the coins and the shopping list opened the path of communication, as she’d hoped. She might not be good at small talk, but she understood negotiation. She wasn’t entirely certain why he should regard her with suspicion, however.

  “Mr. Barton fell last winter and broke his hip,” the merchant said grumpily. “He felt he wasn’t capable of his duties and went to live with his daughter in town.”

  Town presumably meant Harrogate, not London. Not wanting to stem the flow of information, Emilia figured she could inquire elsewhere if she needed his direction. “Oh my, no one told me! Did Mr. Crenshaw send someone to help Mrs. Wiggs then?” Crenshaw was the name Dare had found in the books, the one who received the monies to be dispensed to the staff.

  “If he did, I know naught about it,” the stationer declared. “She said as she was afraid to stay about the place alone, she’d rather stay with her sister.”

  “That is most odd. We were told the house would be ready, and I’d so hoped to see the staff again. I should visit Mrs. Wiggs and see how she fares. Her sister is out toward Willow Lane, isn’t she?” Emilia made that up. She remembered the name of one of the village lanes but knew almost nothing about the housekeeper’s sister.

  “Other direction,” Mr. Thornbull corrected curtly. “Aster Cottage, as you come into the green.”

  “I thank you most kindly, sir. Should my husband come looking for me, tell him I’ve gone to Aster Cottage, if you would. And if you know of anyone seeking employment, please send them to us.”

  They parted on a slightly better basis than upon her entrance, Emilia decided as she strolled to the green in search of Aster Cottage. Her mother and sisters had always done the shopping, but Emilia was comfortable with stationers. Her family was never short of servants since Lady McDowell saved women from the streets and workhouses and sent them to Emilia’s cousin Aster for training. Emilia knew at least partially-trained staff could arrive in weeks, if she asked.

  But she wanted to know what had happened to her grandfather’s staff.

  Ashford’s enormous berlin occupied nearly one whole side of the small village green. They really needed a gig, but there had been none in the stable, and she couldn’t ask Dare to walk any distance.

  She debated stopping to ask directions, but she thought she’d look for asters first. They wouldn’t be blooming yet, but plants, she understood better than people.

  The task was easier than expected—Mrs. Wiggs was sitting in the yard by the time Emilia walked down the street. The stout housekeeper’s hair had turned completely white over the years, and she’d gained weight, but her hug was as strong as ever. Emilia felt pinpricks from every ache the woman suffered before she could break the connection.

  “You look that much like Sir Harry in his youth that I would have known you anywhere,” Mrs. Wiggs exclaimed, looking Emilia up and down. “And you’re all grown up and married! Come in, come in, have a sip of tea. My sister is out. We can have a good coze.”

  Emilia recalled her great-grandfather as gray-haired, brown from the sun, wrinkled and speckled with sun spots. But Mrs. Wiggs had been with him since they were both young, so she tried not to wince at the comparison.

  After pleasantries were exchanged, Emilia brought the conversation around to her purpose. “Lord Dare and I were led to believe that you and Mr. Barton were still in the house. I was disappointed to find you had moved on. Do you know who was appointed in your place?”

  Mrs. Wiggs looked puzzled. “We weren’t told of no one. We understood the old place was to be sold for the new railroad. I left everything ready to be packed up and moved.”

  “Railroad?” Emilia asked in horror. “I know nothing of a railroad. I mean to continue grandfather’s gardens. Who told you this?”

  The housekeeper looked puzzled. “I don’t know precisely. There were some gentlemen about last winter, about the time Mr. Barton took his fall. Then Mr. Crenshaw said as we weren’t needed anymore. When we heard the rumors about the railroad, with you never coming back, we decided the rumors were true. The village has been talking of naught else since. What do we need with a railroad, I ask you?”

  Emilia had no better idea than Mrs. Wiggs about railroads. She’d never even seen one. After ascertaining that her housekeeper was willing to return a few days a week to train staff, she left in search of Dare.

  She found him swilling his wretched medicine and leaning against the carriage as if he were exhausted. He straightened those broad shoulders she’d glimpsed last night and put on his most charming smile at her approach, but she could tell simply by touching his arm that he ached in too many places for her to discern one from the other, rather like Mrs. Wiggs.

  It was disconcerting to realize that such a wide strong chest could conceal such damage. She pressed one palm against his shirt front, enduring the warning prickles up her arm while attempting to send a spurt of healing energy. He covered her hand with one of his and leaned down to kiss her cheek. She was coming to enjoy those little gestures of affection, even though she knew he meant nothing by them.

  “Mrs. Wiggs will be out to the house tomorrow,” Emilia told him once he settled on the seat beside her. “She will bring maids, but Cook has found another position.”

  “Supplies will be delivered this afternoon, and I’ve made arrangements for hay and grain for the stable. It is the mysterious Mr. Crenshaw who was supposed to pay staff who eludes me. His name is on the books, but no here knows of him. The funds were deposited at a bank in Harrogate, so I suppose I must go there next.”


  “Not while the fair is in session,” she warned. “Rest a bit before making another journey. Perhaps something will turn up. Mrs. Wiggs told me that she heard the house was to be sold for a railroad,” Emilia said in indignation. “Wherever would that lie have started?”

  She glanced up when her husband said nothing. He reddened and started to cough.

  Chapter 8

  The carriage was pulling up their drive before Dare recovered from his cough. Emilia wished she had the courage to press her hand against his chest again. But she preferred to experiment when he was asleep. She really didn’t want her dashing new husband looking at her as if she were demented.

  She was actually starting to think like a wife! Knowing a bit of Dare’s history, she knew that couldn’t be good.

  Awaiting them in the yard was a very large personage garbed in black muslin, in the slender fashion of a decade ago, but wearing an enormous bonnet adorned with. . . peacock feathers? Emilia tried hard not to stare as the woman crossed her arms beneath her generous bosom and dangled a shiny reticule over her belly.

  “Is this your Mrs. Wiggs?” Dare inquired as the carriage halted, and he studied the apparition through the window.

  “No. I don’t believe I’ve ever met this person in my life,” Emilia whispered back. “But I did ask Mr. Thornbull to spread word that we needed staff. I had just hoped Mrs. Wiggs would be here before we started hiring. She knows everyone.”

  “Perhaps this is simply a neighbor come to call.” The laughter in his eyes put the lie to that belief as he clambered down and held out his hand to help her out.

  How had she come to trust this impossible man so easily? “This is not London,” she whispered indignantly. “She could be our neighbor. Stop laughing.”

  “M’lord, m’lady.” The woman performed an awkward curtsy. “Forgive my forwardness, but I heard you had need of staff and came right over. I am Mrs. Peacock.”

  Holding Dare’s arm, Emilia could almost feel laughter rumbling in his chest at this explanation of the peacock-feathered hat. At least he wasn’t coughing. Not daring to look at him, she wondered what was expected of her. Did she invite the woman in for an interview? She had a hard time not staring at the exceedingly long and iridescent feather.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Peacock?” Dare said in a gravelly voice that hid his laughter. “We had hoped to have Mrs. Wiggs interview staff.”

  The woman drew herself up to her full imposing height. “Mary Wiggs and I have known each other since childhood. She will vouch for my abilities, even though I’ve never hired out before. My dear John passed away last winter, and I’ve been at sixes and sevens ever since. When I heard you were in need of a cook, I thought to myself, self, here’s a chance to see a bit more of the world. I’m that used to cooking for others, but not so much on my own.”

  A bit more of the world. . . Their kitchen? Tongue-tied at her best, Emilia didn’t know how to proceed. It didn’t seem to matter. Mrs. Peacock proceeded for her.

  “I’m sure m’lord has better to do than question me, but if her ladyship would grant me a few minutes, I can show you a menu I’ve prepared.” She bobbed another curtsy. The feather bobbed with her.

  “A trial run perhaps,” Dare murmured. “What staff we have will rebel if they must eat eggs all day, every day.”

  Emilia took a deep breath and tried to nod regally as her mother was wont to do. “Of course, Mrs. Peacock. So very kind of you to think of us. Won’t you come in? We’re not prepared for visitors yet, so you will excuse the disarray.”

  “Never having been in service, I wasn’t sure of the etiquette,” the would-be cook said in her roundest accents, following as they climbed the steps. “But I’m not one to miss an opportunity when it beckons. I am most grateful for your understanding.”

  The front parlor looked little better than it had the previous night. The covers had been left where they’d been dropped. In the morning light, the cobwebs on the ceiling and windows were visible. Emilia debated if interviewing in the formal parlor or her grandfather’s cluttered study would be preferable.

  His noble lordship decided the matter for her. “I’ll leave you two here, shall I? I need to find a room for my work before the wagon arrives with our trunks.” Dare pressed a kiss to her cheek and ambled off as if he expected her to know how to interview cooks.

  The prickles his kiss caused were rather. . . enticing. They stirred pleasure more than pain.

  Setting her chin, determined to learn her new status as householder, Emilia chose a delicate chair for herself and gestured for Mrs. Peacock to take a seat. The cook chose a stout sofa dating back a century or two.

  Mrs. Peacock rummaged in her reticule. “A gentleman likes his beef, he does. I understand that.” She removed a neatly folded paper. “But ladies like more genteel fare. I’ve been cooking for my family for forty years, so I have lots more recipes where these come from.”

  Emily studied the long list written in an elegant copperplate she hadn’t expected from an uneducated servant. Written communication, she understood. “This is quite an extensive menu, Mrs. Peacock. I fear you may be bored with just me and my husband to serve. We do not anticipate many visitors.”

  Mrs. Peacock’s feathers dipped in understanding. “A young couple, understandable. But that will let me learn what you like. Family and visitors will come in time. You just mark off what you don’t want, and leave me to see to what you need.”

  Emilia desperately wanted someone other than herself in charge of the kitchen and meals. She’d never really met any cooks, except as a child. Mrs. Peacock seemed far above any servant of her station. Remembering Dare’s suggestion, she hesitantly offered, “Why don’t we agree to test each other for a week? Let us see if we suit.”

  Mrs. Peacock beamed. “That’s fine then. Shall I start now? I’ll make a list of supplies.”

  Thinking of the ancient kitchen, Emilia tried not to wince. “Sir Harry lived simply. We will need to order more than food. But you are welcome to study the situation and let us know what you require.”

  She had no bell to summon a servant, not that Bessie or John was likely to perform the duty of a housekeeper. She assumed the task herself, leading the way to the butler’s pantry. Indicating the kitchen door, she prayed Mrs. Peacock wasn’t a silver thief. “Mrs. Wiggs will be along tomorrow. The food deliveries should arrive this afternoon. You are welcome to look around, although I fear there is not much you can do yet.”

  “Don’t you worry, m’lady. I’ll have the place in hand in no time. It will be a pleasure to see other than my own four walls of a change.” Mrs. Peacock sailed down the steps like a captain entering his ship without mentioning what her compensation might be, should the week be successful.

  Remarkable. She’d just hired her first staff. Almost.

  At a loss as to what to do next without her notes and equipment, Emilia set out in search of her husband. She found him in her grandfather’s cluttered study, leaning one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, and examining the jumble. She had to admit that Devil Dare was a fine figure of a man. She couldn’t help a small thrill at the ridiculously proprietary notion that she had been the one to capture him, and he was all hers.

  “Is there an attic to carry this to?” he asked, gesturing at old saddles and boxes of dusty tomes. “This probably ought to be the office we use for interviewing staff and keeping the books.”

  We. She had never been part of a we. It was a trifle scary. He might be strong and handsome now, but learning to rely on him would be a mistake. Still, he had earned the right to carve a place for himself—in her house and her life, but not her heart. She had to shield her softer impulses if she were to survive her gift.

  “There’s an attic,” she said, “but I suggest we sort what needs to be thrown out first and wait until we have a footman to carry up the rest.”

  “Our funds aren’t unlimited,” he warned. “Once they are used to purchase my mother’s house, the investments will produce signi
ficantly less income than they do now, so we should economize while we can. How much will your cook cost us?”

  Emilia wrinkled her nose. She wasn’t used to thinking of cost, except when it came to buying her equipment from her allowance. “I have no notion. We didn’t discuss it. If she lives in the cook’s quarters, that should be part of her compensation, I think, but if not. . .” She sighed. “She will undoubtedly want utensils we do not possess. But we cannot go on without a footman and a maid.”

  He surveyed the clutter and looked grim. “If I thought I could live just two more years, my own investments would be complete and productive,” he said. “But there is a great deal of work to be done between now and then, and I fear failure. I hate to leave you on limited funds.”

  That was honesty. Emilia swallowed and tried to summon her own courage to be equally blunt. She needed to tell him that she might possibly extend his life. “If you will allow me to help. . . I cannot make promises but—”

  Dare straightened and made a dismissive gesture. “I cannot allow you to do more than you have. I’ll take a look at the outbuildings, see if one will be suitable for my workshop.”

  He walked away, leaving her hard-to-find words to sputter and die. There was a reason she had never married—men never listened. If he’d only let her try. . . She still couldn’t promise that he’d live two years.

  Stepping out the back door, Dare fought the grinding in his gut which the ugly conversation with his bride had exacerbated. He hated talking about his imminent demise, but he had to make Emilia understand her diminished circumstances. She didn’t seem much inclined toward financial matters, so it would be up to him to set boundaries.

  He hated that too. He would shower her in roses and beakers, if he could, but he was not a wealthy man. His father had seen to that. In a few years, with the railroad running and his other ventures turning a profit. . . then he might buy anything she liked. Time was running out, however.