Chemistry of Magic

by Patricia Rice

  “I have another grand-niece in Harrogate who wants a child more than anything in the world,” Mrs. Wiggs said anxiously. “She’s said she’ll take the babe. But Tess’s father has thrown her out, and she needs to learn an occupation. She’ll take nothing if you’ll house her until the babe is born. I’d take her myself, but I live with my sister, and there’s no room.”

  Emilia knew this was what her mother and Aster did—rescued women, taught them, gave them security so they didn’t end up on the streets, at the mercy of any man who came along. But her family was wealthy, and she was not, not after making her bargain with Dare.

  Still, it was impossible to throw the child out. “I can’t have her carrying pails of coal and boiling water,” she protested faintly. “And in a few months, even running up and down stairs will be dangerous for her. I already have a secretary, and it’s probably best if she does not undertake the task of my husband’s secretary. What position can she perform that will not harm her or the babe?”

  “Mrs. Peacock will look after her,” the housekeeper said, looking hopeful. “There’s cutting and rolling pastry and bits like that she can learn to do. And then after, she’ll work twice as hard, I promise. She’s smart enough that someday, she can take my place.”

  Vowing to consult with Bridey before putting that skinny child to heavy work, Emilia nodded and began the task of going through the other applicants and their skills and cost.

  She had yet to ask Mrs. Peacock how much she expected. She feared a cook that good would ask twice what she paid all the other staff put together. But her husband needed to eat properly to keep up his strength.

  Dare wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, jotted a note on the level of sulfur in the Bath water he was testing, and was wondering how he might acquire Harrogate spa water when Emilia tapped on the workshop door again.

  This time, he was happy to see her. Tired and ready to sit down, he wiped his hands off on a rag and hoped for a kiss or two. Or more.

  Her expression deterred that thought. “Problems?” he asked.

  “Nothing someone with more experience might handle,” she said wearily, glancing around at the dark interior.

  The workshop was purely utilitarian. There had already been a scarred and battered plank table and sagging shelves. His up-ended trunk served as a seat and his traveling desk served as table for his notes. There was nowhere for her to sit.

  Offering his arm, he suggested, “Perhaps we should go back to the house. There are likely rats and spiders out here.”

  “Or worse.” She shivered and accepted his arm. “Everywhere I turn, I miss items I’m used to having around me, and I despair of keeping expenses in control. I need a horse,” she said flatly.

  “So do I. And a gig. And all the accompanying expense of keeping animals, including grooms and hay and repairing the stable,” he acknowledged. “If you go riding alone, you will need a groom to accompany you.”

  “The area is rural. I don’t need a man to follow me about,” she protested. “But it seems foolish to take out an enormous carriage and team if I simply wish to visit the abbey. Where will you be taking a gig?”

  “To Harrogate to buy the horses,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “And to purchase spa water. Taking an expensive berlin to the horse fair to purchase cheap riding hacks is not a good way to get the best price.”

  “There is a hot spring on the grounds,” she said, gesturing toward the fields. “I need to see if my grandfather’s experimental mosses and liverwort still survive in that hollow. The area is littered with springs, apparently. You can bottle your own.”

  That perked him up. “Our very own spa? Convenient! But I still need a way to go to town. I daresay I can borrow a hack, but I’m not at all certain I’ll have the strength to ride home with a string of animals afterward. And I’d really rather sleep with you than in a crowded inn with a dozen other fellows.”

  That Dare admitted his weakness showed his trust in her, she thought, or his level of discouragement. She wished she understood people as well as she did plants. “Has the horse fair started? Should I go with you?”

  He shook his head. “There is too much to do here, and the town will be crowded with men. Accommodations are likely to be a stable if I’m forced to stay overnight. We sent your father’s wagon back too soon. I’ll have to walk into the village and see if I can rent one. How did the servant interviews go?”

  “That is why I need a horse,” she said with a sigh. “I really need to consult with Bridey. I think I have just hired an unwed mother for a kitchen maid who ought to be teaching school.”

  He looked at her blankly. “Do I want to question that?”

  She chuckled. “Best not. I’ll let you hire the male servants, shall I? Except if you’ll not be here tomorrow, I will have to curb Mrs. Wiggs’ enthusiasm for hiring the entire village until you are home again.”

  “Our budget will allow male servants?” he asked dubiously. “They cost twice the amount.”

  “Not in our household they won’t,” she warned. “If they want a position, their pay will be commensurate with their work, not how pretty they look. And they’ll be carrying the coal and water and sharing their fair share of the hard labor.”

  “Ah, you don’t want to hire male servants,” he said in amusement. “That makes my hiring task easier. I’ll tell them the wage and the chores, and they’ll all leave rather than do women’s work.”

  She shot him a glance to be certain he teased. Satisfied, she explained what Mrs. Wiggs had told her. “These will be untrained farm boys hoping to learn a position. Younger sons, mostly, who won’t inherit the farm and would rather not work for their families. They’re accustomed to hauling and chopping. They might not last long on what we can pay them, but they won’t know that what we require of them is unusual. If you agree with her choices, we’ll stay under budget.”

  “And your Mrs. Wiggs plans to train them all without a butler or steward?”

  She nodded. “Saving the wages of a butler opens the budget for the additional staff. I’ve convinced Mrs. Wiggs that we’re not a grand household and won’t be entertaining on any scale. We simply need people to take care of the house while we work on our projects. If I had been the housewifely sort, we probably wouldn’t need half the staff. But I have no intention of changing,” she said with an air of defiance.

  At the top of the stairs, he kissed her cheek. “And I don’t wish you to wear yourself out on menial tasks during the day, when I have much more interesting ones prepared for you at night. We have only just begun to fulfill our marital duties, my little hedgehog.”

  The thrill of desire shot straight through her, until Dare ambled off to wash, and she remembered the false bottle of Fowler’s she’d put into his dressing table earlier.

  Please, let it ease the wrongness that was causing him such pain, or she’d start doubting her gift as well as her medicines.

  Chapter 12

  Wishing he hadn’t been so tightfisted as to reject taking the comfortable berlin into Harrogate, Dare tried not to topple from the farm wagon in exhaustion at the end of the day. He found it difficult to believe he’d built the foundation of his wealth by haggling with horse traders and had once loved the challenge.

  Still, he was confident he’d purchased two respectable nags and their tack today. He had also accomplished a more interesting objective—he’d learned the direction of the elusive Mr. Crenshaw.

  While the farmer who’d allowed him to accompany him into town urged his spindly nags around a sheep flock, Dare took a swallow of the Fowler’s solution. With luck, it would give him enough energy to prevent him from crawling in among the boxes in the wagon and falling asleep. The farmer beside him looked at him askance but refrained from commenting.

  “Know anything of a Frederick Crenshaw over Hadenton way?” Dare asked, turning to check on the string of animals tied to the wagon bed.

  The farmer shoved his cap up to scratch his scalp. “Reckon I heard of him.
Don’t know him.”

  The banker had said Crenshaw was a respectable gentleman with an estate. Thieves weren’t gentlemen in Dare’s book.

  Once the wagon reached the house, Dare let Ashford’s driver and groom handle the new horses while he loped inside, eager for a glimpse of his bride. He didn’t know why just the sight of Emilia lifted his spirits, but she was more refreshing than any tonic water.

  He nearly stumbled over an ornate carpet in the narrow foyer. He stopped his hasty entrance to examine his surroundings. A hall table had been set up near the door with a dish for calling cards and a bouquet of roses. He peered into the once-filthy salon that had been stacked with trunks yesterday. The ancient furniture now glowed with polish, and another carpet graced the newly-waxed floor. The filth-covered paintings had been removed, but he saw no light squares where they’d hung, so he assumed the farmhouse-plain walls had been washed as well. Miracles happened!

  He had a suspicion that Mrs. Wiggs was the miracle worker though. Maybe he should have married her. Dare grinned, imagining Emilia’s reaction if he said that. He’d have to try it.

  A mob-capped maid hurried to meet him. She bobbed a curtsy and stared at the floor. “Shall I take your hat, m’lord?”

  Too astonished to do anything else, Dare handed over the old tweed cap he’d worn to blend in. “Where is my lady, do you know?” It was late, so he assumed she would be dressing for dinner.

  He was about to take the stairs to look for her when the maid replied, “She just went out to her workshop, I believe, m’lord.”

  Drat. Since when did Emilia have a workshop? The growing shed, did she mean? Determined to tell his bride about his day, Dare loped through the house and out the back door. He was tired and hungry but he had to admit to curiosity about what his intrepid wife did with her time.

  A shriek from the crumbling glass house sent him running. Emilia barely spoke much less shrieked. Removing his pistol from his pocket, Dare tore open the rickety door prepared to shoot at wolves or thieves.

  He discovered his wife standing on a barrel and pointing at a twitching mouse on the floor.

  In disgust, rather than waste shot, he lifted his boot, prepared to put the creature out of whatever misery it was in, until Emilia shrieked again. “No, don’t kill it!”

  He stared at her in incredulity. “Shall I find a nice house for it? Feed it mincemeat?”

  “I apologize for scaring you,” she said stiffly, looking for a way down from her awkward position.

  Dare caught her waist and hauled her off the barrel. She felt so good, he held her there, burying his nose in her lavender-scented tresses and enjoying the press of her breasts against his waistcoat. “Why can’t I put it out of its misery?”

  She pressed a hasty peck on his whiskery cheek—at least she was learning to express affection, however meager.

  “Come, look.” She stepped back, took his hand, and led him to a table that was no more than planks on sawhorses covered by table linen. She pointed at a low pottery saucer.

  “Nice saucer?” he asked in confusion.

  Her exasperated glance warned he’d answered wrong. Dare studied the table. Puddles of water had pooled on it, but that was to be expected given the holes in the glass roof. Cockroaches floated upside-down in one puddle. Something hairy and equally dead floated in the saucer. He curled his lip in disgust. “You need better facilities.”

  “That,” she pointed at the bug-infested puddles and spoke with horror, “is not water. It’s your medicine.”

  He was usually not slow on comprehension, but for the life of him, he couldn’t work out how his medicine could be out here killing bugs. Killing bugs. He stuck his finger in the puddle and sniffed it.

  She slapped his hand before he could bring it to his mouth and taste it. “There is something very wrong with your medicine. I felt it. And now I’ve proven it.”

  She felt his medicine was wrong? One did not feel medicine, except by sticking a finger in it, and that didn’t prove anything. Perhaps he was the one who lacked understanding.

  “Those bugs died in your foul solution.” She pointed at the mouse on the floor, which seemed to be staggering to its feet. “That mouse probably drank it.”

  “We don’t know that. You are jumping to conclusions. The bugs could have just drowned.” But intrigued, he removed a grain scoop hung from the wall to slide under the staggering mouse and looked for a safe place to deposit it. “And why would my medicine be pouring through the roof anyway?”

  She snickered a little but offered him a large planting pot and a saucer for lid. “Raining Fowler’s? We might all die. I was experimenting.”

  “You were experimenting with my medicine?” He didn’t know whether to be outraged or curious. Since he really wanted another glorious night in her bed, he chose to be curious. He still thought he needed to end the mouse’s misery.

  “Give it some cheese. That sometimes negates the effect of mild poisons,” she suggested, ignoring his question.

  “You want me to carry a mouse into the kitchen and ask for cheese?” He handed the pot to her. “You do it. I’ll watch.”

  The laughter gurgling from her luscious lips restored some of his humor.

  “Put that way. . . I don’t suppose the grooms have apples for the horses? Oh, perhaps there are potatoes in the garden!” She lifted her skirt and hurried into the growing twilight, leaving him with a potted mouse.

  Life with Emilia at least wouldn’t be boring. Dare bent over to sniff the puddle. It did smell like his medicine. What if he looked at the bugs under a microscope? Could he tell how they died? He doubted it, but now that he understood she wasn’t jesting, he was shaken. His medicine killed bugs?

  He was studying the bottle in his pocket when she hurried back in.

  “The bottle you took this morning is not Fowlers,” she told him. “It’s a few mild anti-congestives and digestives mixed in your mineral water. I doubt it will kill bugs, although you can try.”

  She used a knife from her worktable to slice thin bits of a withered old potato. She winced when she looked at the mouse, then dropped the potato in. Dare leaned over her to watch the vermin sniff the vegetable.

  “He’ll need water,” he reminded her. “Or do we feed him my medicine to see what happens?”

  “I cannot bear to deliberately poison a living creature.” She actually sounded mournful. “It is a pity. Dissection might reveal what happened.”

  “I doubt it, but I can try on the cockroaches. I assume you don’t mind killing them?”

  Her mouth fell open as she looked up at him, but nothing came out. Dare spent the moment admiring the way her violet eyes darkened to midnight purple. She might not be beautiful in the common way, but she was so striking that his mind blurred when she was around.

  “I’ve not given thought to killing bugs,” she finally said in dismay.

  “Then don’t give it thought. I’ll come out and clean up later. Let us go in now and prepare for dinner and I’ll tell you all about my successful haggling and your new horse.”

  She smiled in relief and took his arm. “Yes, please. Are they fine horses?”

  “They won’t win any races, but they’ll go for hours without dropping, so I think they’re very fine.”

  They chattered about normal, mundane household matters, but Dare knew his wife’s versatile mind was pondering medicine and croaked cockroaches just as his was.

  He had been drinking poison?

  Dinner was another glorious meal of tasty light fare, although Mrs. Peacock added a nice cut of lamb to the menu this time. Emilia approved of the addition of salad greens and promised herself that on the morrow, she’d venture to the kitchen garden. Her brief foray for the potato told her someone had taken the garden in hand, but she needed to see it in daylight. And then, she really needed to look into the more extensive herb gardens.

  But for right now, her husband’s health took precedence. She’d never believed she could save a dying man. Now. . .r />
  Consumption wasn’t curable. The medicine might have been making Dare sicker than he needed to be, but nothing would kill the tubercles growing in his lungs. But if she could slow their growth. . .

  It crushed her to watch him consume everything on his plate like the healthy man he should be and to know that a year from now, he could be confined to bed, living on broth, and coughing up his lungs. She didn’t often cry, but she wept inside at this horrid waste of a courageous man who had done all within his power to pay his father’s debts and save his family from humiliation.

  Now that he wasn’t taking the Fowler’s, could she persuade him to take healthier drinks—if she could create some?

  She really needed to set up her own workshop. She couldn’t ride over to the abbey every time she needed to mix a solution. The servants had stored her equipment in the glass house until it could be transported to the abbey. Perhaps she should unpack a few things. . .

  She glanced at Dare, who was frowning at his plate—or in thought. She was beginning to see two sides to her husband: the charming Devil Dare he presented to the world, and the studious scholar who blew up glass in his efforts to harness the earth’s elements. She admired both of them, but right now, they were an obstacle to her studies.

  How could she politely excuse herself from his presence after dinner and escape to her workshop? As much as she enjoyed their bed play—and admittedly, if she thought about it too long, she would forget work—she couldn’t spend half her day in bed.

  “Do you wish to linger with your brandy?” she asked as dinner ended, despising her timidity. She certainly couldn’t ask if he wished to retire upstairs for ravishment. She flushed just thinking about it.

  Dare stood and held out his hand to assist her from her chair. “No, but I probably ought to go to my office and finish up my work after spending the day away. Do you think we have enough staff for drawing a bath later? I am probably infested with fleas from that wagon ride.”