“Father?”
He did not move, but only seemed to stare at the celestial globe.
Ivy took a step into the room and said again, “Father?”
All at once he turned, a broad smile crossing his face. “Good afternoon, dear one,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling. “I fear I had gotten lost in my thoughts. The new timetables that the Royal Society of Astrographers have just published are dreadful. They’re rife with errors and miscalculations! I was trying to see if I could work things out any better myself.”
Ivy smiled herself, then set down the teacup and approached the globe. “I am sure that you can. It’s a riddle, that’s all. And no one is better than you at solving riddles.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Mr. Bennick tells me that you are rather good at riddles yourself, Ivoleyn, and nor do I doubt him. I have ever trusted Mr. Bennick’s opinion, you know!”
“Yes,” Ivy said. “As do I.”
“I hope Mr. Bennick will come see us soon. It has been nearly a month since his last visit, and I have quite a number of matters to discuss with him. I cannot imagine what keeps him in Torland. Now, my dear, take this knob and turn it a quarter at a time to the left to move Eides in retrograde while I adjust the azimuth of Regulus. Yes, that’s it—perfect! We shall have the calculations in no time, you and I.”
The tea forgotten, Ivy stood beside her father, working the celestial globe while he periodically jotted down notes or calculations, and all the while she could not recall a time when she had been happier. To have him returned to her, after all these years, was the greatest of joys. And she cherished her father all the more for how long she had been deprived of his intellect, his guidance, and his affections.
How anxious she had been as Lord Rafferdy spoke the spell there at the house on Durrow Street, removing the enchantment her father had given the better part of himself to create. Then the spell was finished, and for a silent minute they had all watched Mr. Lockwell as he sat motionless in the chair. Suddenly he had blinked, and his faded blue gaze had turned in her direction. Then, for the first time in ten years, he had spoken the one word she had wanted to hear him utter more than anything else.
Ivy? he had said.
During the days that followed, he had been somewhat muddled and confused. Yet bit by bit they explained to him all that had happened, and as they did his eyes grew clearer and his voice stronger. Then there had been the terrible moment when he had asked where Mrs. Lockwell was, and they had told him that she was gone. This jolt had set back his progress significantly, and he had regressed to speechlessness for several days.
Yet in time he began to improve again, and over the span of several months he became everything that Ivy had remembered him to be: intelligent, curious, playful, exacting, and above all marvelously warm and kind. After the long and awful ordeal, he was at last whole again.
Mostly, at least. For, even as he was jotting notes in his journal, his face went suddenly slack, and the pen slipped from his fingers.
Slowly, gently, Ivy touched his arm.
“Father?”
For a moment he did not move. Then all at once he blinked, picked up the pen, and went on writing as if nothing had happened. All the same, Ivy knew that they would soon be returning to the city.
Over the last year, they had enjoyed staying here at Heathcrest, or visiting Lady Marsdel at Farland Park. Yet Ivy had noticed, the longer they were away from Invarel, the more his mind would start to drift, and the more he would suffer small lapses such as this one. She supposed some portion of him would always remain at the house on Durrow Street. It was truly a magician’s abode, and even as it required him, so he had need of it.
“I imagine my granddaughter wants for you, dear one,” he said as he scribbled in his notebook. “You should go down to her. I’ll be down soon myself to tickle her. I have just one more calculation to write out. And how the Royal Astrographers will tear at their hair when they see it!”
He ran a hand through his own hair, mussing it even further, then dipped his pen.
“Very well, Father,” she said with a smile, knowing it would be past suppertime, and Merriel would be fast asleep, before he came downstairs. She kissed his cheek fondly, then left the magician to his work.
IVY RETURNED to the little parlor and there found Rose and Merriel. Rose was walking with her, and telling her the color of everything in the room, while Merriel gazed around with wide green eyes.
For a moment Ivy watched from the door, marveling at this innocent and beautiful scene. Then, imagining Rose’s arms must be getting weary, she entered and accepted Merriel back. As she did, her small daughter let out a very large yawn.
“I believe someone is ready for a nap,” she said.
“As am I,” Rose said, yawning herself. She bent over Merriel to give her niece a kiss, then departed the room.
Ivy moved to the bassinet in the corner, then laid her daughter down and gently tucked a blanket around her. Though Merriel’s green eyes drooped, she refused to shut them all the way, as if she did not want to stop looking at all the colors that her aunt had shown to her.
“I assure you, dearest, everything will still be here when you awake again,” she said, touching one of those tiny hands. Then, deeming sleep more likely to come if distractions were removed, Ivy left the bassinet and went to sit on the sofa. She discovered that Mrs. Seenly had brought a fresh pot of tea, and as she had never really managed to have any earlier, she poured herself a cup.
She had just taken her first sip when, coming from the front hall, she heard the noises of the door opening, and the echoing murmurs as one of the servants greeted somebody. Moments later followed the sound of footsteps approaching.
As Ivy was not expecting anyone, she supposed it was simply someone from one of the neighboring households in the county, or perhaps the vicar from the chapel at Cairnbridge. Well, there were more teacups on the tray.
A servant appeared in the doorway. “A visitor has arrived for you, your ladyship,” he announced. “Shall I tell him you will receive him?”
Ivy did not bother to ask who it was. “Of course, you may show him in,” she said, and went to the table to tip the pot over a second cup.
“Well, I see little has changed since I first met you in your parlor on Whitward Street,” spoke a wry, familiar voice. “For it appears you still pour your own tea.”
Ivy set the pot down with a sudden clatter, then turned around. “Lord Rafferdy!” she exclaimed.
He gave a deep bow. “Your ladyship.”
As he did, Ivy’s thoughts turned wildly. A short while ago, she had had little trouble helping her father calculate the positions of the stars and planets, but now she could not formulate the simplest thing to speak.
Fortunately, she did not have to, as just then Merriel emitted several bright, trilling noises from her bassinet. No doubt the sound of voices had vindicated her resistance to sleeping, and she was now expressing her wish to be included in the proceedings. Knowing Merriel would not be content until she saw what was happening, Ivy went to the bassinet.
“I hope I am not arriving at an inconvenient time, Lady Quent.”
“Not at all,” Ivy said, at last managing to take a breath. “Indeed, this is a very good time for Merriel to meet you. As she has heard a great deal about you, she is no doubt quite eager to make your acquaintance.”
Indeed, Merriel was now smiling and gurgling as Ivy lifted her from the bassinet. Her visitor slowly approached.
“But she is so tiny!” he exclaimed.
Ivy could only laugh at this. “In fact, she is a good deal larger now than she first was, and after you have held her for a time, she does not in fact feel so very tiny. Would you like to?”
He appeared startled by this suggestion. “You mean hold her? Me?”
It was amusing that a man who had bravely faced enemy soldiers, wicked magicians, and daemons from other worlds could be alarmed at the prospect of holding a small infant. Yet when
Ivy held her out, he hesitated only a moment, then accepted Merriel. His actions were awkward at first as he searched for the best way to cradle her, but then he tucked her comfortably into the crook of his arm, as if he had done it countless times before.
A smile spread across his face, and his brown eyes were alight. “Well, this is utterly marvelous.”
“Yes, it is,” Ivy said, and she smiled herself, for somehow it seemed very right to see him hold her daughter so tenderly.
Presently, Merriel’s eyelids began to droop again. Evidently, now that she was well apprised of the happenings in the room, sleep was growing harder for her to resist. Ivy took her back and returned her to the bassinet, where she gave a sigh and shut her eyes. Then Ivy went to join her visitor on the far side of the parlor.
“Is she asleep?” he said softly.
“Yes, I believe so,” she replied. “But there’s no need to worry about being quiet. Indeed, if we speak in our usual tones, she is much less likely to wake up than if we whisper. The sound of our voices will comfort her.”
“Yours, perhaps. Mine can only be strange to her.”
“On the contrary, I am certain she is very familiar with it. After all, she would have heard you on many occasions before she was born.”
Now a look of wonder came upon his face. “I suppose you must be right.”
“I think her willingness to sleep while you are here is proof of that.”
He glanced toward the bassinet. “She’s marvelous in every way, Lady Quent.” Then his gaze returned to her. “Just like her mother.”
Ivy could not help being pleased by these words, though she felt suddenly flustered as well. “Thank you, Lord Rafferdy,” she said, a bit breathlessly. “But it has been some time since I’ve seen you, and in the interim it appears you’ve forgotten our agreement of how we are to address one another.”
“I apologize for my long absence here and at Durrow Street. You see, ever since leaving my commission in the army, I have been rather …” He paused, then shook his head. Whatever it was that had been keeping him away, he did not say. “But I fear that you have been similarly afflicted as I. It seems that time and absence can make one forgetful of just how things are supposed to be.”
“Then let us recall our proper habits, Mr. Rafferdy.”
“As you wish, Mrs. Quent,” he said and grinned.
As always, the expression suited him. Yet, unlike when they first met, it was no longer the case that Mr. Rafferdy was really agreeable to look at only when he smiled. True, he was very fashionably dressed, just as he had been that day at Whitward Street. Only he had no ivory cane or kidskin gloves or such regalia about him. His only adornments were the House ring upon his hand—which was in truth a rather homely thing—and the two medals, one bronze and one silver, pinned to his coat. Also, his face was at once sharper and more open now, divested of the smooth conceit which had been evident then. In all, he seemed far less concerned with his appearance.
Which is why it was paradoxical that she found his appearance to be so much more pleasing now than she had then. His hair was somewhat mussed, as if he had been riding hard. And with his wind-tanned skin, and the lines that appeared by his eyes as he smiled, there was a slight roughness—even a degree of wildness—to him that she had never noticed before. Perhaps it was just that it had been so many months since she had seen him. Whatever the reason, she could only think that Mr. Rafferdy had never been so handsome a man as he was at that moment.
“Well, then, I am glad that is settled,” he said, then swallowed.
“As am I,” she replied, and attempted to take a breath.
They should have clasped hands affectionately then, and sat in opposite chairs as they sipped their tea, and traded stories of their mutual acquaintances in city and country. Only they did not do these things. Rather, he continued to gaze at her. Slowly his smile dwindled, and his expression grew solemn. The light of the long day, falling through the window, caused his brown eyes to become exceedingly bright. Nor did they turn away from her, not even for a moment.
“Mr. Rafferdy!” she gasped at last, for she could think of nothing else to say. Her heart was fluttering at a rapid pace within her, as if she had just raced across the moors. Had he asked her for a cup of tea at that moment, she could never have complied, for the way her hands were trembling.
Yet it was not for tea that he had come here.
“Mrs. Quent, I am confounded!” he exclaimed at last. “I have always believed myself a man of words, but I cannot fathom how to speak to you what I must. The most ancient spell or obscure runes of magick would more easily depart my tongue.”
Now he began to pace the room in the most agitated way.
“I detained myself for months, to give myself time to puzzle this out, yet that was not time enough. Then I rode all the way from Invarel, rather than take a coach, so I would have more time. Yet still it was not enough! And so I walked slowly up the steps of your manor, to think it through further. Only now I am here before you, and still I find that I do not know how such things can ever be spoken. Yet I have to speak them. I have to.”
Ivy could scarcely breathe, let alone speak herself. She gripped the back of a chair, for fear her feet would cease to bear her. At last she managed to say, “Then I beg you, speak them!”
He ceased his pacing and gazed at her. For a moment, it seemed the ring upon his right hand flashed blue. Or perhaps it was only the sunlight. Then, abruptly, he took a step toward her.
“I know that previously I have agreed to call you Mrs. Quent,” he said, his voice going low—and not out of concern about waking Merriel, she was sure. “But that is a promise I now wish to break. For you see, it is Mrs. Rafferdy that I would call you, if I could. But no—it is not even that. It is the name Ivoleyn that I wish to speak. So I will call you that now, even if I am never allowed to do so again. For I love you, Ivoleyn. I have always loved you, even when I was too great of a dolt to know it. That day in the Wyrdwood, I told you I would gladly give my heart to you. But that was only the half of it. For I would have your heart in return, if I could. I would spend the rest of my life with you, and with Merriel. I would belong to you both, and both of you to me, and nothing would ever alter that, unless it were to add another member to our little family. You did not give me your answer then, for I would not let you. But I ask you for it now, no matter what the answer might be. For I can no longer endure not knowing, one way or another.”
Moments ago, Ivy’s mind had been all in confusion. But while her heart still raced within her, it was no longer the case for her thoughts. Rather, with a perfect clarity, she knew precisely how to answer him.
“I did love you, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said, moving a step toward him. “Or rather, I thought that I did. How could I not think so, given how fine and witty you were in our plain little parlor? Only then, after that, I learned what it truly was to admire a man—not because of his appearance or charm or position, but because of who he was. Because of the strength of his character, the goodness of his spirit, and the trueness of his heart. Those, I learned, are the things that are really worth being loved.”
His face grew more solemn yet. “Yes, of course,” he said. “I see.”
He started to retreat. Only before he could do so, Ivy went to him, and reached out, and clasped his hands in her own.
“Those are the things that are worth being loved,” she said. “And that is why I love you, Mr. Rafferdy. Truly, this time. Not because I am dazzled by you, but rather because I know you—because I have seen every one of those things in you, and far more. Indeed, I cannot think I really deserve the love of such a man—but I will not claim that I don’t want it! I do want it, more than anything—for myself, and for my daughter.”
“But it is already yours,” he said. “It ever has been.”
He was smiling again, his face alight, and Ivy knew her own expression was a mirror to his.
“Ivoleyn,” he said, softly now, as if testing the word.
Then their hands parted, but only so they might come closer, like two trees twining together to stand as one in a forest of green.
This is for all the witches,
magicians, and illusionists who stand
against the shadows in this world.
ALSO BY GALEN BECKETT
The Magicians and Mrs. Quent
The House on Durrow Street
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
What if there was a fantastical cause underlying the social constraints and limited choices confronting a heroine in a novel by Jane Austen or Charlotte Brontë? GALEN BECKETT began writing The Magicians and Mrs. Quent to answer that question. The author lives and writes in Colorado.
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 76