No Proper Lady

by Isabel Cooper

  “I’m much obliged to him, then.”

  “Obligation is the currency of our world. Do sit down.”

  Gillespie returned to his own seat, folding himself into it with a heron’s grace. Simon took the chair at his right. The black upholstery, he noticed, was battered but very comfortable. Gillespie might be unaware of appearances, but he was no ascetic.

  The old man turned toward Simon. “You want the book,” he said. “The Wisdom of Raguiel.”

  “Er,” Simon said, “yes, actually. Or at least to see it.”

  “Why?”

  Simon had prepared the answer in his room that morning, even rehearsed it, but now the words came sluggishly to his lips. “I need to stop an evil magician. A murderer, and worse.”

  “Do you want to kill him?” Gillespie cocked his head to look at Simon, his eyes bright and curious.

  “No. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to give him a chance to redeem himself, but I’m not such a fool as to accept his word alone.”

  A year ago, he’d have taken Alex’s word for anything without a second thought. Plus ça change…he thought, weary. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

  Gillespie’s thin gray eyebrows went up. His regard was almost gentle now, but when he spoke, his voice was brisk and matter-of-fact. “The loss of innocence, of course, is very much a part of the human condition.”

  There had been no way for Gillespie to tell that from Simon’s face. Someone unusually good at reading people might have inferred it from his conversation, but Simon didn’t think so.

  “The human condition, sir?” he asked. “Is it something with which you’re familiar?”

  “As much as many a mortal man or woman, Master Grenville. Particularly one who asks such daring questions.” A smile played around Gillespie’s narrow mouth. “For which I thank you. Far better to have the questions asked and in the open than to sense them lurking around the edges like rats.”

  Let it be bluntness, then. “Can you read my mind?”

  “‘Reading’ is not the word I would use. It’s a precise art, reading. Words are very exact things. I knew that you mourned what had been. I knew that you wondered—and wonder still—whether I am entirely human. The details escape me. I assure you I am human enough.”

  “Ah,” said Simon.

  “It’s rather like having a cat brush against you in the dark. Or, in some cases, an elephant. Your feelings are rather more disciplined than most, Master Grenville, which has made this meeting so far more bearable than I’d feared. You will be so kind as to continue that trend, I hope.”

  Simon swallowed. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “You very rarely, I would imagine, do anything else.” Gillespie leaned back into his chair, and his shining green eyes traveled over Simon again. “Indeed, you seem a very driven young man. The wards around you would provide quite enough safety from most magic unless you did something foolish. Either you are very altruistic or the man facing you is much less a man than you think he is.”

  That was a frightening suggestion. Even knowing Alex from childhood couldn’t banish entirely the unease Simon felt. It was due to Gillespie, he knew, and the room and the statue that stared at him with a slight smile on its onyx face. He shook his head. “Let it be altruism, then, if you will, sir. Or vengeance, perhaps. I make no claim to sainthood.”

  “Good. Saints are well enough in their place. Men with aspirations to that place are often tedious. But I don’t believe that it is vengeance. You don’t want him dead, after all. Perhaps you want a worse fate, but I would not, so far, believe that of you.”

  “I’ve had my moments,” Simon admitted.

  Gillespie smiled. “But they’ve been moments, have they not? You’re going to great lengths here. I do have to wonder why. Dark magicians often destroy themselves. They burn out pursuing power or rot with decadence. Why not let opium or the French disease accomplish your end for you?”

  “Because I can’t,” said Simon. He was about to go on, but Gillespie recoiled, holding up a hand.

  “Lord God, defend us. Armageddon.” His lips were white. “The Scriptures promise the end of the world and in a none too pleasant fashion, but—”

  “They don’t say that we’ll lose.” Simon took a breath. “This isn’t St. John’s Revelation, Doctor. If I fail, what happens to humanity will make that look like a garden party.”

  Gillespie passed the back of one thin hand across his mouth. “Not only humanity, I’d imagine,” he said faintly, “though we’ll get the worst of it by far. But such things always spread. I’ll get you the book, Master Grenville, and I hope you’re on the right path.”

  The Wisdom of Raguiel was fairly slim as occult books went, which meant that it only nearly crushed Simon’s knees. The cover was supple blue leather, but the pages were yellow and fading. “I mean to copy it one of these days,” Gillespie said when he handed it over. “One of many projects.”

  The book was full of spells. Spells for protection, many of them, as well as spells for learning the truth, for finding thieves, and for knowing if your wife or servants were faithful. There were no love spells, nor spells to keep old men young, as he’d seen in other books, but there was a spell to keep dogs watchful and one to keep guards from leaving their posts. If the matter hadn’t been so urgent, simple scholarly curiosity would have kept Simon reading for days.

  Then, about a third of the way from the end of the book, he found what he was looking for.

  Bye Which A Manne May Bee Helde To Hys Worde.

  Simon stopped, putting his finger in the book to mark the place. He looked up—Gillespie had taken a book of his own off the table and was reading as placidly as if Armageddon had never come up—and took a breath. Then Simon read on.

  The spell wasn’t actually that difficult, as spells went. Three drops of the caster’s blood, three from the man swearing the oath, and a fairly long incantation full of all the horrible things that would happen if the spell’s target broke his word. The target had to speak most of it.

  Simon must have made some sort of sound, for Gillespie looked up from his reading. “Is something amiss?”

  “No,” Simon said, coming up slowly from his reading, “not at all.” And then, because Gillespie didn’t look as if he believed him, he added, “It’s just that he’d have to actually participate.”

  “Of course.” Gillespie closed his book and fixed Simon with the stern look of a schoolmaster. “You’ll find no bindings in there that don’t require such things, and I would be most reluctant to give you one. Most reluctant indeed.”

  Simon blinked. “Why?” Suspecting he had a great deal more to fear than being thrown out if he angered Gillespie, he hurriedly added, “I’m not complaining, just a bit surprised. After all, I’m trying to find this spell so that I don’t have to kill the man.”

  “And is slavery any better than death? Even slavery in a good cause?”

  He saw Eleanor, her eyes dull and her body floating above the sofa, and he flushed with mingled shame and irritation. “We put men in prison when we must, and you’d meet few men who’d call that immoral.”

  Gillespie’s lips tightened. “Few, yes. But prison confines a man’s body, Master Grenville. It cannot touch his spirit. Not directly.”

  “Being confined for years would have some effect on a man’s soul.”

  “What in life doesn’t? But such things can only influence. They cannot compel.” Gillespie was sitting forward now, watching Simon’s face.

  “It would compel only a very minor part of him—turning it to what it should have been in any case. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “With what it should have been? Certainly. But it doesn’t matter.” Gillespie spread his hands. The fingers were long, the joints thick. He was human enough for arthritis, it appeared, and that was vaguely reassuring. “Our Lord gave us free will, the ability to choose good or evil. He could have compelled us from the start. He did not. Not even at the greatest of costs. Who are
we to contradict him?”

  It was all very quiet. Very civilized conversation in a warm, well-lit room with books lining the walls and the smell of beeswax coming from the candles. Nonetheless, Simon had the same sense of will he’d gotten when he’d stood and argued with Joan on the rainy road to Englefield. He might batter at the walls of Gillespie’s convictions, but he would not get through.

  “I suppose,” he said, “that you also think I would do better simply to kill him.”

  Gillespie’s eyes widened, and he shook his head gently. “Not at all, Master Grenville. Where there is life, there is hope—the hope of redemption, the hope that each man has a role to play in the greater part of things and that any role might yet be for good. And to kill a man without doing all you can to offer him that hope would be, indeed, a thing to regret.

  “But redemption means choice. You may offer, yes. You may hold him to his word, once given, as only a fool would not, but you cannot force his hand. Only evil will come from that.”

  Simon looked at Gillespie again and saw that he was younger than he seemed at first—there were no lines on his face, no tremors in his body—and that the look in his eyes was very old. He had been far and seen much, Simon knew in that moment, and whether he was right or not, he spoke out of more than abstract principles.

  “Will you help me, then?” he asked. “You know what will happen if I fail.”

  “I would if I could.” Gillespie sighed and looked down at his hands. “Do not mistake me for Oberon, sir, or for Merlin. Ancestry is no guarantee of ability, and ability itself is a sad and temporary thing. I have no power now, save to pick up the thoughts men fail to guard. And I would be of no use as a spy. Around many people, I am crippled. Almost mad, at times. I will give you the book, Master Grenville, and I will pray for your success. That is all.”

  Chapter 16

  Eleanor was already in the drawing room when Joan came in, standing near the table and looking out the window. Eleanor wore pink today, trimmed with brown, and someone had done her hair in an elaborate nest of curls. It all looked nice but alien. More alien, Joan realized, than her clothes had felt in a week or two. Maybe more.

  “You look good,” she said, crossing the room.

  Eleanor spun around, raising a hand to her throat. “I—oh—thank you.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Eleanor composed herself and smiled, but there was a blankness underneath her expression. Her back was a rigid line. “Quite all right. You look very nice too.”

  “Good dressmaker,” said Joan. She was glad of the crisp yellow-and-blue print blouse and the flowing serge skirt. They felt like armor.

  “Oh, yes.” Eleanor glanced back toward the window and then down at herself. “I should have been eating better these past few weeks. Does it show terribly?”

  She was thin. She was also pale. But she’d been thin and pale the whole time Joan had known her. “Hard to say. But they know you’ve been sick, right?”

  Eleanor bit her lip. “Yes, of course. But I do hope they won’t ask too much about it. It makes me feel dreadful to lie. And I’m horrible at making up details.”

  “What details? You had a fever. You came back, you’re recovering, and you’re getting better. It’s not like they’ll ask how high your temperature got. Will they?”

  “No, of course not.” Eleanor’s smile had a little more warmth in it this time. Then she sighed. “I suppose I just think they’ll know, somehow.”

  “Hey, if they know, we’ve got a whole lot more to worry about than a tea party, right?”

  “There is that.”

  ***

  There were footmen this time, or at least a footman. He came in with the Misses Talbot, introduced them, and pulled out chairs so that they could sit down. Then he stood around waiting. It must, Joan thought, be one of the more boring jobs anyone could do. On the other hand, he was indoors and nobody was trying to kill him.

  The Misses Talbot—Rosemary and Elizabeth—were both a little taller than Eleanor and both on the plump side, even for this time. Both were also brown haired and brown eyed. Rosemary was wearing white. Elizabeth was wearing light green. Joan made very sure that she remembered that.

  They did, thank the Powers, seem to know how hard it was to tell them apart. “We’re not actually twins,” said Rosemary, laughing lightly as she sat down next to Joan. “I’m two years the older. And it was much easier to tell us apart when we were younger, of course, because we were of different heights. Nowadays, it’s awful. Papa threatens every so often to have our initials embroidered on all our dresses.”

  “Though we could always switch,” said Elizabeth.

  “So it’s really quite pointless, yes. Poor Papa. We’re a dreadful trial to him.” Rosemary sounded happy about it.

  “Do you have brothers or sisters, Miss MacArthur?” Elizabeth asked.

  Joan shook her head. “I have no family living, I’m afraid.”

  Both sets of brown eyes widened. “But how awful!” said Elizabeth. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No, don’t worry about it.” Joan said. “It was a long time ago. But when Miss Grenville offered to let me stay with her, I jumped at the chance for company.”

  Rosemary smiled approvingly. “Dear Eleanor is everything kind. Anyone who’s made her acquaintance knows that.”

  “I deserve no such praise,” said Eleanor, blushing. “Miss MacArthur is wonderful company. It was only natural that I invite her.”

  “Only natural for you, you mean,” Rosemary replied. And then, that particular dance concluded, she took the first few steps of the next. “We were so relieved to hear that you were seeing callers again, Eleanor. It must have been very hard for you, but Papa says that illness is quite common in town, particularly in the summer.”

  “With so many people, it could hardly be otherwise,” Elizabeth added.

  Eleanor took a swallow of tea and then entered the fray. “Yes, it is quite crowded. It was all very new to me, of course, but I still don’t know how everyone manages such a crush.”

  “Very sharp elbows,” said Rosemary, and giggled. “But you must have been there long enough to have some of the news. We hear nothing at all out here, and you know that the papers don’t print anything that’s really interesting. Worried about panic in the streets, I suppose.”

  “Even if we don’t have many streets. Or many people to panic in them.” Elizabeth sat forward. “So please do tell us everything.”

  Eleanor managed a smile. “That’s quite an order,” she said, and took a comically deep breath, which made both the Misses Talbot giggle again. “There was no great cause for excitement, I’m sorry to say, or if there was, I was informed of it no more than you were. Nothing like the Jubilee last year.”

  “But then, what would be?” Rosemary laughed. “An event notable enough for Papa to take us up to London comes along…perhaps once in a lifetime. If that.”

  As they talked on, Joan slowly ate a slice of lemon cake and tried to absorb their conversation. It was harder than she’d thought it would be. Eleanor had taught her well, but a person could do only so much with bare facts. Every time she spoke, she felt like she was crossing an abyss, jumping from one slim foothold to another, knowing that even the footholds wouldn’t have been there two weeks earlier.

  It wasn’t just men and fashion. Oh, there was that—they talked about sleeves for ten minutes, while Joan resisted the urge to play with her fork—but there was more too. “Have you heard anything from your family? Papa says that the situation abroad…”

  “…but they’re saying that times will be much tighter next year, and we’d best start economizing. Something to do with the wheat crop, I think…”

  “The thing is, I’m not sure at all that I want to be an officer’s wife. Not unless I know he’ll be posted somewhere in England…”

  “Oh, I don’t think we have anything to worry about in His Royal Highness. You know what rumors are. And besides, Her Majesty’s not i
n very bad health…”

  It was confusing, but it was familiar. Strip off the names and the ranks, and anyone back home might have asked the questions underneath. Who’s going to be leading us next year? Will they do a good job? Will we have enough? Will we have to fight?

  Fighting back home was never a question, though, and while the war the girls talked about might hit them where it hurt—Rosemary’s sweetheart, Eleanor’s parents—they’d never see combat themselves or have to run from armies in their homes. If their queen died, they’d get a ruler who might have had a mistress or six but who wasn’t promised to a Dark One, power mad, or just plain crazy—and who couldn’t have done anything much if he had been. Royalty here couldn’t have people impaled for impertinence or test weapons on the peasants. The queen couldn’t even raise taxes.

  In the traitor lands, there were sacrifices every new moon, and you were lucky if the lord slit your throat before he gave you to his master. Even in the caves, leaders had cracked. Joan listened to the three girls discuss “character” very seriously and tried not to laugh or roll her eyes. You idiots, she thought. Does it matter where your prince put his hands? There’s no blood on them.

  Except that they did care because they could. Because they’d never known anyone worse. Tyrants were hazy figures from history. If this was a land, maybe a time, in the summer of its life, these were women in the summer of theirs. Their voices held no desperation, no need to hurry, no real fear. Earnestness, yes, and lots of it, but they gave a damn because they chose to, not because they had to.

  Even Eleanor was like that. After she’d started talking, the rigid nervousness had left her. She didn’t actually say a lot, but she listened intently. When she did speak, her words were earnest, thoughtful, and unrushed. At ease.

  She belonged here.

  Joan didn’t. She could live here a hundred years, she thought, and never manage that easy grace. If the other girls had seen her when she arrived—but was she really that woman now? Now that she could dance in a corset and ride a horse? Now that luxury no longer instantly put her on her guard? Was she really Joan, daughter of Arthur and Leia, when she didn’t answer to that name anymore?