by CE Murphy
“But not your eldest,” Sophia said with true amusement that became quiet laughter as sisterly loyalty came to odds with friendship’s fondness on Elsa’s expressive features. “It is no matter, Elsa; I know that he seemed very fond of Rosamund from the outset, and I have heard that he made some effort to be in attendance when you called upon Miss Webber and Mrs Gibbs; that, indeed, he remained most attentive for the entire duration of your visit.”
“It is true,” Elsabeth confessed with a happy sigh. “He seemed to quite dote upon her, and insisted upon driving Miss Webber and Mrs Gibbs to our dear Oakden House himself when they paid us a return visit.”
Sophia, without evident humour, said, “Do you not mean when they paid you the honour of a return visit, Elsabeth?”
“Hah! Oh, I should not have let that sound escape,” Elsa said through fingers interlaced over her mouth. “I know I am dismissive of society’s prescribed manners, but for Rosa’s happiness I must curtail my tongue. That said, I do not believe their visits to be an honour, Sophia, but rather a burden; I do not care for the way they look down their noses at all of us, yes, all of us, even Rosamund, as if they are certain they are our superiors, even though their family money came from trade only a generation ago. Your own father’s success in trade has made him very rich and yet not an unbearable snob, so it cannot be merely that they are defensive.”
“I believe Mamma would be happily snobbish if she were not burdened with an unmarriageable daughter. No, stop, Elsa; it is true. I am nearly twenty-eight and have no prospects. I would remove myself from their worries by taking the gentle arts they have educated me in and becoming a governess, but you know that I do not like children. The prospect of spending a lifetime educating them is worse than growing old in Papa’s house and caring for Mamma and Papa in their dotage.”
“We shall grow old together, then.” Elsa tucked her arm through Sophia’s with cheery confidence. “For I see little hope for myself either, unless I am to go to London for a Season, and we are all quite certain that will not happen. At least Rosamund will marry for love while we two spinsters smile and watch.”
“You are only twenty,” Sophia pointed out, but did not choose to argue the rest, save to say, “A Season might not be so very bad, Elsa, but I wonder if Mr Archer’s...difficulty...at the Newsbury ball might be repeated in London if someone should set your temper alight.”
Elsa, blithe as a sprite, sang, “Master Archer sat on a wall, Master Archer had a great fall,” and turned innocently sparkling eyes upon her friend. “Whatever can you mean, Sophia?”
Shocked and delighted, Sophia gasped, “Elsabeth! You did not!” as one who did not so much scold as hoped dearly to be told more.
“I did nothing that anyone could ever be certain of, my dearest Sophia.” Elsa glanced around the garden, making certain they were quite alone before releasing Sophia’s arm and reaching upward to touch her fingertips to a small green apple. It swelled beneath her touch, reddening until it fell, perfectly ripe, into her palm. She presented this morsel to Sophia, who clutched it against her bosom in both hands and watched in wordless joy as Elsa quickened a second apple for herself. “There,” said Miss Dover with a certain satisfaction. “This is worthy of scandal in London, and all the more delicious for being our secret.”
“If an unseasonable apple is all that is required to scandalise London, I believe you ought to have a Season there, for it is very dull indeed and you would liven it up. And when your Season is over and you are married to a dull but rich man, you may bring me into your home as your companion so that you do not go mad from boredom. I shall tend to your garden, and eat apples out of season all year long.” Sophia defied propriety and took a large, wet bite of her apple before sighing in contentment.
“If London is that easily scandalised, I should far rather stay in Bodton, where I can ripen apples without notice. Rosamund will marry Webber and we will be saved from both the pox of primogeniture and of dubious sorcer—”
Sophia put a hand over Elsa’s mouth, silencing the word. “Do not speak it aloud, Elsa. You are discreet enough, but even the whisper of the word could set everything awry for Rosamund. If she is to ensnare Webber, he must know nothing of your heritage, nothing at all.”
“Even before my parents married, Papa was looked upon suspiciously. If we are to meet ruin, there are many here who might whisper rumours into Mr Webber’s ear, even if I should speak and behave with perfect decorum.”
“You are mistaken. If Bodton were inclined to believe the tales, they would have sprung up again, loudly, after Archer’s fall at Newsbury Manor. I worried for you, and have been listening, Elsa. The rumours are so old and so unproven as to be dismissed: even my own mother, who sees Mr Webber as her last chance to be rid of me, sniffed in disdain at the idea his fall might have been orchestrated through occultish means. Do nothing to lend credence to them, and all anyone will remember as an impediment to Rosa’s marriage is that your mother is—”
“Silly,” Elsa finished, gently, when Sophia’s kindness would not allow her to, “and my younger sisters absurd. Surely that is not enough to distract from old stories taking root, if the Webbers cared to pursue them.”
“Your father removed you to Bodton nearly eighteen years since, Elsa, and in that time, no one save myself has ever seen any truly remarkable activities from your family, and even then, it has only ever been you, in secret. Your mother and sisters are enough to rise above. Do not offer any other hint of difficulty.” Sophia paused as though finished, then spoke again, more qui- etly and more swiftly. “You know what you would be reduced to, Elsa, if your talents were confirmed. You are women, unable to join the army. More, there are five of you. Some madman would see you as a coven, and you would all be burned for the sin of being gentlewomen with magic.”
Elsabeth turned her face away as if the words were a blow, though they were not: Sophia spoke nothing more than a common truth. “There is no evil in magic, Sophia.”
“No.” Her friend’s voice was touched with dry laughter that faded slowly into something near to anger. “No, it is only gauche. It is only just bearable that the most wretched Englishman might have a touch of magic, and only then because those poor folk can be pressed into taking the King’s shilling and made to fight with whatever talent they command. It is for savages, such as the poor, or for hedonists, such as the French. It is simply unthinkable that a well-bred English family should be afflicted with it, and to ensure it remains that way, they will destroy you if they find out.”
Elsabeth could not help but smile. “You speak so well, Sophia. Why are you so good? Why protect us so fiercely?”
Sophia balanced her half-eaten apple on her fingertips and smiled. “Because I love apples, Elsa, and I love you.”
“You ought to have been my sister, too.” Elsa embraced Sophia, kissed her cheek, and together they went away into the gardens.
(7)
That Mr Webber would attend dinner was inevitable; that Mr Archer should find himself in accompaniment was not, and yet that worthy stood stiff and uncomfortable at Webber’s side when Webber knocked briskly on the Oakden door. It was not necessary to knock; a servant awaited them on the other side, but so did a flustered Mrs Dover, who had observed not one but two rich and handsome young men approaching on her drive, and was now so discombobulated that nothing could be done but that she greet them herself.
The servant, a young woman named Margaret whose unlimited patience for Mrs Dover was born of an acute awareness that an elderly mother, three younger brothers and two small sisters depended on the wages Margaret sent home each week, had heard rumour enough of the two gentlemen at the door to know that one would be forgiving and delighted should the lady of the house meet them at the door, and that the other, whose fortune was at least twice that of the genial man’s, would be sufficiently horrified as to never again darken the Oakden door, and indeed to go to some effort to make certain the breach of protocol was well known so that no other gentlemen of
means would be so foolish as to approach any of the sisters Dover.
It was to this end that Margaret stood flapping her skirts at Mrs Dover as if the latter were a chicken to be rousted from her roost, and hissing, “I can’t open the door, ma’am, until you’re well out of the way, else there’ll be no room for the gentlemen in the hall!” In that same contained tone of panic, she attempted to summon Mr Dover to fetch his wife, but her pleas, calculated not to carry through the front door, could also not carry into the sitting room, nor the library beyond.
Unaware of the performance within, on the doorstep, Archer’s already-dark countenance grew darker. “I did not agree to come with you only to be left on the stoop, Webber.”
“No,” said the other, placidly, “you came because I rightfully impressed upon you not only the boorishness of your behaviour a week since but also the dreadful imbalance at the Oakden table, with six women to only two men. With your presence it shall be three to six, and I trust any one of us is doughty enough to manage two ladies at once.”
“I do not believe Mr Dover manages any at all, and you will be attending on Miss Dover, which will leave me five when I had no wish to encounter even one. I should not have come.” Archer made as if to withdraw immediately, and had Rosamund not come to the hall and taken Mrs Dover away at that very moment, thus freeing beleaguered Margaret to fling open the door, he might well have succeeded. As it was, he was presented with a picture that failed to hearten him: a red-cheeked serving girl, from her dress not even so much as a housemaid, much less a lady’s maid, gasped a breathless greeting, dipped into a curtsey of depth appropriate to royalty rather than young gentlemen, and stepped back into a granite-floored hall to afford them entrance.
Webber strode in gladly, instantly and genuinely admiring the floors—“Local stone? The very best, nothing could be better than a home built of the very land it rests upon”—the windows—“Fine and large, with good light, and facing south, too, I see; Newsbury Manor has the ill fortune to face east, although it makes for excellent evenings in the back gardens”—and the scent of food wafting through the house—“I believe I have not smelled something so delicious in the weeks I have been at Newsbury. I am eager to commend the cook.”
All of this was directed in a genial fashion at Margaret, who was entirely smitten by the young gentleman by the time she had received their coats and directed them with shy happiness to the sitting room, where six ladies and one master of the house all awaited their entrance with highly piqued curiosity. Webber seized Mr Dover’s hand in both of his, pumping away enthusiastically. “A delight to be here, sir, and what a charming home it is. You recall my friend Archer, do you not? He has agreed to accompany me so that our table might be more evenly matched; I hope, Mrs Dover,” he said, turning to the lady of the house with all due embarrassed apology, “that I have not upset your cook by being so bold, but Archer only relented this very afternoon, so I had not the time to warn you.”
“Oh, no, we are well prepared for another appetite,” promised Mrs Dover, who did not know where to look. She would swear she had never encountered such fine manners as Webber presented, but neither could she forget the dreadful slight Archer had impressed upon Elsabeth. Yet the matter of three other daughters besides Rosa and Elsa was also to be considered, and Archer was wealthy, handsome and within the walls of her home.
To this end, and with a somewhat wild look in her eyes as a decision was made, she edged forward the three youngest daughters, murmuring, “You will recall Misses Dina, Tildy and...Ruth.” She finished with a degree of thoughtfulness, for if Archer was to prove an unbearable prig, it might well be that the middle Dover daughter’s humourless ways might be more appealing than not. If only Ruth were prettier; but she was not, and all Mrs Dover could say in the end was, “I am sure we are all most pleased to further our acquaintance, Mr Archer.”
“Indeed,” said Mr Dover, whose favouritism toward Elsa was less inclined to forgive Archer for the benefit of his other daughters, but he did not cause a scene. Mrs Dover squeezed his hand in approval and gratitude when, upon the announcement that dinner was ready, Webber offered Rosamund his arm and escorted her to the dining room, where it soon proved that young Mr Webber was quite able to attend to six women and one gentleman all on his own, as Archer sat stiffly, ate little, spoke not at all unless directly addressed, and then only answered as briefly as possible. Was the lamb tender enough? It was. Had he been bothered by the spot of rain that fell earlier? He had not. Were the vegetables to his liking? They were. Did he enjoy the previous Season in London? No.
This last was spoken with such resounding finality that even Mrs Dover was silenced by it, though Elsabeth spoke as if he had done nothing untoward, all of her attention directed at Mr Webber, whose besotment with Rosa was not enough to leave him unaware of Archer’s rudeness. “I can only imagine, Mr Webber, that if a young gentleman could so violently dislike the Season, he must have some close-held and secret reason for doing so. Do you suppose that Mr Archer’s heart is already given away, and that he therefore cannot bear the lighthearted foolishness of courtship?”
She may have been looking at Mr Webber, but Elsa observed Archer sideways, and saw that his eyes darkened considerably at this speculation. All the green fled from his eyes, leaving them such a stony grey as to be nearly black. She had never seen such eyes, fathomless and intriguing, and, despite herself, turned her regard on him fully.
He was shockingly handsome, in truth; she had already forgotten that, in her distaste at his manners. His attraction was a brooding challenge at perfect odds with Mr Webber’s open friendliness. But he was dreadful: Elsabeth reminded herself of that, and lifted her chin fractionally to stop a blush of interest from rising at the idea of such a challenge.
Archer saw only the cool regard and the brief lift of her chin, disdainful and dismissive of her social superior. She appeared to expect an answer her supposition, to the arch accusation of romance he could barely recall the content of any longer.
“I have suddenly remembered pressing business elsewhere. I must take my leave of you at once.” With this announcement, he did, leaving a flustered Webber to make apologies and then retreat after his friend, with two courses of dinner still to come. Elsabeth half rose from her own seat, of a mind to follow, then could think of nothing to say that would not worsen the moment, and sank back down in astonishment to simply stare in their wake.
Rosamund, eyes bright with tears, pressed her fingertips to her lips, turned to Mr Dover as he spoke with as much anger as he was known to be capable of. “You may marry that Webber lad if you wish, Rosamund, but I will not have his companion under this roof again. I hope that your young man is not of a mind to forever choose his ill-mannered friends over his wife’s family.”
“Oh, Papa,” Rosa replied, but even she was unable to explain Archer’s behaviour, only finally venturing “Perhaps he is very shy, and cannot bear to be teased,” as an excuse so tremulous that not even she believed it.
“I, for one, am glad of his departure,” Elsa confessed with as much mischievousness as she could muster, which was little indeed, for she had had no intention of driving away her sister’s best marriage prospect, nor even the irritable Mr Archer, with her arch words, and was horrified at what she had wrought, “for the pudding tonight is almond, a particular favourite of mine, and now we have two fewer with whom I must share. Why, Rosamund, I think your Mr Webber has done me a deliberate favour!”
“That is very kind of you, Elsa,” Rosa answered softly. “I shall try to think of it that way, and not imagine that to follow Mr Archer in such a hurry means that Mr Webber has no real fondness for me at all.”
(8)
Rosamund’s fears were laid to rest the very next morning when, at the earliest possible hour deemed polite by society, an invitation for Miss Dover to dine with the Webber sisters was delivered to her by a footman in a suit so beautifully cut that even Mr Dover felt a momentary pang of envy regarding the status of his own s
ervants’ clothing. Not that he would be moved to amend their garb, for while he was by no means bereft of a viable income, the bulk of it was bound up in irrevocable promise to the male heir of the Dover estate. This was one part common practise and one part the grim-fisted determination of Mr Dover’s grandfather, who believed, rightly or wrongly, that the questionable gift for magic passed through the female line, and who had been quite determined that no sorcery-ridden female would ever become undisputed mistress of the Dover fortune.
It had not, of course, occurred to that gentleman, nor to the subsequent generations, that a time might come when the Dover name would have no son to be passed to, not until the current Mrs Dover, having borne five girls in eleven years, put her foot down on the matter and proclaimed there would be no more attempts at a son unless Mr Dover himself wished to work a miracle and carry, birth and nurse the next five children himself.
Mr Dover was quite content to have tea that did not cool and a garden that grew unusually green even in the coldest months; to presume more profoundly upon Nature’s acts was beyond his capability and his proclivities. Had he been acquainted with more than the name of the young man to whom the Dover estate was to be bequeathed, he might well have gone about trying to persuade Nature of the delights of trying something new, but he did not, and so the family Dover lived on a modest sum with enough to draw equally modest dowries for each of the five daughters, even if it was Mr Dover’s private opinion that Ruth would not find a man dour enough to suit her, much less be suited by her, and that any man fool enough to marry Leopoldina or Matilda was not a man he wished to pay a dowry to. It would, however, be beneath him to actively assume the worst of his three youngest and make use of those funds to improve the wardrobe of his servants, and so envy would prick, and that would be that.