Magic and Manners (An Austen Chronicle Book 1)

by CE Murphy

  “I could listen well enough in a carriage,” Elsabeth replied, and could not bring herself to sit again, nor hold her tongue upon the topic of Rosamund: “My sister is vanishing shy, Mr Archer. To confess to me, beneath the covers at night, that Mr Webber was the most amiable man she had ever met, is the height of indiscretion for her; how much more could you expect a lady of gentle breeding to represent to the gentleman she cared for? She was never seen to dance twice with any other gentleman, nor to accept a dance when she could otherwise stand at Mr Webber’s side in light conversation. Because my emotions are baldly read does not mean Rosamund’s must be, and you have done her ill indeed.”

  “And for that I am sorry,” Archer replied simply. “Were it in my powers to set it right—and I do not flatter myself to think it might be—I would. But this is the smaller matter, madam, and I am loath to discuss the larger in the confines of a carriage for fear of my eyebrows being singed.”

  “You find this humourous, Mr Archer?”

  “I believe that, with all the intent and searching in the world, you would not find a note of humour within the letter I have written.”

  “And yet standing here before me?”

  “I have made it plain that I find it difficult to retain my composure in your presence, Miss Elsabeth. I shall endeavour to quell any show of unwanted emotion, a task which should be made easier by the subject of my second topic. I cannot know what it is precisely that Mr Hartnell—Captain, we shall say, Hartnell—has said to you, and so, if you will be so good as to hear me out, I shall present to you the story as I know it, and leave it to yourself to determine where the truth may lie.”

  “I will hear you out—I will even do so without comment—if you will do something for me.”

  “Anything,” Archer said so swiftly as to send a shiver of uncertainty through Elsabeth’s breast.

  “Persuade your aunt that I must go to London immediately, and that I could not do so more safely than with the use of her carriage. And, as it would be unseemly for a young lady to travel alone, persuade her also that your cousin, Miss Derrington, must travel with me.” The last Elsabeth suggested in a fit of inspiration that caused Archer’s eyebrows to rise.

  “Annabel? Travel by carriage in January? I believe she would be frozen through before you arrived.”

  “Then she shall thaw at my aunt’s fire. These are my conditions, Mr Archer; will you agree to them?”

  “I will. Whether Aunt Beatrice agrees is another matter, but if she refuses, it will not be for my lack of effort.”

  “Then speak your piece, Mr Archer. I will listen.” Elsabeth sat again, somewhat regretting that they were obliged to have this conversation in the midst of a snowy wood rather than by a parlour fire, but equally comprehending that it would not be had at all should there be any chance of interruption.

  “Captain Hartnell is given to all those graces that you accuse me of lacking: he charms, he smiles easily, he converses at length on any topic, from the frivolous to the profound. It was always thus; I have known him since infancy, as his father was the vicar at Streyfield, and we were born within weeks of one another. My father was very fond of the old Mr Hartnell and equally fond of the son, to whom he was eager to provide the best education and living available. It was my father’s intent that David—Captain Hartnell—should inherit the vicarage on the estate.”

  All of this was so in keeping with what the Captain had told Elsabeth that her curiosity was piqued; surely, the tale must diverge, and she had no notion how Archer might paint himself the hero of the story, which surely he must.

  “As we grew, being young men of an age together, I came to believe that those very graces I have enumerated might lend Mr Hartnell a disinclination for the clergy: he was, to put it indelicately, too fond of the company of ladies, and they of him. Nor did he seem to have any serious measure of concern for the well-being of the estate’s parishioners; he appeared to see himself as above them—ah, you smile, madam. You see in my words a reflection of myself, and I cannot deny the reflection is there. Nonetheless, David did not seem concerned with their worldly needs, much less their spiritual health, for they were peasantry and he, while born of that rank, was well-enough educated to regard himself as above it. I spoke once or twice of this to my father, who believed the best of Mr Hartnell and could not accept that any sensible young man would reject an inheritance of a thousand pounds and a living offered to him in the best of intentions. And perhaps, if my father had long outlived his, David might have found himself settled into the vicarage despite himself, but both of those good men died within two months of one another, and when the dust was settled, David came to me and confessed he did not believe himself well suited for the Church.

  “He was my friend; I could not in conscience persuade him where I agreed he did not belong. He was of a mind to pursue law, and I, knowing both his quick mind and his charm, thought him well suited for such a pursuit. Nor was I insensible to the fact that—and please forgive me for speaking so crassly of money, Miss Elsabeth; this seemed a less direct thing to admit to in the pages of a letter, but, when spoken aloud, sounds shocking— the fact that a thousand pounds would not see him through law school. He did not even have to ask for the sum of four thousand additional pounds that I provided to see him through.”

  Elsabeth Dover, whose father had a thousand pounds a year and six females to share it among, swallowed and cast her gaze downward. A lump sum of five thousand pounds, offered out of friendship, lay near to incomprehensible. There, then: this was how Archer made himself to be the hero of the story, by a tale of unstinting generosity. But she could not quite bring herself to disbelieve him. Five hundred pounds; that would have been unbelievable for its insignificance, but five thousand, by its very outrageousness, begged credibility.

  Archer, determined to have the story out now that it had begun, carried on as Elsabeth discovered she had crumpled his letter, and smoothed it against her knee while he spoke. “We parted friends, with, I confess, little expectation on my part of seeing him again: he would be in trade, and I a gentleman, and our paths were unlikely to meet. Nor did they for some four or five years, whereupon he came to me again a dissipated stranger. Law school had not been for him, if he had pursued it at all, and he now claimed a deep calling for the Church.

  “I could not offer him the parish at Streyfield: a new vicar had long since been established there. Neither had I any other answer for him; I could not be responsible for the decisions that had wasted what capital he had, and, at the last, I offered the best that I could do: the purchase of an officer’s commission in the Army.

  “He rejected this offer forcefully, and disappeared again. I was certain, this time, that we would see no more of one another.”

  Here, Archer hesitated and turned fully to Elsabeth, waiting until she lifted her eyes to speak again. “This part of the tale is one I have held close, Miss Elsabeth, not for my own sake but for the sake of the other party affected by it. I believe that, despite your distaste for me, I can rely upon your discretion, but I also ask your patience if I struggle to speak what I have not before discussed.”

  “Perhaps you would prefer I read it in your letter,” Elsabeth replied softly. “Assuming it is detailed there?”

  “It is, but, having begun, I wish to carry on. You will perhaps recall that I have a sister, much younger than myself?”

  Elsabeth grimaced. “Miss Persephone, yes. I also recall my rudeness over the matter of her name, as well, and once again must ask forgiveness.”

  “It is forgotten. Miss Archer is, as I have said, much my younger and has, I am not ashamed to say, led a very protected life. It is natural, I think, to want to protect younger sisters, and even more so when she is wholly without a mother. She has had much of what she desired without question, and, for the moment, her riding lessons were chief amongst those desires. She was not more than nine or ten when Mr Hartnell left Streyfield, and only fourteen when he returned; I had not imagined they would meet at
all, but he proved cunning enough. With some little effort, and after enough time as to assuage any suspicion I might have, he learnt from the village that Persephone was known for her riding skills, and made some effort to acquaint himself with her—reacquaint himself, he claimed, thus allowing him to avoid introductions made by myself—without my knowledge.”

  “Mr Archer,” Elsabeth said softly, and with a cold dread clutching her belly. It was impossible to think poorly of Captain Hartnell, but very easy to think of harm that could befall an unworldly young woman, and Archer’s brief smile did little to reassure Elsabeth on the topic.

  “They were on the verge of elopement when I discovered them. Only Persephone’s dismay at keeping their romance a secret from me betrayed them, in the end, and even then, she believed entirely that Hartnell was in love with her. It was only when I was forced to tell her that he had freely asked for thirty thousand pounds—the full sum of her inheritance—to leave her that she was willing to believe that it was money and not love that drove him. I refused him the sum, of course, but—once again, and this time in mind of my sister’s reputation—offered a military commission, which he accepted. You are surprised. I do not mind telling you that I impressed upon him the likelihood that he would otherwise awaken from a night of revelry on a ship bound for Australia, whence there would be no reasonable expectation of return.”

  Archer fell silent a moment, then concluded with “I had neither heard from nor seen Mr Hartnell again until Miss Enton mentioned his name in Bodton, and that was too soon a reunion for me; any reunion at all would have been too soon. This is the story as I know it, Miss Elsabeth. I thank you for listening, and I will leave you now to make arrangements with my aunt for you to travel to London.”

  (41)

  Ruth, upon hearing of Mr Archer’s second, equally dire assessment of Rosamund’s health, was eager to let Elsabeth go. Elsabeth, thus blessed, wrote a swift letter to Mrs Penney, announcing her arrival with a guest on the very heels of the letter, and hurried it to the post that it might have half a day to travel ahead of them. “I will visit again as soon as I can, Ruth; the week I have been here is hardly a visit at all.”

  “Only see Rosa well again first,” Ruth insisted. “I am quite sturdy, for my own part.”

  “I will bring her with me,” Elsabeth promised, and the very next morning saw the sisters separating. Lady Beatrice’s carriage came first for Elsabeth and her belongings, then returned to Charington Place to collect Miss Derrington, who proved surprisingly able to pack for an indefinite stay in London. Good sense would have had Miss Derrington in the carriage first, but Lady Beatrice, whose disapproval of the entire affair permeated Charington Place, would not have her delicate daughter in the carriage one moment longer than necessary.

  “No matter,” Elsabeth said to Miss Derrington as the door was closed behind them. “In short order, my aunt will write your mother, and then Lady Beatrice will come to London and bring you out. It will be a splendid affair, and worth all the sudden fuss.”

  “I believe it is your sister who is worth the suddenness of the fuss,” Miss Derrington challenged with a smile, though before Elsabeth could form a rejoinder, the carriage tilted with the weight of a man on its step, and Mr Archer entered its warmth.

  “Forgive me,” he said abruptly. “Aunt Beatrice has concluded that two footmen and a coachman are insufficient escort for two young ladies on such a journey, and insists that I join you.”

  “But how lovely!” cried Miss Derrington. “With three of us, the coach will certainly stay cosy, and with Mr Archer’s presence, we can have no fear of highwaymen!”

  “I have every confidence that Miss Elsabeth could rout any highwaymen we are likely to encounter without my assistance, but I am flattered to be regarded as a manifestation of safety.” Archer thumped the door and the coach set off, masking the curiosity of his next question. “Cousin, what are you planning? I have never known you to have any interest in London, or anything more than ten feet away from a fire, and this sudden departure seems unlike you.”

  “It is Miss Elsabeth’s scheme,” Miss Derrington announced with some pleasure. Elsa considered hiding behind her hands, but the flickered glance of amusement Archer sent her way caused her to straighten her spine instead and meet his gaze without embarrassment. “You have Streyfield, cousin,” Miss Derrington went on, a fawn-coloured gloved hand laid on Archer’s arm, “and you must know that, while I admire it, I have no earthly desire to remove myself to it for all time. Miss Elsabeth has convinced me of the wisdom of a Season, where I might select some intelligent, attractive and penniless gentleman as a husband, and take him back to Oyo with me.”

  “So, my suit is rejected before I have made it,” Archer replied in an odd voice, and this time did not look toward Elsabeth at all. Elsabeth, mortified, fixed her own gaze firmly on the window, wishing that it was not covered in the name of warmth.

  Miss Derrington only laughed. “If you had intended to make it, Gerry, you would have done so long ago. Do not pretend that I have not been convenient for you, and that it is easier to be agreeably silent in face of Mother’s intentions than to confess to her that you don’t wish to marry me. Indeed, although certainly Miss Webber has set her cap for you, I wonder at times if you intend to marry at all. You are twenty-eight, Gerry! You are growing shockingly old! But do not look so. I am quite set on this plan, and I think that once I am in a marrying mind, we all must be. Miss Elsabeth—oh, may I call you Elsabeth, please? I think we are friends, are we not? And we shall be greater friends before this journey is through. I shall be Annabel and you Elsabeth, and Gerry—”

  “—shall remain Mr Archer to me,” Elsabeth said, looking away from the window in swift horror. “I am sure I could never presume upon the familiarity of his first name.”

  “Nonsense,” said Annabel, but did not press the matter. She remained merry the entirety of the journey, sharing stories of her childhood and once or twice drawing Archer into recounting his own visits to their ancestral homeland of Oyo; Elsabeth, who had never travelled beyond England’s shores, knew a sting of envy at their tales, and was both relieved and disappointed to arrive, in due time, at Mrs Penney’s home in London.

  Archer’s opinion of the address was clear upon his face; later, Elsa, recounting to Rosamund all that had come to pass in the eventful days she had visited Ruth, confessed that she imagined Miss Derrington would be removed to a more fashionable address even before Lady Beatrice could be prevailed upon to bring her out. It was, nevertheless, an enjoyable journey, marred only by the accuracy of Archer’s assessment of Rosa, who was more beautiful and more frail than ever before. She could not be said to look unwell by Society’s standards: she was as perfectly pale and fragile as the most elegant of ladies were expected to be. Her cheeks were aflame with unpainted colour, her lips rosy, and her gowns, becomingly thin, clung to her so revealingly that Elsa, alarmed, said, “You are not dampening your muslin, are you, Rosa? You know it is an unhealthy habit.”

  “Of course not, Elsa.” Rosamund’s smile was fever-bright. “I should never be so bold, though I do confess that I seem to perspire more than I should. Perhaps it is that which gives me the look of dampening. Does it suit me, the dampened look?”

  “You are beautiful,” Elsa replied with honesty that—she hoped—hid her concern. “The gentlemen must be very taken with you.”

  “No more than is seemly,” Rosamund hastened to assure her. “I find my dance card is often full, and I am asked to dance twice by several of the gentlemen, but I cannot always oblige, when so many other young men have already spoken of their hopes for a dance.”

  “And Mr Webber?” Elsa asked cautiously. “Does he dance with you twice?”

  “Oh! Mr Webber and I rarely see one another, Elsabeth. No more than thrice in the past month, and, when we meet, I am sure it is only as the best of friends. And how lucky I am, to have such excellent friends. I do see Sophia often. You must see her, Elsa. She has blossomed, and I believe h
er card could be as full as my own if she wished it to be.”

  “Does she not?”

  “She attends to Miss Webber most assiduously. Indeed, even Miss Webber has been seen to refuse dances that she might have stood up during, the better to keep Sophia’s company. I do believe that they both have an unspoken desire to be back in Bodton, where there are often so few gentlemen that the ladies must dance together in order to have any pleasure in a ball!”

  At this, Elsabeth could not help but laugh. “I cannot believe there are any circumstances under which Miss Webber would prefer Bodton to London, but I suppose I must be pleased that she and Miss Webber have become such famous friends.”

  “You suppose,” Rosamund teased. “How generous of you, Elsa. I should think Sophia will be married at last, and finally be secure in her future. We should want nothing more for our dear companion. But I am talking endlessly, Elsabeth, and you have not yet told me anything of Charington Place, or Ruth.”

  “Ruth is extraordinarily well. I have a secret from her, Rosa, one that is to be shared only with you. You will recall how well Papa’s gardens have always grown? It seems Mr Cox’s parish is blessed with the same winter greenery.”

  For a moment, Rosamund did not comprehend; then she did, and her lovely eyes grew wider. “No! Ruth? Our Ruth?”

  “I am no less surprised than you,” Elsa assured her. “She thrives in it, Rosamund: you and I must go to visit her soon. You will be astonished at the change in her. Mr Cox is, I fear, much the same, but Ruth is very well indeed.”

  “And Charington Place, and Lady Beatrice? You have made great friends with Miss Derrington, I think; she has come with you, after all! She is a great beauty, is she not? And engaged to Mr Archer? Tell me all!”

  “Not engaged to Mr Archer; it is her intention to find a husband this Season, and return to Oyo. She finds England too cold. Lady Beatrice is quite overwhelming, both in beauty and opinion, and I fear I was unable to stay mute in her presence. I suspect she did not care for me to begin with, and now I have stolen her beloved daughter away to London. I could do little more harm, save—”