by CE Murphy
A fine afternoon lent the opportunity to both walk and study; she brought with her a book of æther, and found a perch in the lowest branches of a sturdy tree that rose up as the only shade in an expansive field. Cows milled beneath her, offering gentle lows that seemed to Elsa to comment on young ladies who climbed trees, and she rewarded them for their thoughts by the occasional awakening of grass and flower seeds beneath the soil, so that a fresh crop rose up as they nibbled. Half the afternoon had passed in this pleasant pastime when one of the cows voiced a different opinion, more disturbed than was usual, and Elsabeth leaned from her seat to see an unmistakable figure in black striding purposefully across the field.
She sat up again at once, alarmed at the leap of her heart and strangely short of breath, but did not move again until Mr Fitzgerald Archer stood beneath the tree, surrounded by cows and gazing up at her. “Miss Dover,” he said after a moment’s pause, and Elsabeth, struck by a sense of absurdity, replied, “Mr Archer,” with equal formality.
“Are you comfortable, Miss Dover?”
“I was, when I had only cows to converse with. Oh, no,” she added in dismay as a shadow crossed Mr Archer’s face. “I meant only that it is one thing to talk to cows from above, but it is more awkward to speak to a fellow human being, and I now find myself in something of a situation, as I cannot think of a modest way to disembark from this tree in company.”
Another shadow crossed Mr Archer’s face, though this one had the shape of a smile. “If I may offer my assistance...?”
“I would be grateful.” Elsabeth passed him the book, which he tucked into a pocket before extending his hands upward. Elsa inched forward on the branch until she slipped into Mr Archer’s capable hands.
He lowered her to the ground as if she were weightless and did not release her, though by any standard of propriety he ought to have. Elsabeth, her hands resting against his chest, looked up at him and wondered that she had once thought his face so desperately stern; it seemed now to be quite filled with gentleness and even laughter. “Thank you,” she said, then, more swiftly, “Thank you,” again. “I do not know if you received my letter, Mr Archer—”
“I did, and have worn it thin in the turning of it, wondering what more I might read into it than the simple words on the page. Who betrayed my part in the incident to you?”
Breathless laughter escaped Elsabeth. “You did, sir, in this very moment. Rosamund mentioned your presence at the wedding; I surmised the rest, and you have confirmed it. Mr Archer, I can never thank you enough. You saved Leopoldina; you saved my family, and I know you are not especially fond of them, making your gesture all the greater. I cannot imagine why you put yourself to the effort, but thank you.”
“Can you truly not imagine why, Miss Dover?”
He seemed very near, then, his hands warm on her waist, but Elsabeth could neither conclude how to extricate herself nor be certain she wished to. Instead, she said, hesitatingly, “Any reason I might have settled on seemed unlikely in the extreme, Mr Archer. My vanity, which is considerable, is not that great, in the end.”
“And yet you wrote to me.”
“I had to. I could not allow your kindness to go unmarked, even if you should wish it kept secret and even if I was the last person on this earth from whom you wished to hear.”
“I do not think I would have gone to such effort to maintain your sister’s reputation if I had no desire at all to communicate with you again, Miss Dover, although I am to understand you undid all the effort only a scant few weeks later,” Archer said, smiling now. “My aunt has told me often, and in great detail, of the sorcerous show displayed by all of your family at Newsbury. She now regards Mrs Cox with considerable suspicion, I’m afraid, although Mrs Cox has never offered the slightest untoward act or opinion.”
“Poor Ruth,” Elsabeth said with a quick laugh. “She is as guilty as the rest of us, Mr Archer, although I am certain you will never reveal that to your aunt.”
“Never. I wish now that I had come to Newsbury; Webber invited me, but I felt it would be easier on all parties if I did not attend, and, in my cowardice, I missed Hartnell’s come-uppance. I would have given a great deal to see that.”
“I am sure you would have been appalled, as most of Society was, by our blatant revelation of our sorcery.”
“Would I have pressed those books of magic into your hands if that were true, Miss Dover?”
“No,” Elsabeth whispered, “but I do not understand what brought about your change of heart. I am sure my family were once pariahs to you, for our magic among other faults.”
“A woman I held in considerable regard impressed upon me that the attitudes I had once considered so appropriate to my station were instead the behaviour of a tyrant, willing to accept only that which I regarded as suitable, rather than treating everyone with respect and thoughtfulness. That this woman chased me from the house with fireballs rather than igniting me with them as I well deserved may also have had some influence on my opinions. I speak lightly,” Mr Archer said, more seriously, “but I also speak truthfully. You accused me of pride, Miss Dover, which I own to, but I had come to regard pride as the defining characteristic of a gentleman, when indeed I should think the word itself, gentleman, should impress upon me what aspect I ought to have settled on as the defining one. I treated you abominably, and seek your forgiveness.”
“It is granted. I think I could deny you nothing, Mr Archer; that is the size of my debt to you.”
“It is not your gratitude I have come here hoping to secure. I have told you already that I have worn thin that note you sent me, wondering without confidence if I might somehow persuade that very word in it, gratitude, to become another; a word that perhaps you, mindful of the sentiments I had laid before you and you had rejected, could not use for fear of seeming cruel.”
Elsabeth caught her breath to speak, but Archer lifted his fingers at her waist, not releasing her but asking, with the gesture, that he be permitted to speak on. “Miss Dover, I am here because, two days ago, my aunt let slip a tidbit regarding a conversation she shared with you at Newsbury, a tidbit that she had failed to mention previously, and it has awakened a spark of hope in my breast. Let me say to you now that if I am wrong in my hopes, I will leave this place and you will never again be distressed by my presence, but let me also say that my feelings for you have only deepened, and I have come to ask if...if yours for me perhaps have changed.”
“Yes.” The word was too much: for long moments after, Elsabeth struggled to say more. Archer forbore to speak, only watched her with burgeoning hope, and when she spoke again, it was in an uncontained rush. “I had quite softened to you before that dreadful offer, Mr Archer; I had come to enjoy our tête-à-têtes, and then to hear you play the pianoforte! And your charming bemusement when you came upon me making snow angels; oh, I thought perhaps I could quite like you after all, but then I learned of the business with Rosamund, and then that awful proposal—” She escaped his grasp then, whirling away in a dervish that disturbed the cows, then spun again to face him as she continued at length. “But then your—your dispensation to use my sorcery to keep Rosamund warm, that was beyond expectation, Mr Archer, and confused me greatly! And I might have thanked you at her wedding, save that you were aloof and I could hardly find fault in that, after the awkwardness at Charington. And then, oh, God! To meet you at Streyfield, where the staff and your sister knew my name; I did not know what to think! You seemed a different man entirely then, and your kindness to my aunt and uncle, never mind the books of magic! I think my affections were quite secured by then, and yet you fled with such alacrity upon the news of Leopoldina’s elopement, and knowing already what you thought of my family, what should I think but that you wished to distance yourself from us at once and entirely, for which I could hardly blame you, only to find in the end that you had sped away to save us all—Mr Archer, I had never dreamt to see you again, much less held any hope that you might have remained steadfast in emotion whilst my
own was in such turmoil and settling in such an unlikely place. It was not until Lady Beatrice accused me of being engaged to you, and then forbade me to enter into such a contract, that I could consider the possibility you might still have feelings for me, but beyond the letter I had already sent, there seemed no way to indicate—to indicate that I—that I had grown to return those feelings, and every day felt the loss of being unable to say so to you!”
Mr Archer stepped forward and swept Elsabeth into an embrace that trembled with emotion. They stood so, speechless, for a sweet eternity, until one of the cows, impatient with their trampling of tender shoots of grass, pushed Elsabeth with its head, and left the lovers laughing. “I think I had best speak to your father,” Mr Archer murmured then, in a voice rich with feeling.
“Oh, Mr Archer, I think I had best speak to him first,” Elsabeth replied with a laugh. “He will not be insensible to the honour, but he is well aware of my previous opinion of you, and, regardless of the honour, he will not release me to you unless he is certain it is what I want.”
“Miss Dover,” Mr Archer replied with all sincerity, “I do not believe it is within any man’s purview to release or keep you against your will. I am content for you to speak to him first, so long as I know your heart to be mine; your father and all the stars might stand against it, but I have no doubt that if I am what you desire, I am what you will have.”
“Your aunt will be appalled,” Elsabeth whispered. “Her darling nephew marrying a sorceress.”
“Society will be appalled,” Archer agreed. “But they will have a hard time making pariahs of both Webber and myself, or of a vicar’s wife, and we will have to marry Matilda to someone of sufficient rank as to begin breaking down these barriers, for I will not have my wife snubbed, and I can think of no better way to ensure it does not happen than to make magic commonplace in our institutions, even Society.”
“We are as one in this ambition,” Elsabeth said happily, and, winding her fingers through Mr Archer’s, drew him back through the fields and toward home, with darts of firelight dancing around them like stars.
the end
Also by CE Murphy
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The Walker Papers
Urban Shaman
Winter Moon
Thunderbird Falls
Coyote Dreams
Walking Dead
Demon Hunts
Spirit Dances
Raven Calls
No Dominion
Mountain Echoes
Shaman Rises
& with Faith Hunter
Easy Pickings
A Walker Papers/Skinwalker crossover novella
The Old Races Universe
Heart of Stone
House of Cards
Hands of Flame
The Old Races: Origins
The Old Races: Year of Miracles
The Old Races: Aftermath
Baba Yaga's Daughter & Other Tales of the Old Races
The Worldwalker Duology
Truthseeker
Wayfinder
The Inheritors' Cycle
The Queen's Bastard
The Pretender's Crown
Spirit of the Century Presents:
Stone's Throe
Anthologies
Urban Allies
Don't Read This Book
Dragon's Lure
The Phantom Queen Awakes
Running with the Pack
How to Write Magical Words: A Writer's Companion
Acknowledgements:
Magic & Manners is what happens when, during a Pride and Prejudice watch-and-read spree, I start to wonder what it would be like if the Bennet sisters had a surplus of magic rather than a deficit of money. It’s also what happens when I put that question to a hundred or so particularly enthusiastic readers who supported it as a crowdfunding project: this is a book that, without them, literally wouldn’t exist.
I am, as usual, particularly indebted to a handful of regulars: the War Room writers, of whom Mikaela Lind deserves a special shout-out; my husband Ted and my son, the latter of whom said to me while I was working on copy edits for this book, “Magic and Manners? I thought you were done with that one already!”; Bryant Durrell and Susan Carlson, who know why; Eleri Hamilton, for my charming little MKP logo; Joliene McAnaly, for her generous spirit; and Chysoula Tzavelas, to whom this book is dedicated. (You should read her books too!)
Special thanks to the Magic & Manners Patrons
A B Warwick, Adrianne Middleton, Ailsa Barrett, Alena Franco, Althea Clark, Amanda Samuels, Amy, Andrew and Kate Barton, Andy Merriam, Angela N. Hunt, Anne Walker, Axisor, Barbara Gallant, Bernadette, Beth Rasmussen, Brian Stanley, Bryant Durrell, Carl Rigney, Carol Guess, CathiBea Stevenson, Christine Swendseid, Christopher Buser, Christy Hopkins, Chrysoula Tzavelas, Constance Anderson, D Taft, Denise Moline, Diane DesAutels, Donal Cunningham, Doniki Boderick-Luckey, Earl Miles, Edward Ellis, El Edwards, Emma Bartholomew, Erin Gately, Evil Hat Productions, Gabe Krabbe, Heather Knutsen, Heather Roney, Holly Frantz, Janet Gahagan, Janne Torklep, Jean Diaz, Jennifer Cabbage, Jeri Smith-Ready, Jill Valuet, Joliene McAnly, K Gavenman, Karen Severson, Kari, Kate Larking, Katherine Malloy, Kathleen Hanrahan, Kathleen Tipton, Kathy Rogers, Katrina Lehto, Kenji Ikiryo, Kristine Kearney, Larisa LaBrant, Laura Anne Gilman, Lesley Mitchell, Lianne Burwell, limugurl, Linda Goldstein, Lisa Stewart, Lola McCrary, Lydia Leong, Marnie, Maria Ivanilova, Marjorie Taylor, Mary Anne Walker, Matt Girton, Michael Bernardi, Michael Bowman, Nicolai Buch- Andersen, Pamela Statz, Patricia O’Neill, Paul Birchenough, Rachel & Edie Gollub, Rachel Narow, Rhona, Ruth Stuart, Saifa Rashid, Sandra Jakl, Sarah Brooks, Sarah Foscarini Wilkes, Sean Collins, Shannon Scollard, Sharon, Sharon Broggi, Sherry Menton, Skye Christakos, Sonia Oldrini, Sue Shelly, Sumi Funayama, Tania Clucas, Tara Lynch, Thida Cornes, Tiana Hanson, Tiffiny Quinn, Tracy McShane, Trip Space-Parasite
About the Author
According to her friends, CE Murphy makes such amazing fudge that it should be mentioned first in any biography. It’s true, mind you, that she makes extraordinarily good fudge, but she’s somewhat surprised that it features so highly in biographical relevance.
Other people say she began her writing career when she ran away from home at age five to write copy for the circus that had come to town. Others claim she’s a crowdsourcing pioneer, which she rather likes the sound of, but nobody actually got around to pointing out she’s written a best-selling urban fantasy series (The Walker Papers), or that she dabbles in writing comic books (Take A Chance) and periodically dips her toes into writing short stories (the Old Races collections).
Still, it’s clear to her that she should let her friends write all of her biographies, because they’re much more interesting that way. More prosaically, she was born and raised in Alaska, and now lives with her family in her ancestral homeland of Ireland, which is a magical place where it rains a lot but nothing one could seriously regard as winter ever actually arrives.
She can be found online at mizkit.com, @ce_murphy, and (imagine a little Facebook icon here) /cemurphywriter