So I impressed upon him the importance of the house warding spells, and told him that, as he is responsible for his sisters and Baby Alexander while James is in London, I would show him how to read them tomorrow. I am about to go fulfill my promise. He is quite far enough advanced to learn the simplest of the warding cantrips, and I hope that it will keep his mind safely occupied. I expect, however, that for the next several days, at least, I will be informed of every thin spot in the warding spell almost as soon as it develops.
Hennesy and his fellows found no trace of our prowler. As soon as I finish with Arthur, I intend to set a lesser ward about the grounds near the house—nothing strong enough to be noticeable, just a sort of alarm bell to let me know of any unanticipated visitors. It is all very well to say that I would have known immediately if he had somehow managed to get through the house wards, but I find that I would very much rather know of his presence before the house wards were breached.
The consensus in the lower hall is that the prowler was some itinerant hoping to steal food or perhaps a little money. This seems plausible, as anyone who knew Tangleford Hall would know that there is a magician in residence and would therefore have anticipated the house wards. The only flaw in this argument is the peculiar way in which the prowler evaded the holding spell I cast. I have not pointed this out to anyone; the servants are quite upset enough as it is.
Since I have not heard from James, I expect he will be home in another day, or perhaps two. He is very good about keeping me informed when he is away, but he is far more casual when he knows he will return soon. For once, I shall have news as interesting as his to tell him!
Your exhausted,
Cecy
1 March 1828
Skeynes
Dear Cecy,
I hope this letter finds you and the children well. I congratulate you on having dealt exceedingly well with your prowler. Indeed, you have almost convinced me not to be alarmed on your behalf. But only almost! Do take care, Cecy!
Forgive me. I know you do.
Thomas is not yet home from his venture to Waycross. Thus, I have yet to tell him of the intrusion into his study. Nor has Thomas yet seen the letter James wrote him, for it arrived in the post after he departed. I do hope it contains nothing of vital importance.
Thomas has also missed his mother’s latest letter. Lady Sylvia is in her usual fine health and spirits, busy as ever providing good counsel to the league of her old friends—most recently, the proprietor of Ragueneau’s pastry shop in the Rue St. Honoré.
Lady Sylvia helped Ragueneau rid his kitchens of a spell that soured the milk and turned butter rancid the moment it arrived in the place. Ragueneau had suspected a competitor of casting the spell to ruin his business, but no such thing. Ragueneau’s son, Lady Sylvia discovered, had devised a spell to keep pastry cream from ever curdling. This spell, as so many seem to, had unexpected consequences. After a few false starts, Lady Sylvia was able to refine the pastry-cream spell to prevent any further ill effects. Even Ragueneau concedes the resulting pastries surpass all previous efforts. His gratitude to Lady Sylvia has been expressed in chocolate éclairs.
I am sorry to report I have made no progress at all in fathoming the mystery of Georgy’s visit to us. For all her sudden professions of fondness for the simple country life, from the moment of her debut, she has been happiest in London. Of all times to choose to rusticate herself, the beginning of the London Season is about the least likely.
To think I used to fault Georgy for being a watering pot. I would give a good deal for her to go off on one of her tearful flights just now, for when she cried, I could nearly always get her to tell me what was troubling her. These days, unless she is being disagreeable to the servants, she is as stoic as a soldier.
Georgy being Georgy, she is in her very best looks. Pale silence has always suited her best, I fear. The only time she smiles is when she is talking with Edward. Indeed, when she is talking with Edward there are moments when Georgy looks only a little more than six years old herself.
Perhaps I refine too much upon Georgy’s abrupt arrival. Perhaps there is no mystery about it. Perhaps it is only that she had a whim to see Thomas and me, precisely as Georgy insists.
Yet, consider. Georgy refuses all social engagements, neither paying calls nor receiving any. She waits for the post with such fidelity, I could set the clock by her, yet she seems relieved rather than disappointed when she receives no letters. Strangest of all, she devotes hours to reading the scandal sheets and even the newspapers. It is most unlike her.
What of Georgy’s husband, you ask? I wish I could tell you. His name has not crossed her lips. No message has come to her from him, nor (to the best of my knowledge) has she posted even a line of correspondence to him. The only assurance I could wrest from Georgy (and only after I reminded her at some length that it is the duty of sisters to protect one another) is that he has not mistreated her in any way. Georgy is not afraid of him, I swear, but she is afraid of something. I think she’s hiding here, Cecy.
Georgy has made me promise to keep her presence here in strictest confidence. Of course I will do so, but I made her grant me an exception in your case. I cannot imagine that anyone would ask you Georgy’s whereabouts, but you will be in London soon, and you may well encounter some unlooked-for social circumstance there. So please do bear it in mind that Georgy is not really here at all. I know you will handle matters far more adroitly than I would, so we trust you with this secret.
Believe that I will write the moment I learn anything else pertinent to the matter. Or indeed, the moment I learn anything pertinent to anything. Writing to you is the one spot of civilization in a daily routine dominated by wailing children, muddy shoes, and wet dogs.
With all the usual best wishes and even more affection,
Kate
3 March 1828
Tangleford Hall, Kent
Dearest Kate,
The children are much better, by some measures, which is to say that they have reached the stage in their recovery at which no persuasion, no bribery, and no force can keep them abed. I shall be exceedingly glad when James returns. I had a note from him this morning, at long last, saying that he had expected to be back yesterday, but needed to remain in London a few more days. He includes no further details, save that he anticipates returning by the end of the week.
I find this rather odd, for it is most unlike the Duke of Wellington to call James urgently to town merely to chat, and then send him home again. I do hope that James is not staying to have the blue salon redone as a surprise for me, or anything similar. He is occasionally taken with such notions, and it does not do. But one really cannot lecture one’s husband on the suitability of the surprises he chooses, and after all, it is quite pleasant that he still thinks to do such things at all, even after ten years of matrimony.
Georgy is an utter goose, but if she wishes her whereabouts to remain unknown to anyone, I shall oblige her. I suppose I can simply look down my nose like Aunt Charlotte and inform people sternly that I do not wish to discuss the Duchess of Waltham, when they ask, but that may very well add fuel to the gossip, once it begins. If Georgy wishes to remain undiscovered and undiscussed, it would be better to have some tale to set about. Perhaps a sudden, urgent need for the latest in French pelisses? No one will look for her at Skeynes if we set it about that she has gone to Paris to shop.
There has been no sign of our prowler about the house or the nearby grounds, but yesterday I took Arthur out riding to work off some of his energy, and we found quite a mess out by the gazebo on the far side of the hill, near the ancient earthworks. It looked almost as if some amateur had been attempting to cast a spell, or perhaps cook a peculiar sort of dinner—there were chicken feathers and onion skins all over, a couple of broken sticks with charred ends, and random lines drawn in chalk here and there. I would have suspected the children had they not been laid up all week.
Arthur’s surprise was evident … as was his desire to invest
igate everything at once. I made quite certain that there was no magical residue and then let him collect feathers. He found a shiny silver button in one corner, quite flat and polished to a mirror finish. If it belonged to the would-be magician, then he is no vagrant. I plan to test it tonight, after Arthur is safely in bed.
I do wish James would come home. I have no particular concern about the prowler himself, of course, but I am growing more concerned about Arthur’s fascination with the notion of discovering him. I spent considerable time and effort, very early this morning, placing yet another ward around the house—to detect anyone attempting to sneak out late at night. I could almost wish that Arthur would catch the cold like the rest of them, but he remains disgustingly healthy.
Yours,
Cecy
4 March 1828
Skeynes
Dear James,
In London, are you? Bored rigid yet?
Sincere apologies for my tardiness in replying to your letter. Rest assured that your young hellion has not damaged anything. I think I can promise that he won’t be able to duplicate the feat.
The fact that Arthur contrived to do it even once interests me. I look forward to my next interview with him, as I have it on excellent authority (my member of the league of holy matrimony had it from your member of the league) that the lad claims to have seen things in my big paperweight. A truly reliable gazing ball would come in very useful, so if he has found a way to create one, I owe Arthur a debt of gratitude. I can promise you that if I had a truly reliable gazing ball, I would never again return to my home weary from the hardships of the road to find my sister-at-law still visiting. Certainly not when the visitor seems to labor under the impression that she is hiding from a mysterious organization that plots her demise. (Not that I don’t occasionally sympathize with the urge to plot her demise.)
No, if I had a truly reliable gazing ball, you would find me putting up at a quiet and comfortable inn, playing shove ha’penny, sampling the ale, and doing no harm to anyone. Instead, I return to find domestic chaos, and Kate, Edward, and the infant afflicted with streaming colds, whilst I, sadly neglected, am left to my own devices.
I may come to London myself. There are some fates worse than boredom. Put in a word for me with Old Hookey if you think I can be of the slightest use.
Kate sends her love to you, to Cecy, and to the rest of your merry band,
Sincerely,
Thomas
6 March 1828
Tangleford Hall, Kent
My dear Thomas,
No, I won’t invite you up to London. Find your own excuse to avoid your domestic disasters. Not that I blame you for wanting to avoid Her Grace, the Duchess of Waltham—or have you suddenly acquired some other sister-at-law whom you wish to avoid?
In any case, as you observe, I am no longer in London, nor do I anticipate returning soon. Our new prime minister found some letters that had been sitting unopened in the “Secret” packet since October, if you please! Some Prussian railway surveyor has gone missing in the north. It ought to have been looked into at once, but Lord Wellington has had his hands full with the royal family since he became PM last month. King George has never seen eye to eye with his brothers on political matters, and he and the Duke of Cumberland have had another row over the succession. Something about the Duchess of Kent and her daughter, I believe. It was all Old Hookey could do to keep it out of the papers.
But that business has blown over, for the time being at least, and now Cecelia and I are off to Leeds to see what we can find out. It will take us a few days to pack and make arrangements, but Wellington wished to keep additional delay to a minimum. I will send you our direction as soon as I know it.
Meanwhile, if you can forward me any information on the theoretical interactions between magic and railway lines or steam engines, I’d appreciate it.
Yours,
James
6 March 1828
Tangleford Hall, Kent
Dearest Kate,
James is back, and I am utterly distracted. Our esteemed prime minister, His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, may be the greatest general in the history of England, but I doubt he has ever had to deal with uprooting a household of children on a moment’s notice. I expect I will have a few things to say on the subject when next I see him.
For that is what I must do. His Grace wishes James and me to travel north to Leeds—I will explain it all another time, or perhaps James will write to Thomas and you can learn of it from that. I cannot take the children, for though they are much recovered they are not yet in their usual robust health (always excepting Arthur), and such a long trip would risk a relapse, or perhaps some more-serious infection. And I cannot simply leave them here with Nurse, not with mysterious prowlers and peculiarly nonmagical messes in the gazebo and so on (and especially not without someone to keep Arthur from charging off to discover whatever he can, regardless of possible peril).
Dearest Kate—I know that you are already dealing with Georgy, and that Thomas will dislike it excessively, but could I prevail on you to take in my four rapscallions (and Nurse, of course) for a few weeks? If you cannot manage, I shall have to write to Aunt Elizabeth, which will take some time, and James is eager to be gone. Please let me know as soon as you can.
Your distracted and importunate,
Cecy
8 March 1828
Skeynes
Dearest Cecy,
Of course the children must come at once.
Thomas will meet you at the Bull and Mouth in Aldersgate Street. Such is his delight at finding a legitimate reason to leave for London, he intends to set off as soon as possible. With any luck, by the time you read this letter, he will be waiting there to collect the children from you and drinking beer and playing shove ha’penny, no doubt.
I will keep my consternation to myself for the moment, as you have quite enough to deal with for now. But do be careful!
Georgy may well benefit by this circumstance, for she adores the children, and their presence may help to turn her thoughts from whatever troubles her. She still won’t confide in me.
Just between us, Cecy, I doubt Georgy spares a thought for what the Ton says of her. She is afraid of something—if only I knew what—and that fear trumps all rational concerns. I’m sure you are right that putting it about that she has gone to Paris is much the best course of action. I only wish I could persuade her to talk to me. I can bear the curiosity, but I hate worrying about her. Edward and Laurence seem to take up all my customary fretting.
Even more between the two of us, Cecy, I simply cannot contain myself a moment longer. In his haste to leave Skeynes for London, thus neatly avoiding Georgy and all her sighs, Thomas has convinced himself that he is being clever. He (he and Ripley, the coachman, to be exact) will drive to London and back, enjoying himself thoroughly the while. In his view, the mere matter of transporting a number of small children and their nurse adds nothing to the complexity of this endeavor. To you and you alone, Cecy, I must say ha! Ha! And again ha!
There. I feel much better now. When Thomas returns with your children safe and sound, I will be the soul of sympathy as I listen to his heartrending account of the experience. Indeed, I am sure he will deserve my sympathy by then, and I am just as certain that his account will be as entertaining as it is plaintive. But while Thomas is preparing so happily for his latest escape from domestic bliss, I simply had to express my true feelings, and I can trust only you.
You know you can trust us with the children. They will be perfectly safe here, come what may. I know you will do what you must to aid His Grace, but rest assured you may do it with a clear mind where the children are concerned.
Love,
Kate
P.S. Do not, on any account, permit Thomas so much as a glance at this letter. I am already suffused with guilt at having found amusement in the trials he is about to endure. —K.
8 March 1828
Skeynes
Dear James,
; Make up your mind. Railway lines or steam engines? The current state of opinion on theoretical interactions varies considerably with whom you ask. As usual.
Given sufficient time, I’ll warrant I can find you any argument you please: Steam engines are the work of the devil, a providential opportunity to improve the condition of all mankind, or an explosive death trap waiting to be sprung. Railway lines contain too much iron to be of reliable use in a magical interaction. Conversely, they invite magical interactions by nature of the similarity of their engineering to the engineering of Roman roads. There is also a school of thought that finds they constitute a hopeless blot on the landscape. Take your pick.
If you care to hear my theory, although God knows you have seldom paid the slightest attention before, I think the steam engine is certain to lend itself to some exceedingly useful interactions. Nothing so thoroughly comprised of the elements of earth, water, air, and fire could fail to do so.
I am of two minds on the question of railway lines. On the face of it, the lines show great promise as a way to link two (or even more!) points with a durable physical connection. Are you by any chance familiar with the work of Hans Christian Oersted? I haven’t yet met him, but I have obtained a recent essay of his on magnetism. He has succeeded in producing magnetism at will. The procedure requires a central element, say a rod of iron, wrapped about with wire. Most intriguing stuff. I’ll bring the essay with me. One never knows. There may be the (purely theoretical!) possibility of a similar application on a grand scale. Rods of iron aplenty involved in a railway line.
The Mislaid Magician Page 2