The Mislaid Magician

by Patricia C. Wrede

  I harp on the question of legibility for a particular reason. Though I have been over your letter several times, I am still unsure whether it was a Mr. Medway or a Mr. Medbury who made the arrangements for the house in Stroud where you found Edward. If it is indeed the former, I must tell you that a Mr. Harold Medway, of Stockton-on-Tees, is the man of business with whom Webb has been so involved of late.

  Before you come charging up to the north counties, let me point out that Mr. Harold Medway cannot have been the multifaced person you so eloquently described. Tall, short, fat, thin, bald, red-haired—no matter the disguise or enchantment, this Mr. Medway has been here in Stockton since well before the beginning of this infernal house party and therefore cannot have been recently in Stroud. Yes, I have made inquiries, under pretext of looking for someone to work with regarding the supposed property I am pretending to wish to purchase. And since our arrival at Haliwar, Mr. Harold Medway has been out to consult with Webb every day. Not even magic could get him to Stroud and back, with time to arrange for a house rental, in between his visits here.

  Nonetheless, if your vanishing renter is indeed a Mr. Medway, I find the coincidence of names disturbing. It may, of course, be simple coincidence, but I distrust coincidences of that sort. I think it more likely that someone borrowed the name, since it would be foolish indeed for anyone bent on threats and kidnapping to make rental arrangements in his own person. Or it may be a black sheep somewhere in the Medway flock. I will see what else I can discover in that regard; in the meantime, the northern connection may give you an additional angle for your own investigations. If, of course, it is Medway and not Medbury.

  There is still no sign of our missing German. Peculiarities, there are in plenty. It has taken me nearly three weeks to collect even as little information as I have done. In part, this seems due to the understandable desire of the instigators of the Stockton and Darlington Railway to keep their difficulties quiet, so as to avoid panicking their investors.

  One thing we have established with certainty: There is an extremely strong ley line running directly across the rail line, one end of which passes under Haliwar Tower. I believe, on the strength of Cecelia’s observations, that the steam engine is interfering with the ley line (or vice versa, depending on how you look at it). Cecelia said the engine actually pulled the ley line sideways for a moment, like the string of a bow being drawn back. The extra load might well explain the unexpectedly high number of breakdowns. Unfortunately, the Webbs have made it impossible to investigate the railway line itself. So, for the present, we are at a stand.

  Waltham has, as you may already know, seen fit to depart from Haliwar for parts unknown. The only surprising thing about this is that he did not do so weeks ago. His valet speaks of giving up waiting for his master’s return and departing for Waltham Castle, on the theory that when His Grace reappears, he will either do so at his main seat or else send a message there. The Webbs are far more disturbed by this than Cecelia or I, but then, they cannot know His Grace so well. Despite his worries, Ramsey Webb continues his attempts to persuade me to give over looking at property and invest in his railway project instead.

  I assume that by this time you have returned your superfluous child to her annoyed or worried parents—that is, assuming that she, like Edward, was lured away accidentally. If she belongs to your mysterious Medway or Medbury, you may have her on your hands some time.

  Yours,

  James

  17 April 1828

  Skeynes

  (This letter faithfully enchanted by T.S., all his own work)

  Dear Cecy,

  I am so sorry to have alarmed you unduly. I wrote in haste. Now that I have leisure to write in more detail of these matters, I will try not to make such a mull of things again. You have much too much to worry about without my adding to the sum.

  The children are all quite well. I shall enclose their latest missives along with mine when I render this up to Thomas.

  If it is any comfort to you, it is a great comfort to me that you intend to stay with James. Difficult as the decision must have been, I believe it is the right one.

  In addition, I have a purely selfish reason to rejoice. If you came here, there is the distinct possibility that Thomas would find some urgent reason James would need Thomas’s help. In certain moods, Thomas can be distinctly mercurial, and he has done quite enough gadding about for now.

  News of Daniel’s disappearance does not alarm me as it might have done a week ago. Given recent events, very little alarms me as it might have done a week ago. I feel as if my supply of alarm has been exhausted, at least temporarily.

  Your discoveries at Haliwar Tower astound us, however. In the seclusion of his study, I read your account aloud to Thomas. The look on his face at your description of the behavior of the ley line was such a compound of curiosity and frustration (for he longs to fling caution to the winds and go and interfere) that I cannot do justice to it. You may indeed trust us to let you know any worthwhile news. Be very sure that if any insight into the matter occurs to Thomas, he will communicate it with all speed.

  The morning after our return from Stroud, Thomas invited me to accompany him on a horseback ride. It was a perfect spring morning. The breeze was pleasantly fresh, not raw. The meadows were invitingly green, not muddy. Even the stone walls seemed to glow golden in the sunlight.

  There was such significance in his expression as he proposed the outing that I was not surprised when he drew rein the moment we were out of sight of the house.

  “Will you help me cast the protective spell?” Thomas looked grave. “I’m going to ride the bounds of the park and the home wood. The barriers will be set deep and wide. No one will cross without my permission.”

  “I’ll help all I can,” I said.

  Thomas looked pleased. “Excellent. Just stay close.”

  As we rode, Thomas cast his spell. It must take a master to work any kind of a spell from the saddle. I find it difficult enough to do it when I am sitting comfortably on the floor. The rhythm of the ride seemed to play a role in the rhythm of the spell. I had a sense that Thomas’s spell used the life around us, the horses, the trees, the grass, the weeds—everything—to balance and to steady his intention.

  I was very conscious of the way my ring felt on my finger. Had Thomas asked me to help in any active way, I might have found the sensation distracting. I could feel my heart beating, I could feel the ring, and I could stay on my horse. More than that, I could not have done.

  We rode only the immediate perimeter of Skeynes: the grounds and gardens of the park to the east and west, the home wood to the north, and to the south, the home farm as far as the edge of the common. Truly, Arthur and Eleanor should pride themselves on the accuracy of their Map. I was pleased to note how faithfully they drew the boundaries.

  By the time we returned to the house, Thomas was pale with fatigue, and I fear I have seldom been more disheveled. I had been at close quarters with every hedgerow and thicket en route, and my riding habit sustained considerable wear and tear.

  Despite all this exertion, my hair did not come down, and I think you must have a point about the spells I have learned. The skill to keep my hair up reliably I count a true blessing. Calling and finding spells are important, but heaven forefend I need to use either of them again soon. My ears still ring from time to time.

  The nursery is not the sanctuary I had hoped it would be, although it has helped me calm my fears for the children, spending so much time getting my hands sticky along with them. My advent has been accepted with visible tolerance by both Nurse Carstairs and Nurse Langley. Their patience is perceptible. I’m sure that they view my time in their stronghold as an indulgence to me. Indeed, it is.

  Thank heavens for the charms of novelty. The children are not yet weary of my frequent presence among them, but soon the nurses will be. As a result, I am on my best behavior at all times, and when my presence is absolutely required elsewhere, the mutual relief is palpable.


  Of course, we still have questions to answer. Thomas’s enthusiasm for the inquiries in Stroud, I suspect, stemmed from his utter reluctance to question Georgy. Eventually, of course, the moment had to arrive.

  Thomas and Georgy met (with me in the role of arbiter and referee) in the morning room, a spot as close to neutral territory as Skeynes can provide. Georgy had a bit of needlepoint with her and was seated in her favorite chair, her back to the window.

  Thomas was having none of that. “Change places with Kate.” As we obeyed, he added, “I need to see your face.”

  Georgy looked annoyed. “You enjoy ordering people about.”

  Thomas thought that over. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “I don’t,” I said. “Oh, Georgy. I’m so worried. Please. Tell us what is going on.”

  Now, in all likelihood, I have said those words to Georgy a hundred times since her arrival. This time she answered me, but it was because of Thomas. I have never seen him show a more forbidding countenance. “I don’t read Daniel’s correspondence.” The tone in which Georgy announced this suggested to me that she has done exactly that, more than once. “But he has been so … so different of late. Cold. More than that, he has been impatient, even surly at times. I know he is in financial trouble. He always grumbles about his investments, but this is different. I have begged him to confide in me, but he gets his mulish look and says nothing.”

  “Daniel was rich as Croesus when you married him,” I protested. “What happened?”

  “He has many investments,” Georgy said. “Yet somehow Daniel’s investments are not like other people’s investments. Other people invest money, and it earns more money. Daniel’s investments seem to demand more money, always more money, even for him to keep the holdings he has. He has shares in several railways. The only one that ever showed any promise is the Stockton to Darlington line. Five months ago, they demanded he double his stake.”

  When Georgy said “Stockton to Darlington,” I could not help a glance at Thomas. His attention was all on Georgy, his expression grim.

  Georgy continued, “That last afternoon, I was in the drawing room with Daniel as he read a letter he had received. It angered him. He crumpled it up and threw it into the fireplace. His aim was not of the best, however. When Daniel left the room, which he did very soon after, I was able to scrape it out again, smooth the page, and read it.”

  “So, whatever it was,” I said, “Daniel could not have considered it of great importance. If he had, surely he would have kept it … or made certain to burn it. He would not have treated it so carelessly if it mattered to him.”

  Georgy paid no attention to me. Her gaze was fixed upon the needlework in her lap, but she seemed not to see it. “The letter was unsigned. It said, ‘If you want a dead duchess, you’ve done all the right things.’ I threw it from me as if it were a poisonous snake. This time the fire caught it at once, and it burned to ash before my eyes. I ought to have kept it as evidence, I know. A moment’s reflection told me I was a fool.”

  “Unfortunate,” Thomas agreed. “Did the letter come with a cover? Any sort of return address? A clue of any kind to the identity of whoever wrote it?”

  Georgy shook her head. “It was a single sheet of paper, folded and sealed with wax. The direction was to His Grace, the Duke of Waltham. There was no frank. It might have been delivered by a footman. It must have been, for it was a Sunday. I didn’t think of that then. I didn’t think of anything. All I could do was leave at once.”

  “Thank goodness you came here,” I said. “At the very least, it referred to a threat against you. But I fail to see how it incriminates your husband. Harming you would only add to his troubles, not solve them.”

  “You forget the settlements,” Georgy said. “When the marriage was arranged, Daniel settled a sum of money on me. It was a trifle to him then, but his circumstances are different now. The only way he can touch those funds is if I … die.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” I exclaimed. “If Daniel needs funds so desperately, why can’t he just sell a few thousand acres of land?”

  “Most of the property is entailed,” said Georgy. “No one could sell it.”

  “Well, suppose Daniel did mean to murder you for the money,” I said. “Do you believe that is the sort of letter a hireling would write in reply to such a proposal? It hardly seems businesslike.”

  “Probably a mistake to assume Daniel means you any harm on the basis of that evidence,” Thomas agreed, “but I think it was a sound decision to leave, given the circumstances.”

  Georgy twisted the needlepoint canvas in her lap. “That was the most odious journey I have ever undertaken. I thought at times I must surely be in a nightmare.” She looked up at me, and I saw her eyes were full of tears. “It has no end. No matter how dull and safe and soothing you are, I’m still in that nightmare.”

  “You might have told us this when you arrived,” I said, with what I considered commendable mildness under the circumstances.

  Thomas was more nettled than I. “I suppose you thought it would all go away if you squeezed your eyes shut and wished with all your might.”

  Woebegone, Georgy protested. “I wanted to tell you.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” Thomas demanded. “Has it never occurred to you that we needed to know about this in order to protect you—and the children?”

  “You must believe me.” Georgy began to cry. “I never dreamed the children were at hazard. Oh, dear. Oh, dear.”

  Thomas rose and set to pacing. His agitation was plain. The fact that he resisted the obvious desire to shout at Georgy did very little to diminish the thunderous atmosphere in the room. Given that I was torn between the urge to pat her hand and the passionate desire to box her ears, I did the best I could to soothe Georgy.

  When she had collected herself, Georgy added, “I will do whatever you wish. Must I go?”

  “Don’t be an idiot.” Thomas kept pacing. “If we let you out of our sight, there’s no telling what nonsense you may engage in. You’re to stay here where we can keep an eye on you.”

  “Where you will be quite safe,” I amended. “Isn’t that right, Thomas?”

  “Completely safe,” said Thomas. “No one can come through the barriers I’ve put up without my knowledge and permission. At least, not unless we have a visitor with a great deal more ability in magic than I’ve ever encountered.”

  I will spare you the remainder of the interlude. You can imagine it all too easily. When your letter arrived, the information about Lucky (what an unsatisfactory nickname!—it could hardly give us less to go on) gave Thomas a reason to cross-question Georgy, but to no avail. Thomas and I agree with you. The Duke of Waltham isn’t the threat to Georgy. His friends, if anyone has the bad taste to befriend him, are the place to look for a culprit.

  Georgy assures us that she has told us everything she knows of Daniel’s business associates. She has no better reason to suspect him of designs upon her than those given above. Thomas and I are convinced that the letter is nothing more sinister than an attempt to influence Daniel through a threat to Georgy. Still, that is sinister enough, all by itself.

  My chief concern is the nursery. I will have the full story out of Edward yet.

  Love,

  Kate

  P.S. Should the dastardly duke recollect his duty as a guest and reappear, try to leave some scraps of him. Enough for Thomas to conduct a few experiments upon, at least. —K.

  P.P.S. Of course Daniel has always been punctilious about paying his debts of honor. It’s the other kind of debt that’s ruining the man, the debts run up by a life of indulgence. I think Georgy is well rid of him. Perhaps she could live on the Continent, in something resembling respectable obscurity, once all this dreadful business is tidied up. —K.

  P.P.P.S. Or perhaps Georgy can move somewhere within walking distance of Aunt Charlotte. Aunt Charlotte would welcome such a distraction, I am sure. I hope that last flight of fancy has made you smile, at least. —K.


  18 April 1828

  Skeynes

  (Enchanted by my own hand, T.S.)

  Dear James,

  From the mere words, you might think you know what laid couching is. You’d be wrong. (Unless I do you an injustice, and you do know what it is. In that extremely unlikely event, you have my wholehearted respect and a full apology. Not to mention my undivided attention, should you decide to explain to me why you know so much about stitchery.) Laid couching is the reason Kate and her escadrille of nurses are convinced that Drina, as everyone calls our superfluous child, is of good family, indeed, a rich man’s child. No one in her right mind would work a child’s petticoat with laid couching for the pure joy of it, I gather.

  Oh, ask Cecy about it. This, like the mysterious business of when and where a woman must begin to wear her cap, seems to be one of those things all women know, yet even the best of them can’t explain. I have every confidence that Kate’s letters to Cecy will go into the matter of plackets and gussets and intricate embroidery in excruciating detail. Better her than me, that’s all I say.

  Kate says Drina has good manners and clean habits. If anything, the child has proven to be a beneficial influence on our children.

  Arthur and Eleanor are fascinated by Drina’s silence, for although we know from Edward’s account that she can speak, she refuses to do so. (Kate suspects Drina is standing mute on principle, perhaps to protect someone.) As a result, they are quieter than usual themselves.

  For Edward’s part, Drina is the goddess of his idolatry. Enforced detention in the nursery could have vexed him, for it curtails his customary explorations. On the contrary, Edward hasn’t even seemed to notice his confinement. He is far too busy adoring Drina.