Sorcery & Cecelia

by Patricia C. Wrede

  By the time our carriage reached Tarleton Hall, I had resolved to put the matter of the charm-bag out of my mind and enjoy the picnic. Lady Tarleton and Dorothea joined us (the disagreeable James, I was relieved to see, did not), and we went on to the lakeside. Patience was already there, firmly seated as far from the water’s edge as she could manage. Her brother Jack was down by the lake with Robert Penwood and Martin De Lacey, messing about with the boats. All three of them abandoned their work as soon as we (or, rather, Dorothea) arrived, and came to greet us.

  Jack had apparently decided that a picnic was not impressive enough (and, I suspect, that he would not be able to get Dorothea much to himself). He had therefore come up with the boats. Patience wasn’t at all pleased, but she really couldn’t do anything about it except refuse to ride in one. Robert offered to stay behind with her (and Aunt Elizabeth and Lady Tarleton), which left me with Martin. (Jack, of course, had Dorothea as a partner.)

  The boat ride was quite pleasant, though it was rather disconcerting to have a partner whose head was constantly turned sideways. You would have thought that it was Martin’s duty to chaperone Dorothea and Jack! This made our progress around the lake erratic, to say the least. I gave up trying to make conversation after the first few “Oh! Quite so” and “Umm, yes of course” responses, and concentrated on not being splashed by Martin’s rowing.

  We made it around the lake at last, and started back. As we neared the shore, I saw something moving in the bushes. “What’s that?” I said without thinking.

  “Umm, what?” said Martin, who had been watching Dorothea again.

  “I thought I saw something in the bushes,” I said.

  “Probably a dog,” Martin said without interest

  I could see it was no use talking to him, so I let him go back to Dorothea-gazing while I watched the bushes. Just before we landed, I distinctly saw a dark head pull back out of sight. I was stunned, Kate, for I was quite certain that the head belonged to none other than James Tarleton!

  I did not say anything more to Martin, but as soon as I was safely out of the boat I announced that I intended to go for a walk. Martin offered (rather halfheartedly) to accompany me, but I told him I preferred to go alone. That brought Aunt Elizabeth down on me with a lecture about propriety, but as everyone else was staying by the lake with Dorothea, she eventually let me go.

  As soon as I was out of sight, I circled around toward the bushes where I thought I had seen James Tarleton. (All of those years of sneaking about after Oliver and Robert came in very useful.) Sure enough, there he was, peering through a screen of bushes at the picnic. I was thinking so hard about an appropriate opening remark that I neglected to watch my feet, and trod on a twig.

  James Tarleton whirled, and one hand went to his pocket. Then he recognized me, and his startled expression turned to a wary civility. “Miss Rushton,” he said. “I fear you startled me.”

  All of the things I had been planning to say flew right out of my head. “What are you doing skulking about in these bushes and spying on us?” I demanded.

  “I might ask you the same question,” he replied with a smile. He pulled a little blue snuffbox from his pocket and opened it as he spoke. I blinked, for I have never seen such a brilliant blue as that box was. It positively hurt my eyes, Kate. I was the more surprised because Mr. Tarleton had not previously struck me as the sort of person to carry around oddities in vulgar colors. Upon reflection, however, I have concluded that someone who sneaks about in bushes in order to spy on his cousin is quite likely to have poorer taste than I had at first assumed.

  “You aren’t very good at skulking; I saw you from the boat,” I said. “And I came to find out what you mean by it.”

  “I am sure your curiosity is very natural,” he said. “But I’m afraid I am not at liberty to explain.”

  “I suppose you think I ought to consider it the most natural thing in the world to discover someone sneaking about in the bushes at a picnic,” I said with some asperity.

  Mr. Tarleton’s lips twitched. “I don’t believe I would go so far as that.”

  “Then tell me why you are spying on Dorothea!” I demanded.

  All of the expression washed out of his face at once, and he shut the snuffbox with a sharp click. “What makes you sure it was Dorothea I was watching?” he said in a flat voice.

  “Because it isn’t the first time I’ve seen you watching her,” I said. “And I think it is the outside of enough for you to ignore her at home and then turn around and spy on her behind her back.” I am afraid I was not very clear, but by this time I was quite annoyed.

  “So you have appointed yourself her champion,” Mr. Tarleton said. There was a bitter, mocking undercurrent to his voice, and his eyes were very cold and suspicious. “Out of the noblest of motives, I am sure. Or could it be that you hope for some of her leavings?” He glanced pointedly back at the picnic, where all the men clustered around Dorothea like flies around a honey pot.

  “I like Dorothea,” I said hotly. “She’s just like Georgy.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And who is Georgy?”

  “My cousin, Georgina Talgarth. She’s beautiful, too, and all the boys fall in love with her and all the girls dislike her because of it, and it isn’t her fault at all.”

  Mr. Tarleton blinked, and looked thoughtfully back toward the picnic. “It hadn’t occurred to me that it might be unconscious,” he said, half to himself. “But if that is the case…” His voice trailed off and he stood frowning, deep in thought, as though he had quite forgotten I was there. He was still holding the snuffbox, and he stroked the lid with one finger in an absentminded manner. There was a peacock enameled on the lid of the box, in bright blues and greens, which I thought was quite appropriate.

  “I think you had better leave now, Mr. Tarleton,” I said with as much firmness as I could manage. “I am sure you have a great deal to do at Tarleton Hall.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Mr. Tarleton said. “However, I am in no hurry to return home.”

  “Go away, or I shall tell Lady Tarleton that you are spying on Dorothea,” I snapped.

  “Then I’ll tell her that you arranged to meet me out here in the woods,” he replied with maddening calm. “Assignations are not at all the thing for a young lady of quality.”

  “Oh!” I said, too furious to make sense. “You are—you are the most unprincipled man I have ever met!”

  “Quite so,” he said cordially. “Now, I suggest you return to your companions.”

  “And leave you here to spy on us?”

  “Why not? You aren’t planning to do anything…indiscreet, now, are you?”

  I turned on my heel and stalked away, refusing to dignify that comment with a response. I spent the entire walk back to the picnic trying to think of something dreadful enough to be suitable for him, like frogs in his bed, and coming up with all the cutting remarks I ought to have used on him in the first place. When I got back, Aunt Elizabeth told me with approval that the walk had put some color in my cheeks.

  You can imagine my consternation, therefore, when the discussion turned to Robert Penwood’s planned excursion to Bedrick Hall and I learned that Robert had invited James Tarleton to accompany us! “Oh, no!” I said involuntarily.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Lady Tarleton.

  “I mean, I am persuaded that there must be some mistake,” I said hastily. “It hardly seems that Mr. Tarleton would care for such an outing.”

  “I shall speak to him about it,” Lady Tarleton said, and I was forced to let the matter drop. After thinking about it for some time, however, I have decided that James Tarleton will probably find some excuse to avoid being a member of the party. I find this thought very comforting; I only wish I could be more certain of it.

  The rest of the picnic passed without incident. Patience and I had a comfortable chat while Robert and Jack and Martin danced attendance on Dorothea. I found myself watching her (Dorothea, I mean) more closely than usual, and I must tell you
that I do not think she enjoyed the attention she was receiving. You know how Georgy accepts it sweetly whenever people pay her compliments? Dorothea would just nod and turn the subject, or say an uncomfortable “Thank you.”

  We finished the picnic at last, and Aunt Elizabeth and I took Lady Tarleton and Dorothea back to Tarleton Hall. When we arrived, Lady Tarleton asked us to stop in for a moment, and Aunt Elizabeth accepted. Just inside, a footman handed Dorothea an express letter, with an apologetic look at Lady Tarleton. Dorothea opened it, and no sooner had she finished reading it than she burst into tears.

  Lady Tarleton whisked us into the morning room, but not before the commotion brought a great many people into the hall. We were so taken up with soothing Dorothea that we did not at first perceive that the morning room was already occupied—by none other than James Tarleton. He, of course, did not announce his presence, but waited until Lady Tarleton led Dorothea to a seat. Then he stood up. Lady Tarleton, of course, took no notice; she was busy with Dorothea in any case. I glared at him, but it was hardly the time or place for any of the cutting comments I wanted to make, so I said nothing at all.

  “There, now, child, it’s all right,” Lady Tarleton told Dorothea. “Now, what is it?”

  “It’s…it’s…it’s Mama!” Dorothea said. She waved the crumpled letter, which was still clutched tightly in her hand. “She’s coming here!”

  “Well, there’s no need to make such a piece of work of it,” Lady Tarleton said. “Goodness knows, we can manage a guest or two on short notice.”

  “She’s going to make me go to London,” Dorothea said tragically.

  Lady Tarleton pressed her lips together. “Miranda never did have any sense,” she muttered, then in a louder voice she said, “Time enough to discuss that when she arrives. Did she say when that would be?”

  Just then Aunt Elizabeth poked me and we said our adieus, it being clearly not the time to stay for tea. As I left, I noticed Mr. Tarleton watching me with such an expression—partly thoughtful, partly suspicious, and altogether annoyed. I would have given my best gloves to know just what he was thinking of then.

  So that is my tale. I am altogether exhausted; fortunately, it will be a few days before Robert’s expedition to Bedrick Hall, so I shall have time to recover. I shall also have time to consider what I ought to do about Oliver, the charm-bag, and James Tarleton’s spying.

  Do send news of how Oliver is faring; I find I am growing quite nervous about him. And if you have any advice, or any idea how I can discover what sort of charm-bag was hidden in Oliver’s bed, pray tell me at once! I am positively distracted.

  Your busy cousin,

  Cecy

  5 May 1817

  11 Berkeley Square, London

  Dearest Cecy,

  Your letter and parcel arrived this morning as Georgina and I were sitting at breakfast with Aunt Charlotte, drinking cold stewed tea and wishing our toast was not always cold before it reached the table. (This is only one of the ways in which London does not surpass Rushton in terms of comfort.) The post arrived as Georgy was coaxing for the dozenth time to be allowed to have a domino and to go to Vauxhall in it. Aunt Charlotte is violently opposed to both these ambitions. (Indeed, I find it hard to tell which she objects to more.)

  Mere words cannot express my gratitude for the shawl. It is quite a brilliant scheme, and one which Georgy entered into with enthusiasm. In fact, with her help, I’m sure I shall have quite a presentable dress in time for Lady Haseltine’s drum. She has given me a pair of pearl eardrops to wear with it as a sign of encouragement. I think the dancing at Almack’s took a great weight off her mind. She is a shatter-wit, but it must be tiresome to be going everywhere with a sister who is one’s complete opposite.

  I have been practicing the accompaniment for two Italian songs that Georgina has been learning. She finds the melody simple enough but cannot seem to remember the proper order of the lines. One more good thing about Essex is that no one notices such things there. Here in London the audiences are more exacting. Not that the Haut Ton displays any particular appreciation for music—or the Italian language—but the young ladies are very competitive and delight in finding fault with one another’s accomplishments. I have encountered the Marquis of Schofield twice in the past few days. First, in St. James’s Park, where Oliver and I went walking so that Oliver could observe what other young men are wearing. We met on the footbridge across the long duck pond. The footbridge is a pleasing structure, Oriental in design, very delicate and fanciful, and too narrow for three people to walk abreast. Thus, when the Marquis reached the center of the span as Oliver and I walked from the opposite direction, he paused and greeted me, then stepped civilly aside to let me pass. I returned his greeting and introduced Oliver. The Marquis listened politely to my commonplaces about the weather, but I thought I detected some amusement in his reserve. At first I assumed the wind had done something to my hair. Then I realized Oliver was not merely standing, mute as a block, at my elbow, but was staring—positively gaping—at the Marquis.

  The Marquis glanced from me to Oliver and said, almost too solicitously, “Are you feeling quite well, Mr. Rushton?”

  “Oh—quite well, thank you,” replied Oliver, coloring up. “Only—I was admiring the way you tie your cravat. What do you call that fashion?”

  The Marquis regarded Oliver with bland composure. “I call it ‘the way I tie my cravat.’ ”

  Already blushing fiercely, Oliver began a soft, incoherent gobble of apology.

  The Marquis took his leave of us with automatic civility and crossed the bridge, leaving me with divided emotions. On the one hand, he was shockingly rude to Oliver. On the other, I have often been shockingly rude to Oliver myself, and I understand the impulse. Certainly I have been bored time out of mind by his discourses on hair à la Brutus, à la Sappho, and à la Penthesilee, and on neckcloths twisted in styles called the Waterfall, the Corinthian, and the Nonsuch. Often he has corrected me with great severity when I got the names wrong. But pleased as I am that the Marquis seems to have no more patience for such fripperies than I, it was wrong of him to make his feelings so plain. Still, I imagine that when a man is born to a title, it is only to be expected that he assumes lesser folks’ feelings to be of little importance in comparison to his own.

  Then, two nights ago, I went in to dinner at Lady Muker’s with Michael Aubrey and George and Alice Grenville. When we were seated, I glanced up to see that the Marquis was across the table from me. He saw me see him and gave me a brilliant smile, which caused Lady Muker to nudge Lady Grenville and lift her eyebrows. I gave the Marquis an awkward little nod of recognition and fixed my attention on the lobster bisque and George Grenville’s conversation.

  George was telling me about a particularly interesting horse race he happened to see in Derbyshire once. During the final furlongs my mind wandered and I glanced up. The Marquis was attending to the conversation of Mrs. Talbot, the lady to his right, and so presented only his profile to me. As George crossed the finish line, I allowed myself to study that profile.

  It is curious how the least amiable people are sometimes the most interesting in appearance. The odious Marquis has regular enough features, but his appearance is set quite out of the common way by two things. First, his nose, which is not disfiguringly large, but aquiline, giving him the look of an Italian despot on one of the Renaissance coins your Papa showed us last year. Second, his eyes, which are dark and bright and altogether too knowing. But don’t think I was staring at him. I promise you I was taking my soup in a perfectly unexceptionable way when he glanced up at me and gave me another brilliant smile. I nodded again, even more awkwardly, and devoted myself to soup and steeplechasing until the soup plates were removed.

  I think his thanks to me were in the nature of a warning, but I would give a great deal to know how he learned so precisely what passed in that very odd garden and whether, should I go back to the hall, I would find that little door again.

  James Tarleton
’s behavior is wretched, of course, but I’m sure you’ll keep a close watch on him at the maze. There is something particularly infuriating about seeing a man behave rudely out of spite and a desire to amuse himself.

  Please tell me if Dorothea’s mother can possibly be the white-haired lady the Marquis referred to as Miranda. If I had her for a mother, I would burst into tears, too. Despite the hair, which she could not wear powdered without attracting a great deal of remark, she ought to be recognizable, if only for those eyes, the blackest, coldest, hardest eyes I’ve ever beheld. And if it should be the same Miranda, Cecelia, beware. More than ever, I find I wish you were here in London, if only to prevent you from meeting that woman. Or that I were home in Rushton, where things never used to be so lively unless we made them so ourselves.

  It is curious you should have remembered that Hollydean boy. He is seventeen now and just as horrid as ever. We met him at tea at Lady Haseltine’s. He’s been sent down from university already (something to do with gaming debts), and now he and his dreadful tutor, Mr. Strangle, are on the Town, at least to the extent of coming to tea at the most unlikely houses. I was seated between them and had to listen to them in counterpoint, prosing on in a very boastful manner about the Grand Tour of the continent they mean to make one day when they find a ship fine enough to meet their exacting standards. Mr. Strangle is as tall as the Reverend Fitzwilliam and about half as wide. He kept leaning across me to see what sandwiches were left on the plate, and pressing his bony knee against my skirt. Really, he is just the sort of tutor one would expect Frederick Hollydean to have. (And if Frederick construes one more Latin tag for me, breathing crumbs into my ear as he does so, I shall bite him myself. Dear Canniba.)

  As ever,

  Kate

  P.S. I’ve just remembered. Didn’t Mrs. Foley (the gamekeeper’s wife) sew a charm-bag for Martin De Lacey when he was afraid he had yellow fever and wouldn’t be able to ride in his first hunt? Of course, it turned out to be chicken pox instead, but maybe she’d know about things???