Sorcery & Cecelia

by Patricia C. Wrede

  P.P.S. Who do you suppose was leaving Lady Haseltine’s just as we arrived? Sir Hilary Bedrick, who sends his best regards to Aunt Elizabeth and your Papa. Investiture in the Royal College of Wizards is attended by a mighty social schedule, so his time in London is much taken up. But he was perfectly charming to us and regretted he had not time to pay a call upon “such near neighbors” as we have been. Sometimes London has the feel of a very small town indeed.

  8 May 1817

  Rushton Manor, Essex

  Dearest Kate,

  If you found my letter disturbing, only think how I felt about yours! I had not considered that your Miranda and Dorothea’s mother might be the same woman—your Miranda does not sound at all like a Mrs. Griscomb, or even like a Lady Griscomb. But then, I suppose people do not have to look like their names. Also, I cannot be easy in my mind about Oliver, despite the fact that, from his behavior with the odious Marquis, I conclude that the charm-bag I found in his bed has not had the slightest effect on him.

  I did manage to talk to Mrs. Foley about charm-bags, in a very general sort of way. She was not much help, as she seems to have the impression that I was interested in making up a love charm to retrieve one of the boys who has fallen under Dorothea’s spell. (As if I would! Robert Penwood is the only one who is worth a farthing, and frankly I think he would be far better suited with Dorothea than with me. If, of course, he were thinking of being suited, which I doubt.) Anyway, she gave me a good deal of advice on making up a love charm, and even mentioned that some of the “great folk” have written books about such things. That gave me a perfectly splendid idea, so I thanked her very kindly indeed and went home to cogitate.

  By yesterday morning, I had worked out all the necessary details, for you must know, Kate, that yesterday was Robert Penwood’s excursion to Bedrick Hall. The weather was quite perfect, sunny and a little cool, which gave me the excuse to wear the shawl Aunt Charlotte gave me for my last birthday, the one with the pockets on the inside. It is, of course, blue, and so I had to wear one of the walking-dresses of Georgy’s that Aunt Elizabeth had made over for me when she was having that fit of economy last fall. I did not look anything like my best, but it was in a good cause, and besides, I was quite sure that all eyes would be on Dorothea rather than me.

  Imagine my chagrin, therefore, when we arrived at Bedrick Hall to discover that James Tarleton had accepted Robert’s invitation after all, and was to make up one of the party! I suppose he felt that it would be easier to spy on us from inside the group, so to speak. It was the outside of enough! Not only was I going to have to deal with a thoroughly unprincipled, spying man, but I was going to have to do so knowing that I looked a complete dowd.

  To make matters worse, it was Mr. Tarleton who handed me down from the carriage. He studied me the way Cook studies the joints the butcher sends, and I was quite sure that he could tell that my gown was made-over (and last season’s style into the bargain!). I found it most uncomfortable, and I did not even have the consolation of a properly cutting remark, for as I had not expected to see him, I had not thought anything out in advance. Next time, I promise you, Kate, I will not be so caught out.

  I moved away from him as quickly as I could and paid my respects to Lady Tarleton. Then I went over to Dorothea, who did not look at all happy. I asked her what the matter was, and she whispered, “Mama is coming for me tomorrow! And, oh, Cecy, I do not want to go to London!”

  “Not want to go to London!” I said in astonishment. “But I thought you told Lady Tarleton that you were anxious for your Season!”

  “That was when Lady Tarleton was to bring me out, and I thought you would go with me,” Dorothea said sadly. “But now I shall be in London all alone.”

  “Don’t be a peagoose,” I said. “The whole point of a Season in London is that one cannot be all alone.”

  “You know what I mean!” Dorothea said. She was practically in tears. “I don’t know anyone in London!”

  “You’ll meet people soon enough,” I said, and I forebore to add that with her looks she could hardly help it.

  “You don’t understand about Mama,” Dorothea said.

  We had walked a little away from the others, so I whisked her around the corner of the main house and found a bench. “All right, then, sit down and explain to me,” I said.

  “Oh, I couldn’t!” Dorothea said, and turned quite white. “She’d find out.”

  “How?” I said, “I certainly won’t tell her.”

  But all Dorothea would say was that her Mama is horrid and hateful. Apparently she is determined that Dorothea will marry some specific but unnamed peer (whom Dorothea paints as a cold-blooded ogre). Dorothea appears to think that there is some sinister scheme behind this determination and that her Mama will call on a variety of unprincipled friends to assist in achieving her ends. I suspect that she thinks this solely because she has formed a tendre for someone else, but the whole conversation was so dreadfully confused that I could not be sure of anything. Finally, I told her to call on you when she reaches London (assuming, of course, that her Mama really will carry her off without any notice at all, as Dorothea appears to fear).

  We were interrupted by Robert Penwood, come to collect us to begin the tour, and for the next hour or so we all made polite comments about the beauty of the gardens, the wonderful views, etc. James Tarleton behaved with excruciating correctness in spite of the insipid conversation, which I am sure must have bored him to tears. I think boredom only his due for foisting himself on us as he did.

  Finally we reached the part of the tour I had been waiting for—the maze. Aunt Elizabeth and Lady Tarleton begged off, but the rest of us went cheerfully in, and in a very short time we were all lost among the hedges. I let the others get ahead of me, and as soon as they were out of sight I headed straight for the shortcut. (You remember, the little gap in the far corner that we always used to use to beat Jack Everslee to the center of the maze.) It was still there, and I used it to get out of the maze instead of going farther in.

  So in no time at all I was standing at the far side of Sir Hilary’s maze, free to do as I pleased for at least an hour before anyone would come looking for me. I went up to the house at once (being careful to keep the hedges between me and the place where we had left Aunt Elizabeth and Lady Tarleton), and blushingly explained to the footman who answered the door that I would like to use the necessary. He was quite taken aback, poor man (I don’t think it had ever occurred to him that Young Ladies of Quality ever needed such plebeian artifacts). He called the housekeeper, a Mrs. Porter, who conducted me to the proper place. She was a motherly type who was quite receptive to my suggestion that a glass of lemonade would be more than welcome, after running about the gardens in the heat all day.

  The point of this whole charade was, of course, to be left alone in Sir Hilary’s library. Mrs. Porter eventually did so, whereupon I made a rapid survey of Sir Hilary’s books, looking for something that appeared to have information on charm-bags. At first, I was a bit daunted by the sheer number of volumes; I had no notion that a wizard was required to do so very much reading! I soon realized, however, that most of the books were the ordinary sort that one would find in any well-kept library, and after a brief search I discovered the section I wanted. I was quite prepared to take several, if need be (the pockets in that shawl are quite spacious), but I discovered a slim red book titled The Theory and Practice of Charms: Being an Inquiry into the Making of Bags, Boxes, and the Like by Country Witches and Their Ilk. I tucked it into my shawl and was about to take the book beside it when I heard someone at the door. I straightened hastily, thinking it was Mrs. Porter with my lemonade, and turned to say something innocuous about the number of books Sir Hilary has.

  It was, of course, not Mrs. Porter at all, but James Tarleton, who ought to have been safely lost in the maze with Robert, Dorothea, Patience, and Jack. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “I believe I am the one who should ask you that,” Mr. Tarleton
said. His eyes were very hard and suspicious, and he looked exceedingly angry.

  “That is none of your affair,” I said.

  “Indeed.” He strolled over to the bookcase and began studying the section I had been looking at. I backed away as he came forward, not wanting to stand at all close to him. I was very glad I had done so, for he took one look at the books and turned to me, looking more thunderous than ever. “Just what is your game, young woman?”

  “I do not have the slightest idea what you are talking about,” I said with dignity.

  “No? You take up with Dorothea Griscomb the moment she arrives, aid and abet her in all her schemes, and you expect me to believe you do it simply because she reminds you of some cousin of yours?”

  “It is quite true,” I told him.

  He gave a bark of laughter that was not at all pleasant. “Too late, Miss Rushton. I’m not so gullible that I can be caught twice with a smoothly told tale. I might have believed you once, but not after I saw your reaction to the news that Miranda Griscomb is coming to Tarleton Hall, and not now that I find you poking through Sir Hilary’s magic books. I’m afraid you’re out of luck there; he keeps the really important ones in his laboratory, like most good wizards.”

  “I was simply admiring Sir Hilary’s collection,” I said, retreating around the end of a low couch. I felt better with something between me and that angry expression.

  Mr. Tarleton snorted. “It won’t wash, my girl. Miranda and Hilary have had a falling-out, I suppose, and she’s taking advantage of all this to have you snoop through his things.”

  By this time I was quite outraged. “I was not snooping,” I said. “How dare you accuse me of any such thing? If anyone is snooping, it is you, and I very much wish Squire Bryant had another goat, for I think you deserve it!”

  Mr. Tarleton ignored this completely. “What is Miranda up to?” he demanded.

  He was starting toward me, and in quite a menacing manner, when a knock at the library door announced the housekeeper, at long last bringing my lemonade. I took it gratefully and downed it with far more speed than was strictly ladylike (to keep her in the room; I did not want to be alone with James Tarleton again!). Mr. Tarleton took snuff while I drank; it is a habit he seems to resort to when under stress. (And I must say that I am still amazed that someone as well turned out in other ways as Mr. Tarleton would use such a vulgarly ostentatious snuffbox as that green-and-blue enameled one he carries. I suppose he must be sentimentally attached to it for some reason.)

  When Mr. Tarleton and I were quite finished snubbing each other with magnificent unconcern, Mrs. Porter escorted us to the side door. This let out onto the veranda where Aunt Elizabeth and Lady Tarleton were sitting. Aunt Elizabeth was quite surprised to see us together, and coming from the house instead of the maze, but Mr. Tarleton passed it off with a remark about my having been overcome with the heat. Aunt Elizabeth looked at me suspiciously, for she knows I never swoon and am quite fond of warm weather, but she did not say anything, and the rest of the day passed off without further incident.

  I was relieved to reach home with my pilfered book safe (do not scold, Kate; I shall return it to Sir Hilary anonymously, by post, as soon as I am finished with it, and how else was I to find out anything about charm-bags?). I spent the evening reading it, and was quite impressed with how complex a charm-bag really is. Unfortunately, it is very hard to identify the type of charm unless one knows what herbs were used. I shall spend part of tomorrow trying to sort out the herbs in the bag Mary found in Oliver’s room, but one dried bit of leaf looks very much like another, so I have little hope of success. The whole matter makes me dreadfully uneasy; I have taken to cleaning out my hairbrush every morning and burning the residue. I hope to finish Sir Hilary’s book tomorrow evening; in the afternoon, I intend to pay a call on Dorothea and see whether I can get a peek at her Mama.

  Yours ever,

  Cecy

  10 May 1817

  11 Berkeley Square, London

  My dearest Cecy,

  I’m afraid I’ve made a dreadful mull of it this time. I’ve told Aunt Charlotte that Oliver’s gone back to Rushton for a few days, just on business for Uncle. And, of course, he may have, and oh, dear, how I wish he might have, but really it is just another bouncer of mine. But I had to think of something, because he’s gone missing.

  I do hope you can read my handwriting. I skinned my palm and even though it is much better this morning it makes it hard to hold the pen quite steady.

  It was in Vauxhall Gardens I last saw him, and that was my dear sister’s fault entirely. We had gone to dinner at the Grenvilles’ and were meant to go from there to the opera with Alice Grenville and her twin brothers. But no sooner was the meal over than Alice Grenville and Georgina swept me upstairs, where they had dominoes for the three of us—and George and Andrew escorted us not to the opera but to Vauxhall, without paying the slightest attention to a word I said. (I wanted to see that opera particularly. It was the last performance of I Dilletanti.)

  Because I knew perfectly well that I would get the blame for the entire expedition, I was in no mood to be pleased, but I admit Vauxhall is pretty enough. I doubt you’ll have the chance to see it for yourself next Season, since it is nearly as vulgar as Aunt Charlotte said, so I’ll just describe the place as best I can.

  Vauxhall is a large garden with carefully arranged thickets and sandy paths. In the heart of the garden are boxes with flimsy chairs where one may sit to watch other people promenade about by the light of paper lanterns, or dance to a little orchestra playing popular airs (ever so slightly flat). As we entered the lantern-lit clearing, Alice Grenville declared there were nightingales in the thickets. So no sooner were we in the box George and Andrew procured for us than Georgina went off with Andrew to search for one, leaving me with Alice and George. George insisted on ordering rack punch and slivered ham, despite the perfectly enormous meal we had just consumed at Grenville House.

  Well, of course, after a quarter of an hour, I expected to catch a glimpse of Georgina among the crowd walking past. I was a bit concerned for her, alone with her twin. By the greatest misfortune, Oliver chose that moment to arrive in pursuit of Georgy. He pounced on me and demanded to know what I was thinking of to let life in the Ton go so dreadfully to Georgina’s head. I was taken aback for a moment but replied at once in a calm voice that I’ve almost grown to hate (for I seldom know what I’m going to say in it, and sometimes it comes out with the most dreadful lies, always in the same plausible tone) that Georgy and I had made a wager that she masked could dance with more men than I unmasked. My voice went on quite pleasantly to say that if he couldn’t keep from interfering in a simple sportin’ wager, he should go home and get Aunt Charlotte to make him a posset. Otherwise, he’d best sit down and join us.

  “A simple sportin’ wager,” he huffed at me. “I should think you would know better than to jest about such things with a member of the family. And if you’re not jesting, you must be mad.”

  “I suppose I must be,” I agreed, “but at least I am not bacon-brained enough to preach a sermon in Vauxhall Gardens.”

  You may imagine Oliver’s response. It was a masterpiece of priggish indignation that, reduced to its bare essentials, amounted to an accusation that we were having fun without him. When he was quite finished, he called me a rag-mannered chit and marched off to find Georgina, which, I own, I was hoping he would do for quite some time.

  I apologized to Alice and George and went back to craning my neck to look for Georgy.

  An hour went by, Cecy, and a worse hour I have yet to pass, in London or out of it. I saw Oliver in the distance twice, but there wasn’t a sign of Georgy. As you may imagine, I grew worried and then more worried, until finally Alice and the twin agreed to stroll with me in the direction of the illuminations. After all, Alice told me bracingly, it was possible Oliver simply didn’t recognize Georgy in her domino.

  We walked down a winding path and reached a little Greek temp
le lit with paper lanterns. It seemed a good idea to separate and search the shrubbery round about. I took a wrong step somehow, and found myself in a thicket with no temple in sight and no reply to my call. After a moment of uneasiness, it struck me what seemed wrong. The shadowy coppice was altogether silent. No nightingale sang, nor could I hear any faint strain of the orchestra.

  Puzzled and a little alarmed, I stood in the dark, the flat of my hand resting on the trunk of the tree before me. I was struck with a sudden sense of unreasonable apprehension (in addition to my perfectly reasonable apprehension, common to any girl foolish enough to lose herself at night in the woods of Vauxhall). You may therefore imagine my reaction when a hand covered mine and held me there, palm against the smooth bark.

  “I thought I told you to stay in well-lit ballrooms,” said Thomas Schofield in my ear.

  I managed to stop my scream before it got to my lips. After a moment I said quite evenly, “Ill met by moonlight, my dear Marquis.” I admit this was not exactly brilliant, but I think that under the circumstances I did fairly well.

  “On the contrary, my dear half-wit,” he replied, “for your sake, we are very well met. But a very little longer and you’d not have left this wood for quite some time.” Right hand over my right hand, he moved to stand behind me. “Hold out your left hand,” he said.

  “Stop that,” I said. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Rescuing you, silly,” he said. “Hold out your left hand.” Cautiously, I did so. He took it in his and stood so close behind me that I have no doubt that but for the hood of the silken domino I wore, I could have felt his breath stir my hair. The fingers of his left hand laced with mine and he drew our clasped hands forward until our fingertips rested very lightly against my forehead, as though to shield my eyes.