Despite Schofield’s behavior at Lady Melbourne’s ball, I agreed to drive out with him on Friday. Again, obedient to some schedule of his own, he selected a spot in which the most people would observe us in the briefest period of time, St. James’s Park. We spoke scarcely at all, so industriously were we nodding and smiling at our respective acquaintances, but I knew immediately when he saw Dorothea, for he stiffened beside me like a hunting dog coming on point. She was strolling with Michael Aubrey and Alice Grenville, looking perfectly fetching in a lilac walking dress and pelisse. Really, she reminds me terribly of Georgy, that perfect profile and the elegant line of her throat. It made it worse, in a way, that she did resemble Georgina, for it has happened to me before, that chill sensation when I feel my companion’s attention drawn from me to her. Not that I cared for his attention, mind, only it was disagreeable to have it happen again.
Schofield pulled up and we chatted, and in a matter of moments, I was walking beside Alice Grenville and Dorothea was up in the carriage. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, and I’m sure no one could have remarked upon it. Only, of course, Michael Aubrey stayed to speak with Dorothea as Alice and I strolled on along the way alone.
I have mentioned, I believe, the Oriental footbridge over the long duck pond. Alice and I were at one center of the bridge, discussing the ducks and swans that paddled nearby, hopeful of crumbs, when Alice spied the Grenville twins strolling past. She greeted them with enthusiasm and walked forward to meet them. George and Andrew met her before she was off the bridge. Andrew and Alice stepped onto the footpath, debating the merits of a visit to Gundier’s. George passed them, intending to join me. Briefly, I was alone at the highest point of the bridge, perhaps seven feet above the surface of the water. At that moment, I felt the structure tremble; then, as the bridge shivered itself into splinters, I fell into the duck pond.
My first thought was “Earthquake!” My second, “I will never be able to wear this bonnet again.” Then I was able to get my feet under me and rise, cascading green water, shocking the ducks, and offending the swans. When I stood, the water only reached my waist, so I was able to clamber out of the pond unassisted.
Judging from the needlelike bits of wood that had once been the footbridge, which now bobbed and floated on the surface of the pond, nothing natural caused the bridge to collapse. It was a sensational event and attracted much attention on every hand. Most of it, however, was directed toward George Grenville, poor man, who managed somehow to fall off the bridge as it went down and break his arm. While he was being attended to, Frederick Hollydean and Mr. Strangle drew up in their landau and insisted I allow them to escort me home. I was wet to the skin, chilled to the bone, and torn between embarrassment and fury (not a sign of the Marquis, of course), but I was otherwise unharmed, so I accepted. I did some damage to the upholstery, since I was covered in mud and streaming with water. I’m afraid neither of them got much sense out of me, though both of them cross-questioned me the entire way home, since all I could do was clutch my reticule to my chest and sniff back silly tears.
Aunt Charlotte was very severe with me, calling for a mustard plaster to be applied to my chest, and explaining to me that if I had not so improperly abandoned my escort for another, this would never have happened. It seemed a good idea to let her work off her rage by allowing her to minister to me, so I submitted to a day of scrubbing and scolding and being tucked up in bed with a stocking around my neck to keep off the cold.
Next morning I was permitted to go down to the blue saloon when Alice called to say that George was going to be fine. We condoled together over the catastrophe and speculated on the probable effect it would have on the ducks. Shortly after her departure, Thomas, Marquis of Schofield, called. I received him in the blue saloon, this time taking pains to seat myself in the chair he had claimed on his earlier visit. I was a little piqued to receive him once again looking less than my best, but at least this time I was decently dressed and groomed, and only the redness of my eyes and nose betrayed the cold I had contracted.
“You’re looking very earnest this morning,” I said when he had accepted a chair across the room from me and stared at me without speaking for a full minute.
“I have come to ask you to cry off, Kate,” he said. His voice was very even but his expression was gloomy.
I regarded him with astonishment. “I thought you needed a fiancée rather urgently.”
“Circumstances are not what I expected they would be,” he said.
I regarded him with gravity equal to his own. “I will release you from your promise on the condition you give me your word that you will not offer for Dorothea,” I said. “You may think only of yourself, but she has given her heart elsewhere and I have promised her she shall not be forced to marry you.”
He sneered slightly. “Do you really think force need enter into it?”
“Let us at least be honest with one another,” I said. “I won’t let you tangle me up with your sardonic remarks. I won’t try to pretend I don’t know what’s really happening. That girl is an innocent tool in Miranda’s hands. You can’t use her against her own Stepmother just to protect yourself. I won’t let you.”
“My dear half-wit, Dorothea Griscomb has nothing to fear from me,” Schofield replied. “If she is innocent, as you say she is, it is Miranda she must battle.”
“Then you promise you won’t offer for her,” I persisted.
“I can’t,” Thomas said. “Please don’t make me put out the rumors myself, Kate. Release me.”
“I won’t,” I told him. “I won’t let Miranda win. If I cry off and let you offer for her, it means the spell on Dorothea is too powerful for you to resist. And if Miranda wins, Thomas, it isn’t just you who loses. Dorothea loses and Robert loses, too—”
I put my head down, only for a moment, only because I had to blow my nose. My eyes were streaming, but it was merely my cold. I looked up when I heard the door close. He was gone.
And now I have sneezed seven times in the past hour and Aunt Charlotte will give me only barley water instead of dinner. At any moment I expect to hear the first rumors that my betrothal is at an end. I only hope that Schofield has the decency to let it seem I was the one to cry off. I will write again when I have better news to report.
Your loving cousin,
Kate
27 May 1817
Rushton Manor, Essex
Dearest Kate,
The Marquis of Schofield is behaving in the most singularly cockle-headed manner imaginable. Perhaps he will realize it when James Tarleton writes to tell him what happened on our ride Thursday, but I place no dependence on it. Anyone who believes that Dorothea could stand up to Miranda must be even more goose-witted than Oliver, and I had not believed that was possible. And what, pray, is to happen to Oliver if Thomas falls into Miranda’s clutches? I cannot think that Miranda would like it known that she had turned Oliver into a beech tree, however inadvertently, and your precious Marquis is the only one who knows where Oliver is. Nor has Thomas considered what the effect on your own reputation will be if you become engaged and then un-engaged in less than a month! There are also poor Dorothea and Robert, to whom he does not appear to have given a thought. He is clearly not even thinking of himself.
For you are quite right, Kate; Miranda is not the type to let him live happily ever after with Dorothea (even if one assumes they would be happy, which is clearly absurd). Miranda has some sinister plan for Thomas, and he is so befuddled by her spells that he doesn’t care. Or perhaps she has fooled him into thinking he can handle everything alone. In short, if we wish to see anything sensible done about the situation we will clearly have to do it ourselves.
It is extremely fortunate that men are not allowed to cry off from an engagement. Under no circumstances must you allow Thomas to persuade you to do the crying off! I expect it will be unpleasant, with all the whispering about his attentions to Dorothea, but perhaps you can give the gossips the impression that you are dete
rmined to be a marchioness no matter how your future husband behaves. In any case, Thomas has made it quite clear that he will offer for poor Dorothea as soon as he is free to do so, and that cannot be permitted until Robert has had a chance to find Mr. Griscomb and speak with him. The Marquis has obviously been caught by whatever spell Miranda has put on Dorothea to make her so impossibly attractive. (Which just shows you what an unprincipled woman Miranda is. I’m sure she could have done something so that the spell wouldn’t affect men who are married or betrothed, but I’ll wager she never even thought of it. She probably enjoys cutting up everyone’s happiness. Not to mention cutting up other parts of people; given her penchant for poisoning people and turning them into beech trees, I fail to see how she has reached thirty without leaving a trail of bodies behind her.)
I am enclosing another charm-bag for you to make up for Thomas. It may lessen the effect of Miranda’s spell; if so, it will give him a chance to think clearly about his idiotic notion of jilting you to offer for Dorothea. I’ve doubled the mixture to make the charm stronger. Sir Hilary’s book (which has been truly useful; if you happen into a bookshop, do see if you can find a copy. I should like to have one, if I can keep it hidden from Aunt Elizabeth) says that a charm-bag, properly prepared, can work from a distance, though it is better if one keeps the bag near one. So even if you cannot get Thomas to carry it, it may help. I don’t know how you are going to get the hair for it; perhaps you should just ask him.
It would probably also help if you could think of some way to get Thomas out of London. All of the boys here (except Robert) completely forgot about Dorothea the day after she left Tarleton Hall, so it is only when she is about that Miranda’s spell has any effect. On second thought, it may not be wise to persuade Thomas to remove from London. Miranda would certainly drag Dorothea off to follow him, no matter how odd it would look
It seems to me that your conversation with Miranda went very well. If she does not now believe that you are working for Sir Hilary, she must be a complete idiot, and we both know that that is not so. I wish I could think of a way to plant some similar suspicion in Sir Hilary’s mind, but I cannot think of a way that is not much too risky. Sir Hilary, after all, has known us both for a good many years, and I fear he would be exceedingly suspicious of any tale either of us brought him.
I am truly glad you were not seriously hurt when the footbridge collapsed, and it is just like Aunt Charlotte to go into one of her grand fusses over a ducking. I had to tell Aunt Elizabeth about it and the cold (she is beginning to wonder what we can be corresponding on at such length when I never have any gossip to report to her). So Aunt Elizabeth is sending you some of her Special Cough Mixture, the one made with blackberries. I trust you will not find it too nasty. She also gave me a long lecture on the Proper Deportment of Girls Who Are Engaged to Be Married, which she wished me to pass on to you. I deduce from this that she, too, does not approve of your chatting with George Grenville when you are engaged to the odious Marquis.
And now I must tell you about my drive with James Tarleton last Thursday. He arrived most punctually in a curricle, looking wonderfully elegant in an olive coat, tan pantaloons, and Hessians polished bright enough to see your face in. I saw him from the window, and all I could think was that Oliver would kill to be able to dress like that. Of course, I had not intended to drive with him, but I had forgotten to tell Aunt Elizabeth that I had the headache. She told Mr. Tarleton that I would be down directly, and I was forced to go.
Mr. Tarleton was very quiet until we reached the end of the drive, which gave me the opportunity to study his team. They were the most perfectly matched pair of grays I have ever seen, and all my annoyance at Mr. Tarleton disappeared in a ridiculous longing to drive them. I was so absorbed in admiration that I was quite startled when Mr. Tarleton finally addressed me.
“I believe I owe you an apology, Miss Rushton,” he said.
Kate, you could have tipped me off the seat with the end of your little finger. I stared at him with what I am sure must have been an expression of thoroughgoing stupidity and finally managed to say, “I beg your pardon?”
He flushed under his tan and said stiffly, “I suppose I deserved that. I can only say again, I apologize for misjudging you, Miss Rushton.”
I opened my mouth and shut it without saying anything. (I have never been more thankful for Aunt Elizabeth’s constant adjurations to think before I speak. Had I not stopped to consider, I would certainly have said something dreadfully insulting and had to walk all the way back to Rushton.) “Does this mean that you have decided I am not in league with Mrs. Griscomb?” I said at last, in as careful and neutral a voice as I could manage.
He looked at me with a somewhat surprised expression, but said readily, “Yes, that is what I mean.”
“Good,” I said. “Then you won’t mind explaining why you were spying on Dorothea.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said. His voice was much less friendly, and his eyes narrowed. “And just why do you want to know?”
“Dorothea is my friend,” I told him firmly. “And she has enough problems already.”
“I suppose that is what you were doing in Sir Hilary’s library,” he said in a cold, considering tone. “Helping Dorothea with her ‘problems.’ ”
“That was nothing to do with Dorothea, and it’s nothing to do with you, either,” I snapped. “And if you brought me out driving just so you could insult me—”
“Oh, not just to insult you,” he said in the most maddening way. “I think perhaps—Ah, there’s the lake.”
The curricle swept around a bend in the road and I saw that he was quite right. I was surprised at how quickly we had reached it; really, Mr. Tarleton’s grays are a perfectly splendid team. (And no matter how annoying he is, I must allow that he drives to an inch.)
“What are you planning to do, drown me?” I said.
His lips twitched. “I believe I can resist the temptation,” he said. “Though, I admit, it will be difficult.” His expression changed and he studied me the way Aunt Elizabeth studies a difficult pattern before she begins to embroider. “I don’t know what to make of you,” he said, half to himself.
“You needn’t make anything of me,” I said coldly. My temper was rising; in spite of his apology, he was apparently still in doubt as to my motives. I was determined not to quarrel with him, however, as I was sure that quarreling would only make Mr. Tarleton more positive that I had some ulterior motive for coming out riding with him. (I could hardly tell him, after all, that I was only there because I had not had sufficient forethought to establish that I had the headache before he arrived.) So I said, “I would like to get down and walk a little.”
“I can’t leave the grays,” he said shortly.
“You don’t need to,” I said from between clenched teeth. “I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own. I’ve been doing it since I was two.”
He laughed and reined in the grays. “Very well, then. We will both let our tempers cool.”
He had seemed more amused than angry to me, but I was too glad to be getting away from him to correct him. I jumped down before the curricle had quite stopped and began walking briskly toward the spot where Jack had arranged his picnic. I was halfway there, and just climbing over a rather large rock, when I heard Mr. Tarleton call out.
I turned, one foot still on the rock, and stood stock-still, staring. Now I know what all those novels mean when they talk about being too stunned to move, which I have always thought a great piece of nonsense, because unless one has been struck over the head or ensorcelled or some such, one is perfectly capable of moving. But it is not so, Kate. For I was too stunned to move.
The air between the curricle and me was rippling, and it smelled like something burning, though I could not see any flames. James Tarleton was standing in the curricle, his mouth moving as if he were shouting, but I could not hear anything at all. The rippling grew rapidly worse, and so did the burning smell. It was like lookin
g in a very old, distorted mirror, or through a very badly made windowpane. James leapt down from the curricle and ran toward me, still shouting soundlessly. He had something in his left hand that he was waving back and forth in front of himself, as if he were trying to clear a path.
Suddenly he tripped and fell, and did not rise again. I shook off my paralysis and ran forward. (Perhaps I ought not to have done so, with the air behaving so oddly, but I was not thinking too clearly at the time.) I do not have a perfect recollection of the next few minutes, though I have a vague impression of suffocating heat. Then I plunked to my knees beside James Tarleton.
He was barely conscious, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. I ripped off his cravat in a manner that would surely have drawn a protest from Oliver, had he been present, and stopped short. A length of ribbon was twisted around his neck, of the same lavender shade that Miranda Griscomb was wearing the day she and Dorothea left for London.
I pulled at the ribbon, but though it was not knotted, it would not come free. In fact, it grew tighter, and James Tarleton’s breathing became even more labored. In desperation I upended my reticule, hoping that I might have a forgotten pair of scissors in it. My charm-bag fell out. I grabbed it at once, jerked it open, and dumped all of the crumbled herbs over James’s neck, muttering as I did as much of the protective spell that goes with the charm-bag as I could remember.
The effects were immediate. The ribbon loosened, and I snatched it away and crumpled it up in my fist. James’s breathing eased at once, and he began to come back to consciousness. I watched him with the greatest anxiety, as I was not at all certain of my ability to come up with a reasonable explanation of what had happened should he be permanently damaged in some way. And so I heard him mumble, “Cecelia! No!” and then, “Thomas will murder me.”
Sorcery & Cecelia Page 9