Rushton Manor, Essex
Dearest Kate,
Of course your odious Marquis does not care two pins for Dorothea. I cannot think how you could ever have supposed otherwise, for one really cannot count the emotions aroused by that insidious spell of Miranda’s. I am quite put out, however, to learn that he was simply counterfeiting the effect, especially after all the thought we have put into trying to rescue him from it. He might at least have told you what he was about, and saved us both the effort.
There are, in fact, a great many things he might have told you, and I am exceedingly sorry you did not think to have him take a turn around the park on your way back from Countess Lieven’s. He seems to have been in a confiding mood, and you might have got the full tale out of him. However, there is no sense in regretting it now. I can only hope that his mood has lasted, and that you have been able to chivy him into providing a few more of the details. For I must tell you, Kate, that I am not likely to get anything out of James Tarleton. He has not been next nor nigh the house this past week, and it is quite impossible to question someone who is not present.
Fortunately, Mr. Wrexton has been more particular. He has called three times, once to take tea and chat with Aunt Elizabeth, and twice to take me driving (and give me the first of my magic lessons). Aunt Elizabeth does not know of the lessons, of course, but she still does not approve of my outings with him. She cannot do more than be rather stiff about it, though. Mr. Wrexton is, after all, a friend of the vicar’s, and as she had already consented to my driving alone with James Tarleton, she could not object to the outings on grounds of propriety. I believe she is worried that he is growing particular in his attentions, and means to offer for me. This is quite absurd, but I can hardly explain to Aunt Elizabeth that Mr. Wrexton’s only interest in me is as a sorcery student.
My lessons are going well, I think, and as a result I may be able to shed a little light on the extremely muddled explanation Thomas gave you regarding the chocolate pot. It seems there are a great many magicians who, in order to use their magic most effectively, must have an object through which to focus their power. This object must be kept nearby when casting spells. (I believe it works along the same lines as wearing spectacles—some people need them, others don’t; every pair is different and it does no good to try to use someone else’s; one can see without them, but not nearly so well; and they do one no good whatever if they are not in place when one requires them.)
I believe that what Thomas was trying to say is that the chocolate pot is the object he uses to focus his magic. If so, its absence is a very serious thing, for without it his magic cannot be nearly as strong as it ought to be. With both Miranda and Sir Hilary hounding him…well, I do not like the implications in the least. I do not know what effect the “whiff of Sir Hilary’s magic” that got into the chocolate pot would have, but I doubt that it can be a good one.
Thomas must know all this, and I can only say that it was exceedingly careless of him to have let Sir Hilary get hold of that chocolate pot in the first place. He would have been much better off, I think, if he had broken the silly thing and made himself another focus. I suppose he was too proud. Thomas’s good sense appears to come only in flashes. It was very silly of him to suggest, for example, that you damp your dresses when you have just got over a shocking cold. One would think he wished you to have an inflammation of the lungs. And he himself admits that dangling after Dorothea in that odious manner was a stupid thing to have done. He has, however, managed not to fall into any of Miranda’s traps, which argues rather more intelligence than he has been evincing recently. (On rereading your letter, I see that Thomas was not, in fact, advocating that you damp your skirts, so perhaps I am doing him an injustice in that instance.)
Speaking of magic, I do appreciate your loyal remembrance of our attempts at clearing up Georgy’s freckles, but I cannot in conscience take the credit. I think Aunt Elizabeth’s Strawberry Complexion Lotion far more likely to have done the trick—that, and the fact that since that summer Georgy has followed Aunt Charlotte’s advice and avoided sitting in the sun.
I have not had another chance to investigate Sir Hilary’s library. And it is the outside of enough for you to be asking me what I may learn by doing so. If I knew that, I should not need to ransack the library at all. I had hoped to manage it yesterday, when Aunt Elizabeth and I paid our duty call at Bedrick Hall, but under the circumstances, perhaps it was as well I did not attempt it. When Sir Hilary’s butler ushered us into the gray sitting room, Sir Hilary was already there, along with Mr. and Mrs. Everslee and the Reverend Fitzwilliam. They had all come to congratulate him on his appointment to the Royal College of Wizards and (in the case of Mrs. Everslee) to see if there was any chance of his holding a party in celebration. Not that Mrs. Everslee has become frivolous, you understand; it is just that now both Dorothea and Georgy are away and Patience will finally have a chance to shine. Provided, of course, that there is an event for her to shine at.
The conversation consisted of empty pleasantries, for the most part. Then the tea tray arrived, and I was hard put to keep my countenance. For there, right in the center of the tray, was a perfectly beautiful blue porcelain chocolate pot.
I could feel Sir Hilary watching me as the footman set the tray down, so I pretended to be absorbed in what the Reverend Fitz was saying. (Something about the drains in the parsonage, I believe.) Then Sir Hilary asked Mrs. Everslee if she would be good enough to pour, and I turned my attention to the tea along with the rest of the group.
Mrs. Everslee gave Aunt Elizabeth a cup of tea, then turned to me. “I will have chocolate, please,” I said, for I had had time enough to think and I did not see how Sir Hilary could try to poison me in such company.
“I did not realize you were fond of chocolate, Miss Rushton,” Sir Hilary said.
“Oh, I like it of all things,” I replied as carelessly as I could manage. “I am so glad you thought to serve it.”
“The pot is meant for chocolate, and I thought it deserved to be used,” Sir Hilary said blandly.
“To be sure,” I said. I took two cucumber sandwiches and one of the macaroons, then made a show of studying the chocolate pot. It was very like your description; I am quite sure it is either Thomas’s or another copy like the one Miranda had at Sir Hilary’s investiture. “It is very nice, but it does not go with the rest of your tea set,” I observed dispassionately.
“That shade of blue is difficult to match,” Sir Hilary replied. He paused, then went on with apparent casualness, “How does your brother go on?”
“Oliver is quite well,” I said, and took a bite out of one of my sandwiches.
“I am glad to hear it,” Sir Hilary said, swinging his quizzing glass absently on the end of its ribbon. “You have had news of him recently, then?”
“Oh, Oliver has never been much of a hand at writing,” I said. “But it is very kind of you to ask.”
I gave Sir Hilary my most brilliant smile, tore my eyes away from the chocolate pot, and turned to offer Aunt Elizabeth one of the macaroons, thus putting an end to a most uncomfortable conversation. This maneuver placed me facing the large windows that look out over the side lawn and the little pavilion just in front of the hedge where the maze begins. As I held the plate out to Aunt Elizabeth, I saw a flicker of movement among the bushes. In another moment, someone ran across the open space and disappeared behind the pavilion. I had just enough of a glimpse to make me quite sure that it was James Tarleton.
I swallowed my dismay and irritation—really, the man is impossibly bad at sneaking about—and turned back to the Reverend Fitz. Sir Hilary was looking past me at the window, which made my spirits sink. There was nothing I could do but hope he had not seen James, or that he was uncertain of the identity of whoever was skulking in his bushes.
Somehow, I got through the rest of that tea, but my feelings were in such turmoil that I did not think it wise to attempt to slip away to the library. Aunt Elizabeth and I left at last, and I promise you that I
will never again complain of her insistence on limiting our calls on Sir Hilary to the formal thirty minutes.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon at my embroidery, considering Sir Hilary’s actions and worrying lest Mr. Tarleton had been discovered. (I spent the evening unpicking all the stitches I had labored over in the afternoon; my mind was not on my work.) Mr. Tarleton did not call Tuesday, nor Wednesday. On Thursday, Mr. Wrexton mentioned having ridden out with James the previous day, which let me know that at least Mr. Tarleton was not tied up in Sir Hilary’s storerooms somewhere. I am quite out of patience with the man (James Tarleton, not Mr. Wrexton. Mr. Wrexton is a sweet lamb). He might have had the courtesy to call and let me know he was all right and what, if anything, he discovered at Bedrick Hall.
Upon reflection, I have come to the conclusion that Sir Hilary was testing me by displaying Thomas’s chocolate pot (or a copy of it, which seems more likely) so openly and under such circumstances. I flatter myself that I did quite well at concealing my reactions, but I have no idea whether I did sufficiently well to convince Sir Hilary that I know nothing of the chocolate pot. It is also very clear that Sir Hilary is, or was, suspicious of me. He would not otherwise have used the chocolate pot, for you know his taste has always been meticulous, and blue porcelain cannot be considered to go at all well with sprig-patterned china in green and purple.
I am also worried by his interest in Oliver. It can only mean that he is well aware that Oliver is hidden away somewhere, and for some reason, he (Sir H.) is anxious to discover where Oliver is. Presumably Sir Hilary fancies that this will, in some way, discomfit Thomas, but it is far likelier to discomfit you and me. Could you find a way to drop a hint to Thomas that Sir Hilary is displaying an unwonted interest in Oliver’s whereabouts? As Thomas is the only one who knows where Oliver is just now, it seems to me wise to inform him of the possible danger.
I am enclosing the charm-bags I promised you for Dorothea and Robert. I am not at all sure what the exact effect will be of using the Marquis’s handkerchief in your second charm-bag, but from what Mr. Wrexton told me about the violet bloodstains, it may actually enhance the power of the bag. Be very careful of it, however; if Miranda got hold of that charm-bag, she could do perfectly dreadful things to you. For it would not be at all difficult for her to remove the handkerchief, and once the bloodstains have been used for one sort of magic, they are more amenable to being used in other ways. I am afraid I am not being at all clear about this; you will just have to take my word for it, and be very cautious. I will post this entire packet in the afternoon when Aunt Elizabeth and I pay our weekly visit to the Reverend Fitz.
Your curious cousin, Cecy
12 June 1817
11 Berkeley Square, London
Dearest Cecy,
Nerves of steel aren’t sufficient. You must have nerves of adamant to sit at table with Sir Hilary, knowing what we know of him. I admire your calm all the more since you endured James Tarleton’s attempted stealth at the same time. Brava, cousin!
That said, I intend to try to follow Aunt Charlotte’s favorite advice and tell first things first so that I don’t leave anything out. The smallest details may prove to be important.
Saturday last, Thomas invited Aunt Charlotte, Georgina, and me to the opera. It was a revival of Handel’s Atalanta, which is very silly. The orchestra was first-rate (but despite his reputation, I’m afraid the tenor wasn’t), and I enjoyed it very much. Aunt Charlotte was enthralled by the chance to survey the boxes in our circle. From the overture to the finale, for the benefit of Georgy’s education, she pointed out all the people of whom she could not approve. She tried several times to get my attention so that I, too, could profit from this instruction, but I kept my eyes stubbornly on the stage.
Rather to my surprise, Thomas did not interrupt the music with conversation, or even pointed remarks. Instead, he simply slouched in his seat, apparently indifferent to everything but the need to stay awake. Aunt Charlotte eyed him sharply at first, but when his lack of interest lasted through the appearance of the opera dancers, she relaxed her surveillance.
At the interval, Georgy insisted on visiting the box adjacent to ours to greet some friends and allow them the chance to admire her new Mexican blue sarcenet gown. Aunt Charlotte accompanied her and I was left alone in our box with the somnolent Thomas.
In the dim light at the back of the box, I could not read his expression, but I thought his apathy most uncharacteristic. Hoping to provoke some response, if only annoyance, I said, “You must have wondered at it when I mentioned James Tarleton to you in our last conversation.”
Thomas stirred slightly but his voice held little interest as he replied, “No, I didn’t wonder. I was too busy being furious with you.”
“I believe he is a particular friend of yours,” I said. “My cousin Cecy knows him.”
“Yes, yes,” said Thomas wearily, “James is a splendid fellow. Bruising rider, crack shot, very handy with his fives—ought to be able to handle a dozen of your cousins. Why don’t you leave my friends and your relations out of this and tell me the worst at once. What mischief have you been in since I delivered you in Berkeley Square?”
“Why, none at all,” I answered.
“What, none?” he replied. “Not spilt anything, nor tripped, nor fallen down stairs, nor knocked anyone down, nor set them on fire?”
“I have not set anyone on fire this age,” I informed him. “I did step on Andrew Grenville’s foot, but he’s stepped on both of mine so often I can’t think that counts.”
“Nothing more sensational than that? I commend you,” Thomas said. A faint line appeared between his brows. “But I confess it makes me uneasy. I would expect Miranda to have acted by now. Long contemplation is not much in her usual style.”
“I thought she might be a rather impulsive person,” I agreed. “Her attempt to poison you with chocolate suggested to me that her temper was a hasty one. Why did she do that, if I may ask?”
Thomas looked down his nose at me. “You may always ask, Kate.”
“I do think you owe me an explanation,” I persisted. “After all, I nearly drank it.”
“I doubt it would have done you any good,” said Thomas, “but it wasn’t poison, you know. I can’t think where you got the idea it was.”
“What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “She told me it was.”
“I doubt that very much,” sniffed Thomas.
“She told me it”—I faltered for a moment, then continued—“wouldn’t hurt a bit. And that it was appropriate for you to go that way. It was supposed to be your chocolate pot she was pouring it from, after all. And you yourself told me it would have been very unpleasant.”
“But it wasn’t poison. It was a catalyst of Miranda’s concoction. If I had drunk it, it would have acted upon that part of myself that the uneducated refer to as ‘magical power’ and released it from my keeping. An unscrupulous magician, and I assure you that Miranda is as unscrupulous as they come, could then use the magic for herself. The process is painful enough when it is done a little at a time. The catalyst releases it all at once—like draining a cistern of every drop of water. Or opening an artery. Very, very unpleasant.”
“Opening an artery—,” I whispered, appalled. For a few moments, we sat in silence. Then I said, “Some splashed in Miranda’s lap when I spilt it. It seemed to burn her.”
“It must have been very uncomfortable,” he said. “The catalyst doesn’t have quite such a drastic effect on contact, but it still works. Miranda hasn’t been quite as powerful since that day as she was wont to be. She’ll recover, though. And it certainly hasn’t made her any less malicious in the meantime.”
I went on thinking for a moment, then said pensively, “I wonder why it burned my dress? There was a hole in the hem of my gown where it splashed me.”
“I doubt that it actually burned the fabric,” Thomas replied. “But somewhere in the grass of that garden there are the threads from your gown that the catalys
t soaked. After all, you can’t bring anything back through a portal of that nature unless it was with you when you came. Which is why I wasn’t tempted into the garden myself. Why try to retrieve a chocolate pot across the threshold of a door I couldn’t take it through?”
“Well, that was very thoughtless of Miranda,” I said.
“Very. But she was never good at theory, so perhaps she didn’t realize. Not everyone would. But I worked on the equations with the owner, so I was bound to know.” Thomas looked very smug.
“I thought it was Miranda’s garden,” I said.
“No, she borrowed it for the afternoon. It belongs to Sir Hilary, of course.”
“Of course,” I said faintly. Really, it is very difficult for me to imagine Sir Hilary as a figure of Byzantine intrigue. What a good thing he has a more even temper than Miranda. You and I might have been turned into frogs anytime these past ten years.
“I wonder what Sir Hilary thought of that little contretemps over the chocolate set,” said Thomas lightly. “Doubtless he made short work of collecting the magic that got loose when Miranda was splashed with her own catalyst.”
The door of the box opened and Georgy returned with Aunt Charlotte in tow. They were both in high spirits, for Aunt Charlotte had just given Caro Lamb the cut direct and Georgy was pleasantly scandalized at the discovery that Aunt Charlotte was acquainted with the dashing poetess at all. As the orchestra struck up, both Aunt Charlotte and Georgy craned their necks to see if the eccentric nobleman Lord Byron had come to the opera in his tireless pursuit of the fickle Lady Caro.
Thomas and I had no further opportunity for conversation until he had delivered us back at Berkeley Square. Georgy very kindly engaged Aunt Charlotte in a discussion concerning the next morning’s church services, so I was left alone for a moment with Thomas.
I’m not sure what form of leave-taking I expected from him, but I was surprised when he turned to me with a sigh of resignation and said, “Try to avoid Miranda, will you? I don’t know when I’ll have the leisure to follow you about collecting hairpins again.”
Sorcery & Cecelia Page 13