Sorcery & Cecelia

by Patricia C. Wrede

  I must have let some of my disappointment show, for he paused for a moment to smooth back a lock of my hair that had escaped from its proper place to straggle down in front of my ear. “Save a waltz for me at the Grenvilles’ ball next week,” he said, and took his leave.

  Last night at Almack’s, I looked for him in vain. Nothing of moment occurred all evening, save that I stepped on the hem of my new rose muslin gown and ripped out enough stitches to make the flounce sag, and Sally Jersey spoke to me while I was watching Georgy dance a quadrille with Michael Aubrey.

  “Thomas was very particular in his attentions to Dorothea Griscomb while you were ill,” said Lady Jersey. At least, it took her a great deal longer to say what she actually said, but that was what she meant.

  “She is very lovely,” I said.

  “And her Stepmama has undeniable flair,” Lady Jersey agreed. “Miranda had a similar effect on young men when she made her debut. Really quite a sensation. I thought you should know, for often these things seem to run in families.”

  I felt I must have misunderstood her. “But Miranda is Dorothea’s Stepmama,” I said.

  “Oh, not her family,” Lady Jersey replied. “His.”

  “Mr. Griscomb?” I asked, in a vain attempt to follow the thread of her conversation.

  “Who?” Lady Jersey asked. She gave a little impatient shake of her head. “Oh, I wish you would not confuse me so. I meant Thomas, of course.”

  “Thomas Schofield?” I asked, determined to go cautiously.

  “Yes, yes! Thomas.” She shook her head again. “Really, Miss Talgarth, you are betrothed to the man. I might expect you to have a little better recollection.”

  I chose my words with painful care. “I beg your pardon, Lady Jersey. Were you going to tell me something regarding his family?”

  “I think you should be aware of it, yes. You knew he was the younger brother, did you not? Oh, yes, very much the younger. And his elder brother was even more sought after in his day than Thomas. Why, the caps that were set at Edward Schofield—he was far handsomer than his younger brother is, of course, and had twice the address. For, indeed, Thomas never can resist saying exactly what enters his head. Sometimes it is diverting, of course. In fact, it is always diverting to Thomas. But often very awkward for the rest of us. Edward was oblivious to all of them. Until Miranda Tanistry made her debut. Then he was still oblivious, but not to Miranda. Nor she to him, I assure you. For to be sure, she could see how soon she would be a marchioness once she married Edward. His father, the fourth Marquis, was still alive at that time, but Edward was still a most desirable parti. Indeed, highly desirable.”

  I regarded Lady Jersey with wonder. “Thomas’s elder brother was in love with Miranda Griscomb?” I asked.

  “Head over ears, my dear. Oh, yes, the Ton could speak of nothing else for days.”

  “But she married Mr. Griscomb anyway,” I marveled. “Why was that?”

  “Oh, that was much later,” said Lady Jersey impatiently. “After Edward died. Why, she would hardly have settled for being mere Miranda Griscomb when she could have been a marchioness, would she?”

  I felt a curious lurch in my midsection. “He died? How?”

  “It was very tragic,” said Lady Jersey, shaking her head. “Carried off by a wasting fever. The doctors were mystified. His father was terribly grieved, of course. They said afterward that the shock hastened him into his grave. The doctors, I mean.”

  “And Thomas?”

  “Oh, Thomas was fighting in Spain. One would have expected him to sell out and come home at once, but he didn’t. There’s never any accounting for Thomas’s behavior. It is as though he delights in puzzling us.”

  “But Miranda would have married Edward Schofield if he had lived,” I said. This report of our conversation makes me sound rather stupid, I’m afraid, but there is something about talking to Lady Jersey that makes me wish to repeat things to be sure I have got them right.

  “Very likely,” said Lady Jersey, “though, of course, his brother was against it. Violently opposed to it, in fact.”

  “Thomas?” I repeated. “I thought you said Thomas was in Spain?”

  “Well, he was, later. But he would hardly have left England while his brother was ill. Even Thomas is not that unaccountable.”

  I would have liked to continue on this topic until I worked out the precise order in which things had occurred, but Lady Jersey was growing impatient with my obtuseness. With a final warning, which I took to mean that Thomas might display the same ardor to Dorothea that his brother had for Miranda, she left me to tell Lady Grenville how to conduct her ball on Saturday.

  I shall write again directly after I see Thomas, whether at the Grenvilles’ ball or sooner still.

  Your,

  Kate

  13 June 1817

  Rushton Manor, Essex

  Dearest Kate,

  This week has been rather quiet, which makes a nice change from the stirring events of the past month. I had hoped to be able to tell you more about the Tanistry book (for I am sure it would tell us something to the purpose, if I could only get hold of it), but I am afraid I have been unable to hit on an acceptable reason to visit Bedrick Hall. I suppose I could call to see whether anyone has discovered my nonexistent fan, but I think this would be more likely to arouse Sir Hilary’s suspicions than to soothe them. So, until I come up with a better plan, I am at a stand. I did, however, try a more roundabout approach to the question, with what success you shall judge for yourself.

  Yesterday afternoon, I came downstairs to find Mr. Wrexton in the sitting room, engaged in conversation with Aunt Elizabeth. He had obviously been there some time, and I was surprised he had not sent someone to tell me he had come, but perhaps he had noticed Aunt Elizabeth’s misgivings about the frequency of his calls. In any case, she was quite in charity with him when I arrived, though she stiffened a little when she saw me. He invited both of us to drive out with him; Aunt Elizabeth was forced to decline, as she was expecting the Reverend Fitzwilliam and his wife to tea. I, of course, accepted, and when we were well away from the house, I complimented him on his stratagem. I assumed, you see, that he had expected Aunt Elizabeth to decline.

  “Not at all,” he replied. “I would have been more pleased than you may realize to have your aunt accompany us.”

  “Why is that, sir?” I said, feeling a little miffed.

  He turned toward me, his eyes twinkling. “Because it might have kept James Tarleton from glaring at me quite so fiercely next time I visit Tarleton Hall,” he replied.

  “Mr. Tarleton has no business being annoyed with you because you are teaching me magic,” I said indignantly. “It is nothing to do with him, after all!”

  “Oh, you think that is the reason?” Mr. Wrexton said. “Well, perhaps you are right. In any case, as your aunt is not here, have you any questions regarding what I have taught you so far? I am afraid I have not prepared anything new.”

  It was exactly the opening I had been wondering how to arrange. “I do have a question,” I said, “but it is not about anything you have taught me. It is a phrase I heard a little while ago, that made me curious. What are ‘epicyclical elaborations of sorcery’?” This, you will remember, was the title of that book by Everard Tanistry that I noticed in Sir Hilary’s library.

  Mr. Wrexton jerked his head around, and all the humor went out of his face. “Where did you hear of that…practice?” He fairly spat the last word, as if he could not think of anything awful enough to call it.

  “I don’t remember,” I lied. “Why? Is it so terrible?”

  “It is one of the most unethical, immoral uses of wizardry imaginable,” Mr. Wrexton said. “Black magic, if you will. And there is nothing further you need know.”

  I recognized the tone of voice well enough that I did not bother to argue. It seems, Kate, that even in wizardry there are things it is Not Proper to speak of before Young Ladies. Had I told Mr. Wrexton the full story of all that has happene
d with you and Thomas and Miranda and Sir Hilary in the past two months, I could perhaps have persuaded him that I did indeed require this extremely improper information. However, I did not feel that this business was mine to tell him of. I have no idea how deeply he is in James’s confidence, and he may not know your odious Marquis at all.

  So I turned the subject to charm-bags, on which I am fast becoming a positive expert, and we discussed possible implications of adding willow bark to the herbal mixture and substituting Saint-John’s-wort for the rosemary. In this unexceptionable fashion, we passed the rest of our drive.

  Mr. Wrexton’s reaction makes me more anxious than ever to get hold of that book, though I cannot at present see how it is to be done. I hope it may shed some light on Miranda Tanistry Griscomb’s methods, if not her motives.

  14 June

  I have just returned from my morning ride. Things are becoming more tangled than ever, and I cannot see an easy way of clearing up the mess. I am confident, however, that something will turn up; in the meantime, I suppose we must all simply forge ahead as best we can.

  I had my saddle put on Thunder this morning, as he is in need of exercise while Oliver is away. (And you know Oliver would never let me ride him, and I have been longing to do so this age.) Thunder is just as splendid a mount as I had thought; we fairly flew over the ground. I let him have his head for a little and we had a good gallop. After that he was willing to slow to a more sedate pace, so I turned him toward the little wood by the far pasture, which has always been one of my favorite riding places.

  No sooner was I well into the wood than I saw a horseman coming toward me through the trees. I reined Thunder in, wondering whether to turn away before I was seen. Then I saw that the rider was James Tarleton.

  “I am glad to see you at last,” was his greeting to me as he rode up. “I have been waiting half an hour already today, and yesterday I missed you entirely.”

  “Yesterday I rode by the lake,” I said, blinking stupidly at him.

  He was frowning at Thunder with evident disapproval, and did not appear to notice my surprise. “That is hardly a lady’s mount,” he said harshly.

  “He is Oliver’s,” I replied, stung, “and I am perfectly capable of handling him. Would you like me to show you his paces?”

  “I saw you coming across the pasture,” Mr. Tarleton said in a more normal tone. “You frightened me half out of my wits.”

  “I like to gallop. Why haven’t you come to call since last Thursday week?”

  His face darkened. “At first, because I didn’t want to give Sir Hilary ideas. After, because—well, because it would have been dangerous.”

  “Explain,” I commanded, for I have been growing very tired of mysterious comments, and I was not about to put up with any more of them.

  “Sir Hilary has been watching me since Monday,” he said.

  “Then he did see you!” I exclaimed.

  “What do you know of it?” James said sharply.

  I cursed my unruly tongue and told him, as briefly as I could, about the call Aunt Elizabeth and I made at Bedrick Hall. I did not mention the chocolate pot, but I did tell him that Sir Hilary had questioned me rather closely, and that I had seen James crossing the lawn as I turned away.

  “And I must tell you again, you are very bad at sneaking about,” I added severely. “You should not have worn that black coat, and crossing the lawn to the pavilion was a completely chuckle-headed thing to do. If you must slink about in bushes again, ask me and I will advise you.”

  “I will certainly keep your kind offer in mind,” he said gravely, but I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

  “I am quite serious,” I said. “You have made a mull of it at least three times that I know of, and it is only your good fortune that no one but me has noticed until now.”

  “You are more right than you know,” he responded, and all of the amusement went out of his face. “Cecy, you told me once that your cousin, Miss Talgarth, is your dearest friend. Can you get a message to her?”

  “I write her regularly,” I said in astonishment.

  He gave a sigh of relief. “Good. I hoped that was the case.”

  “Why should you wish to send my cousin—” I stopped as the pieces fit themselves together in my mind like one of Aunt Charlotte’s picture puzzles. “You want to send a message to Thom—to the Marquis of Schofield, and since Sir Hilary is watching you, you are afraid he will learn of it if you send it yourself,” I said slowly. “But no one will think it at all odd if I write to Kate, and since they are betrothed, she can surely find an opportunity to tell the Marquis.”

  “Exactly,” James said. “I knew I could depend on you to see my reasoning.” I felt obscurely pleased by this rather offhanded compliment. “Will you do it?” James went on.

  “Of course,” I said at once. “What is the message?”

  “Ask your cousin to tell Thomas that Sir Hilary has returned and that he is watching me closely, so it is probably unsafe to send any messages directly. Also, that I believe Sir Hilary spent the early part of Wednesday evening working sorcery, probably of a moderately difficult nature. I am certain Hilary has the pot here. I will not make any attempt to recover it until I have heard from Thomas, but I do not think he has much time left. Can you repeat that?”

  I did so, adding “chocolate” before the reference to the “pot.” James gave me a somewhat disgusted look, but let me finish. “What do you mean, he doesn’t have much time left?” I said.

  “I suppose you had better say that there isn’t much time left,” Mr. Tarleton said. “I would not wish to disturb your cousin.”

  “I shall tell her exactly what you said, so you had better explain it,” I told him.

  “Tell her to ask Thomas,” he said.

  “I’ve a good mind not to tell her anything at all!” I said angrily.

  “In that case, you’ll be doing us all a disservice,” he said. He looked me in the eyes with a very grave expression, which made me feel most peculiar. “But I don’t think you’ll fail us.”

  “I’d better be getting back before Aunt Elizabeth begins to worry,” I said in a rather confused manner.

  “Yes,” he agreed with some reluctance. He started to turn his mount, then looked back at me. “Will you ride this way in the mornings sometimes? I dislike asking you, but if I need to get another message to Thomas, or if he sends a reply…It would be safer not to meet openly.”

  “Of course I will,” I said at once.

  “Thank you,” he said, and rode quickly away.

  I rode home in an exceedingly thoughtful mood, and now I wonder what you will make of all of this. I should not, I suppose, have promised your cooperation without first obtaining your consent, but he seemed so worried, and so urgent, that I did so without thinking. I would therefore be much obliged if you would deliver Mr. Tarleton’s message to the odious Marquis (for whom I am beginning to feel a little sorry, and about whom I am beginning to be more than a little worried). If you do not wish to act as a mail coach in the future, I assure you I will understand perfectly.

  I hope you can pry a little more explanation out of Thomas, by way of return for the favor of conveying Mr. Tarleton’s message. I am seriously worried by the reference to Sir Hilary’s sorcery, particularly in combination with the comment about not having much time left. It sounds as if Sir Hilary may be getting ready for something. Also, Mr. Tarleton’s behavior was not of the sort that inspires confidence and reassurance; quite the reverse, in fact. I begin to feel that Sir Hilary is worse even than Miranda, and the thought that at least they do not seem to be working together any longer is small comfort.

  Your letter was waiting for me at home, and I think the conversations you reported are at least as disquieting as James’s veiled hints. However, at least we now have some idea what Miranda’s intentions are. I had not known it was possible to steal a wizard’s magic; I will have to find a way of broaching the topic to Mr. Wrexton. (And I am more determined than eve
r to get hold of that book on epicyclical elaborations; judging from Mr. Wrexton’s reaction, whatever it is about is quite horrid enough to be just the sort of thing Miranda would like.)

  I am still unclear as to Sir Hilary’s role in all this. Perhaps he is afraid of Thomas for some reason, and does not want Thomas to be as powerful a wizard as he ought to be. This would explain why Sir Hilary aided Miranda in her attempt to steal Thomas’s power, and also why Sir Hilary stole Thomas’s focus. Unfortunately, it is all conjecture, and I do not like to rely too heavily on it. Also, this theory does not explain why James seems so very worried about Sir Hilary’s spell casting. I wish we could persuade either Thomas or James to be more forthcoming!

  I found Lady Jersey’s story about Miranda and Edward Schofield intriguing; I will have to see whether I can discover anyone here who remembers Edward (and who is willing to tell me the story!). Fortunately, Waycross is one of the Schofield estates, and it is certainly close enough to Rushton that someone will have been interested in the family’s doings! And your betrothal to the Marquis is the perfect excuse to justify my questions.

  Aunt Elizabeth wishes me to ask you to remind Aunt Charlotte that she promised to send down a copy of Hannah More’s latest work. I trust you will find a moment when Aunt Charlotte is very busy with something else to bring up this matter, as it is my personal opinion that there are quite enough books of an improving nature in this household already.

  Write soon, and I hope your news is better than mine has been.

  Your very worried,

  Cecy

  17 June 1817

  11 Berkeley Square, London

  Dear Cecy,

  My anxiety over Thomas’s condition increased after I received your last letter. It seemed intolerable that I should have to wait until the Grenvilles’ ball to see him again, so I sent a footman around with a note inviting him to tea that afternoon. The footman returned with Thomas’s acceptance and I settled in to endure the hours until I should be able to convey James’s message to him.