One Touch of Magic

by Amanda McCabe

  But it was not Mary Ann—it was Mrs. Hamilton. She wore a stylish if over-elaborate gown of ice-blue satin trimmed in white Belgian lace and ribbon rosettes. Her expression above this confection was hesitant, though, as she stepped through the doorway.

  “Mrs. Hamilton,” Sarah said. “Is there something amiss?”

  “Oh, no!” Mrs. Hamilton said, with a forced little laugh. “I just—just thought I would see if you needed any assistance. I fear we have arrived a bit early.”

  “Thank you, but I am very nearly ready.” Sarah slid pearl-drop earrings into her earlobes, and watched Mrs. Hamilton’s reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Mrs. Hamilton sat down on the window seat, and ran her fingers over the velvet cushion, as if restless or nervous.

  Sarah wondered what this was all about. She and Mrs. Hamilton were hardly friends, and they almost never had private converse.

  “Neville told me what happened at the village site yesterday,” Mrs. Hamilton said.

  “Did he? How very odd, since he was not even there.”

  “One of the men who are working with Neville on the bakery site told him about it. All about it. Such a shocking scene! Whoever would have thought Lord Ransome to be a violent man?”

  Sarah had wondered the same thing yesterday, when she watched him menace that farmer, but today the shock had worn away, and she felt only gratitude at his defense. She felt the strongest urge to defend him now. “He was in the Army, Mrs. Hamilton. And I would hardly call his behavior violent. That man was cruel to Mary Ann, and we were fortunate that Lord Ransome was there to make certain he departed without causing any more trouble.”

  “Fortunate indeed,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “Fortunate when his anger is turned against someone else—someone outside our circle. But what if he becomes angry with one of us?” She leaned forward in a rich rustle of satin and lace. “I have heard that he means to send us away from here, with the work undone, in order to use the property for his own purposes.”

  Sarah turned to peer closely at Mrs. Hamilton. She had always thought that Neville’s wife was a silly woman, concerned with fashion and parties to the exclusion of all else. Now she thought perhaps she had underestimated her a bit. Mrs. Hamilton’s gaze was deeply serious; her words held a disquieting ring of persuasiveness.

  “You seemed to enjoy making Lord Ransome’s acquaintance,” Sarah said cautiously.

  “Of course! He is a marquis. I just think—” Mrs. Hamilton broke off on a ripple of laughter. “I just don’t know what I am trying to say. I was simply concerned about what Neville told me.”

  “Yes, I see. Well, I am certain we have nothing to fear from Lord Ransome. Yesterday was a mere isolated incident, one that was over in an instant. He was defending us.”

  “I am sure you are right. Then he does not mean to send us away from here?”

  “I do not know what his plans are,” Sarah answered truthfully. She only had suspicions. But she would have thought that Mrs. Hamilton would want to be “sent away” with the way she pined so for Bath. “I thought you preferred town life, anyway, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  Mrs. Hamilton shrugged. “Of course, I would prefer to live among a wider society! But Neville needs his work, and a good wife supports her husband in all he does.”

  “Hm.” Sarah reached for her gloves and reticule. “Well, Mrs. Hamilton, we really should be going. We do not want to be late for supper.” And she had had quite enough of this conversation.

  Ransome Hall was quieter than it had been the night of the supper party. There were no banks of flowers, no tall candelabras of light, no crowds sipping champagne. Yet Sarah, despite her earlier trepidations, found that she was enjoying herself. The food was much better than the plain fare the cook turned out of the small kitchen at the hunting box, the wine was fine, and the conversation interesting.

  Mostly interesting, anyway. Neville Hamilton looked frankly appalled to be asked to dine with an Irishman, even one as obviously educated as Mr. O’Riley, and his wife chattered on to Mary Ann about the gloves she had bought yesterday. Mary Ann’s eyes had a distinctly glazed look about them.

  Sarah, however, rather liked Mr. O’Riley. She and John had spent several months on an excavation in Ireland early in their marriage, and Mr. O’Riley had lived on a farm very near the site. He was surprisingly knowledgable about antiquarian methods.

  “When I was a boy, I used to go to the ruins with my cousins and clamber all about,” he told her. “It made me interested to know more about the history and the objects there.”

  Sarah laughed. “You probably destroyed valuable historical evidence, ‘clambering’ about!”

  He grinned at her, and for one moment the gaunt, war-haunted man fell away, and she saw the charming man he must have been once. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mary Ann turn away from Mrs. Hamilton and look at Mr. O’Riley, a startled expression on her face.

  Sarah sighed inwardly, and hoped that this was not the beginning of another infatuation.

  “I am very sorry, Lady Iverson,” Mr. O’Riley said. “We had no idea we were destroying anything valuable. We just liked to imagine we were ancient Vikings, pillaging and rampaging.”

  “Well, I have to reassure you, then. You cannot have destroyed a very great deal, for we made some valuable finds there. My husband wrote a monograph on the site that was very well-received in scholarly circles. But those Vikings did no pillaging or rampaging—not in the period of that site, anyway. By then, they were respectable immigrants, farming and building.”

  “Ah, but you have destroyed my romantic illusions, Lady Iverson!” Mr. O’Riley laid his hand on his heart, as if wounded. “I can never think of the Vikings the same way again.”

  Sarah laughed. “The Vikings are really far more complex, and interesting, than those myths. You are welcome to come to the village whenever you like, Mr. O’Riley, and we will show you about. If—” She broke off, and glanced down the table at Lord Ransome. He watched them closely, as if interested in what their conversation could be. Her heart quickened at the expression in his eyes.

  She looked back down at her wineglass, her cheeks warm.

  “If what, Lady Iverson?” Mr. O’Riley asked.

  She had been about to say, “If we are there very much longer”; but, instead, she said, “If you are to be in the neighborhood long enough.”

  “As to that, I am not certain what my plans are as of yet,” said Mr. O’Riley.

  “Have to get back to the elves and the bogs, eh?” Mr. Hamilton broke in, his voice slightly slurred, as if he had been imbibing freely of the fine wine. “The Irish are such a superstitious lot, they can’t be happy in a civilized place like England for very long.”

  Sarah stared at him, startled. The Neville Hamilton who used to work with her and John would never have been so rude. This just seemed one more sign of how he had changed of late. His wineglass was nearly empty, not for the first time—had he been drinking heavily?

  Mrs. Hamilton giggled, an inordinately loud sound in the sudden hush of the dining room. Perhaps his marriage, and not the drink, was unhinging him.

  Mary Ann looked furious, and she half rose from her seat. Sarah gave her a small shake of her head, and Mary Ann sat back down. She still seemed mutinous, though, scowling like a fierce little Valkyrie.

  Sarah turned back to Mr. O’Riley, who stared expressionlessly at Mr. Hamilton. “Ireland is a lovely country,” she said. “Sir John and I enjoyed our time there a great deal. Indeed, I have never seen anyplace more magical.”

  Mr. O’Riley looked back to her, and gave her a smile. Unlike his earlier wide grin, though, it was humorless and small. “Thank you, Lady Iverson. It is indeed a beautiful place, but not, I fear, a land of great opportunity. Where else have you and your husband been fortunate enough to see? Have you been to Scandinavia?”

  “I have not, but my husband did once, and he often spoke of it.” She went on to relate John’s anecdotes of Norway, but inside she still thought about the Hamiltons an
d their eccentric behavior.

  She resolved that if Lord Ransome did not ask them to leave his land, if they were fortunate enough to continue their work, she would have to rethink her association with them.

  “I want to apologize for Mr. Hamilton’s odd behavior at supper,” Sarah said to Lord Ransome later, as they strolled on the terrace for a breath of fresh air. Ahead of them walked Mr. O’Riley and Mary Ann; the Hamiltons sat in the drawing room, watching them through the open French doors. “He should never have insulted your guest.”

  “It is not for you to apologize, Lady Iverson,” he answered quietly. “And it seems Mr. O’Riley is quite unconcerned with any insult now, not in your sister’s company.”

  Mr. O’Riley was smiling down at Mary Ann, who laughed up at him.

  Sarah was glad to see her sister so happy, but . . .

  “Yes. They do seem to enjoy each other’s company,” she said.

  “Do you not approve?”

  “How could I disapprove? She is merely talking to a gentleman, not twenty steps away from me. But Mary Ann is very young, and she reads a great many novels. She has some—some very romantic notions.”

  “Unlike her sensible sister?” he said, in a lightly teasing tone.

  Sarah laughed. “Quite right!”

  “I am sure Mr. O’Riley has enough sense for both of them.” They reached the end of the terrace, and Lord Ransome leaned back against the marble balustrade, his arms crossed over his chest. “I hope she has not suffered any ill effects from the—incident yesterday.”

  “Not at all. In fact, she is very happy with her new pets. Though I doubt our mother will be as happy when she arrives back at home with three cats in tow! It was very kind of you to come to our rescue.”

  “Kind?” He looked quite surprised.

  Sarah had a quick, flashing memory of the fury on his face as he grabbed the farmer. She closed her eyes against it. “Yes. But I fear that all the drama interrupted you when you were about to tell me something.” She did not really want to know what he had been going to say, yet she knew she would have to face it eventually.

  “There was something I wanted to talk to you about,” he said. “This hardly seems the time, though. Perhaps I could call on you tomorrow, Lady Iverson? If that would be convenient. It is rather important.”

  Convenient? Convenient for her to abandon her work? She almost gave a humorless bark of laughter, and pressed her hand to her mouth. “Of course. Tomorrow morning, then?”

  He nodded. “Tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  He was not coming. It was too late in the morning. Surely he would not come; perhaps he had changed his mind.

  Sarah paced across the drawing room, peering out the window. It was growing late, almost time for luncheon. She had dressed in one of her plain work dresses, so that she could go to the village and do as much digging as possible after she spoke to Lord Ransome. Mary Ann had already gone ahead.

  Now Sarah wondered if she should have worn one of her fine muslin morning gowns. She glanced down at her gray dress; it was hardly attire that inspired confidence and authority. It was faded, and dusty around the hem. And her hair was simply pulled back with a ribbon, up off her neck where it would not be in the way.

  But it hardly mattered anyway. She looked over at the clock on the fireplace mantel, and decided it was indeed too late, and he would not come today. She could leave.

  Or run away, her mind whispered.

  No! she protested. She was not running away. She simply had her work to attend to. That was all.

  She caught up her hat and the lunch hamper the cook had packed. As she hurried out the front door, she froze when she saw a horse coming up the lane. A horse with a familiar rider.

  Lord Ransome. So he had come today, after all.

  She thought again of her fine morning gowns, and glanced back into the house. There was no time for changing, though. He was almost to her door. So Sarah stood her ground, and tilted her chin up with what she hoped was a welcoming smile.

  “Good day, Lord Ransome!” she said, as he dismounted at the foot of her narrow front steps.

  “Good day, Lady Iverson,” he answered. He smiled, too, but it seemed tentative. Not his usual open grin at all.

  Not the bold, white flash of the Viking in her dreams.

  Sarah closed her eyes for an instant, to try to push that dream to the very back of her mind. It would never work to try to converse with Lord Ransome while envisioning him as a Viking, replaying his almost-kiss on a village street that had vanished over eight hundred years ago.

  “I hope I am not calling at an inconvenient time,” he said.

  She opened her eyes and looked back at him, half expecting to find him clad in a tunic, long golden hair flowing to his shoulders. But he was just his ordinary self, cropped hair shining in the sunlight, clad in an ordinary dark blue coat and buckskin breeches. Unfortunately, his own ordinary self was far more disconcerting than any dream-Viking could be. “An inconvenient time?”

  “It appears you are on your way out.” He gestured towards the hat and hamper in her hands.

  “Oh.” Sarah stared down at them stupidly. She had been going out, hadn’t she? “Yes, I was on my way to the village, but I’m sure they can manage without me for a while. Please, do come in.”

  “Thank you.” He followed her into the cool dimness of the hunting box’s drawing room. As he looked around him at the small chamber, Sarah truly noticed its shabbiness for the first time. She and John had moved into it with the furnishings that were already there, and had never given them a second thought. They were almost never there, anyway, and scarred wood and frayed upholstery hardly mattered.

  But now she saw its untidiness through Lord Ransome’s eyes. Her desk in the corner was covered with papers and books, and dirty objects newly discovered in the village. Mary Ann’s easel was set up by the window, and surrounded by her sketchbooks and paint pots. Slippers, shawls, baskets of mending, and scholarly publications cluttered up the carpet so that the faded floral pattern could scarcely be seen. The kittens slept in their basket bed by the empty fireplace.

  Perhaps he was thinking how very foolish his uncle had been to loan his hunting box to such untidy people. Weren’t military men noted for being very orderly and organized?

  She nudged some newspapers under the settee with her toe, and said, “I do apologize for the—confusion. We have a very small staff here.”

  “Not at all,” he answered kindly, and with every evidence of sincerity. “It is a most charming space.”

  “Thank you. Won’t you sit down? Shall I ring for some tea?”

  Lord Ransome moved a shawl from a chair, and sat down. “Please, don’t go to any trouble, Lady Iverson. The cook at Ransome Hall will have a tea waiting when I return.” He clasped his hands together, and looked down at them, as if gathering his thoughts before speaking again. “You probably know what I have come to speak to you about,”

  So the moment had arrived. The tips of Sarah’s fingers grew suddenly numb, and she stared at them as if they did not belong to her at all. “In—indeed?”

  “Yes. I imagine that you will hardly be surprised at what I have to say. I would have spoken much sooner, but—”

  “Please, Lord Ransome!” Sarah burst out. “Just say it, whatever it is.”

  He nodded, and glanced back down at his clasped hands. She was grateful not to have the force of that sky blue gaze on her for the moment.

  “When I was a child,” he said, “my father often spoke to me about responsibility and duty. Those were very important concepts to him; they were the principles he lived by, always. And he impressed this on me, along with the precept that when a person is given much in this world, that person owes a debt in return. A debt that is especially due to those less fortunate.”

  Sarah hardly saw how this was “just saying it,” but she held her tongue. She was drawn in by the quiet, deep sound of his voice, by his words; she wanted to see w
here his tale was going. So she sat in silence.

  “I took his lessons into the war with me. In Spain, I commanded many men, some of them worthless rascals I would hope never to see again in my life, but most of them good men. Men with families, and hopes for the future. I did the very best I could for them, and they sacrificed much for their country.” He looked back up at her, his gaze intense and unswerving. “Now so many of those very men, and men just like them, are suffering. There are not enough jobs for all of them, not enough money, and they cannot provide for their families.”

  Sarah swallowed, caught by his unwavering stare. This was obviously something he cared very, very deeply about. She felt almost as if she was looking into his very heart.

  It was difficult to find words to answer him, but she knew she had to try. “Yes, I know, Lord Ransome. I do not live entirely in my own world of books and dusty artifacts; I read newspapers. I see how difficult things are right now, and I think it is admirable that you feel as you do. Many are completely indifferent to the sufferings of others.”

  “But I cannot just feel, Lady Iverson! I must do something—do whatever I can.”

  Sarah was confused, tangled up in emotions of admiration, attraction, guilt, dread. Her work was slipping away from her somehow, caught up in Lord Ransome’s conscience, and politics she could in no way control or even understand. She felt as if she was hanging on to her life by a tiny thread, and she was desperate to keep all she had in her grasp.

  At the same time, paradoxically, her regard for Lord Ransome, the man who was taking it from her, grew. His passion, his compassion, touched her.

  She pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. “What—what then do you intend to do, Lord Ransome?”

  “My uncle had many concerns other than his estate, as you know,” he answered, his voice quiet again, taut with his effort at calm coolness. “Ransome Hall is a desperately underused resource, and much farmland is uncultivated. Land that could provide jobs and food.”