One Touch of Magic

by Amanda McCabe

  “I will be up soon. I just want to finish some work here first.”

  Sarah watched Mary Ann leave the drawing room, and listened to her go up the stairs and close the door to her chamber. After she rang for Rose and instructed her to take some refreshments to Mary Ann, she sat back down at her desk and stacked her papers around her. She needed to organize her notes, to decide what the most important projects were to complete at the village, but she could not concentrate on them. She kept going over and over that meeting with Lord Ransome, kept seeing his face as he told her she would have to leave.

  She closed her eyes, and the image shifted, changing into the Miles she had seen in her dream. His face had not been serious and determined in that fantasy world; it had been tender, and humorous, and, yes, lustful.

  She opened her eyes and stared down at the notes and sketches on her desk. If only real life could be like that dream, she thought wistfully. If Thora, the Viking treasure-witch, had actually existed, had she ever faced such a jumble of emotions as this?

  Suddenly, something deep inside her insisted that she had to see the village, right at that moment. She knew that it was not sensible to go wandering about at night, but it was an urge she could not resist. She wanted to see it, alone and in the moonlight, imagine it one more time as it was hundreds of years ago. Soon, too soon, it would be gone forever, and she needed a memory like this to hold on to.

  She fetched her cloak and a lantern, and left a note on her desk for Mary Ann, in case her sister woke and wondered where she was. Then she slipped silently out of the house and walked down the pathway toward the village.

  It slept silently beneath the night sky, the moonlight shimmering over the ancient street. The buildings were now only depressions in the ground, bound by ropes that marked off their perimeters, but she could imagine it all as it had been when it was alive. It had never truly been a dead place to her; it had always lived in her mind.

  She walked past the leather-worker’s shop that still had beams covering its gaping pit. At the jeweler’s she stopped, and envisioned the polished bronze mirror that hung there in her dream. With a little laugh, she twirled about, imagining it was still there.

  She stopped abruptly, in mid-twirl. The door to the stable where the artifacts were stored looked like it was ajar.

  Distinctly, she remembered closing and locking it before they left for the day. She always locked it.

  She took a step towards the stable, then another and another. She didn’t want to see, but she knew she had to.

  She wondered if this was yet another dream.

  “Don’t be silly,” she whispered. “Probably the wind knocked the door open.”

  But there was not a breath of wind that night. The air lay cool and still around her. She shivered at the sensation of the hairs on her neck standing up.

  All too soon, she reached the stable, and slowly pushed the door open. She stepped inside, into the familiar scents of dust and antiquities and trapped sunlight. Something crunched under her boot as she stepped inside. She lifted her lantern high—and gave an anguished scream.

  Someone had swept all the artifacts from their labeled places on the tables, and pushed the tables themselves over. Combs, hair pins made of animal bone, beads, bowls, knife blades, pottery jars, rune stones, Mary Ann’s drinking horn—they were all scattered across the floor in a tangled jumble. Some of them had shattered, surviving hundreds of years only to fall victim to a modern viciousness.

  Sarah pressed her hand to her mouth as she stared at the mess. All of her beautiful things, objects she and many others had so laboriously unearthed, cleaned, and labeled, were tossed about and broken like so much trash.

  Not since John died had she felt so hollow inside, so wounded and frightened.

  She dropped to her knees and began blindly gathering artifacts. She took off her cloak and spread it on the floor to receive them. Some of them, like the chessmen and the silver brooches, were still intact, but many of the more fragile items were damaged beyond repair.

  She found the carved ivory comb she had shown Lord Ransome the first day he came to the village. It had a new crack along its handle. Sarah cradled it in her hands, and felt her eyes begin to itch with unshed tears. As she stared down at the precious comb, they fell, trailing in silent, salty tracks down her cheeks and her chin, falling onto her hands.

  “Who would do such a thing?” she cried out. She was frightened, surrounded by some miasma of evil she could not see or understand. She loved and treasured beauty; how could anyone destroy it like this?

  And who would do this? She had no enemies, none that she knew of, anyway.

  Perhaps it could be that farmer, the one who had tried to drown the kittens. He had looked so furious when Lord Ransome threatened him. . . .

  Lord Ransome. He did not want her here, did not want her work to continue.

  “No,” she whispered, closing her hand tightly around the comb. “Why would he do that?” This was his land; if he wanted her gone from it right now, all he had to do was tell her. He was not the sort to do something cruel like this.

  Or was he?

  She could not help but remember his face, etched with cold fury, as he held that farmer by the throat. He had been a soldier, had probably done things in battle she could not even imagine. She remembered a man who had lived near their lodgings in Ireland. He had come back from the war almost a lunatic, doing wild, violent things and then having no memory of them after. John had kept her well away from the man until his family sent him away, but she had heard tales of him.

  Lord Ransome was nothing like that. He did not rave, or stalk about, or shout. Even when he had been threatening the farmer, his face had been coldly blank.

  So cold . . .

  Sarah hugged herself around her hollow middle. She did not want to think Lord Ransome could do this, but the suspicion had been planted in her mind and would not be dislodged.

  She gathered up her cloakful of artifacts, and stumbled out into the night, half blinded by her tears.

  “Mr. Hamilton? Sir?”

  Neville Hamilton was awakened by a knocking at the door of his chamber at the inn. It sounded like the innkeeper, his voice low but urgent.

  “Damnation,” Neville said. His head ached from the wine he had consumed at supper, from the news Lady Iverson had given him, and the quarrel he had had with Emmeline. “The inn had better be on fire to warrant this disruption,” he muttered, as he stumbled out of bed and reached for his dressing gown. “I am coming!” he shouted.

  The connecting door to Emmeline’s room opened and she appeared there, blinking sleepily. A fringed Indian shawl covered her nightdress, and her blond hair fell in half-unpinned disarray.

  “What is amiss, Neville?” she cried.

  “How should I know?” he muttered. He went and opened the door, his wife close behind him. The innkeeper stood out in the corridor, a candle in his hand and a bewildered expression on his face. “Yes? What is it?”

  “I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but there is a—a lady belowstairs. She says she must talk to you.”

  “A lady?” Emmeline said shrilly. “What lady would be calling on you in the middle of the night, Neville?”

  His head still ached, and her voice was not helping matters. He could recall no recent indiscretions that might bring a woman to his door, and he could not even try to think with her nattering at him. “How should I know, Emmeline?”

  “She seemed upset, if I may say so, sir,” the innkeeper said. “She says she won’t leave until she talks to you.”

  “I will be right down, then.”

  “And I am coming with you, Neville,” Emmeline said.

  “Very well.” Anything to get rid of both of these women, whoever the mysterious lady in the parlor might be, so he could go back to sleep.

  Sarah sat silently in the private parlor of the inn, her bundled cloak on her lap. She wasn’t sure what she was doing here; she did not even really like the Hamiltons. All she h
ad thought of was that Neville Hamilton knew almost as much about the work as she did, and perhaps he would have some idea of who might have done this.

  Who besides Lord Ransome.

  Mr. Hamilton burst into the room, his red hair standing on end, his dressing gown hastily fastened over his night shirt. Mrs. Hamilton was close behind him, her eyes wide with curiosity and even a strange excitement.

  “Lady Iverson?” Mr. Hamilton said, his tone surprised, as well it might be. “Is something amiss?”

  Sarah stood up, her arms wrapped around her bundle. “I’m afraid so. I apologize for waking you both so very late. I just did not know whom else to go to.”

  Mr. Hamilton pushed his hair back, obviously struggling to stay alert and calm. “That is quite all right, Lady Iverson. We are your friends; of course, you can call on us whenever you are in need.”

  Mrs. Hamilton hurried forward to take Sarah’s arm, and urged her to sit back down. “What has happened, Lady Iverson?”

  Sarah glanced from her to her husband, then unfolded the cloak. The sight of the jumble of damaged artifacts gave her another spasm of sadness, and she had to press her hand to her stomach to catch her breath again. “I found—this tonight.”

  Mrs. Hamilton gasped, and her fingers flew to her lips.

  Mr. Hamilton leaned over to examine the items, frowning. He reached out to touch a chess piece that lay in two halves. “These are the objects from the village.”

  “I had a strange feeling that I needed to go to the village this evening,” Sarah said. “The door to the stable was open, and when I went to see what was amiss, I found—well, these. I gathered what I could, but there was so much left. We will have to investigate further in the daylight.” She dreaded that very much. The damage had been great enough by the light of the lantern. How much worse would it be in the harsh sun?

  “I fear I do not understand,” Mr. Hamilton said slowly. “Were they disturbed by a wind?”

  Mrs. Hamilton lowered her hand to say, “There was no wind tonight, Neville.”

  “No,” Sarah agreed. “And it would have taken a gale force to cause this damage. This was deliberate. Someone went to the stable and viciously destroyed what we have worked so hard for.”

  Neville’s face blanched beneath his sunburn, and he sat down heavily on a nearby footstool. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Who, indeed? “I do not know,” Sarah answered. “I was hoping you might have some suggestion. Who could hate us?” She prayed he might have an idea, someone she had not yet thought of.

  Mr. Hamilton shrugged, still looking completely bewildered. “We have done nothing to hurt or insult anyone here with our work.”

  Mrs. Hamilton, who had been sobbing quietly into the fringes of her shawl, glanced up at them. “What about that man who was threatened by Lord Ransome? Could he not have come seeking revenge?”

  For the first time since Sarah could remember, Mr. Hamilton looked at his wife with something like gratitude and a grudging respect. “Yes,” he said. “Emmeline and I were not there, of course, but we did hear that the man left in a very angry mood. This vandalism reeks of rage, and an ignorant mind.”

  Sarah nodded in relief. Of course, that made perfect sense. How could she have suspected Lord Ransome for a second, when there was a more convenient culprit at hand? “You are probably right.”

  “I will go find the man tomorrow, and confront him with this,” Mr. Hamilton said angrily. “He will not be allowed to get away with this horrible crime.”

  His wife gave him a startled glance. “You cannot go there alone, Neville!”

  “I will take some of the workers,” he said.

  “And I will go with you,” said Sarah.

  “Oh, no! You should not subject yourself to that, Lady Iverson,” Mr. Hamilton exclaimed.

  Sarah shook her head. “It is my village. I want to hear what this man has to say.”

  Mr. Hamilton looked away from her, down to the artifacts. A long silence fell in the room as they all grew lost in their own thoughts, broken only when Mrs. Hamilton reached out to touch the drinking horn.

  “Since this has happened,” she said, “surely there is no need for us to remain here? Lord Ransome wishes us to leave, and there is really no more work for us to do here. We should return to Bath, and you can decide there what is best to do next, Neville.”

  Her voice was quiet, but stretched taut with some tension or eagerness. Sarah glanced over at her, and saw that Mrs. Hamilton looked suitably subdued and sad, but her pale blue eyes were eager.

  Sarah had known that Mrs. Hamilton missed her city, but she had not realized until now just how unhappy she was. Even in the midst of her own confusion and pain, she felt sorry for her.

  Even more so when Mr. Hamilton said brusquely, “Don’t be silly, Emmeline. Of course, we will stay here. We have more to do than ever.”

  Mrs. Hamilton’s lips thinned, and she turned away from her husband.

  Mr. Hamilton tore his attention away from the artifacts, and said, “If you will wait for me to dress properly, Lady Iverson, I will escort you back to the hunting box. You must be exhausted after your ordeal.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hamilton.” Sarah watched him leave the room, then turned to Mrs. Hamilton. She ran the fringes of her shawl between her fingers, staring off at something in the distance that only she could see.

  “I am sorry you have been unhappy here,” Sarah said. “If I had known, I would have—” Her words broke off, for she did not know what she would have done.

  Mrs. Hamilton turned her gaze back to Sarah, and gave her a small smile. “You would have sent Neville away, perhaps? It would have done no good. This work is his life—his whole life. I thought when we married that things would have been different, that we would have a different sort of life.”

  “I am sorry,” Sarah said again, helpless.

  Mrs. Hamilton shrugged. “Everything will work out as it must, Lady Iverson. I am sure of it.”

  “Of course.” Sarah hugged her bundle against her, feeling suddenly so, so cold.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Open the door, man! We know you are in there.”

  Sarah stood behind Mr. Hamilton as he pounded on the farmer’s door. It had taken them all morning to find out the man’s identity and discover where he lived, and she was tired and dizzy from the effort and the sleepless night she had passed. Now that they were here, she dreaded what they might find, what the man might tell them. What if he said it was Lord Ransome who did it?

  Mr. Hamilton stepped back from the door, and turned to one of the workers who had come with them. “Break the door down,” he ordered.

  The man looked uncertain. “Sir, I’m not sure . . .”

  Mr. Hamilton shook his head impatiently. “This man may have viciously destroyed ancient objects. I want to discover the truth of this. Now, break it down!”

  Still uncertain, the worker picked up a chunk of fire-wood and used it to batter at the door until it swung open on its hinges. Mr. Hamilton pushed it aside, and strode into the dim house.

  Sarah followed slowly, her head aching from the noise and violence. She clutched at her reticule, which held a small pistol in its velvet depths. It was an old one that had belonged to John, and had not been fired in years, but it gave her a measure of comfort to have it.

  Mr. Hamilton turned into a room ahead of her, and gave a strangled cry. Sarah came up behind him, and reached out to clutch his arm at the sight that greeted her.

  The farmer, so large and blustering when he pushed Mary Ann down in the dirt, lay in the middle of the floor, staring up at the ceiling with sightless eyes. His face was wax white, frozen in a rictus of horror. The wooden handle of a plain kitchen knife stood straight up in the center of his chest. A sharp, nasty smell assaulted her nostrils.

  Sarah felt a sour pang of nausea in the back of her throat. She choked on it, on the horror of the vision before her. She had seen deceased bodies before, of course, but never a murdered one.
And somehow the fact that this man had been quite despicable the one time she had met him did not make it any more palatable.

  Her gaze fell to her reticule, to her own weapon, and she shuddered.

  Mr. Hamilton, his own face white with shock, took her arm and turned her out of the room, away from the body. “Come outdoors, Lady Iverson. This is no place for a lady.”

  Sarah leaned gratefully on his arm. “It is no place for a human being,” she murmured. “Who did this? The same person who destroyed our artifacts?”

  He helped her to climb up into the waiting carriage. “I do not know,” he said, his own voice faint. “But we will discover who is doing these terrible things.” He turned away to one of the workers and called, “Fetch the magistrate! Tell him to come here at once.”

  “Of course, sir,” the man said, seizing the reins of his horse.

  Mr. Hamilton looked back to Sarah. “You should go home, Lady Iverson. Your sister will be worrying.”

  Sarah longed for home, for a comforting swallow of brandy and the solace of her own fireside. But she knew that she had to do her duty. “Will the magistrate not want to speak to me about—about what we have found here?”

  “If he does, he can just as easily speak to you at your home. I see no reason why he should involve a lady in this matter, though. It will be safer for you at home.”

  Safer? She stared at him in mounting horror. Did he think there was some rampaging maniac on the loose, out to kill everyone in the neighborhood? “Do you think that whoever did this will try it again someplace else?”

  He gave her a bracing smile. “Of course not. I would just feel more secure if I knew that you and your sister and my wife were safe. Perhaps you would do something for me, Lady Iverson?”

  “Of course, Mr. Hamilton.”

  “Will you look in on Mrs. Hamilton at the inn? Just tell her that I will be back this evening, and that she is not to venture out until then.” He looked away, back to the ramshackle farmhouse. “Emmeline can be rather—headstrong at times.”