The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  “As are we!” Lily said, a bit too robustly.

  Ivy found this a curious revelation. She could understand what had caused her cousin to seek the acquaintance of a lord’s son; Mr. Wyble had ever been drawn to the grand, the gilded, and the glorious, and liked nothing more than to bask in its glow, no matter that such a light might serve to illuminate his own ordinary nature. But how the relationship was reciprocated she had difficulty imagining, unless it was simply that gentlemen like Mr. Rafferdy and Mr. Garritt needed to be admired by those lesser than themselves in order to continue to feel superior. In which case they were men of the most shallow concerns and superficial tastes.

  She turned to Mr. Rafferdy. “We would much like to hear about your initial meeting with our cousin. I’m sure the party at Lady Marsdel’s was an impressive affair.”

  Mr. Rafferdy shifted on the sofa next to her, and a grimace crossed his face. “So Mr. Wyble tells me,” he said, which was hardly the gush of praise she had expected.

  Mr. Wyble, however, more than made up for Mr. Rafferdy’s reticence and for several minutes regaled them with every possible detail he could recall from the night at Lady Marsdel’s, from the size of the house to the number of the servants to “the very lovely little spoons upon the tea table, each one possessing a handle carved in the most unique and delightful way, and so ornate as to render ordinary silver spoons such as these you have here dull, even austere.”

  “Yet I find they stir the tea remarkably well,” Mr. Garritt said, which won him a brilliant smile from Lily.

  “What of you, Mr. Rafferdy?” Ivy asked. “Do you not share Mr. Wyble’s appreciation for the fineness of spoons?”

  “Although I have known him but a short while,” Mr. Rafferdy said, “I have become certain that Mr. Wyble, above all other men, has an acute and keenly developed appreciation for the most minute and trivial of details. Such is the nature of his appreciation that it varies inversely with the importance of a thing. That is, the more insignificant the detail, the more our Mr. Wyble pays attention to it.”

  “Indeed, indeed!” Mr. Wyble said, clapping his hands. “I have often observed that I notice things others remain quite oblivious to. But it is only natural that, as a man of law, I should do so. Even the most important case can turn on the smallest, most tedious fact.”

  Ivy was astonished. Mr. Rafferdy seemed to be having some amusement at Mr. Wyble’s expense. But were not the two of them friends?

  “If it is the most minute of things that demands my cousin’s attention,” she said, “what is it that captures yours, Mr. Rafferdy?”

  “Very little, I confess. If Mr. Wyble’s interest is held rapt by the tiniest of matters, I am quite his opposite in that even the grandest of things cannot maintain a grip on mine.”

  Again he grimaced, then he reached beneath the sofa cushion and extracted the book Ivy had been reading. She felt a thrill of panic—the title Pagan Tales of the Occult was wrought in gilt on the cover—but he set it on the floor without glancing at it, sighed as he settled into the sofa, and resumed sipping his tea.

  “Rafferdy excels at being bored,” Mr. Garritt said.

  “Oh, how delightful that must be!” Mrs. Lockwell exclaimed. “I say, I should be very glad to be bored of fine things. For it can only mean you have everything you could possibly wish for and that you never waste a moment’s thought fretting over some thing you must but cannot have. I say, you must be exceedingly content, Mr. Rafferdy!”

  For a moment an expression of discomfort passed once again over Mr. Rafferdy’s face. But the book had been removed, and perhaps it was only that his tea had gone cold. Ivy used the moment of distraction to nudge the book beneath the sofa with her foot.

  “My friend does me a disservice,” Mr. Rafferdy said at last, with a pointed glance at Mr. Garritt.

  “How so?” the other young man said. “You know it is uncommon for you to be engaged in something with true interest.”

  “Yes, but that is not because I am easy to bore. Rather, I am exceedingly difficult to amuse.”

  These words brought a sudden agitation upon Ivy. They had not asked Mr. Rafferdy to visit here; yet he seemed to imply, almost to accuse, that they were somehow remiss in providing him with sufficient entertainment. That he was a man of frivolous nature and poor judgment she had assumed, given his association with Mr. Wyble, but this showed a level of callowness that she had not expected.

  “Then a monumental task has been set before us today,” she said, “and one that I fear is beyond our ability to achieve success in. For if all the grand sights and wondrous diversions to which a gentleman must surely be accustomed cannot engross you, Mr. Rafferdy, I am certain it will be impossible for the simple, even mundane pleasures at our disposal to do so. I would offer you a biscuit or suggest that Lily play a piece on the pianoforte, but perhaps it is better to admit defeat immediately rather than subject you to such rude delights. If you decided to ask your leave at this moment, I can only imagine its being granted.”

  Ivy found herself out of breath and waited for his expression of shock or his declaration of affront. She was assured of his rising quickly, and calling for his hat, and making his immediate departure with his friend Mr. Garritt. However, when at last he responded, it was not with words.

  Rather, he laughed as if he had just heard the most amusing story, and he was forced to set down his teacup to keep from spilling it. Mr. Garritt was laughing as well, though more at his friend than anything else.

  “I knew you would find the eldest Miss Lockwell to be particularly engaging,” Mr. Wyble said. However, given the uncertain look on his face, he was as perplexed as Ivy was concerning the source of Mr. Rafferdy’s sudden mirth. Speech had fled her; she could do nothing but gape at Mr. Rafferdy, and she noticed that he was really quite good-looking when he smiled.

  As no one seemed to know what to do next, Mrs. Lockwell took up Ivy’s idea and called for Lily to play, and this suggestion was greeted with universal approval.

  Ivy was grateful for the temporary suspension of conversation. Mr. Rafferdy’s response had confounded her; neither he nor Mr. Garritt were what she might have expected in a friend of Mr. Wyble’s. Both of them watched Lily, who was summoning the most doleful music out of the pianoforte: a dark and rumbling piece, which she no doubt fancied especially mature.

  To his credit, Mr. Garritt listened intently. He seemed genuinely affected by the music. However, Mr. Rafferdy, while initially adopting a grave expression, was soon doing everything he could to conceal his rising mirth. He held his teacup before his mouth, and when that was in danger of shaking too much, he set it down and took out his handkerchief. The more she watched him, the more Ivy felt absurd laughter rising in her own breast, and she was on the verge of releasing it against her will when at last, with a flourish, Lily finished the piece.

  They all clapped, none louder than Mr. Wyble, who proclaimed the composition quite ominous and said that it reminded him of the firm and unforgiving hand of justice.

  This comment elicited a gasp of horror from Lily.

  “It is a romantic piece, Mr. Wyble,” Mr. Garritt said seriously, and Lily shot him a grateful look. “Though I will grant you, there is a sorrow to it.”

  “But is not the ability to feel sorrow intimately related to the ability to feel love?” Lily said. “For if you are insensible to the one, surely you must never feel the other.”

  “I believe it is so!” Mr. Garritt said, leaning forward in his chair, animation lending his visage, if possible, even greater charms. “To understand joy, one must be able to experience sadness as well. Indeed, there are times when the two are so mingled as to be indiscernible. Sometimes, when I awake in the middle of a long night and hear the bells of St. Galmuth’s, I think that there is no lonelier sound in all the world, no music more forlorn and desolate, and none more beautiful.”

  Lily gave an emphatic nod. “I have heard them too,” she said, rather breathlessly.

  “Well, I am filled
with an incomparable sorrow myself at this very moment,” Mr. Rafferdy said after a long moment of silence.

  “And why is that?” Ivy said, suddenly concerned.

  “Because my teacup is empty, and the biscuits are all gone.”

  And this time it was Ivy who laughed.

  MR. WYBLE’S ACQUAINTANCES lingered far longer into the afternoon than Ivy would have ever expected. More tea was fetched, and biscuits, and a tray of sandwiches that were actually edible. Lily asked if Mr. Garritt had ever been to the theaters, and when he replied that it was Mr. Rafferdy who more often attended plays, Lily plied him with a multitude of questions about what attending the theater was like, and what people wore, and how the actors looked upon the stage.

  Much to Mr. Rafferdy’s credit, he indulged Lily with answers to all her questions, and when she made the very impertinent suggestion that they all read from a play that very moment, he was the first to agree to the scheme.

  Sitting there in the parlor, they read through the first act of Alitha and Antelidon. Lily was Alitha, of course, and she assigned the other parts to her liking, so that Mr. Garritt was the noble Antelidon, Mr. Rafferdy arrogant King Daelos, and Ivy was both Queen Selenda and the doomed seeress Ephalee. Rose could not be compelled to take a part, though she agreed to strike a spoon against a cup when the direction called for the toll of a bell offstage, and Mrs. Lockwell wished only to be the audience. When Mr. Wyble asked what his part was to be, Lily assigned him the role of the courier and assured him the part was crucial, despite his sudden death in the middle of Scene One.

  They passed around the book of Tharosian drama, each reading their part in turn. By the time the end of Act One was reached, and Alitha thought Antelidon perished, when in truth he lived, though the caprice of the gods had left him bereft of memory, the afternoon was fading outside. As Mr. Garritt spoke his final lines, beseeching Loerus to reveal who he really was, Rose watched so raptly that she quite forgot her cue until Lily nudged her, upon which she struck the cup, heralding the return of the king and the end of the act.

  A feeling of oppression came over Ivy. But it was only the sadness of the play, she told herself, and the failing daylight. For a moment none of them was willing to break the silence, as if a spell had been cast by the ancient words they had spoken. Then a shadow sprang up, landing on the open book on Mr. Garritt’s lap, giving them all a start. It was Miss Mew, of course, craving attention. Lily made an attempt to retrieve her, but only succeeded in chasing the cat onto the back of the sofa, which she raced across until deciding that Mr. Rafferdy’s shoulder would form an excellent perch.

  “I am so sorry, Mr. Rafferdy!” Ivy exclaimed, snatching up the cat.

  “It’s quite all right,” he said, though she noted he did make a quick examination of his coat.

  “She’s very beautiful,” Mr. Garritt said, petting the cat while Ivy held her. “What is her name?”

  Mr. Rafferdy looked at him. “And how do you know it’s a her?”

  “Tortoiseshell cats are always hers,” the young man said with a laugh. “Didn’t you know that, Rafferdy?”

  “We never had cats at my father’s house,” Mr. Rafferdy said, though the words sounded wistful rather than scornful. He hesitated, then scratched Miss Mew behind the ears. “Where did you come by her?”

  “Mrs. Murch brought her into the house,” Ivy said. “She was the only tortoiseshell in the litter, and so the only lady cat. I’ve always found it interesting that a certain trait—the color of the fur, in this instance—can be determined by whether a cat is male or female. I keep meaning to perform some research to see if there are any other traits similarly linked.”

  At this Mr. Rafferdy gave her a curious look, and Mrs. Lockwell leaped from her chair. “You must forgive her, Mr. Rafferdy. Mr. Lockwell is a man of science, and I fear he filled my daughter’s head, when she was younger, with some peculiar notions.”

  “There is no need to apologize, madam, it’s fascinating,” Mr. Rafferdy said, at which Mr. Garritt gave him a startled look. “And is Mr. Lockwell about today?”

  Mrs. Lockwell sank back into her chair, raising a hand to her throat.

  “I’m afraid my father is indisposed,” Ivy said. “Please accept his regrets for not being able to come down to meet you.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Rafferdy said, and the matter was dropped.

  After that the visitors begged their leave, for the day was nearly done, and the Miss Lockwells bid the young men and their cousin farewell, asking them to return again whenever they liked; and if the invitation was more warmly extended to the former than the latter, no one made notice of it. Mr. Garritt shook each of their hands, and Mr. Rafferdy followed suit.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lockwell, Miss Lily,” Mr. Rafferdy said to each of them. “And you as well, Miss Rose.”

  “It feels like you’ve been holding lightning,” Rose said as Mr. Rafferdy took her hand in his.

  It was clear he did not know what to make of her words—none of them did, as sometimes was the case with Rose—so instead he smiled and nodded. Then the three visitors were down the stairs, and the front door opened and shut, leaving the women to themselves in a parlor that suddenly felt large and empty and dim.

  It was Mrs. Lockwell who found her voice first. “Did you see how well they presented themselves and how terribly handsome they were?” she said, as if the rest of them had not been in the parlor for the last several hours. “Who would have thought our own Mr. Wyble would have acquaintances of such quality!”

  “It is no mystery to me that he sought them out,” Ivy said. “Our cousin has ever been drawn to those whom he perceives to be superior. But that they should find a reason to reciprocate his interest I find to be something of a mystery.”

  “It is no mystery at all!” Mrs. Lockwell said. “That they can derive much from Mr. Wyble’s companionship I doubt, as do you. But he had only to mention that he had three cousins, all exceedingly beautiful, and all of an age to consider marriage, and their interest in his friendship was assured. For neither of them yet wears a ring on his finger.”

  “Do you think they will call on us again, Mother?” Lily said. She was flitting about the parlor. “I thought Mr. Garritt was unbearably handsome. Do you not think he made for a perfect Antelidon? He understood—really understood—what the role meant.”

  “Yes, he was excellent,” Mrs. Lockwell agreed. “It would be impossible for a young man to present himself better. Though I thought Mr. Rafferdy did very well at his part too.”

  “On the contrary, he could hardly keep himself from laughing during the most serious passages,” Ivy said. “Though I thought he was very indulgent of all of us.”

  “Oh, yes!” Mrs. Lockwell exclaimed. “Exceedingly indulgent!”

  “Well, Ivy can have Mr. Rafferdy, then,” Lily said, “and I shall take Mr. Garritt. He has the soul of a poet.”

  “And likely the pocketbook of one as well,” Ivy said.

  Mrs. Lockwell gave her a shocked look. “Whatever do you mean?”

  At several times during the visit, Ivy had come close enough to Mr. Garritt to notice that, while his clothes were impeccably kept and suited his figure very well, they were neither so new nor so fashionable as Mr. Rafferdy’s attire. Also, each time Lily had asked a question about what exclusive parties or lavish affairs the two had attended, Mr. Garritt always referred the inquiries to Mr. Rafferdy. Ivy could only presume it was because he had few experiences of his own to relate.

  As for Mr. Rafferdy, while he had appeared to genuinely enjoy himself during the course of the visit, it could only be due to the novelty of the situation, being so far from what he was used to. Nor could he be expected to find continued pleasure in the simple entertainments offered in the houses of the gentry.

  Ivy related these observations with great care and delicacy to her mother and sister, not wishing to upset their sensibilities. Still, the reaction she encountered was one of astonishment.

 
; “What are you implying, Ivy?” Mrs. Lockwell said, quite agitated. “Are you trying to tell me that you think these two were not as fine a pair of gentlemen as any young woman could hope to encounter in this city? For if you are, I will not hear of it!”

  “Nor will I!” cried Lily.

  Ivy took in a breath to steady herself. “I am only saying that it would be prudent not to base too many hopes and expectations on a single meeting. Especially because I think it clear that, while both Mr. Rafferdy and Mr. Garritt are gentlemen of quality and worth, they do not both possess each characteristic in the same proportions. That is to say, I think it very clear that the one is far too rich to marry any of us, and the other far too poor. Besides,” Ivy went on more lightly now, “there were only two of them, which meant there was not one for our dear Rose.”

  Rose smiled and took Ivy’s hand. “But I don’t mind, Ivy. I’ll come live with you and Mr. Rafferdy.”

  “There!” Mrs. Lockwell said. “As always, it is Rose who sees the simplest truths. In no way could she ever want for anything if her sisters were well situated. I should never worry about Rose if you and Lily were married.”

  A chill came over Ivy. But it was only the coming of night that caused her to shiver; the short day was all but spent outside, and she moved to light a few candles. All the while Lily continued to speak in an animated manner, though one would think from her talk that there had been only one man, by the name of Garritt, in the parlor that day. Mrs. Lockwell was hardly less enthusiastic, and even Rose could be heard laughing and clapping her hands.

  Ivy smiled at their lively conversation, but her smile kept wavering, just like the candles she lit. Did she, too, feel some unseen movement of cold air that stole past shut windows and closed doors? As she set a candle on the secretary, she noticed several new receipts and demands her mother had stashed in a teacup. Ivy took them out, and a sigh escaped her. “Perhaps we should just let Mr. Wyble take this house and be done with it.”