The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  “I mean your father,” he said, taking my shoulders. “For he is your father. Just as Mrs. Lockwell was ever your mother. Do not for a moment think otherwise. They raised you as their own. You were their own.”

  Despite the chill inside me, I nodded. I knew it was true; I had never felt any lack of love from either of you, Father. It was always the contrary. Still, that neither of you had ever told me—no matter all the attention and love I had received—was a bitter truth to learn.

  “She lost our brother so soon after he was born,” I said, things I knew of my family now altered by this new understanding. “They feared she would never be able to have another child. So you gave them me.”

  “I had become intimate with your father during the time he spent at Heathcrest as a guest of Earl Rylend’s son,” he said. “In the time that followed, I had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Lockwell. I knew they would care for you. And I thought it best that you go to the city, that you be raised away from…”

  He did not speak the words, but I saw his eyes move to the east, to the old stand of trees.

  “Then why?” I said. “Why did you bring me here? Mrs. Darendal tried to discourage you. She told me she did.”

  He lifted my hand and touched the ring he had placed on my finger. “I did not expect this to happen, if that is what you mean.”

  “But only to care for the children, then? Surely you could have found another to do that!”

  “Could I? Could I have found one who would guard them as you would, from all the dangers I knew to be present in this place?” He shook his head. “No, I knew there could be no other, that only you would do. And you did not fail me. It is I who have failed you. That I could be worthy of you is impossible—especially now that you know how I have most selfishly used and deceived you.”

  This time it was he who turned away, and I gazed at the broad expanse of his back.

  I will not lie, Father. For a moment I let anger command me. I tremble to even think it now! Had we not been out on the heath but rather in my little room in the attic—had the chair of bent willow been there, I can only think Mr. Quent’s fate at that moment would not have been so different from Westen’s. I had been a pawn to him, a thing to be used in securing the welfare of the children, with no thought given to my own. I was forever altered. What had been done to me in my time at Heathcrest Hall could never be undone.

  Yet I did not wish it to be. For all that had taken place, for all the terrible knowledge I had gained, I did not wish to go back. It was, in the end, better to know the truth than to dwell in ignorance, however blissful.

  He stood stiffly, resolutely, like a statue expecting the blow of a hammer. I crossed the distance to him, reached up, and placed a hand on the slope of his shoulder.

  “Come to the city as soon as you can,” I said. “I will be waiting for you at Whitward Street.”

  I felt a shudder pass through him. At last he turned around. “I will,” he said. “You have my word.”

  We made our good-byes there on the ridge. I need not recount them to you, Father. While brief and not uttered without regret on both our parts, they were sweet, and I smile even now as I recall them.

  Then it was time to go. We did not speak as we returned to the house. There was nothing more to say until such a time when we would be together again, but he caught my hand in his, and we walked that way. As we went, the rising sun transmuted the eastern sky from gold to crimson, and in the dawn light it looked as if the Wyrdwood was on fire.

  THE MAIL COACH is arrived. The innkeeper has taken my satchel downstairs. The ink is not yet dry on these last pages, but I must fold them, no matter how badly they might be smudged, and go down myself, or I will be left to wait for the next coach.

  That is something I could not endure! It has been too long since I have seen you all—another twelve hours cannot be suffered. To set eyes upon you, Father, and my sisters is all I crave. It has been weeks since I have gotten a letter from Lily. Sometimes I fear something dreadful has happened. Only that is foolish; I am certain you are quite well. That is, as well as one can be while dwelling under one roof with Mr. Wyble.

  In a few hours, I shall see for myself how all of you are faring. Expect to be kissed more than you will probably care for. There! This is the last sentence I will write—I come.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  RAFFERDY HAD BEEN in the city only an hour after returning from his latest trip to Asterlane when a letter arrived for him from Fairhall Street. He had been away far longer than promised; he would present himself for tea that afternoon. This was in no way to be construed as an invitation.

  All the way from County Engeldon, Rafferdy had ridden in the coach alone, the curtains drawn to shut out the passing countryside. It had been his intention to do the same upon arriving at his house in Warwent Square, to sit in the darkened parlor with nothing for company save silence and a bottle of whiskey.

  However, even as he picked up a pen to decline, his eyes fell upon the parcel of papers he had tossed on the writing desk. One of his father’s lawyers had given them to him just before his departure. Rafferdy had yet to untie the black ribbon that bound them—as if that color was not enough for him to know what business they pertained to. His father had been shut up with his lawyers much of late.

  Fashion and the expectations of others are not the only reasons I have chosen to enclose my lands around Asterlane, Lord Rafferdy had told him. Soon there may be other needs for the safety of walls….

  Suddenly the dimness of the room became an enemy rather than an ally. He went to the window, threw back the curtains, and let the light of the middle lumenal pour in. Beyond the garden fence, people passed by on the street. He studied them, trying to detect any deviations from the usual scene—any sign, however subtle, that the changes had already begun.

  Boys ran with stacks of broadsheets. Ladies in fashionable dresses twirled parasols; young men tipped their hats and smiled.

  Rafferdy stepped back from the window. “Lady Marsdel is right,” he said aloud. “You have been away too long.”

  He returned to the table and scribbled a note in reply to her ladyship’s letter. Then he called for his man.

  THE PASSAGE OF another hour found him leaving his cabriolet on the Promenade and walking up the steps of Lady Marsdel’s residence in the New Quarter. His arrival did not go unnoticed; Mrs. Baydon met him before he could reach the door.

  “It’s been nearly a month, Mr. Rafferdy. I hardly know whether to scold or praise you!”

  “I believe I’d prefer the latter, if given a choice.”

  “The choice is mine to make.” She threaded her arm through the crook of his own. “However, I suppose it must be praise, for I’m glad you’ve come. You are our only hope. None of us is lively, interesting, or articulate enough to suit her ladyship, nor have we been for the past half month. We have been found totally wanting for any engaging qualities, as she often tells us, and she requires real entertainment.”

  “Does she? How unfortunate that I left my hurdy-gurdy and monkey in Asterlane.”

  “Please, Mr. Rafferdy. I’m being serious.”

  He treated her to his most solemn look. “As am I, Mrs. Baydon.”

  This won a laugh from her; it was the loveliest sound he had heard in a month. He had spent so much time lately with men for whom all words carried weight and value, he had forgotten the pleasure of spending them foolishly.

  Less enchanting was the sound of Lady Marsdel calling out his name as they entered the front hall. Amplified by lofty ceilings and marble floors, her voice was an omnipresent thing.

  “It seems my husband’s aunt has detected your presence.”

  “Just as any spider detects a fly the moment it enters her web. Come, let’s see what’s being served for tea.”

  “You are, of course,” Mrs. Baydon said, and took him to the parlor.

  For the next quarter hour he was treated to a discourse on his thoughtlessness and negligence of his obligations. He c
ould not simply come and go as he pleased, Lady Marsdel informed him. He was attached to this household, and such an association carried benefits as well as duties; he could not enjoy the one without performing the other. He had been very lax in this regard. She did not want to hear that others required him; no one could possibly require him any more than she did.

  Rafferdy bore this all indulgently, even fondly. Would that Lady Marsdel did have a higher claim! At least then he would know what was expected of him and that he was capable of it.

  “Well, then, sit down,” she said when she had finished. “Tell us of your trip to Asterlane. You must have much to relate for how long you were gone. What amusing things did you do? Spare us no details.”

  “I’m afraid I did nothing amusing whatsoever.” He sat at the table with Mr. and Mrs. Baydon and took a cup of tea.

  Lord Baydon laughed, manufacturing another chin in the process. “Nothing amusing? You’ll not make us believe that, Mr. Rafferdy.”

  “It’s impossible to make someone believe anything, Lord Baydon. Rather, they must want to believe it. Yet it’s the truth. I have spent the last month helping my father with his business.”

  Lady Marsdel flicked her fan. “How is my cousin of late? He does not write to me often enough, and he says little of substance when he does. I cannot imagine what could possibly occupy him so.”

  Nor could Rafferdy. His father’s illness had all but made a cripple of him, yet he shut himself in his study every day, working endlessly on papers and letters, often receiving visitors—and not only his lawyers. Other men came at all hours to call on him, even in the depths of a greatnight. Some were agents of the king, Rafferdy knew, and some soldiers. However, there were others whose allegiance he could not guess.

  Lord Rafferdy never said who the men were or what their business was, and Rafferdy never asked—not for fear that his father would once again refuse to tell him but rather for fear that this time he would, that he would speak again of what lay beyond the light. Their conversations instead pertained to the affairs of the estate and the building of the walls around it.

  For most of the month, Rafferdy had helped oversee the construction of the walls and had managed the removal of those tenants (legal and otherwise) from the lands that were to be enclosed. There were many days he rode back to Asterlane after his duties were finished and drank himself into blindness.

  Not that it mattered. Even when his eyes were shut he could see their faces, could recall their expressions as they looked a final time on the crofts and cottages they were being made to abandon.

  Stop looking at them like that! he sometimes wanted to shout. Can’t you see that they’re hovels, not palaces?

  He had thought it would be a difficult job. Instead, it was easy. The notices were drawn up and delivered; the evictions preceded in an orderly manner and without protest. He bested his father’s estimates of how long the proceedings would take by over a quarter month. It was terrible work.

  “I asked you a question, Mr. Rafferdy. Is it your manners or your hearing that you’ve lost? I said, how is my cousin?”

  Rafferdy looked up from his tea. “He is well. He cannot get about so well as he used to, of course, but he is well.”

  Endures, he might have said, rather than is well. It was as if he was holding on for something. However, this little amount of news appeared to satisfy her. She traded the fan for her puff of a dog, fussed with the ribbons atop its head, and expounded on the awful weather in the city and how there was no telling what sort of wretched humors were rising off the river.

  “But it must be worse for those closest to the Anbyrn, I am sure,” Mrs. Baydon said.

  “No, I am sure that cannot be,” Lady Marsdel said. “It is the very nature of the most noxious vapors to rise upward. Which means we are at the greatest risk of breathing them here in the New Quarter.”

  “I agree with her ladyship,” Rafferdy said, standing and moving to the window. He looked toward the Citadel and the twin spires that surmounted the Halls of Assembly. “Indeed, I am quite sure the atmosphere grows more poisonous the higher up one goes in Invarel.”

  “I am sure you are right!” Lady Marsdel said. “Yet I can only suppose you are making some sort of joke, Mr. Rafferdy, as you always do.”

  He turned from the window. “No, not in the least. I agree, it is unusually hot in the city, and if you feel you are suffering any ill effects from the weather, I urge you to depart for your house at Farland Park. Your health is not something to put at risk, your ladyship.”

  She could not argue with this. All the same, she regarded him down the length of her nose. “I say, you’ve grown very serious in your absence, Mr. Rafferdy.”

  “If so, can you claim you are disappointed? I was previously given the impression that everyone wished me to be more serious.”

  “What I wish, Mr. Rafferdy, is to be provided with engaging company, and you have provided very little so far.”

  “Then perhaps it was a mistake to invite me. I shall go at once.”

  The dog was removed, the fan returned and snapped open. “I shan’t let you off that easily, Mr. Rafferdy. Return to your seat, and I do not care if it is the latest fashion to be grim—make yourself lively!”

  Rafferdy bowed and returned to the table; her first command at least he could obey.

  “It seems everyone is serious these days,” Lord Baydon said, his hands clasped over the expanse of his waistcoat. “I suppose it’s only natural. Young people always do the opposite of what I expect them to do. I imagine they must want only to frolic and go to balls, and so necessarily they slouch about and speak in glum detail about diseases and politics.”

  Mr. Baydon set down his copy of The Comet. “I suppose that statement is directed at me.”

  “Being my only child, you are chief among the young people I know. But I have observed this same seriousness in others.”

  “And why should we not be serious?” Mr. Baydon said, tapping a finger against the broadsheet. PLOT TO SET FIRE TO ASSEMBLY SENDS THREE TO GALLOWS, read the headline. “When some are serious in their desire to harm the very foundations of our civilization, the rest of us must be serious in our resolve to stop them. What else can we do to alleviate this situation?”

  “Stop reading the broadsheets, for one,” Rafferdy said.

  This won a frown from Mr. Baydon, but Lady Marsdel cried, “Hear, hear, Mr. Rafferdy. It’s the fault of those awful newspapers that we have all these bandits and rebels running this way and that. If the broadsheets stopped publishing so many articles telling people what they don’t have, they might find themselves content with what they do have and not seize upon this foolish desire to stir things up.”

  Rafferdy nodded in her direction. “Ignorance is bliss, you mean to say. You may well be right. However, I would also say that it is natural for a man to wish to improve his lot.”

  “Rubbish. There is nothing natural about it. True contentment comes from knowing one’s place in the world, Mr. Rafferdy. Mark my words—wanting something different can lead only to misery.”

  He thought of the people he had driven from the grounds of Asterlane, of their dull, silent faces and their bawling children. “What if one’s place is a miserable one?”

  “What misery could your place possibly cause you, Mr. Rafferdy? I am sure there are many who would readily trade with you.”

  Of that he had no doubt.

  After this, Lord Baydon began an exposition on his firm belief that everyone was worried about the current state of affairs for no reason at all and that everything should work out pleasantly for everyone in the end. As he spoke, Rafferdy rose and returned to the window, gazing outside. A minute later, Mrs. Baydon came to join him.

  “Well, that certainly enlivened things,” she murmured. “Though I’m not sure that’s the sort of entertainment my aunt was hoping for.”

  “It was not my intention to entertain,” he replied in a low voice.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Rafferdy, i
t’s always your intention to entertain. Though I will say my aunt is right—you do have a more sober air about you. You still make jests, but they are not so light as before. Not that I would say this new demeanor doesn’t become you. I used to think you only really good-looking when you smiled, but your face has changed. I’ve never seen you look so well. Seriousness suits you.” She leaned against the windowsill and gazed out. “Still, it couldn’t harm you to laugh a bit. Why don’t you go to a party? I’m sure you have a mountain of invitations waiting.”

  “What reason is there for me to go to a party?”

  “What reason do you think? To have a pleasant time, to enjoy yourself. Besides, you never know when you might meet someone.”

  “I am quite certain that the only person I would wish to meet will never be at any of the parties for which I’ve received invitations.”

  She bit her lip and glanced at him. Across the room, Lord Baydon rambled on. These were the best of times, he declared; they should all laugh next year to think they had complained when they looked back to see how grand everything really was.

  “So you no longer attempt to disguise it, then,” Mrs. Baydon said to him. “You cared for Miss Lockwell.”

  He returned her gaze. What need had he to dissemble when circumstance had removed any possibility of impropriety—indeed, any chance at all of ever seeing her again? “I do care for her. I will make no apology for it—save if I were to ever make it to her.”

  “But you cannot really mean that. Her family is so low!”

  “And what of Miss Everaud’s family, which was purported to be so high?”

  She flinched at these words, and he could not say that had not been his intention. It had been over two months since his engagement to Miss Everaud, entered into at the encouragement of his father, had been broken off at the urging of the same.