by M. J. Putney
Even in a post chaise, traveling from western Wales to Shropshire was a long day. Tory let her hair fall loose around her shoulders and clung to a handhold by the window as the carriage rocked and rattled its way east.
The weather was dry, courtesy of their weather mage friends. Jack had promised them a smooth trip back to Lackland, which made for swift progress. Even so, night was falling by the time they approached Kemperton.
The landscape outside was a dark blur to Tory until Allarde made a soft sound in the darkness. It was a sigh of—relief, perhaps. Recognition. Welcome. When Tory glanced a question, he said, “We’ve just entered Kemperton.”
In the dimness of the carriage interior, Tory could see the faint glow of magic that bound him to the land. Her heart twisted. She’d tried to end their relationship rather than deprive him of this deep, abiding connection with his family home. It hadn’t worked, but she still hated knowing he would lose all this because his chosen mate was another mage rather than a safely mundane girl. Quietly she said, “You can still change your mind.”
“No.” His hand closed over hers in the darkness. His voice deep, he said, “I’m a stubborn fellow, you know. I’ve chosen you, and I won’t change my mind. Ever.”
She’d known he’d say that, but she’d had to try. She raised their joined hands and pressed a kiss on the back of his fingers, but she said no more.
A few hundred yards short of the vast stone house, Allarde signaled for the coach to stop. “I’d like to walk the last distance,” he said to Tory. “I’ll meet you at the house.”
“I’ll walk, too. I need to stretch.” She hesitated. “Unless you’d rather be alone?”
“I’m always glad to have you near.” The carriage stopped and he climbed down, then helped her to the ground. Since they had almost no luggage, he’d consolidated their possessions into one bag, which he slung over his shoulder.
After he paid off the postilion for the carriage rental, the post chaise turned and rumbled away. Rather than starting to walk immediately, he gazed at the house where he’d been born. Faint moonlight sculpted the strong planes of his face, and the magical bond that connected him to the land was palpable.
“The land endures,” he said softly. “It doesn’t need me. My cousin George, who is next in line to inherit, will surely come under Kemperton’s spell.”
Perhaps, but she had her doubts that the unknown cousin would connect as deeply as Allarde. She asked, “Is there any part of the estate that isn’t entailed? Perhaps you could build a home of your own here.”
“Every square foot is entailed to the current Duke of Westover.” He shrugged. “I doubt I could be happy living in a corner while knowing that Kemperton belongs to another. It’s better I move away and get on with my life as a commoner.”
She studied the dramatic stone turrets and central tower of Kemperton Hall. The structure had been built over centuries, but the warm gray stone gave the different styles a sense of unity. In the moonlight, it was mysterious and rather haunting.
“The land here is almost like a living being, isn’t it?” Tory said. “It has an awareness that’s deep and very inhuman, but real.”
“You feel that?” he asked with surprise.
“Yes. The mirror has a similar quality of being alive but utterly different.”
“I knew you’d understand,” he murmured.
When he reached for her hand, she said, “Give me a moment to create the illusion that this modest farmer’s daughter’s gown is elegant enough for a proper young lady.”
He smiled. “You always look like a lady.”
“If so, sometimes a tattered one!” She cradled the illusion stone in her palm and imagined herself dressed appropriately for a family dinner with a duke. Thinking that Allarde needed some distraction, she visualized the décolletage as shockingly low.
Allarde’s eyes widened. “You’d best raise the neckline, or I’ll be so distracted that I’ll forget what I came to say!”
She drew a finger higher across her chest and visualized. “Did the neckline become more modest?”
He swallowed hard. “Yes, though watching you rearrange yourself is distracting in its own right.”
Smiling to herself, she raised her hem to her knee and visualized her half-boots into dainty kid slippers. “Cynthia did a marvelous job charging the illusion stone. I can make any adjustments I want to her original image.” She glanced at him sideways and saw that he was staring at her bare leg.
“You give the illusion magic much to work with.” Suddenly he laughed. “You’re trying to take my mind off the upcoming interview, aren’t you, my little witch? And being most successful!” He offered his arm. “Shall we walk to Kemperton Hall?”
“Indeed we shall.” She dipped a laughing curtsy before taking his arm. The sounds of the retreating carriage faded and they were alone in the cool, silent night.
Both of them became sober as they walked the driveway to the great house. This wouldn’t be Allarde’s last visit to Kemperton, for he’d surely return when his parents died. But it was his last walk across the land as heir to the ancient title and property.
Though the night was cold, a touch of hearth witchery kept them warm. There was no hurry since they were not expected. Allarde could take as long as he needed.
They reached the steps and ascended to the portico. Allarde wielded the heavy, lion-headed knocker. It boomed menacingly.
The footman who opened the door was startled to see the young master, but he recovered quickly. Bowing, he said, “Lord Allarde. Lady Victoria.” He must have seen Tory when she’d visited at Christmas. “The duke and duchess are dining.”
Allarde handed the servant his travel bag. “The family dining room?” When the footman nodded, Allarde continued, “Then we shall join them there.”
Tory took his arm again and they headed into the depths of the great house. A tall antique mirror hung on the wall of the corridor. The mirror was old and discolored, but reflective enough for Tory to see the two of them as they walked past.
Oddly, the mirror showed the illusion of Tory, not how she looked in her plain gown. She liked seeing the deep blue garment Cynthia had imagined for her. She looked cool and elegant, and Allarde was handsome beyond belief.
The footman preceded them and announced, “Lord Allarde and Lady Victoria Mansfield,” when they reached the dining room.
There was a suspended moment as the Duke and Duchess of Westover looked up and saw their son with the mageling girl whose existence meant that Allarde would be seen as too much of a mage to be worthy of a dukedom. The duke inhaled sharply and the duchess made a small, anguished sound as she covered her mouth with one hand.
Allarde bowed. “Sir. Madam.”
Tory curtsied gracefully, wishing she didn’t have to see the mingled shock and grief on his parents’ faces. Allarde had been a late, only child. His father was easily old enough to be his grandfather, and his mother was not much younger. They both doted on him, and justly so, for they could not have had a more admirable son. Until his magic appeared and their love collided with the harsh realities of society.
Despite his height and erect posture, the Duke of Westover looked frail and every bit his age when he rose to his feet. “I see your choice has been made, Allarde.” A muscle jerked in his cheek. “I shall inform my London solicitor to draw up the disinheritance papers.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Allarde said softly. “After visiting here at Christmas, Tory tried to end the relationship because she did not want me to be estranged from you. But … we couldn’t stay apart.”
His father’s smile was deeply sad, but not angry. “I can see that.”
Tory realized that she and Allarde were holding hands. Tightly. Allarde glanced down, his warm gaze meeting hers. “Tory and I are connected on every imaginable level. That’s a bond too rare and precious to be severed.”
The duke sighed. “There is no more to be said. Morton, set the table with two more places. I imagine you are tired and hungry a
fter your journey from Lackland.”
Tory said, “We came not from Lackland, but from near Carmarthen. Your son was instrumental in bluffing a much larger French invasion force into surrendering to the local volunteer troops.”
His father’s bushy white brows rose. “Well done! I’d heard of the invasion, and this afternoon a courier brought word that it had been foiled, but no details. You used magic to do that?”
“Yes, but I was only one person,” Allarde said uncomfortably. “Five of us magelings came from Lackland, and we all contributed to the British victory. Even without us, I’m sure the Welsh would have triumphed, though it might have taken them longer and they would have suffered more casualties.”
“I look forward to hearing more.” The duchess had regained her composure, only her eyes showing her sadness. “But first, Allarde, come and give your mother a kiss.”
“I’m grateful that you aren’t throwing both of us from the house,” Allarde said with a choke in his voice as he obeyed his mother’s order. Tory saw the tenderness of their embrace and ached for them and his father.
“Though you cannot become the next duke, your father and I will insure that you’re left comfortably off,” his mother said. “I’ll not see my son suffer because of your magical talents.” She cocked an elegant silver brow at Tory. “You needn’t fear starving, though you may not be able to afford many gowns as elegant as the one you wear.”
It was a nice compliment for an imaginary gown. “What is a wardrobe compared to Justin?” Tory said. “Even if neither of us inherits anything, we are capable of supporting our own household.”
His mother nodded approval for the sentiments. While they talked, two footmen had brought in place settings and were swiftly arranging the heavy silverware and splendid porcelain and glassware. Even here in the family dining room, spaces between settings were wide.
As the butler poured wine, the duchess gestured to Tory. “Please sit by me.”
As Tory obeyed, the duchess said with a twisted smile, “I believe you’ll be a true and devoted wife to my son. I just wish you weren’t also cursed with magical power.”
“If I were normal, we would never have met,” Tory said as she took her chair. “And without our magic, we would be different people.”
Allarde nodded agreement as he sat by his father. “We are what we are. I can’t imagine forswearing my power, nor can I imagine Tory other than as magically lovely and honorable as she is.”
After that, no more was said about disinheritance. Magic was discussed only in respect to their adventures in Wales. Tory could see in the faces of Allarde’s parents how proud they were of their son, and how saddened by the choices he had made.
It was all wonderfully civilized—except for the deep pain she felt from everyone at the table.
CHAPTER 22
Lackland, 1940
Nick entered the kitchen in a gust of raw autumn air. As he dropped his book bag on the floor, he asked, “What is the source of all these wonderful smells?”
Rebecca glanced up from the broad kitchen table, resigned to the fact that she must have matzo meal on her face. “Tonight is the Shabbat, so I’m making matzo ball soup and Polly is preparing a jam tart.”
Nick discovered the two loaves of braided bread on a side table. “Is this Shabbat bread? I like the way it’s braided.”
“It’s challah,” Polly explained. “We made it yesterday after school when you were playing rugby.” She grinned. “And we hid it so you wouldn’t eat it.”
He tapped the shiny brown surface of a loaf with his knuckles. It made a hollow sound. “I am wounded by your lack of trust.”
“Oh, we trust you,” Rebecca said with a laugh. “It’s your appetite we don’t trust.”
“Are there always special foods for the Shabbat dinner?”
“Shabbat, the Sabbath, is a holy day,” Rebecca explained. “‘Holiday’ means ‘holy day,’ you know. A joyous day for celebrating family and for prayer. Your Sabbath, Sunday, is similar, though Christians are often busier on Sundays.”
“Especially with a war on.” All three of them unconsciously stopped and listened for the sound of airplanes. Somewhere in their sky, there were always airplanes.
“My parents often work at their research laboratory on Shabbat,” Rebecca said soberly. “Their research is too important to take much time off.”
Nick nodded, understanding. “The book your mother sent said that Shabbat runs from sunset Friday to just after sunset on Saturday. To the time where it’s dark enough to see three stars in the sky?”
“Yes, but one must often guess at sunsets and stars in cloudy Britain!” Rebecca stepped into the cool pantry to retrieve a bowl of matzo dough that had been chilling.
“Is there anything I can do?” Nick glanced around the kitchen. “Ah, the candlesticks need polishing. That’s part of the Shabbat ritual, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “We give thanks for the candles, for the wine, and for the bread.”
“Wine?” Polly asked hopefully.
“It may be symbolic wine,” Rebecca said. “I’m not sure what your mother intends. She was considering cider, which is easier and less alcoholic.”
Nick dug some metal polish from a drawer and started cleaning the silver candlesticks. “Can you teach us the Shabbat prayers? They’re like songs in Hebrew, aren’t they?”
“Yes, and they’ll take time to learn,” Rebecca warned. She scooped a spoonful of matzo dough from its bowl, dipped her hands in a pot of water, and quickly rolled the dough into a sphere about the size of a golf ball.
As she dipped her hands in water and rolled another, Nick said, “I presume those are matzo balls. Are they like little biscuits?”
“More like Jewish dumplings. They’re made from matzo meal, which is not something that can be bought in Lackland, so my mother sent a box from Oxford. The matzo balls have to be poached in simmering water before they’re added to the chicken soup we made earlier.” Rebecca wetted her hands and formed another. “The trick is to make them light, but substantial enough that you know you’re eating something.”
“I can see there’s an art to making them,” Nick observed.
Rebecca thought wistfully of the many times she’d helped her mother make matzo balls. “Mothers teach daughters and down through the generations. Matzo ball soup is lovely. You’ll see.”
Polly, who was spreading raspberry preserves on the crust of the tart, said, “Mum was so clever to start keeping chickens before the war started. Not to mention the tons of fruit preserves we put up.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “I resented making the preserves and I do not love taking care of chickens, but the results are worth it.”
“Where did the chicken stock come from?” Nick asked. “I don’t recall our having chicken lately.”
“One of the old hens wasn’t laying and she met her fate,” Mrs. Rainford said as she breezed into the kitchen with a heavy book bag over her shoulder. “Yesterday we boiled up the old girl and made stock for the soup with enough left to make stewed chicken with gravy and potatoes and vegetables.”
Nick lifted the lid on the stewpot on the back of the stove and sighed blissfully. “Are Shabbat dinners always so fine?”
“Sometimes even better. You should taste my mother’s brisket!” With food rationing, there would be no beef brisket anytime soon. Rebecca continued, “Always we try to make the meal a little special with whatever is available.” There had been no way they could make the prison food special, but at least all the prisoners had sung the Shabbat prayers together, which helped keep their spirits up.
She laughed suddenly, remembering better times. “My mother said that all Jewish holidays boil down to, ‘They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat!’”
Everyone burst into laughter and preparations for dinner came to a dead halt. When Nick finally sobered, he caught Rebecca’s gaze. “That’s a history lesson as well as a joke, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “The history of m
y people.”
The moment of connection between them ended when Mrs. Rainford said, “That history is definitely worth a chicken for our first Shabbat.” She set the book bag on the floor and hung her raincoat, hat, and scarf on a hook by the door. “Sorry I’m so late. The faculty meeting ran longer than I expected. It must be almost time to light the candles, Rebecca?”
Rebecca glanced out the kitchen window at the nearly dark sky. The day had been rainy and overcast, which made it hard to judge sunset. “Soon,” she said. “It’s certainly time to draw the blackout curtains.”
As Mrs. Rainford closed the curtains, Rebecca asked, “Will you light the candles when we’re ready, Mrs. Rainford?”
“Shouldn’t you be the one? You’re the only person who understands the ritual and knows the prayers.”
“I can sing the prayer anywhere at the table.” Rebecca used a slotted spoon to gently place her matzo balls into the simmering water one at a time. “The candles are usually lit by the mother because she is the heart of the household. As you are.”
Mrs. Rainford smiled. “In that case, I shall be most honored.”
Rebecca adjusted the heat so the matzo balls wouldn’t boil too vigorously and fall apart. “By the time we’ve changed, the soup will be ready. Everything else is done, except for Polly’s tart.”
“And this will be baked by the time dinner is finished.” Polly slid the sheet holding the jam tart into the oven. She was back in school again and looking so healthy that it was hard to remember she’d recently been at death’s door.
Nick opened the kitchen door that led to the dining room. “Dressing up and eating in the dining room as well! This really is a special occasion.”
“It’s the first Shabbat dinner I’ve had in over a year.” Rebecca looked down, ashamed of the catch in her throat. When they’d escaped from France, her parents and brother had gone almost immediately to Oxford to join Dr. Florey’s research project. There had been no opportunity to celebrate a Shabbat together.
She missed her family. In particular, she missed her father, who had been separated from the rest of the family while he was forced to do research for the Nazis.