Magic by Daylight

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Clarice’s heartfelt squeezed by an equal mixture of admiration and terror. She knew perfectly well that her father had ordered the swords maintained in what he’d called “fighting trim” despite the hundred other calls on him. Therefore, the point and half of each blade was ground to an unnecessarily sharp edge. One mistake and Dominic could find his arm or his head on the ground beside him. A warning strangled in her throat. If only she could be sure that her interruption would not cause the very fatality she wanted to avoid.

  Dominic paused for an instant and Clarice hoped he was finished. But the pause seemed only to serve to increase the speed and vigor of his cuts through the air. His lips were drawn back in a tense approximation of a grin while he did not seem to look at the swords at all. He stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on nothing while the sweat poured off him, darkening his waistband.

  Clarice wondered how long he could keep it up. The weight and length of the swords must require tremendous strength to whip them around as Dominic was doing. He was grunting now with the effort, stomping his naked feet in repetitive patterns as the weight of the swords pulled him this way and that.

  She found herself, all unconsciously, rocking back and forth in concert with his movements, as though she were lending him her morsel of strength. She’d never seen anything so terrifying and yet so beautiful as this exotic practice. It had something of the mystical about it, for Dominic Knight seemed transfigured—changed by the magic of steel from a gentleman to a warrior out of legend.

  With a suddenness that left her breathless. Dominic pulled the swords close to his body, catching them up tight under his arms. She winced, thinking that the slightest error would have brought the cutting edges against his flesh, but apparently he’d maintained such concentration that he must have known it was the blunt side.

  He shook the sweat out of his eyes. It was only then that he saw her, though she’d been in plain sight all the while. Clarice saw him blink, saw him start, as though he’d come back suddenly from a great distance. He dropped his hands, the swords carrying his arms downward.

  She hurried toward him, pulling the cloth from her hair. “Mr. Knight, I... I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  She extended the cloth to him so he might wipe his brow. His broad chest still rose and fell to the deep breaths of exertion yet he was recovering more quickly than she would have believed possible. With reverence he laid the swords down on a blanket that he’d spread out nearby. “Do you mind that I borrowed these?”

  “No. How could I? I’ve always thought of my grandfather’s collection as merely overgrown knives but now . .. now I understand.”

  He looked at her with his dark, yet brilliant eyes. “Do you?”

  “Yes. They’re almost alive, aren’t they? When you use them, they come to life.”

  “So I have been told.” He wiped his face and draped the cloth about the back of his neck. Though the sight of lace on his firm body was a notable contrast, Clarice felt no desire to laugh.

  “Told? But you must see it for yourself? When you are in the midst of all that...”

  “No, it’s not like that for me. I can’t explain. There are my hands and the blades. I can see them, I know where each one is at any moment but I am not thinking of them. I am not thinking of anything during the discipline. It’s like that in war too ... so I am told.”

  “Who tells you? Who taught you?”

  “My father was my first teacher. He died when I was very young, but he had fought once upon a time.”

  “It must have been exciting when duels were common. I cannot argue with the idea that such violence should be outlawed and yet what daring we have lost!”

  He chuckled, a trifle grimly perhaps. “Are you one of those who would be elated to find two men dueling to the death for a rose from your breast?”

  “To the death? Oh, no. I shouldn’t like anyone to fight over me at all, merely to have the opportunity to do so if they wished!”

  Dominic laughed, as though delight took him by surprise. Clarice colored. “You must think I sound bloodthirsty.”

  “Charmingly so.”

  Clarice shied away from the return of his patronizing tone. Or perhaps that was Mr. Knight’s idea of flirtation. Either way, she did not like it. “You shouldn’t stand about like that. You’ll catch a chill and with all this fog it will go directly to your lungs.”

  “I am in remarkable health for a man of my age,” Dominic answered.

  He knelt on the grass and began to roll up the blanket. Each sword, and she saw that there were several more in addition to the sabre and the scimitar, was wrapped around before the next was added to the bundle. He made no particular work over this, and Clarice wondered how many times he’d collected weapons in this fashion. In the end, he stood up with a neat package just as long as the longest sword and thin enough to tuck comfortably under his arm.

  “Have you ever fought anyone?” Clarice asked, realizing she sounded a disingenuous sever.

  “Yes, but not over a woman.”

  “I did not ask you that.”

  He turned his head to smile at her. She had noticed yesterday how straight and white his teeth appeared. Nor that he bore a scar, long-faded, at the outside corner of his right eye. Only the level beams of the morning sun revealed it to her now. It drew down the outside edge of his lid a trifle, giving him a slightly wary expression, as though he looked out of the corner of his eye at everything. She wondered if it was that, however faint an impression it left, that made her think yesterday that he was guileful.

  He stood up with an easy, confident grace that made no apologies for its beauty. Nor did he make any excuse for his half-dressed state. Clarice understood that it must be nearly impossible to achieve the kind of speed with which he’d drilled while wearing any restrictive clothing. Even the best tailor would be in a puzzlement over how to stitch a shirt to permit such arm movements.

  “You must be hungry,” Clarice said, starting toward the house. “If anyone’s awake, I’ll order breakfast to be served at once.”

  “I need little,” he answered. “I do not wish to burden your household.”

  “Don’t be absurd. You are my guest. Ask for what you will.”

  “Very well, provided I may say the same to you, if ever you visit my home.”

  “Where is your home, Mr. Knight?”

  “I was born in a small village called Priory St. Win-dle. It is in the north.”

  “ ‘Priory St. Windle’? Forgive me; I’m unfamiliar with it.”

  “Few people are.”

  “You have some family still residing there?”

  “My family? No. We were cast to the four winds long ago.”

  “When your parents died.” She shaded her eyes, apparently against the sunshine, now pouring like honey over the grass and dazzling against the windows. “I know what it is to be alone.”

  He did not speak again until he stood back to let her enter the house first through the window. Then he said, “There are worse things than being alone.”

  Chapter Five

  Clarice had little loneliness to complain of that day. In the morning, she had Morgain, fully restored to his usual rude good health, to bear her company. They had their favorite pastime to occupy them—the invention of a fabulous geography. Ever since the winter that Morgain was six, a hard winter when Clarice had been unexpectedly snowbound at the Gardners’ small but pleasant home, nephew and aunt had enjoyed creating these “maps.” Morgain had inherited something of his mother’s talent for art, though he preferred pen-and-ink to watercolors and oils.

  “I think we need to add another Pit of Peril,” Morgain said. “Over here by the Sugar Swamp.”

  Clarice knew well that her part was to approve Morgain’s suggestions and to rein in his natural boy’s tendency to create zones of havoc rather than peaceful realms. His imagination had been fired by the adventures of King Arthur’s knights and other tales of high daring.

  “Tht’s a good place for a
pit, dear. But don’t forget that you’ve put a nest of basilisks there. Don’t have them fall into the pit.”

  “Oh, basilisks never fall in! If it were gryphons, that would be a different tale. Gryphons! I forgot them. I’ll put them down here, by the mountains. They’ll like it there.”

  She felt deeply sympathetic toward the invented residents of any land that Morgain drew. Between the bubbling volcanoes where the dragons dwelt and the forests of innocent appearance but deadly misdirection, they had but little chance of living to an imagined old age.

  After an hour or so, Morgain began slaughtering his population with too liberal a hand. Clarice intervened, suggesting that they go riding after luncheon. The boy looked up from his map, saying, “Are you certain, ma’am? After yesterday ...”

  “I do wish everyone would forget this ridiculous notion of my having been run away with!”

  “Then what did happen?”

  “Nothing of importance. At any rate, I should like to go riding and would appreciate your companionship, if you wish to give it.”

  “You know that I should like it above all things, only ... I did in somewise offer my services to Mr. Knight, though he seemed to have little wish to go up to the moor today.”

  Thinking of now exhausted anyone would be after taking the sort of exercise he had, Clarice could not be too surprised. They had spoken little after entering the house, separating to go to their respective rooms. He had taken the swords with him. Clarice had barely shut her door behind her before Rose had come up with a cup of tea and a can of hot water. She’d exclaimed at finding her mistress up and gowned, though she’d been appalled to find that Clarice had already been out and had spoiled her dress. How much more she would have exclaimed and scolded if she’d known Dominic Knight had been out as well. It would have looked ill, as though they’d had a clandestine meeting.

  At the luncheon table, she greeted him with an unexpectedly shy smile. Though he was once again properly dressed in neat, dark clothing, she saw before her eyes the expanse of his chest, the shifting highlights on his working muscles and the beautiful lines of his back and hips. It was with something of a blush that she took her seat.

  As usual, Morgain came scrambling into the room just as Camber began serving the soup. Taking his seat, he said, “Are you going up to the moor today, Mr. Knight?”

  “Not today, if that is acceptable to your aunt. I want to talk to this Collie Camber before I go wandering.”

  The butler gave no sign that he’d heard this reference to his brother but went on serving rolls and butter as imperturbably as though he were deaf.

  “Good!” Morgain said. “You can come riding with us. When I was down in the stables this morning, Jem and Jasper were singing the praises of your horse. He’s a bright bay,” Morgain added for his aunt’s information.

  “Is he?” Clarice’s suspicions had been insensibly allayed by Dominic’s performance this morning. Now, though, she wondered what other secrets he might be concealing.

  “Yes. Two white stockings and a clever nose. He found the sugar I had in my pocket quick as winking!”

  ‘Two white stockings,” Clarice echoed, thinking back. She felt certain that the horse that had chased her in the lane had been without markings of any kind.

  Dominic chuckled, a deep, warmly masculine sound. “Yes, Captain is notoriously greedy. Take care he doesn’t knock you down in his zeal.”

  “Do you hunt, Mr. Knight?” Clarice asked, tearing her roll.

  “No. It’s too expensive to keep hunters and there’s little sport to be had on a hired horse.”

  ‘Then you have hunted?”

  She glanced at him when his answer did not come at once. He looked confused and slightly embarrassed. Clarice urged, “Mr. Knight?”

  “Forgive me, Lady Stavely, for speaking more authoritatively than I have a right to. I had read that somewhere once and it seemed very sensible. I have no

  knowledge of hunting at all, not even the cost of keeping such horses.”

  “Pray don’t think of it.” Clarice glanced at him, confused. The arrogant man she’d met yesterday would not have known how to make such a handsome apology for such a minor matter. Had she misjudged him? Perhaps the patronizing tone he’d used had been born of nervousness and was not an example of his true nature at all.

  The rest of the meal passed quietly. A chance question gave Morgain the opportunity to talk extensively about his fanciful maps, even half-rising from his chair to fetch his most recent creation. Clarice would have let him go; Dominic stated unequivocally that he never could give his attention to anything else during a meal except the food. Morgain sat down, promising a sight of the map as a special after-luncheon treat.

  It was not to be. Before they’d entirely finished a dish of meringues. Camber announced a visitation by Mr. and Mrs. Lasham. They were Felicia and Blaic’s dearest friends, Mr. Lasham being a gentleman farmer like Blaic. Per force, Clarice introduced Dominic to them. Mr. and Mrs. Lasham asked no impertinent questions yet did their best to draw the stranger out. They found themselves stymied by his cool politeness.

  “I don’t believe so,” he’d answered when asked if he was any relation to a Mrs. Burlington-Knight she’d met during her London Season.

  “I am from London, ma’am,” he’d said when asked to commiserate with the thought of Blaic and Felicia so far from home in this delicious weather.

  “Then you’ve no hay to look after as I have,” Mr. Lasham said heavily. “Come along, Louisa. A pleasure to have met you, sir. Lady Stavely, a delight as always. Be good, youngling! I’ll send Harry over tomorrow. You’ll be the better for a bit of company your own age.”

  Morgain could only accept with thanks, though he whispered to Clarice as soon as the drawing room door had closed, “Harry Lasham’s an empty-headed lout who thinks of nothing but girls.”

  “He’s only thirteen!” she said with a rueful glance al Dominic. “Morgain, don’t exaggerate.”

  “I never exaggerate. The last time he came by, I spent the whole afternoon watching for Marthy Seppings’s brothers while he tried to kiss her. She never would so we were all three of us wasting our time.”

  “Oh, dear,” Clarice said, “I had no idea ... I shall tell Felicia when she comes home and have her drop a word in Mrs. Lasham’s ear.”

  The Lashams’ chaise had no sooner rolled away than Mrs. Wisby and her four charming daughters arrived. They were only halfway through their courtesy call when Mr. Hales, the vicar, and the bashful young man who was substituting for Mr. Henry during his wedding trip paid a call. The Wisby girls were delighted to see Mr. Tapping, for single gentlemen of breeding and education were hard to come by in the limited society of Devon. Now two could devote themselves to Dominic, while the other two could listen agog to Mr. Tapping.

  At first, Clarice was at a loss to explain why she’d become so popular. The morning had seen more callers than a week usually brought to her door. Her conversation with Mrs. Wisby gave her a hint.

  “Have you heard from dear Mrs. Henry?”

  “Nothing as yet. I expect to receive a letter at any time.”

  “Such a perfect wedding! Enough to make even a sober matron such as myself believe in fairy tales.” Mrs. Wisby gave the mauve silk twisted about her head in an approximation of a turban a demure pat. Ever since her oldest daughter had emerged from the schoolroom. Mrs. Wisby had begun dressing like a dowager despite Mr. Wisby’s continuing in robust health.

  “I think we all have a taste for anything that savors of romance.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course, one must allow that dear Mrs. Henry had nobody to please but herself. She has no family to disoblige.” She lowered her voice and launched a significant glance at Mr. Tapping. “I vow I hope for better things for my girls than a curate, although there’s no denying that there is something most attractive about a clergyman....”

  “Melissa had to please Mr. Henry. It seems she did, so as he married her.”

  “A most
suitable match. She receives all his respectability while he gains a delightful bride. A great pity about her parentage, but in these lax days…”

  “I’m sure Mr. Henry did not regard Melissa’s parentage when he asked her to be his wife.”

  “Oh, but I thought her family was quite unknown to her. Was there some message on the occasion of her marriage?”

  Not for worlds would Clarice divulge that Melissa Bainbridge’s father was a duke who had contributed a yearly sum to her keep through a solicitor but who also had sent a beautiful set of silver spoons to the natural daughter he’d never so much as seen.

  Mrs. Wisby took Clarice’s silence for an answer. “Well, no doubt they did not mind whom she married so long as she was settled respectably. But then! Mrs. Henry has always impressed me as a most level-headed, sensible girl. Not the sort to fling her heart over the windmill, as the saying is.”

  Clarice wondered who in their circle was about to contract a less-than-sensible marriage. She was not overly fond of Mrs. Wisby who, she felt, took the natural ambition of a mother with four daughters to absurd heights. Gossip was the stuff of life to her, for through it she could keep current on who was married and who was not. Though only her eldest was “out,” Mrs. Wisby kept a sharp watch for lords who had not yet reached their maturity, those gentlemen in line for a fortune, and widowers both titled and wealthy.

  She turned an indulgent eye on her two youngest daughters, chatting happily around Dominic. “Such an amiable young man, Lady Stavely. A friend of dear Mr. Gardner, I apprehend.”

  “That’s correct. As he is visiting the area to gain information for a book ...”

  “What could be more natural than that he should stay here? Have you known him long?”

  “No, we only met yesterday.”