I expect Aunt Elizabeth will write to Aunt Charlotte very soon. I suggest, therefore, that you find a very good hiding place for all the various charm-bags I have sent you, though I suppose you might contrive to pass them off as presents from Thomas. I don't suppose Aunt Charlotte would find it at all out of the ordinary for a wizard to give such things to his betrothed.
You may also tell Thomas that I apologize very much if he does not like it, but I have smashed his chocolate pot to smithereens. It is unfortunate that it was necessary to do so, but the pot was not doing Thomas any good where it was, and I saw little likelihood of its being recovered. This way, Thomas will have to make himself a new focus, but at least Sir Hilary will not be able to use the chocolate pot against him any longer. (Thomas and James seem to have been determined to get the thing back, instead of being practical, which is just the sort of thing men do when they are being stubborn. You need not tell him I said so, however.)
27 June
I had intended to write more of my conjectures today, as I am still confined to my room and have little else to do. I find, however, that I am nearly too tired to lift my pen; I believe that I may be sickening of the influenza. So I shall ask Mary, the little upstairs maid, to smuggle this off to the post.
I do wish I had had the chance to reassure James, but even if Aunt Elizabeth would have allowed me to do so, I do not think I have the energy to have ridden out.
Your loving cousin, Cecy
30 June 1817
11 Berkeley Square, London
Dear Cecy,
Bless you and keep you, cousin! Bless you for smashing that wretched chocolate pot. And keep you from the influenza. Fortunately, Aunt Elizabeth is a splendid nurse. Please take great care of yourself. It is sometimes hard on one's temper to be treated as an invalid.
On Thursday, I accepted Lady Sylvia's invitation to tea to Schofield House. She was kind enough to send a carriage round to collect me, so I was able to visit unattended by Aunt Charlotte. By the time the invitation arrived, I had taken pains to inquire about Lady Sylvia Schofield and was able to discover that although she is perfectly respectable, she has a considerable reputation for eccentricity.
In the first place, she has never put off mourning since her elder son's death. In the second place, after her husband's death she left England and has since traveled about the world. In the past year she took up residence in Paris and no one expected her to return, even for Thomas's wedding. In the third place, she has a reputation for outspokenness that puts even Thomas to shame. Apparently she once told the Archbishop of Canterbury that marriage among the clergy was the only factor that prevented English village life from degenerating into utter savagery. (No wonder Thomas did not say the Archbishop was a particular friend of his mother's.) In the fourth place, and I have saved the best for last, Lady Sylvia Schofield enjoys considerable notoriety for her skills as a wizard. (In addition to her independent interests, she is said to have given Sir David Brewster the idea for his kaleidoscope.)
Thus it was that I arrived at Schofield House with my reticule stuffed fat with the charm-bag you stitched for Thomas.
As I feared, Thomas was not well enough to come down to tea, but Lady Sylvia received me in the library, over a tea table laden with good things.
"Now then, Kate," said Lady Sylvia, pouring tea, "you must tell me how long this nonsensical behavior of Thomas's has been going on."
I took a steadying sip of India tea and began with the day of Sir Hilary's investiture. When I was finished, I produced your charm-bag for Thomas. "It requires a lock of Thomas's hair to complete," I said, as I handed it to her, "but I thought it might prove useful—or at least do him no harm. He seems so weary—" I broke off helplessly.
Lady Sylvia refilled my teacup and gave the charm-bag her full attention for several minutes. "Good work," she said at last. "Nothing extravagant, just good wholesome basic craft. A five-finger exercise. Your cousin's doing, you say? Hmm. There's talent there. I should like to hear her orisons and invocations. Still, that can wait. By all means, I shall crop a lock of Thomas's hair for it. I'm sure it cannot harm him. And they do say cutting hair is most beneficial to some fevers, do they not? Oh, come. Don't look so stricken." She poured herself more tea, but neither of us drank any.
"If only we knew what Sir Hilary is doing," I said finally. "Thomas gets worse and worse and we're powerless."
"Now, stop that, dear child," said Lady Sylvia, moving the plate of ratafia biscuits away from me. I realized belatedly that I had ground several of the biscuits into powder while my thoughts wandered. As I brushed futilely at the crumbs, Lady Sylvia rose and went to rummage in Thomas's writing desk. After a moment she returned with his ink pot, which she put down on the tea tray.
"This should show us a little of Sir Hilary's actions," she said, "though the knowledge may do us no good at all. Unfortunately, the spell only works with the single sense of vision. Still, it may prove interesting."
She clasped the ink pot in her hands for a moment, her dark eyes steady on mine, then passed her left hand over the top, unstoppered it, and seized my right hand in hers. She spoke, but I could not catch her precise words. They sounded to me like classical Greek as Uncle speaks it. "Now we both look," she said, and tilted the ink pot a little in her free hand. It took several moments for her to find an angle where we could both peer into the ink pot, but when she did, I could see the bright, distorted reflection of the library windows on the surface of the ink. "Oh, good," said Lady Sylvia. "It's very clear. Perhaps it helps that you're a virgin."
Despite this rather shocking remark, I kept my eyes on the reflection in the ink, for as I watched, I saw the brightness change. As if from a great distance, I could see Sir Hilary presiding over a crowded tea table. I saw you jump up from your chair, chocolate pot in hand, and in a series of movements as devastating as my most inspired clumsiness reduce the entire tea table, chocolate pot and all, to wreckage. You fell down as Aunt Elizabeth sprang up—and the ink rippled as Lady Sylvia's hand trembled.
From upstairs came the sound of glass breaking.
I glanced up. Lady Sylvia had lifted her head to listen. Swiftly, she put the ink pot down and rose, ivory walking stick in hand. I followed her as she rushed from the room and upstairs to the open door of Thomas's room.
He was in bed, awake, propped up against many pillows. On the floor in the center of the room, a shattered drinking glass lay in a pool of viscous milky liquid. At our entrance, Thomas looked up and smiled. He was still very pale, but his smile was his old derisive one, and his voice, though weak, held unmistakable satisfaction as he said, "If you have come to give me more barley water, Mother, I warn you I am feeling far too well to drink it."
On my next visit, this afternoon, I arrived to find Lady Sylvia presiding over the tea tray as before and Thomas feeling so much more the thing that he had actually gone out.
"Yes," said Lady Sylvia as she offered me a cucumber sandwich, "he has gone to see about Frederick Hollydean. Evidently the dreadful boy was forever prosing on about the Grand Tour, so dear Thomas has made a booking for him on a ship bound for Piraeus via Alexandria. Very broadening for the lad, but I doubt the horrible Hollydean will appreciate it. Still, I must admit I'm proud of Thomas. When he disposes of people, they stay disposed."
When I finished my first cup of tea, I brought out your most recent letter. I hope you will not object, though I know it was never meant for anyone's eyes but mine, but I asked Lady Sylvia to read it. I felt that she was not only personally involved, but also interested on the basis of her expertise as a wizard. She read it through rapidly and returned it to me, saying that she did not blame me in the least for my concern at your closing paragraph. She said it was very clever of you to have worked out the double focus, that she considered Thomas a great gudgeon for not breaking the chocolate pot himself long since, and that she would speak with Thomas the instant he returned. "But in the meantime," she said, pouring us each another cup of tea, "tell me exactl
y what your cousin was referring to when she says you went to a gentleman's lodgings in the middle of the night."
I told her the whole, stressing the fact that time was of the essence, and that a call during the day would have included Aunt Charlotte, who would have insisted on chaperoning me herself.
"Your Aunt Charlotte," Lady Sylvia said. "Surely that must be Charlotte Rushton?"
I nodded.
"Would that be Elizabeth Rushton's sister?" I nodded again.
Lady Sylvia's brows rose. "Well, well. Your cousin Cecelia comes by her magical aptitude very understandably then. These things do run in families, you know. Oh, yes. They do indeed."
And no more would she say.
Please write to tell me the very instant you receive this letter. Your illness worries me very much.
Love, Kate
P.S. You will not attend Sir Hilary's party now, of course, but I send with this letter a dress length of amber taffeta. It was ordered for me but the modiste never cut it out. I hope there is enough fabric to provide a dress for you, despite your greater height. Perhaps when all this is over, you will be able to wear it in happier circumstances.
3 July 1817
Rushton Manor, Essex
Dearest Kate,
I am so sorry that my last letter worried you; I did not intend that it should. It was very foolish of me to have added that last paragraph, but I was not thinking too clearly at the time.
Thanks to Mr. Wrexton, I am quite well now, and very glad to know that my efforts with the chocolate pot were not ineffective. I am beginning to think it a pity that you have promised to jilt Thomas at the end of the Season; he appears to need someone around with more wit than he has. It is a good thing his Mother has returned. Between the two of you, you may be able to bring him to his senses.
Also, I must thank you for the amber taffeta you sent with your letter. I am taking it to Mrs. Hobart this afternoon to choose some ribbons and have it made up for Sir Hilary's party on Saturday. For I must tell you, Kate, that we will be going to it after all. The invitation card arrived this morning. This is not so unlikely as you may think, for Aunt Elizabeth has apologized to Sir Hilary for her behavior. It is exceedingly provoking of her, for she seems to think she has misjudged him, and while it is quite true that it was not Sir Hilary who was teaching me magic, it is also true that Sir Hilary has been doing things which are far worse.
I had better explain how all this has come about. After I wrote you last Friday, Papa came up to my room to see me. Aunt Elizabeth had told him the whole story (as she knows it) of the incident at Sir Hilary's, with particular emphasis on the wicked magic that Sir Hilary was supposedly teaching me. Papa had come to hear my side.
I was feeling very tired, and was lying on the daybed in the satin dressing gown that Aunt Charlotte gave me last year (blue, of course, but the embroidery is so pretty that I do not care). Papa stopped short, frowning, when he saw me, and said anxiously, "Cecilia, are you unwell?"
"I am not feeling quite the thing, Papa," I admitted.
"I came to find out what was behind the tale your aunt brought me," he said, "but I can return some other time if you would rather not discuss it now."
"It is quite all right, Papa; I am only a little tired," I said. I was more than just a little tired, but I had decided that I would much rather explain things to Papa then, no matter how much effort it took. I knew that if I let him leave, I would spend the rest of the day worrying about whether he was fretting, which would not have been at all restful.
"Very well, if you are sure, Cecy." Papa pulled one of the chairs over beside the daybed and sat down. He looked at me very gravely. "Your aunt says that you have been letting Sir Hilary Bedrick teach you magic, against her express wishes," he said. "Is this true, Cecy?"
"No, Papa," I said. "At least—I have been learning magic, but not from Sir Hilary. And Aunt Elizabeth never actually said I was forbidden to do so. Though I must admit that I knew she would not like it," I added conscientiously.
"Elizabeth says you were carrying a book—," Papa started, and he looked so sorrowful that I had to interrupt before he finished.
"Epicyclical Elaborations of Sorcery by Everard Tanistry," I said. "And it is a perfectly dreadful book, and I quite understand why she was upset, at least— How did Aunt Elizabeth know how horrid it was?"
"What were you doing with it, Cecy?" Papa asked. His expression had gone very stiff when I said the name of the book, but he relaxed just a little as soon as I said that it was perfectly dreadful. "Who gave it to you?"
"No one gave it to me, Papa," I said. I raised my chin and looked at him. "I fooled Sir Hilary's servants into sending it over along with some of the books you asked for last week. I had seen it in Sir Hilary's library, and I wanted to look at it because—Papa, will you promise not to tell Aunt Elizabeth?"
"Cecy—"
"Please, Papa! She'll write to Aunt Charlotte, and Kate will be in dreadful trouble, and she does not deserve it."
"I see. Very well, Cecelia, I will not tell your aunt—either of your aunts—why you wanted to look at that particular book."
"Thank you, Papa. It was like this—," and I explained to him about Miranda. Not the whole story, of course; just that you and I had discovered that Dorothea's Stepmama had been Miranda Tanistry before her marriage, that she did not seem to be a particularly pleasant person, that we thought she was a sorceress of some kind, and that you have told me that she has a strong dislike for Thomas. All of which is quite true, even if it is nothing like the whole.
"And when I saw the name Tanistry on a book in Sir Hilary's library, I thought perhaps it might have been written by a relative of hers," I finished. "And I thought that I might find out something that would be useful for Kate to know about her family if I looked at Sir Hilary's book closely."
"I see," Papa said again. "And did you?"
"Well, only that if she is related to the man who wrote that book, then her whole family is a great deal more wicked than I had thought," I said. "Do you know what that book is about, Papa?"
"Yes," he said, and smiled at me. "That is precisely why I was worried when Elizabeth told me you had been studying it."
"You mean Aunt Elizabeth thought I was trying to learn those dreadful spells for— Well, that is the outside of enough!" I said indignantly. "Just because she dislikes magic, she thinks everyone who uses it must be wicked! Even if it's me!"
Papa laughed, then sobered and shook his head. "Try not to judge your aunt too harshly, Cecy," he said. "She has more reason than you know to dislike Sir Hilary. I think it was that, as much as the magic, that made her react so strongly."
"Why does Aunt Elizabeth hate magicians so?" I asked. "I have wanted to learn about magic forever, and she will not even let me talk about it!"
Papa sighed. "Cecy—" He paused, and shook his head again. "Your aunt does not hate magicians," he said deliberately. "She is an excellent magician in her own right, or she was once."
"Aunt Elizabeth is a magician?" I said incredulously "But..."
Papa nodded, and began to explain. When she was younger, Aunt Elizabeth was apparently not only a magician, but an extremely good one. She became engaged to a man named William Camden, who was also a wizard. Papa says he was very devoted to his craft, which is where the trouble started. For the more magic he learned, the more he wanted to learn. This is not necessarily a bad thing, Papa was careful to explain, but in this case the results were quite tragic. William Camden became obsessed with magic and neglected all his other duties (including Aunt Elizabeth).
Finally, he went to Sir Hilary Bedrick for tutoring (Sir Hilary apparently has quite a name for training up young wizards). But William was still dissatisfied with his progress, and tried to hurry things up by studying some of Sir Hilary's magic tomes on his own. He was killed experimenting with one of the more sinister spells. (Papa would not be too specific about exactly what William was trying to accomplish. From this I conclude that it was something truly
dreadful, for Papa does not usually pay much attention to whether his tales are suitable for females.)
Papa says that this is the real reason why Aunt Elizabeth does not like magic, magicians, or Sir Hilary Bedrick. She gave up her own practice when William died, despite Papa's urging her to continue. I think perhaps she felt she ought to have done something to keep William from blowing himself up (or whatever it was), and gave up her magic out of guilt.
"Well, I am very sorry for Aunt Elizabeth," I said. "And I understand a little better why she was so upset with Sir Hilary. I suppose I can even see why she doesn't want me to learn magic. But Papa, I like magic, and Mr. Wrexton says I am very good at it."
"Mr. Wrexton? Is that who you've been getting your lessons from?" Papa said.
"Yes, and he doesn't know anything about that dreadful Tanistry book," I said. "He's only had time to teach me about charm-bags and animation spells."
"You don't need to reassure me about Michael Wrexton's principles," Papa said. He looked at me closely, and sighed. "You really want this, don't you, Cecy? Very well, then; I'll speak to your aunt. But no more investigations in Sir Hilary's library. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Papa," I said. "And thank you!"
I ought to have been quite elated by all this, but when Papa left I was too tired to write you with my good news and the astonishing story of Aunt Elizabeth. I do not know what I will say to Patience Everslee when next I see her, for she has always maintained that Aunt Elizabeth suffered a grave disappointment in her youth, and I have always told her that it was most unlikely. And now Patience has turned out to be quite right. It is most annoying.
Aunt Elizabeth came in in the afternoon and gave me back my supplies for making charm-bags. She made it quite clear that she disapproved of the entire matter, and said that as Papa had explained the true circumstances she had written Sir Hilary Bedrick a most apologetic letter. (It is quite provoking, for I could not tell her that Sir Hilary was just as bad as she had thought without bringing in Thomas and Miranda and everything. So now she thinks she has misjudged Sir Hilary, and that is why we are to go to the party after all.) She gave me a sharp look and added there was no reason for me to mope about when I had got my way again. I told her I was not moping, I was really very tired. I do not think she believed me then, but when I spent the rest of that day and most of the next sleeping, she was forced to change her mind.
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