A Certain Magic

by Mary Balogh

  “Piers!” she said, laughing despite herself. “Those poor young men. And they were your relatives. Have you no feeling at all for their deaths? And you are not wearing mourning?”

  “Good Lord, no,” he said. “They were nothing to me, Allie. I never saw them in my life, and they were very distant relatives, you know. Dozens of seconds and thirds and removes involved in the relationship. They were not even the direct descendants of the present Lord Berringer, merely a little more closely related than I. A few less removes, I gather. There are enough occasions in life when one must grieve. One does not need to take the burdens of the world on one’s shoulders.”

  “So,” Alice said, “I may one day expect to have to address you as ‘my lord,’ may I?”

  “The devil!” he said. “Don’t you ever dare, my girl. How is Bath treating you? You are looking very fine and not at all provincial.”

  “It suits me,” she said. “It must be the most beautiful city in England, Piers.”

  “Granted,” he said. “But full of octogenarians, I hear. I don’t at all like the thought of your living there. I suppose you have dozens of aged and retired generals and whatnot ogling you and wanting to hire you on as nursemaid for their old age at the cost of a marriage license.”

  Alice was laughing. “Oh, not dozens,” she said. “You exaggerate. No more than half a dozen.”

  “Well,” he said, “I wish you had not left home, Allie. I have no reason to spend time at Westhaven Park any longer. First Web dying two years ago and then you purchasing a house in Bath last summer and taking yourself off. It’s deuced lonely at home without either of you.”

  “Is it?” she said. “But I did not have a great deal of choice once Web’s cousin decided last year to move into Chandlos after all. The house belonged to him. And I am not complaining. It was the only one of Web’s possessions that did not come to me, and he would have left me that, too, if he could. Oh, I could have taken a house in the village, Piers, but I did not think it fair to stay in the neighborhood. There are those who would have said I had been forced from my own home, and that would not have been fair at all. It was better to move right away.”

  “But it was your home,” he said, “all your life. Oh, not Chandlos until you married Web, but the village. Your father was rector there even before you were born.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But I had to leave, Piers. There was no one left—Papa gone, Web gone, y—. Well.” She smiled. “It was better to begin a new life altogether. How did you know I was here?”

  “Met your sister-in-law at the opera last evening,” he said. “I’m sorry, Allie. Have I upset you, reminding you of Web?”

  “No, not at all,” she said. “After two years I can both think of him and speak of him without dissolving into the vapors, you know.”

  “You did from the start,” he said. “You never did collapse. Only your eyes showed what was going on inside. Well, he was a damned fool for going out shooting in the rain when he was still recovering from the influenza, and I would have told him so, too, if I had been home at the time. I would have wrestled him back into his bed for you, Allie. Anyway, enough of that. You would never guess what is going on in my life.”

  “Perhaps I could, too,” she said. “I have been hearing strange things of you, Piers. You have been attending balls and dancing, too, which is a very strange combination indeed. And attending the opera last evening? And of course, there are the elegant clothes and the, ah, Brutus hairdo. I think perhaps you are losing your grip on your sanity.”

  He threw back his head and shouted with laughter. “Perhaps I am, too,” he said. “Though if you were to talk to Mama she would tell you that I am just being restored to my senses after a very long time, for apparently I have been in a long decline since Harriet’s death, from which sad fate only my recent promotion to Berringer’s heir has awakened me. I am looking for a leg-shackle, Allie. I am looking to be a tenant-for-life again. Though I was not quite that the first time as it turned out, was I? Poor Harriet. It lasted less than two years.”

  “Surely you cannot be as careless about the matter as you appear to be,” Alice said. “Have you met the lady, Piers? And can you like her and even love her?”

  “Romantic Allie,” he said, chuckling. “Oh, no, my dear, not all marriages can be as perfect as yours was, you know. You and Web were companions and lovers. It is a rare combination, I would have you know, my fair innocent. I do not see many such marriages around me. My own was not by any means ideal, though Harriet was quite blameless and I was fond of her. Marriages when you are about to be catapulted into the nobility are definitely not made in heaven.”

  “Oh,” she said, “you cannot be so cynical, Piers. You would hate a marriage that did not bring you companionship.”

  “Would I?” he said, his eyes twinkling at her. “I think not. It seems I need a breeder. Don’t look so shocked, Allie—you are not a miss from the schoolroom. I need a dozen sons so that Bingamen Hall will be in no danger of reverting to someone with even more removes to his relationship than mine.”

  “As if you cared for titles and property,” she said scornfully. “You have Westhaven Park and a vast fortune besides.”

  He laughed. “But one becomes public property when one is in danger of taking on a title,” he said. “At least, one becomes one’s mama’s property. She is vastly impressed with my new status, Allie, and quite insistent that I give up my widowed state. I will have to choose a sweet young thing, someone who can breed for me for the next twenty years or so. I am bound to find someone this spring. The city is positively bursting at the seams with them.”

  “Piers!”Alice scolded.

  “Oh, have no fear,” he said. “I shall treat her well, Allie, once I have made her Mrs. Westhaven with the carrot of becoming Lady Berringer dangling in front of her nose. I always treated Harriet well.”

  “Yes, you did,” she agreed.

  He uncrossed his ankles and stood up abruptly. “Apart from the small matter that I killed her,” he said.

  Alice rose, too, and set a hand on his arm. “No,” she said. “I thought you had long ago put such a nonsensical idea behind you. Of course you did not kill her. Many women die in childbed, Piers. It is a fact of our existence.”

  “Well,” he said. “It was my child that killed her, was it not? I was not aware that she was sleeping with anyone else.”

  “Nonsense!” she said. “You must not start doing this again. Web is no longer here to deal with you. Is it because you are thinking of marrying again? And having children again?”

  He laughed. “When I have a dozen sons and half a dozen daughters,” he said, “will you come and nurse them when they fall sick with measles or influenza or ill-nature Allie?”

  “Goodness,” she said, horrified. “Of course I will not. I will not be their aunt and will owe them no attention at all.”

  “No, you won’t, will you?” he said regretfully. “But if I fall sick of bad temper from having so many bawling infants around me, will you come and nurse me, Allie?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “You will have a wife to perform that office. I shall merely write you a letter to tell you that it serves you right.”

  “Will you?” he said. “How unkind of you. You need not order your carriage, Allie. I brought the curricle, guessing that you would be on your way to Portman Square. I will drive you there as soon as you have put on your bonnet. You must not let Bruce and your sister-in-law or those children monopolize your time, by the way. I demand some of it. I shall take you to the theater, and drive you about London. I need some sensible companionship occasionally.”

  “If you wish to impress some sweet young thing,” she said, “you will not wish to be seen with me.”

  “Oh, you are quite out there,” he said. “They are already falling all over themselves, you know, not to mention their mamas. It would quite go to my head, Allie, if the same females had not almost ignored me just five months ago.”

  “I shall fet
ch my bonnet,” Alice said.

  Chapter 2

  DURING the afternoon of the same day in another part of London, a post chaise was setting down two weary travelers outside a handsome town house on Russell Square. Though two servants hurried immediately down the steps in order to unload their baggage and carry it inside, the master of this house did not stand on ceremony or think it beneath his dignity to run down the steps himself, despite his considerable bulk, in order to catch up first one of the female travelers in his arms and then the other. He kissed both loudly and was seen to be beaming with goodwill.

  “Lucinda!” he said to the older lady. “Come on inside and have some tea and cakes. There is nothing to wear one down more, is there, than two nights spent at inns. Did you bring your own bed linen as I advised you to do?” But he turned to the younger lady without waiting for an answer. “Cassie!” he said. “Looking as fine as fivepence and good enough to eat. Come to town looking for a husband, have you? Trust your uncle to find you the finest one to be had.”

  “Brother!” the elder lady said, taking his arm in a determined hold and drawing him in the direction of the front door. “The tea will be very welcome, though Cassandra should avoid the cakes. We were forced to spend three nights on the road because of the rain.”

  The Honorable Miss Cassandra Borden followed her mother and her uncle into the house.

  “So,” Mr. Bosley said as soon as servants had handed around tea and cakes and withdrawn from the drawing room. He smiled fondly at his niece. “Getting ready to take the town by storm, are you, Cassie? You are quite pretty enough to turn all the right heads even as you are. By the toe I have decked you out in all the most expensive finery, there won’t be a prince in England not on his knees to you.” He laughed merrily.

  “Oh, Uncle!” the girl said, blushing and staring into her cup.

  “We don’t necessarily want a prince,” Lady Margam said briskly. “But living in the country with Margam gone and not a feather to fly with is not finding Cassandra any husband at all. We want someone respectable and well set up.”

  “When she is the daughter of Lord Margam and niece of one of the wealthiest merchants in London?” Mr. Bosley said, looking at his sister in some surprise. “Come, come, Lucinda, we can do a great deal better than that. You would like something better than a respectable husband, wouldn’t you now, Cassie? Eh?”

  “If you please, Uncle,” she said, not looking up from her teacup.

  “As pretty as a picture, “ Mr. Bosley said, gazing with genial fondness at his niece. “You did well by yourself, Lucinda. You can gain entrance to all the most tonnish affairs with no trouble at all. All you need is some of my money to set you and the girl up, and there is plenty of that. After all, you are my only sister and Cassie is my only niece. What else are family for?”

  “I am much obliged, brother,” Lady Margam said. “But Margam was never one to spend a great deal of time in town. I do not know how we are to be in receipt of any invitations, I am sure.”

  “I have connections,” Mr. Bosley said. “There are people who owe me favors.” He chuckled merrily. “And money, too. I can get the girl taken on. But is there no one you know, Lucinda? It would be so much better if you could gain entry into society on your own account.”

  “No one,” she said. “There was only Lady Henley, Margam’s aunt, who is now deceased, may God rest her soul. And Mr. Trentley, his cousin, who is in America, if I do not mistake the matter. And Mr. Westhaven, his particular friend at Cambridge, who may be deceased, too, for all I know.”

  “No, he is not though,” Mr. Bosley said. “Westhaven? Heir to Lord Berringer? He is in town and much sought after, too. I have been sniffing around me for the last month or so, since I knew Cassie would be coming to find herself a husband. Westhaven is on the lookout for a wife.”

  “He was Margam’s particular friend,” Lady Margam said. “When we were first married and living in Cambridge, that was.”

  “Then you must renew the acquaintance,” Mr. Bosley said, beaming. “He will escort you to some grand do, Lucinda, and Cassie too, of course. He will bring her into fashion. This could not be more fortunate.” He rubbed his large hands together with satisfaction.

  “But I have not seen him in fifteen years,” Lady Margam said. “Cassandra was a mere baby. Though Margam saw him after that, once or twice.”

  “You shall send him an invitation to tea,” Mr. Bosley said. “It will be perfectly acceptable for you to invite him to your brother’s house, will it not? Even if it is a merchant’s house?”

  “I don’t know, I am sure,” she said doubtfully.

  “He can do wonders for Cassie,” her brother said.

  “Mama?” The girl looked up at her mother with large green eyes. “Will I be going to balls soon?”

  “Oh, yes, soon, my love,” her mother said. “As soon as Uncle has outfitted you with all you will need. I suppose I should write to Mr. Westhaven, though I daresay he will consider it most strange. He used to be an excessively handsome and amiable young man, to be sure.”

  “There is every chance that he will fall for Cassie,” her uncle said. “And why should he not? She is young and pretty and the daughter of nobility—on the one side, anyway. And the daughter of his friend, to boot. I shall let it be known, you may be sure, Lucinda, what dowry I am prepared to give with my only niece. Many gentlemen of the ton will find themselves unable to resist that lure, I do assure you. Expensive creatures, every last one of them. Perhaps we will have a husband for you almost before we start, Cassie. How would you like that, girl?”

  “Oh, Uncle!” she said, blushing and gazing down into her empty teacup.

  “She likes it, you see?” Mr. Bosley said, beaming at his sister. “Mrs. Westhaven. In time to be lady Berringer of Bingamen Hall in Bedfordshire. It sounds fine indeed, don’t it, though? Fine, anyway, to an uncle who made his fortune in fish.” He laughed heartily and sipped noisily at his almost cold tea.

  ***

  Amanda Carpenter had been invited to join a party of new acquaintances on a visit to the Tower two days later. The group was to be well chaperoned. Her presence would not be necessary, Phoebe announced to Alice the evening before, when she and her daughter finally returned from a soiree.

  “And glad I am of it,” she said with a sigh, kicking off her evening slippers and sinking onto a sofa. “You can be very thankful you are not a mother, Alice. For no sooner have you finished with nursing and teething and worrying about them falling into streams or down stairs but you must concern yourself with their education and worry that they will turn out to be perfect dunderheads. And no sooner is that all over with but you must start to think about marrying them off as well as may be.”

  “Amanda seems to be taking very well,” Alice said soothingly, rising from her chair and folding her embroidery. She would be glad to get home. The children had been asleep for a few hours, but there was no place to relax properly but in one’s own home.

  “Her father will be besieged with offers before many weeks have passed, to be sure,” Phoebe said. “And thankful I am that that it is his responsibility to choose wisely and not mine, Alice. It really does not seem fair that all the responsibility for the wellbeing of children falls on a mother’s shoulders, does it?”

  No answer seemed to be called for. Alice made none, but placed her embroidery neatly inside her work bag.

  “Tending the children on their sickbeds all day and running after Amanda all night is quite wearing out my nerves,” her sister-in-law said. “I am sure you are in good looks, Alice, and glad I am for you. It is unfortunate that you have no husband or child, but you must count your blessings. You do not have a mother’s worries, either.”

  Alice smiled, kissed Phoebe on the cheek, and took her leave. She sank back against the cushions of her carriage a few minutes later and looked forward to an unexpected free day on the morrow. Although Phoebe had hinted that she was hagged enough to rest for the whole day if her sister-in-law would ju
st be good enough to come and sit in the sickroom during the afternoon, Alice had resisted. She would sit with the children during the evening, she had promised, when Phoebe would be called upon to accompany Amanda to a rout.

  She resisted the urge to feel irritated with her sister- in-law. After all, Phoebe had always been the same, even before she had married Bruce, and certainly before she had had her children. Always self-centered and quite tactless.

  Yes, she was fortunate indeed to be without husband or child, she thought, closing her eyes rather wearily. Did Phoebe have any conception of the vast emptiness that life was capable of offering? she wondered. Doubtless not.

  Web had been part of her life since she was a girl. They were older than she, both Web and Piers—Piers by seven years and Web by eight. She had thought them both very dashing as she grew past childhood. She had known as soon as she reached a girl’s awareness of such matters—when she was fifteen—that Web loved her, just as surely as she knew that Piers did not.

  Web had asked her father for her when she was approaching her eighteenth birthday, and she had agreed to marry him. She had liked him, though he had never been a handsome man. His figure was a little too much on the portly side, his sandy hair was a little too thin, and his face a little too round for classic good looks. But his face had always been kindly and good-humored. She had agreed to marry him because she liked him and because she wanted to spend the rest of her life where she had grown up, though her grandfather probably would have given her a Season if she had asked Papa to write to him, just as he had educated Bruce from the age of twelve and given him a home, too.

  She had married Web because she was willing to settle for contentment and because even at the age of seventeen she had been a realist. Life could never offer what she most dreamed of.

  She had married Web determined to make his happiness the goal of her life. And she thought she had succeeded. He had never stopped worshiping her until the day of his death. And she had been well rewarded for her devotion to him. She had grown dearly fond of him. So much so that her life had collapsed about her for a full year after his death. Despite what Piers had said just the day before, she had collapsed inwardly. She had not known how to live without Web.