He wonders at once how he would paint such a phenomenon, how he would capture on canvas the strength of that light in the midst of such gloom. A familiar excitement stirs within him at the idea of the challenge. His pulse quickens. Images flash through his mind, light upon dark, dark upon light, blocks of color and bold brush strokes. In that moment of inspiration all is possible. He drops his luggage to the ground and scrabbles in his knapsack, pulling out board and paper, digging deeper for dusty shards of charcoal. He supports the board with one arm, pinning the paper to it with his fingers at the top. In his right hand he grasps the charcoal and turns to stand facing the scene he wishes to capture. He is in the full glare of the sun, and can feel perspiration beading his brow, dampening his hair. His hat offers more heat than shade, so he pushes it from his head, letting it lie where it falls on the parched ground. He frowns against the glare of the blank page, hesitating only a moment before beginning to sketch. A passing couple comment sharply on his inappropriate behavior. He is immune to their criticism. He knows he is witness to the grief of strangers, and he knows his actions could be seen as callous or disrespectful. The small part of him that still pays heed to such conventions, however, is stamped down by the urgency of his desire to depict what he sees, to immortalize that moment. It is not merely the juxtaposition of shapes, of sunlight and shadow, of patterns and elegant lines he wishes to show. Nor is he interested in recording a comment on society and its cherished traditions. It is the very essence of his subjects he strives to transpose to his picture.
To show what cannot be seen one must first represent what can be seen, he tells himself.
His mind works as swiftly as his hand as he draws. Deft, energetic marks begin to fill the paper.
It is my lot to spend my life in pursuit of the impossible. To reveal what is hidden. But am I able? Am I equal to the task?
He continues to work even as he feels his head spin with the heat of the day and the intensity of his concentration. Even as curious onlookers pause to peer over his shoulder. He works on, seeking to show the brilliance of life in the midst of a ceremony for the dead. Even as the vicar closes his good book. Even as the beautiful, slender girl beside the open grave raises her head and finds herself to be beneath his fervent gaze.
2.
It is nearly four o’clock by the time the funeral cortege leaves the cemetery. I am relieved the service and burial are over, but I do not relish the idea of what lies ahead. Mama spent many teary hours instructing Mrs. Jessop, the housekeeper, and Withers, the butler, on precisely what will be required when those invited back to the house after the funeral arrive.
All serving staff are to wear their mourning livery for the event, and those working below stairs will sport black armbands. There is to be a buffet of grand proportions, and the house dressed and presented in somber but dignified style. The food will be light, and refreshing. The heat will no doubt have already sapped the strength and wilted the nerves of those attending, so iced tea will be offered, along with lemonade and sherry. Withers will have selected a reasonable burgundy for those who felt the need of it, and whiskey, of course, for the men. Deliveries of lilies and black ribbon arrived almost hourly throughout the morning. Secretly, I wish we could have had a simple gathering. I favor the modern trend for a paring down of the traditional trappings and trimmings of a society funeral. But I understood my mother’s need to throw herself into her role as widow, and to do this one last act as lady of the house. For now, at least, she has the diversion of being occupied to lessen her grief.
After slow progress through the busy streets the driver at last draws up in front of what has been the London home of the Montgomery family for generations. Number One Fitzroy Square stands four stories tall, its broad white frontage separated from the world by gleaming, black iron railings. Wide steps lead up to the columned portico which frames the heavy black door. The brass door furniture and bell pull have been polished to a deep shine and only ever touched by gloved hands. The square is formed by four streets of such houses, all striking in their symmetry, their snowy facades, and their pleasing classical proportions. In the middle of the square there is a large private garden, ringed by a fence of railings which match those in front of the houses. Each household is in possession of a key so that they might enter and enjoy the lavishly planted gardens, with their walnut and chestnut trees, their shady walks and flower-filled beds. The foliage of the trees and the abundant shrubs provide a dignified yet pretty division between the houses on one side of the square and those opposite, and are so cleverly designed as to give the impression almost of a small slice of the countryside, transplanted to the heart of the city.
I feel my mood lighten a little, as it always does when coming home. I might have to graciously accept condolences from people I hardly know for several hours to come, but later, when the last guests have been helped into their carriages, I can, here, be myself.
Are you willing to listen to me yet, Lilith?
I feel my spine tingle as the same spirit I heard in the graveyard whispers in my ear once more. I am shocked. Shaken. No spirit has ever spoken to me in this way, without being called. I struggle to retain my composure. I will have to talk to this restless soul, that is certain. But not now, not here. My family needs me now. My non-witch family.
A young footman opens the door of the carriage and Withers, broad shouldered and dependable as ever, appears to offer his assistance to Lady Annabel. Freddie, enlivened no doubt by the prospect of a drink, has already sprung from the other side of the carriage and hurried round to help his mother.
“All right, Withers,” he says, with jarring eagerness, “you can leave Lady Annabel to me. Come along now, Mama. Let’s get you a nice glass of wine, shall we?”
“Don’t be silly, Freddie, you know I never drink wine. Withers, is everything ready?”
“All just as you instructed, Lady Annabel.”
“The flowers … they must be sprayed regularly. This dreadful heat…”
“I’ve put William to the task, my lady.”
The dowager duchess halts her faltering forward progress and stares at Withers. For a moment she looks utterly lost.
“William?” she repeats in a small voice. “Do you know, I don’t seem able to picture his face?”
I hurry to her side. “William Radley, Mama. The second footman, you remember?”
“Oh, yes. Yes of course. Fancy my forgetting. William Radley. How silly of me.”
“You are exhausted, Mama,” I say, taking her arm.
“And thirsty, shouldn’t wonder,” puts in Freddie.
I cast him a look that goes unnoticed as the two of us bear our mother up the steps and into the coolness of the house. Freddie is ready enough to offer help when it suits his purposes. It is not the sort of help I can ever allow myself to rely upon. There will always be Freddie’s own needs behind any offer of assistance. I would be a fool to forget it.
Mama need not have worried; Mrs. Jessop and Withers have carried out her wishes to the letter. The hallway of Number One Fitzroy Square was built to impress, and impress it does. The careful Art Nouveau decor that my mother has so successfully embraced seems only enhanced by the vases of cream aromatic lilies, tied with black satin bows, which have been placed at considered random throughout. I find their perfume in the sultry heat almost overpowering and am aware of a burgeoning headache behind my eyes. Three immaculately turned-out servants hold trays bearing tall glasses.
I pause to speak to Withers, taking off my hat and handing it, with a nod, to my lady’s maid, Violet.
“I shall sit with Mama in the morning room. Would you direct people to us there?”
“Yes, Lady Lilith.”
“But have them shown to the dining room first. Everyone will be drained from standing in the sun for so long.” I turn to speak to Freddie, but he has already divested himself of hat and cane, snatched up a glass of wine and is striding through the door to the study.
The morning room is blis
sfully shady, the sun having long gone off its tall windows. I encourage Mama to sit beside the fragrant bouquet of flowers which fills the hearth. I remain standing, the better to greet our guests. For over an hour the great and the good, mostly members of the aristocracy, some British, some having traveled from abroad, express their sympathy at the passing of the duke, and we graciously accept their condolences. My feet are soon aching and the pain in my brow has sharpened so that it is hard not to frown. It occurs to me that my mother and I are expected not only to hide our grief, to remain dignified and composed, whatever we are feeling, but we are also required to assist people we hardly know who stumble over their platitudes and condolences. It is incumbent on us, the hostesses and chief mourners, to put others at their ease, never mind our own inner turmoil. What use are offers of sympathy when they demand such effort of will and stoicism in return? This entire event, the food, the flowers, the manner in which one must conduct oneself, is for the benefit of people other than the family of the deceased. Who was it, I wonder, who decided that heartbroken relatives should host a party at the very moment all they wished for was to be left alone to grieve?
“Lilith.” A low voice shakes me from my thoughts. “Lilith, I am so very sorry.”
I turn to find Viscount Louis Harcourt striding into the room, his habitual confident step that of a man who knows his position in the world and is proud of it. He extends a hand, snatching up my own gloved one, kissing it briefly and holding it to him. “How very pale you look,” he tells me, “and how very beautiful.”
“Louis.” I summon a small smile for him. After all, whatever the occasion, should not a girl be gladdened by the sight of her fiancé?
“Your father was a fine man. He will be greatly missed.” He pauses and moves a little closer, so close that I can feel the warmth of him. I am tall, but still he has to stoop a little to speak in my ear. “If there is any way I can be of help … anything … you have only to ask. Darling Lily, you know that, don’t you?” He reaches behind my ear. “Oh, how sweet,” he says, opening his cupped hand in front of me to reveal a large butterfly. “Must have mistaken you for a flower.”
“Louis, please, this is no time for party tricks.”
“I only wanted to see my girl smile,” he tells me.
I look at him levelly. If the thought flitted through my mind that I might mention to him the uncalled spirit I heard earlier, I quickly dismiss it. Would he even take such a thing seriously? His habit of using his magic at inappropriate moments is something I am accustomed to, as is the way he has of employing the sleight of hand of a music hall magician. I am aware, today, that there is more to it than a desire to amuse. He wishes to remind me that we share a special bond, because we are both born witches. As if I need reminding. It is one of the main reasons I have not resisted the match my parents always wanted for me. I think it comforted my father, in his last days, to know that I would marry into such a strong, wealthy, well-respected family. Louis and I grew up together. Our parents move in the same rarified social circle; his father and mine were, if not quite friends, then at least fellow Lazarus witches. The earl of Winchester always slightly resented my father’s superior position in the coven. It was as if having to settle for a lower ranking in the aristocracy, being only an earl rather than a duke, made it rankle more that he must also defer to Father when in his witch’s persona. My father did not count Louis’s father as a personal friend, but they shared a mutual respect, born of an understanding of how the world works for singular families such as ours.
And, after all, my parents were not the only ones to regard Louis as a fine catch. Most of those here today know nothing of his coven membership; they simply see him as one of the most eligible bachelors in London. Dear Louis, I believe that is how he has always regarded himself. He knows how attractive he is, with his golden hair, bright blue eyes, and easy grace. He knows the effect he has on young women, knows how many mothers would have happily consented to him marrying their daughters. He exudes wealth and breeding effortlessly, with his fine features and twinkling eyes. I confess I find him attractive—it would be difficult to feel otherwise. And I am fond of him. But it is a fondness born of childhood acquaintance and many years of familiarity. There is something missing, at least for me. I believe he does love me, though I am not so naïve as to think his feelings for me would be the same if I were not the daughter of a duke, and heir to the title of Head Witch.
Is it foolish of me to hanker for some girlish notion of romantic love? Does such a thing even truly exist, I wonder.
After a few moments of giving me his rather intense attention, Louis moves on to express his sympathies to Mama and I slip away. I have no appetite, but remove myself to the dining room on the pretext of looking for something to eat. In fact, I merely wish to make sure all the guests are being properly looked after. None can leave until they have been fed and watered, and the sooner they all go, the happier I will be. The instant I form the thought I feel guilty. These people are, for the most part, here because my family matters to them. I should not be so ungrateful. I should not resent their presence. And yet, looking at such a quantity of glamorously turned-out men and women, who are at this moment busy helping themselves to a glass of this or a bite of that, it is hard to see them as genuinely sympathetic mourners, and easier to see them as partygoers, here to see and be seen, to show off their finery, to engage in tiresome one-upmanship or gossip.
I am spared pondering the matter further by the arrival of the earl of Winchester, Louis’s father. As always his presence unsettles me. I know that he will be watching me closely, and that if he can find a way to remove me from my inherited place in the coven and put Louis in my stead, he will do so. Having me marry his son is surely the easiest path to power.
“My condolences, Lilith,” he says. “Your father was a great man. His loss will be keenly felt by many.”
“Lord Harcourt.” As always with Louis’s father, I find I am on my guard. Will this continue, I wonder, when I become his daughter-in-law?
“You have been left a very special legacy. Rest assured, should you find your inheritance … burdensome … there are those who would be only too happy to relieve you of it.”
“And you would no doubt count yourself among them.”
“Each of us must play to our own strengths, don’t you think?”
“I have no intention of playing at anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” I turn on my heel and walk briskly from the room. I will not, must not, let him see how anxious I am about taking up my father’s position in the coven. Any sign of weakness would be seized upon. I can never afford to give him the slightest cause to claim I am not up to the task. Never. One day he and I will be of the same family, a family of which he is the head, but even then I will remain his superior in the coven. He makes no secret of how uneasily this sits with him. I will not allow him to bully me into deferring to him where coven matters are concerned, however much deference I will be required to show him in society.
It is a blessing to see my dear friend Charlotte Pilkington-Adams stepping lightly into the room. Dressed as always in the very latest fashion she somehow succeeds in making even funereal attire look becoming. The fabric of her gown is not the heavy crape Mama insisted we both clad ourselves in, but the lightest devore velvet, the cut of which allows her to move freely, while still softly enhancing her youthful curves. Though the outfit must be uncomfortably warm, she gives no outward sign of suffering any discomfort at all. Her abundant blond curls are pinned decorously beneath her hat, but still manage to peep out attractively. Charlotte’s pretty face lights up at the sight of me, so that she has to quell her natural exuberance in order not to seem too cheerful for the occasion.
“Darling Lilith.” We exchange kisses. “Such a horridly difficult day for you, and yet you look wonderful.”
“And you are a very welcome drop of sunshine, Charlotte. Thank you for coming.”
“Have you been endlessly cornered by bores? I would hav
e rescued you sooner, but there is such a crush at your front door I could scarce get in.”
“We’ve never been so popular. Funerals hold a morbid fascination for some, I suppose. And an opportunity to gossip.”
“Your father was greatly admired. And people want to support you. Is there anything I can do?” She takes my hands in her own. “You must be utterly exhausted.”
“You can keep the countess of Framley away from me. She’s bound to make cutting remarks about Father not being laid to rest in a mausoleum.”
“I should have thought that was his business and nobody else’s. Silly old bat. Fear not, I shall keep a beady eye on her and intercept if she comes near. I notice Louis is here looking delicious as ever.”
“Try to resist nibbling him,” I tell her. “Cook has gone to some trouble to provide canapés and suchlike.”
“Don’t I know it! How is a girl supposed to keep her figure when you tempt us with such sinful treats?” She underlines her point by snatching up a tiny smoked-salmon mousse en croute from a passing silver tray. “In any case,” she goes on, “I wouldn’t dream of coming between the two of you. The most glamorous couple in London. How you do tease, keeping us all waiting for a wedding date.”
The Midnight Witch Page 2