The Midnight Witch

by Paula Brackston

  “Charlotte. I am still in mourning.”

  “Oh. Yes, how silly of me. But never mind, I’m sure Edith can find you something gorgeous in black.”

  “This is your appointment.”

  “Darling Lily, don’t you long for new clothes?”

  That makes me hesitate. I have never been a particularly keen follower of the latest fashions, unlike Charlotte. There always seems to be something more pressing to think about. But lately I have begun to feel dreadfully drab. I know in part it is due to the family’s status of mourning, the endless black I must wear, the careful shunning of anything the least bit bright or showy, but it isn’t only that. After last night, after spending time with Bram, I feel … different. The party, the way I was able to behave, to be … he moves in circles who live such freer lives than mine. I so want to be a part of it. With him. Not this somber, stiff daughter of a duke, always serious, in mourning, worrying about my family. How marvelous to live as Bram does, to follow a passion, not to care what others think. Not to be tied by what is expected. But then, was I not shown how impossible such freedom is for me? What better reminder could I have had than the relentless haunting by the Dark Spirit? I might be able, one day, to escape the fetters placed about me by my position in society; I will never be free of those bonds that tie me to the coven. My heritage as a witch comes at a price. It may be that my heart must pay that price.

  Mrs. Morell appears with an assistant and both set about telling Charlotte how radiant she is looking and how the dress she has in her hand is the very thing for her complexion at this time of year. I gaze out through the window of the dress shop. The weather shows we are properly into winter now, with a heavy, dark sky that promises freezing rain or snow. The October gales have abated, but only to be replaced by a bone-chilling drop in temperature. Freddie has already written several times to complain of the inadequacy of the heating at Radnor Hall. He told me the fresh air was doing him no good at all as it was much too cold to venture out into it for more than ten minutes at a time. He spends most of his days huddled by the fire in the study and might as well be back at Fitzroy Square. I replied to remind him, yet again, of our deal, and to beg him to sit it out. I assured him the weather was no better in London, the streets were filthy after so much rain, and half the household staff have succumbed to chills and coughs. However bored and uncomfortable he is at our childhood home, he is safer there. I do not doubt that there is opium to be found somewhere in the vicinity, but no such place as Mr. Chow Li’s exist. And now he will have to escape the ever-watchful Withers to go in search of it, for at last I have managed to bring about his traveling to Radnorshire to be with Freddie.

  Mama took some persuading that our butler could be spared for such a long stint, and the real reason could not be revealed. It had required convincing her that Withers was in need of a change of scene and some time away from gritty London himself to get her to agree to let him go. Withers proved to be a fair actor when the part required a pitiful cough.

  “Lilith, do come and look at this.” Charlotte’s voice draws me back into the warmth of the little shop. “Edith has found something exquisite in black. Oh, how ever could you resist?” She gestures enthusiastically at the garment Mrs. Morell is proffering. It is indeed lovely. I lean forward and touch the fine chiffon which is so soft it feels like melting snow beneath my fingers.

  “From France,” the proprietor explains. “Arrived this very morning.”

  The dress is cut so that it flows loosely, allowing for a corset, but not requiring the tiny waist that has been fashionable for so long. Instead, it has a higher waistline with a fine, beaded chiffon overskirt falling softly to the ankles over a silk paneled underskirt.

  “Oh try it on!” Charlotte all but jumps up and down with excitement. “It will suit you perfectly, I know it will.”

  Would it really be so wrong? I wonder. To dress in something fine and new and pretty for once? Would Father think me frivolous, or would he want me to enjoy myself? However well I thought I had known him, it is difficult to be sure what view he would take.

  An hour later I am quite breathless with laughter, and we have reduced the shop to giggly chaos, with gowns, stoles, shoes, and coats strewn across chaise, chair, and table alike.

  “Charlotte,” I tell her, “you are both a tonic and a bad influence.”

  “Oh, really, Lily, you can afford to update your wardrobe,” she says, helping herself to more shortbread and dipping it in the tea Mrs. Morell’s assistant has fetched for us.

  “But three dresses,” I protest.

  “And a rather gorgeous winter coat, which you were sorely in need of, I have to tell you. When did you buy that poor old thing you insist on wearing?”

  “It’s a perfectly good coat, and not a bit worn-out yet.” I do my best to sound as if I care, but already I am completely seduced by my new finest wool version, with its sleek cut and luxurious fur at the collar, cuff, and hem.

  “All I’m saying is at least you won’t look as if Queen Victoria were still on the throne next time you go out.”

  “I was beginning to feel a little drab.”

  “Mourning clothes can do that to a person. These lovely new things are glamorous, yes, but they are all entirely respectable and in keeping with your status, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” she says, polishing off her biscuit and holding out her cup for more tea. She kicks off her shoes and tucks her feet up under her. I envy her her ability to be at ease wherever she is. “It’s interesting,” she goes on, “that you agreed at last to let me help you shop for something new.”

  “As you said, my wardrobe was a little … out of date. I don’t want to look old-fashioned.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?”

  “Or perhaps there’s another reason you want to stop dressing like someone’s maiden aunt. Perhaps there’s somebody you want to look your best for? Somebody new? Somebody devilishly handsome, rather charming, and obviously very keen on you? Name of Bram Cardale, artist recently arrived in the area?’

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying to hide behind my teacup.

  “Lilith Montgomery, you are a poor liar. I have known you far too long not to notice when there is a fresh sparkle about you. A dimpling little smile when we set off for Mangan’s studio.”

  “Now you are talking nonsense.”

  “Oh, am I indeed? And did I imagine I saw you enjoying yourself hugely dancing with him last night, hmm?” She hesitates, and then adds, “Darling Lily, I shouldn’t say it, and you may very well be cross with me, but I’ve never seen you look like that when you dance with Louis.”

  Much to my relief, Mrs. Morell arrives at that moment with a discreet cough, an offer to have the gowns and coat delivered, and the bill. I am spared further grilling on the subject of Bram as I have to attend to settling the account. All the same I cannot deny to myself that I have imagined how I might look to him in my new clothes. The dresses make me feel different. Younger. Freer. Would he see a difference in me? And what if he did? The plain fact is, Charlotte is right: I am different when I am with Bram. I am a version of myself I had not known existed. With Louis I am who I have always been. Is that the attraction? I wonder. Do I see in Bram the opportunity to escape the roles in which I have been cast?

  And surely it is foolish fancy to think I can continue seeing Bram, anyway. Charlotte cannot have many more sittings left, and after that I will have no reason for visiting the studio. Am I merely trying to make myself feel better? To bolster my confidence by having him admire me? I came so close to confiding in him, to telling him everything. Was it the champagne and the dancing that made me drop my guard? I wonder. Or was it the man himself? It would have been a terrible mistake, I see that now, in the unforgiving light of day. It is ironic that the Dark Spirit may have done me a service by stopping me from speaking further. And yet here I am, like some giddy girl, wondering how Bram would like me in pretty new clothes. I might dis
tract myself with Charlotte and a little shopping, but I know I will have to return to my duties. The Dark Spirit has made his next move by declaring he wants something from me. He can only mean the Lazarus Elixir. I can play at being a carefree young woman for only a short time, that is the truth of it.

  Later, in the privacy of my own bedroom, I examine my purchases once again. I have promised to dine at home with Louis tonight, and Mama, without so much as looking in a single box, has insisted I wear one of my new dresses for his benefit. Alice helps me try them on again. One is far too dressy, intended for I know not what occasion, but definitely not dinner à deux with Louis. All are black, of course, but they are, each in their own ways, as far removed from the heavy, somber mourning clothes I have been encased in for so many months as it is possible to be. One is the fine chiffon French design Charlotte had demanded I try. I am glad she did. It makes me feel light when I put it on, insubstantial, almost. I still wear my corset beneath it, but Alice lets out the stays, so that I feel blissfully relaxed in it. I do not dare reveal to Mama the curious undergarments Charlotte cajoled me into getting. They are of ivory silk, something she informed me is known as a “teddy,” with a matching slip. Wearing them is like being caressed by a cool breeze as I move. They feel daringly sensuous and modern. Mama, who has taken it upon herself to inspect my choice before I go down, is already in a state of agitation about what she considers the immodest length of the dress skirts, which skim my ankles, and the slender, sinuous cut of the dress.

  “But, Mama, surely it is more modest to touch the body only here and there, rather than to push and pull it into some uncomfortable version of the shape I apparently should be, rather than the shape I actually am?”

  “It’s all very well for Charlotte to wear things like that, her family don’t seem to give a second thought to such matters.”

  “Mama! You make them sound quite radical, when you know they are not. They merely allow their daughter to move with the times, that’s all.”

  “Whereas I do not, I suppose?” She looks genuinely hurt.

  “Surely I can wear something more appropriate for my age now … I am twenty-one, after all. I should dress like a woman of today.”

  “You should dress like a Montgomery—with dignity, not one of these wild girls who stands on pavements in short skirts to shout about votes for women, or some modern creature who cares not two hoots the impression she gives.” She looks me up and down with a mixture of concern and pride. It shames me to think I am so capable of manipulating her, but I know precisely how to win the argument.

  “People expect me to keep up with changing fashions, Mama. Louis expects it.”

  “Louis does?”

  “Of course. You can’t really believe a man like him would look twice at a girl he considered out of touch. He wants a wife he can be proud of. Someone on his arm who will impress.”

  My mother’s face gives away her shifting priorities as they move from the good of the family name to the match she has her heart set on for her only daughter. She marshals her thoughts and makes a half-convincing attempt at nonchalance.

  “I suppose you might wear that this evening. As you are to dine alone with Louis.”

  “Oh? Not too daring, then?”

  “We don’t want him thinking of us as provincial.”

  I smile at her. Only my dear mother could consider anyone might level such an accusation at us.

  “I’m sure he will approve,” I tell her, kissing her lightly on the forehead. She has lost what little weight she has carried since Father died, and appears not to fill out her paper-fine skin anymore. It pulls at my heartstrings to see her eyes brighten at the thought of what might be.

  And so it is that I descend the stairs wearing the beautiful chiffon dress, feeling ridiculously glamorous for dinner with a friend I have, after all, known since childhood. For a moment I wish Freddie was here. He and Louis were close when younger. It saddens me to see even their long-standing friendship fade and falter in the face of Freddie’s new lifestyle. I wonder how he is truly managing at Radnor Hall. I have persuaded various neighbors and distant relations to call on him, eager that he should have steadying company. But the months are long, the weather bad, the nights dark, and no doubt lonely. Withers would tell me if there were any undesirable visitors from London, but he cannot observe Freddie’s every move, particularly if he goes off in his newly acquired motorcar, to heaven knows where.

  Louis appears at the door of the study and smiles broadly at the sight of me.

  “Lilith, you are a vision,” he tells me.

  “Careful who you say that to,” I reply, coming to stand in front of him, not liking the idea that he might think I have dressed up for him, and so wanting to make light of his comment. “I’ve heard that seeing visions is considered a sign of insanity by some people.”

  “Then no doubt hearing voices is irrefutable proof, in which case you and I are both for the asylum,” he says, still smiling. He offers me his arm and I take it, and together we go in to dinner.

  Mama, who has claimed a headache and so is dining in her room, must have sent word to Cook not to stint. We are presented with a fine consommé, a fish course of Dover sole, with partridge and quince jelly to follow. The meal is rounded off with an exotic pineapple sorbet.

  “Your dear mother keeps an excellent kitchen, and a very good cellar, too,” he says, dabbing at his mouth with exaggerated pleasure. “And there was I, destined for sardines on a tray in my room. Could you think of anything more pathetic?”

  “Louis, I doubt you have eaten a sardine since you were ten years old. And anyway, you knew perfectly well you would be invited to dine with us if you called late in the afternoon.”

  “Why, Lily, you make me sound so very … calculating.” He adopts a ridiculously wounded expression.

  “You are your father’s son.”

  “Ouch!” he cries, clutching dramatically at his heart. “You have a vicious streak in you, Lilith Montgomery.”

  “You mean I choose not to simper at you, unlike most of the women you surround yourself with.”

  He smiles again, his best, most winning smile, and reaches for my hand across the table. “Surely that is the privilege of a fiancée. Anyhow, I’d rather suffer cruelty from you than any amount of simpering from someone else. And besides, it’s fortunate I thought to drop in tonight, or that heavenly dress would have gone unseen.”

  “Perhaps,” I say coolly, slowly withdrawing my hand. “Or perhaps I would have worn it anyway.”

  “At home with your mother?”

  “Or out with somebody else.”

  “Somebody who?”

  “Oh, Louis, don’t tell me your little spies haven’t informed you of my every move since Father died?”

  “Spies? Lilith, my darling girl, now you have lost me.”

  I think about taking the subject further. I have noticed the movements in the shadows. My guardians have alerted me to uninvited presences, too, on several occasions. I had not planned to question Louis about it, and slip the reference in to our light conversation only to see how he will react. But I have learned nothing. He is too accomplished at masking his true reactions for me to be able to tell if he genuinely does not know what I am talking about. In fact, I suspect it is his father who set his minions to keeping an eye on me. And the earl of Winchester is not the sort of man who feels the need to keep his son informed of all his actions. I let the matter drop and make some flippant comment about it being more likely Mama is making sure I do not socialize with anyone beneath the rank of viscount, which makes Louis laugh.

  He is good company, and I find myself relaxing with him for once. Somehow, now that we are on our own—save for the discreet footman who waits upon us—away from the somewhat overbearing wishes of my mother, and removed from the business of the coven, he is simply Louis: a person I have known most of my life. Someone who knows me better than even Charlotte. Someone who understands me in ways that a non-witch never could. The th
ought leads me to Bram. A sadness grips me, surprising me in its strength. How can I be so affected by the mere thought of a man I have known such a short time, a man hopelessly outside my social circle, and a man who is not a witch? But already I know the answer. Even Charlotte has noticed how I alter in his company, how I look forward to our visits to the studio. After all, hadn’t my extravagance at Edith Morell’s shop been really, truly, about him? And when I recall how I felt when he held me I know I have never, and will never, feel the same in Louis’s arms.

  “Lilith?”

  I realize Louis is talking to me.

  “I’m sorry, “I say. “I am rather tired tonight. Not very good company.”

  “Just then you looked as if you were somewhere else entirely.”

  “Did I?”

  “Something is troubling you. What is it? You know I’ll help if I can,” he says, and I believe he means it.

  “Oh, I’ve a lot to think about at the moment, that’s all. You know how things are, trying to get Freddie to stay at Radnor Hall, Mama still not herself, my position … elsewhere,” I add, glancing at the footman, who gives the impression of being made of stone, but is no doubt taking in every word.

  Louis nods. “You will do marvelously well, I know you will.”

  “Time will tell, Louis,” I reply. “Time will tell.”

  * * *

  Nicholas Stricklend watches the retreating figure of Fordingbridge as he backs out of the room, shutting the door behind him. The day has been a long and testing one, taken up largely with trivial matters that are the everyday business of Whitehall, and they have tried Stricklend’s patience. He crosses the room to the cabinet against the far wall, takes out a bottle of Armagnac, and pours himself a generous measure. Returning to his chair he sits and ruminates upon what being a Sentinel has meant to him. What it has won him. And what it has cost him.

  Stricklend’s childhood had followed a course traditional to many, in that he had been sent away to a prestigious boarding school at the age of seven. He had not found it easy to make friends, for he had no charm, no natural warmth, and no desire to ingratiate himself with boys he saw as almost always inferior to himself. He had shown some talent for boxing and for cricket, so that he had at least earned a grudging respect from his fellow pupils, if not their affection. He had also excelled at his studies, so that the masters viewed him as a satisfactory if rather unlikable student. He had kept to himself and eschewed clubs and social events wherever possible. It had seemed to him, he recalled, that he had in this way arrived at a method of making his school life tolerable, and he had hoped to move steadily toward achieving excellent passes in his exams and going on to university without mishap. But small boys grow into bigger boys, and these, he remembered with no small amount of bitterness, were less willing to accommodate someone who did not conform.