A Midsummer's Magic

by Mary Chase Comstock

  Two

  By midday two heavily laden carriages pulled away from Neysmith House: one conveyed a happy pair of unfettered parents south to Brighton, while the other, whose occupants were a good deal less taken with one another, was bound west for Cornwall. These latter, Diana and Bertie, had begun squabbling almost as soon as the doors were closed upon them, ignoring the monitions of the long-suffering Jane who had suddenly found herself pressed into service as their attendant.

  "Bertie," Diana began sharply, fixing him with an uncompromising glare, "I wish you will keep to your own side of the carriage. Do not let me see so much as a toe on my side. And if you must speak, pray pity my nerves and do so quietly."

  At this tempting invitation, Bertie commenced to recite "The Morning Prayer of the Good Child" at the top of his voice.

  "I do not hear a word you say," Diana shouted over him as she clapped her hands to her ears.

  Immediately, he swung his feet to Diana's side of the carriage and pounded out a rhythmic tattoo.

  "You little beast!" Diana hissed, reaching across to him and delivering a thoroughly unsisterly pinch. "If you do not take care, Bertie, I shall make you ride in the basket!"

  "The basket! The basket!" he sang with fiendish merriment. "I shall ride in the basket, Jane! Diana has said and so I must!"

  "Why, Bertie, I vow you are the worst sort of wretched little burden that ever a person bore," Diana cried out in vast annoyance. "Indeed, you will not ride in the basket! Jane! You must bear me witness! I never meant any such thing!"

  Jane, however, was staring pensively out the window in an unaccustomed silence, and did not respond.

  "Jane?" Bertie queried tentatively. He reached over and tugged at her shawl. "Jane? I say, Diana. Whatever can be the matter with our Jane?"

  As both Diana and Bertie abandoned their bickering and scrutinized the servant, it was clear that something was dreadfully amiss. The woman's ordinarily ruddy cheeks had turned as pale as Diana's had seemed that morning, and she sat with the fingers of both hands tightly crossed.

  "Jane!" Diana cried out, snapping her fingers under the servant's nose. "Jane! Answer us. What on earth ails you?"

  "Alack the day and I am done for," Jane sighed as she turned to them and rolled her eyes dramatically. "And who will miss me when I am gone?"

  "Gammon!" Bertie pronounced. "Why should you be done for when we are headed to the most delightful place in four counties? Can you be such an addlepate that you do not wish to go to Cornwall? Besides, it. will take us at least three days to get there, Father says, and we shall stay at inns and have lovely adventures!"

  "Well and well for you, young man," Jane replied in martyred tones. She pursed her lips and shook her head dolefully from side to side. Then, secure in the attention of her audience, she shuddered and went on, " 'Tis not you that's—doomed."

  "Doomed!" Diana repeated, her brown eyes growing wide. "Whatever do you mean, doomed?"

  "Alas! I fear I dare not tell you, Miss, for all I am sore afraid. Your father has strictly bid me tell no tales of Cornwall."

  Diana exchanged a glance with Bertie. Their father's prohibition was a sure sign that the stories must be very entertaining indeed.

  "Out with it," Bertie pronounced unequivocally.

  "Yes, Jane," Diana urged. "You must. For if you do not it will be the cruellest thing imaginable!" Even though her heart had grown quite deliciously cold at the first inkling of Jane's eerie premonitions, it was still broad daylight and they were little more than a mile beyond the familiar walls of their estate. The temptation to hear the forbidden tales was overwhelming. "You cannot leave us in suspense like this! It is too unkind! Just what is it you are afraid of?"

  "Well," Jane replied slowly, leaning forward and whispering in spite of the privacy of the compartment, "your papa would not like me telling this at all. And you may call me an old fool if you like, but if I did not heed my sainted granny's warnings, the more fool I'd be for certain."

  "Warnings?" Diana repeated breathlessly. "What warnings do you mean?"

  "We drive toward Cornwall as if we had not a care. But Cornwall is a strange place," Jane went on in a low tone. "And it is full of strange creatures with strange, strange powers."

  "Capital!" Bertie cried out as he bounced against the squabs.

  "Hush, Bertie!" Diana chided him. "Go on, Jane."

  Jane shook her head slowly, "There is a fair multitude of reasons for an honest soul to stay out of Cornwall. Dark reasons."

  Bertie shivered appreciatively.

  "In Cornwall," she continued, "the country folk—and devilish druids they be—still light the Beltane fires come Midsummer's Eve! It is a terrible dangerous night for Christian souls and it will soon be upon us. You may be sure I have poured my pockets full of salt to keep the demons and fairy folk at bay."

  Although neither Diana nor Bertie knew quite what the Beltane fires were, nor even what a demon or fairy might do if they should encounter one, it was not long before Jane found herself flanked by her charges, leaving the other seat entirely free. She propped her feet up on this convenient rest and launched into her narrative.

  Hippolyta, Countess of Trevalyen, stood high atop the north tower of Rookeshaven, the ancestral home of her late husband. With her riotous auburn curls loosened by the brisk evening breeze and willowy figure silhouetted against the fading light of the deepening sky, she might have seemed the very image of an imprisoned Rapunzel, awaiting the command to let down her hair. Might have, that is, but for the gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of her upturned nose.

  Hippolyta had climbed to this airy vantage to watch the road from the east. For the past three days, the same symbol had appeared in the tea leaves at the bottom of her cup. According to her book of tasseomancy, leaves in the shape of a chair always meant unexpected company. Now, against the distant horizon of the level moors, she could just make out the feathery dust of an approaching carriage. She frowned slightly as she wondered which rooms to have made up. Not knowing who was coming was very nearly as awkward as not knowing, any one was coming at all.

  As she considered this dilemma, a distant croaking broke the silence and a huge raven circled the tower several times before it finally swooped down to the ledge beside her. There, it preened its glossy, iridescent feathers for a moment, then stretched its neck out toward the Countess, as if in expectation of a caress. A moment passed. Then two. The huge bird drew its head up and cocked it back and forth. Finally, as if annoyed by her preoccupation, it flapped its wings and croaked indignantly.

  "Yes, I know, Trevalyen," Hippolyta murmured abstractedly. "More visitors on the way. I suppose I had best go in and warn poor Mrs. Bannock. Are you coming along?" she asked, wrapping her shawl around her arm and holding it out for him.

  The raven squawked and hopped toward her. Then, it fluttered to her arm where it lit gently and folded its wings with immense dignity.

  "Good bird," she smiled, running a finger along the top of his lustrous head.

  "Awk!" he returned hoarsely. "Great gammon!"

  The bustling assembly of scullery maids and pot boys in the kitchen did not seem in the least surprised to see their mistress descend to their steamy domain. Nor did the presence of the bird offend any but Mrs. Bannock, the house-keeper and cook, who surveyed the creature with an exceedingly cold eye.

  "I am afraid we shall be having more visitors soon, Mrs. Bannock," Hippolyta told her.

  "When is soon, Lady Polly?" Mrs. Bannock asked, casting a murderous glance at the raven.

  "Let me see…" Hippolyta frowned, and calculated quickly. The carriage had barely reached the crossroads when she spied it. "About fifteen minutes, I should imagine."

  Company in fifteen minutes and not three hours until dinner! Mrs. Bannock closed her eyes for a moment and sighed wearily. "And how many do you expect there will be then, my lady?"

  "Oh, not so very many. No more than will fit in an ordinary-sized carriage," Hippolyta told her with a vague sm
ile.

  "I see. Thank you very much indeed. Between one and six persons then. Well, I shall prepare between one and six more rooms and have between one and six more places set at dinner tonight. Thank you so much for the warning, my lady."

  "Gammon!" croaked Trevalyen.

  Mrs. Bannock made a sudden and unsuccessful swing at the raven with a wooden spoon. "None of your ridicule, bird, or you will find yourself the main course!"

  At this pronouncement, the bird flapped its great wings and set to croaking in a nerve-shattering manner. "There, there, Trevalyen," Hippolyta soothed. "Do try not to ruffle our dear Mrs. Bannock. Why, whatever should we do without her?"

  "Rest in peace!" croaked the bird. "Rest in peace!"

  "Villainous fowl!" Mrs. Bannock screeched in tones so like the raven's that several of the pot boys were forced to snicker into their sleeves.

  "Awk! Foul villainess!" the bird retorted.

  Hippolyta reached over and caught the raven's beak between her thumb and forefinger clamping it shut, thereby deterring any further commerce between the two combatants.

  "That will be quite enough from you, Trevalyen," she scolded, "or I vow I shall hand you over to be fricasseed! I am so sorry for the commotion, Mrs. Bannock, but I fear I had best go. Faith! I do not know what I shall do with this wretched bird. Oh, do not forget to save a cake or two for his tea."

  As Mrs. Bannock watched her mistress and the feathered fiend depart, she wondered darkly if one might not find such a thing as belladonna sitting about.

  At length, Hippolyta found her way through the Hall's great entryway to the Chinese Salon. It was by far her favorite room and had been decorated with numerous artifacts from the Far East: hand-painted wallpaper depicted intertwined green dragons; jade bibelots crowded the tops of tables; teak furnishings lined the walls. As Hippolyta entered she held her arm out and Trevalyen flapped his way obediently to a roost set up in the corner.

  Despite the fact that it was almost midsummer, the weather was still quite brisk. A fire was burning on the grate and several of her guests were gathered around its warmth chatting companionably. Lady Bristlethwaite, flanked by her daughters, the Honorable Sophia and the Honorable Maria, was timidly asking Sir Godfrey Mimms about his study of haunted abbeys. Hippolyta's stepson, Edward, the young Earl of Trevalyen, was looking on in silent admiration, apparently trying to determine which of the Honorables, as everyone called them, was the most dazzling.

  Both girls were fair with pale blue eyes and both shared the same haughty expression. Neither bothered to disguise her boredom, much less the annoyance of having to rusticate in such a desolate spot when they might otherwise be enjoying the gaiety of London or Brighton. At the ripe ages of nineteen and twenty, they feared every week that passed took them one step further along the path to spinsterhood. In their first Seasons, the young Earl of Trevalyen—he was very little older than they—might have been beneath their notice. When they deigned to return his smile now, however, they did so with a predatory gleam that made Hippolyta shiver. Edward was very dear to her and she hoped he would not allow himself to be snapped up like a choice sweetmeat.

  Julian St. Ives was in attendance as well, standing with his back to the fire, taking in the general conversation with a look of decided amusement. He was making a study of ancient healing practices and had petitioned Hippolyta some months before for the use of the extensive library at Rookeshaven. As his sparkling eyes encountered hers, she was aware of a sudden, nervous flutter in her breast. How vexing! St. Ives was a very pleasant fellow and exceedingly knowledgeable, but always so… attentive. She never knew quite what to do or say when he turned his smile on her as he was doing just now.

  As Hippolyta contemplated the assemblage, she wondered for the hundredth time how it was she managed to have so many guests so constantly. It would be very nice to actually give a house party someday—one she had planned on, that is. However, most of her guests seemed to arrive of their own accord and stay on for months. Her late husband had encouraged such comings and goings, but she had not expected them to continue after his death five years ago. These were very interesting people, of course, and some of them quite dear to her, but she had not had the least opportunity to enjoy the solitude widowhood ought to afford. In fact, now that she came to think of it, it seemed that some of her guests had been with her, excepting brief visits to their estates, almost since the funeral. She really would have to pay more attention to these matters.

  "Ah, at last, Lady Polly," Sir Godfrey Mimms greeted her. "We have just been speaking of the strange sightings at Beaulieu Monastery. Of all things, I take the most delight in a monkish ghost!"

  "It is the odor of sanctity," Lady Bristlethwaite ventured in a small voice.

  "The odor of sanctity!" Sir Godfrey beamed back at her. "You have it precisely. Tell us, Lady Polly, has Rookeshaven a ghost?"

  "Several, I believe," Hippolyta told him as she took a glass of claret from Julian St. Ives. There he was at her elbow again. Whatever could he mean by it?

  "How shocking!" cried the Honorable Sophia.

  "Beastly!" her sister exclaimed. Taking advantage of an opportunity to display her frailty, she quickly arose and attached herself to Edward's arm. "Oh, Lord Trevalyen, I am so frightened! Oh, do please say your stepmama was only funning!"

  "I am afraid not, Miss Maria, but pray do not be alarmed," he told her, basking in this very gratifying attention. "Our poor ghosts so rarely make their presence known, we have all but forgot them. Besides, there is only one in this portion of the Hall, I believe, and when he does come around, one only sees a ball of light. The poltergeist in the entry is generally rather listless these days, and as for the headless chambermaid—there is nothing to that story at all."

  Not to be outdone by her sister, Sophia immediately affixed herself to Edward's other arm. "I do not feel at all safe, my lord, except," she murmured, batting her eyelashes, "when I am with you."

  "Such a to-do!" Hippolyta interrupted. "I shall ask Mrs. Bannock to fix you each a garlic cluster to wear and I doubt you will be bothered by anyone."

  The expressions on their faces were for a moment so venomous that Hippolyta was forced to turn away and stifle a giggle. As she did so, she caught Mr. St. Ives's twinkling eye and sensed a sudden kinship. Hippolyta could not have sworn to it, but, just at that moment, she thought the gentleman winked at her. Immediately, she felt the color rise in her face and was forced to look down for a moment to recover her equanimity. Why, she could not recall having felt so fluttery since her first—and only—Season. This would never do at all.

  "My lady?" Nigglesby, the ancient butler, had toddled into the saloon.

  "Yes, Nigglesby?" she replied, glad of the distraction.

  Advancing with such a slow shuffle one had to pay close attention to recognize that he was moving at all, he offered Hippolyta a letter on a trembling silver salver. She took it from him, adjusted her spectacles, and opened the missive. Then she frowned. What a foul trick for her brother Reginald to send that high-strung daughter of his to Cornwall. And what was this scribbled postscript—Sorry. Bertie too— supposed to mean?

  "They be waiting in Great Hall, my lady," he wheezed, his face twisted in an eloquent grimace. "Both squabblin' childer an' a great, sorry female as they've brought wi' 'em."

  "Both Diana and Bertie!" Hippolyta moaned. "I cannot for the life of me imagine why both of my thumbs were not prickling!"

  Three

  Diana huddled in the cavernous entry of Rookeshaven Hall, feeling more forlorn and wretched than ever before in her short life. While the despised Bertie cavorted about, testing various suits of armor for their ability to echo when pounded upon, and Jane spat into various corners making signs against the evil eye, Diana permitted her lower lip to tremble. She had suffered this odious journey (which had taken five rather than three days owing to a broken wheel) with what she considered to be admirable forbearance. Now, at its end, she found not the least sign of welcome nor any hope
of one.

  When the front door at last creaked open after some ten minutes of persistent pounding, the aged butler had merely taken her father's letter, squinted at it, and muttered, "God help us all," before shaking his head and disappearing slowly down a hallway.

  It had fallen to Diana, then, to direct the driver to set their bags inside the front door before he went off to stable the horses. Now, as she looked about the Hall's shadowed interior, she shivered with a growing sense of dread. Evening was coming on, but the candles had not yet been lit. The waning light of sunset filtered in from some small windows set high in the walls, casting long shadows that filled her young heart with anxiety. When Jane at last took a seat by her mistress, she at once commenced to moan and gnaw at her fingertips with astonishing assiduity. Indeed, had they not been gloved, Diana feared the poor soul might have done herself some harm.

  "Miss, poor Miss," Jane sighed heavily, "best measure me up for my shroud for I shall be put to bed with a shovel this night."

  "Oh, do stop, I beg you, Jane," Diana snapped irritably. "My father was right. You should never have been allowed to open your mouth. I am very much afraid I shall not close an eye in sleep tonight for fear some provincial ghost or fairy or pooka or piskey or demon or druid will carry me off in the night!"

  "Oh! Miss Diana!" Jane took a firm hold on her young mistress's arm. "We must arm ourselves, right well we must! If only we can find some Papist to give us some holy water, for 'tis well known, spirits fear Papists just as we good Protestants do!"

  At this pronouncement, Diana threw her hands up to her face in shocked horror, for, like any well-brought-up young lady, she feared Papists as much, or more, than she did ghosts and druids.

  "Jane, that will never do, and well you know it! Papists indeed! Can you think of nothing else?"

  "If only I could remember my poor old granny's spell against ghostly injury!" The servant furrowed her brow and wrung her hands fretfully. "Let me see… 'Stand on one foot, bend your knee…' Oh! Whatever can the rest of it be?"