A Midsummer's Magic

by Mary Chase Comstock

  "Useless gudgeon!" Diana groaned, tears threatening. "How can you have remembered thirty or forty harrowing tales and not one charm? I vow I shall go distracted! Bertie! You must stop that beastly noise this instant. Can you not see I am about to have a fit!"

  Much intrigued by the promise of such a delightful entertainment, Bertie at once ceased his racket and seated himself at his sister's feet where he could best observe the show to follow.

  It was this scene of idyllic companionship)—the faithful servant, lovely dark-eyed girl, and devoted little brother— which greeted Hippolyta when she at last made her way to the Great Hall to see what disaster had been visited on her. For the space of five or six seconds, therefore, she felt rather guilty for the murderous thoughts she had sent her brother's way.

  "Aunt Polly!" Bertie exclaimed as he caught sight of her. At once, he jumped up and flung himself about her knees in an embrace of such force that she very nearly lost her balance. "Come look!" he cried, taking her hand in his and dragging her toward his sister. "Diana is about to have a fit!"

  Hearing this tactless pronouncement, his sister catapulted from her seat. "Bertie! You wretched little beast! If you are not quiet this instant, I shall box your ears scarlet!"

  At the very same instant, Jane exclaimed, "I've got it!" and sprang to, balancing herself on one limb:

  Stand on one foot

  Bend your knee.

  Spin in a circle:

  One, two, three—

  Fiendish spirits

  Hex on thee!

  No sooner Jane pronounced the words of this spell, however, than the chandelier above their heads began to sway drunkenly, a heavy gauntlet fell from a suit of armor and rattled to the floor with an alarming clang, and a chilling breeze suddenly blew through the hall, weaving its way about their ankles.

  "That will be quite enough!" Hippolyta put her hands on her hips, and fixed Jane with a grim stare. "I advise you not to meddle in things you do not understand! You have gone and stirred them up now and it will take me all night to settle them down."

  Even though Hippolyta did not identify exactly who they were, Jane was by this time so affrighted that, by way of answer, her eyes rolled back in their sockets and she fell heavily to the floor in a faint. Diana, not to be outdone, followed suit, but had the foresight to slip gracefully onto a bench. Amazed past speech, Bertie merely opened his mouth in a large O.

  Hippolyta looked about and pursed her lips ruefully. "I am sorry, Bertie. I truly did not intend to give you such a surly welcome, I vow, but that woman is vexatious beyond all measure. I do not know what your father can be about, sending Jane to me. I daresay she expects me to sprout horns and a tail at any moment."

  Bertie, who would not himself have been surprised had such a wonder come to pass, grinned gamely at her. "Jane's a looby!"

  "Bite your tongue, Bertie," his aunt admonished. "Now, I wonder how we shall contrive to convey the pair of them up the stairs? I am sure it would mortify Diana past saving should any of the company discover her in this state. Would you be a dear, Bertie, and fetch Nigglesby again? Tell him we shall need several footmen and…" Here, she paused and glanced appraisingly at Jane, "perhaps some sort of wheelbarrow."

  "You want me to go all alone?" Bertie asked suspiciously, his bravado somewhat wilted.

  "Yes, I am afraid so. I do not dare leave these two unattended. There is nothing whatever to be afraid of—just a little noise—but you may stay in the kitchen if you wish and ask Mrs. Bannock to give you your tea. I believe I noticed some cherry tarts that require tasting. Run along now."

  Bertie hesitated just a moment, but the lure of cherry tarts apparently proved more potent than fear of troublesome spirits, for he soon turned his steps in the direction of the kitchens. When she was alone, Hippolyta crossed her arms and sighed disconsolately as she regarded the two sleeping beauties who were now draped about her entryway. Was it not just like her brother Reginald to cut up her peace without the least thought for anyone but himself! Bertie was pleasant enough, but terribly mischievous. Diana was high-strung and spoiled. And Jane! She had forgot that the wretched creature even existed until now.

  "How very interesting, Lady Polly." Julian St. Ives had stolen in and stood at her side now, smiling quizzically at the motionless bodies of Jane and Diana. "Shall I fetch a shovel?"

  Hippolyta adjusted her spectacles on her nose and bit her lower lip abstractedly. "I fear it will not be quite that simple, St. Ives. They are family, after all. Oh, dear!" she cried, suddenly remembering herself. "I really ought not to have said such a thing, should I? But, you see, I am so distressed."

  "Your new guests appear to be a quiet pair at any rate," St. Ives chuckled as he took her hand in his. Hippolyta felt a peculiar tingle as he did so, very like the premonition she often had when a spectacular storm was on its way.

  "Oh, you cannot know," she said hastily, to cover her response. "They are quite silent just now, to be sure, but wait, St. Ives. Only wait. As soon as they are conscious, Diana will be complaining of something or another, and Jane will very likely cross herself and throw a pinch of salt at me."

  "I see," he replied slowly, although his tone implied that he did not. "And they are both family?"

  "Diana is my elder brother's child and this dreadful Jane has been in service with the family so long as makes no odds. I am afraid she sees me in light of an evil sorceress, however. The last time I visited Neysmith House, I found my chamber so full of protective charms I could scarcely sleep for pulling sachets of yarrow and nettle from the bedding. Until I caught this creature in the act of pouring salt into my slippers, I had not known whom to blame. What a scold I gave her! It is little wonder she has fainted now our acquaintance is renewed. Goodness only knows what she has told the children about me."

  "But, Lady Polly," he reminded her with a smile, "you cannot deny you do more than merely dabble in the magic arts."

  "Of course it is so, St. Ives, but it is white magic, after all. Even so, I begin to fear I have lost whatever talent I once possessed. Poor Dorcas, the little red-haired upstairs maid, has broken out in warts again not a week after I gave her a charm to cure them. Now Martin in the stables has asked me to concoct a love philtre for him, but I do not think I dare. What if I should do it wrong and turned its charm against him? I do not suppose he would not thank me one bit if every maid in the county fled screaming at his approach."

  St. Ives laughed softly. "No more he should, I imagine. Best you try them on another first."

  "Just look at us, St. Ives, how absent-minded we are become! You are still holding my hand!"

  "Why, so I am, Lady Polly," he agreed affably.

  "What a good thing it is I noticed it! After all, we should not wish my other guests to wonder at us."

  "No, that would never do."

  "St. Ives!" Hippolyta fixed him with an admonishing smile.

  "Yes, my lady?" His eyes twinkled at her.

  "My hand, you gudgeon!"

  "Oh, of course. We were speaking of that just now, were we not?" He raised her hand to his lips for a moment before finally releasing it. "You must keep good watch, my lady. I have indeed become forgetful. I might have held it thus all night."

  Hippolyta removed her spectacles and polished them busily with a small lacy square. They had gone quite steamy all of a sudden, as they had done quite a lot lately, for St. Ives seemed to be growing quite intrepid. Whatever could he mean by it? Why, only last night…

  "Aunt Hippolyta?" Diana had at last raised herself on one elbow.

  "Ah, Diana," Hippolyta said as she crossed to the girl. "How are you feeling, my dear?"

  "So very strange. Why, I could have sworn…" Diana looked about her as if trying very hard to remember something. Then she spotted Jane's recumbent form. "Oh, dear! Aunt Polly…"

  "Never mind, my dear," her aunt preempted her. "You must allow me to make you known to my friend, Julian St. Ives. Allow me to present my niece, Miss Diana Neysmith, Julian St. Ives."
/>
  "Charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss Neysmith." He bowed gracefully over her hand.

  Diana looked up and her gaze suddenly arrested. "So pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. St. Ives," Diana returned, dropping in a curtsey. As she arose, Diana batted her lovely eyelashes at the gentleman and smiled engagingly up at him.

  So Diana had become something of a flirt, had she? Seeing St. Ives through her niece's eyes, though, Hippolyta was forced to admit that he truly was an agreeable gentleman. Far too old for a miss just out of the school room to set her cap for, however. It seemed, she realized with a tremor of distress, the girl might bear some watching.

  It had not, after all, been necessary to carry Jane bodily up the stairs, much to the relief of the Hall's footmen. She had roused herself several moments after Diana, fainted briefly once more at the sight of her hostess, but had been well enough recovered to eventually make her way without assistance to the chamber which had been appointed for her mistress's use.

  "Now, Miss Diana," Jane began in an intense whisper when the door had been shut upon them, "as soon as I tuck a charm here and there about the chamber, I shall see to your trunks…"

  "Not so much as a four-leaf clover, Jane!" Diana scolded, throwing herself onto the bed. Now that she was settled in comfortable chambers complete with a cheerful fire, she found her fears considerably assuaged. "We have just seen how useful your grandmother's incantation was! A few lines more of that revolting ditty and I should not have been the least bit surprised to see Hamlet's father make an appearance."

  "I am afraid I have not made that gentleman's acquaintance," Jane told her with stiff politeness, "but I can tell when my help is not wanted. You may do as you please, miss, but be assured I shall not sleep a wink but what my nightrail is turned outside in. Nor will you see me look into a mirror once the sun is gone down. Wise is wise and fools be fools."

  "And silence is the best wisdom," Diana told her sourly. "Besides, I should not be a bit surprised if the uproar downstairs just now was caused by nothing more than a draft. I am sure this rambling old place is not at all well sealed."

  Jane scowled. "I never saw no draft take apart a suit of armor."

  "No," Diana agreed. "I imagine we can set that to my brother's account, little beast. I am going to sleep for an hour or so, Jane, so attend to my trunks later. Just freshen my blue open-work gown. I wish to look well this evening."

  Jane hesitated a moment, knitting her brows. "I beg your pardon, Miss, but it was my understanding you was in a decline."

  "Muzzle it, Jane," she said feeling deliciously wicked. Being at a distance from the correction of one's repressive parents was not altogether a bad thing. True, she had not wished for this visit, but her aunt seemed less sinister in person than she had in memory. Who had put the notion of witchcraft in her head anyway? It must have been that troublesome Jane. Besides, that Mr. St. Ives looked so very sensible; he would hardly countenance any unorthodox goings-on. Julian was his name. A lovely name.

  What was more, this Julian St. Ives was even more handsome than Lord Dumphrey! He was somewhat… mature… true enough, but those grey eyes, that strong jaw, that impeccable cravat! Top of the trees, she told herself, awed. Well, Miss Varney was quite welcome to Lord Dumphrey—the wilted, foppish tulip! Much luck might they have of each other!

  "Just tell my aunt I shall be down to dinner," Diana charged her, "and take care to awaken me in good time to dress."

  Down in the kitchen Bertie was enjoying being fussed over, admired, petted, and fed. Even the ordinarily dour Mrs. Bannock seemed to thaw at the sight of his enormous blue eyes.

  "What a little poppet you are, Master Bertram!" the good woman exclaimed as she patted his golden curls. "It does my old heart good to see you gobble up those tarts. Not a crumb left for the cat! I have not seen an appetite so pleasing since my lord Edward was a lad."

  Bertie, whose capacity for both sweets and doting attention bordered on mythic, beamed on his admirers and licked his fingers.

  "It was a dreadful long trip," he said ingenuously, "and I could not like my dinner half so well at those scurvy inns as in your kitchen, Mrs. Bannock."

  "Little angel! It is a wonder you are not skin and bones after days and days of that poor fare!"

  "Five long days," he informed her with a woeful expression.

  "Well, sir! We shall have to make up for that. I shall send a special tray to you each afternoon. Your very own special tea!"

  "I don't suppose you can make cheese straws?"

  "Can I not?" Mrs. Bannock bristled. "Just wait and see, my lad."

  "There is one small thing," he said, biting his lower lip and casting his eyes up at her in a determinedly engaging manner.

  "And what is that, my love?"

  "This is such a big place. So strange, too. I was here only once before, you know, and I am afraid I shall become lost."

  Mrs. Bannock chuckled and bent down to him. "Do you see this great ring of keys at my waist?"

  Bertie nodded.

  "They open every room in this great house. I shall take you on a tour as soon as may be and show you all about. Will that set you more at ease?"

  Bertie smiled and nodded again. Turning to her work once more, Mrs. Bannock did not note that Bertie's expression had become quite speculative.

  Four

  Julian St. Ives sat in his chamber staring bemusedly into the fire, waiting for the dinner bell to sound. He had been a guest at Rookeshaven for a little more than a month now, and a more delightful, more disconcerting time he could not imagine. Indeed, he was beginning to wonder if he, like other guests, would be tempted to prolong his stay indefinitely in spite of a profusion of things going bump in the night.

  His interest in Rookeshaven had begun in a roundabout manner. St. Ives was heir to a barony and a generous estate. His ancient great-uncle, a distressingly foul-tempered curmudgeon who had already outlived four other heirs, including St. Ives's own father, continued in depressingly good health. When he had kept a vigil by the old man's deathbed three times in the space of two years, even St. Ives's sanguine humor had been tested. Each time, the old wretch had suddenly sat up in bed, denounced his great-nephew as a grasping vulture, and called for a rum toddy.

  Understandably, St. Ives suspected the old blackguard was merely bored with the monotonous routine at Blakensly Manor. Disappointing hopeful heirs over the years had, his nephew imagined, brought the old man a good deal of perverse satisfaction and diversion.

  St. Ives was not so much anxious to come into his title, however, as he was to find some sort of useful occupation. The business of his uncle's estate would offer that eventually. In the meantime, though, time hung heavy on his hands. The dissolute life so many of his contemporaries pursued held no charm for him. No more did London and the dreary rituals of the ton. Even without his inheritance, St. Ives's income was more than adequate to support a respectable debauchery, but he also enjoyed a good intellect and a dedicated sense of purpose his more profligate acquaintances found damned awkward at times.

  His study of ancient healing had begun as a mere hobby. St. Ives had simply hoped to wile away the time until he came into his title by studying such dusty volumes as came his way. The more he explored this subject, though, the more he recognized the good sense behind many of the treatments. It was not, certainly, anything like a life's work for him. He collected the minutiae, but did not revel in it. But still, he was happy in the knowledge that he was at least doing something worthwhile with his youth.

  After his uncle's most recent resurrection, St. Ives had decided to compile his findings into a book, and threw himself into the project energetically. His travels had already taken him all over the Continent and even as far as Egypt. It seemed ironic, after all the trouble he had been to thus far, that the library at Rookeshaven Hall in Cornwall should hold the very sources he needed to complete his work. It was a task, moreover, that should have been easily concluded in mere days.

  But St. Ives had
not expected to find the Hall's mistress quite so enchanting. In his brief correspondence with her, he had arrived at the notion that Trevalyen's widow would be quite advanced in years. Certainly, Lady Polly's slanting scrawl and disjointed style of composition had done nothing to suggest otherwise. How surprised he had been to find that the lady was a good five years younger than himself, to say nothing of her delicate beauty and engagingly abstracted personality.

  He would never forget that first moment he saw her, dwarfed by her massive oak desk in the Hall's exceedingly curious library, inspecting him over the rims of her gold spectacles. Her wide, green eyes had borne a vaguely startled expression, like that of a child whose nanny has just pulled open the nursery curtains, letting in the first brightness of a fine summer's day.

  Long after he had finished his research, therefore, he found himself staying on to better his acquaintance with the Countess. What had begun as interest had grown to fascination, and thence to love. St. Ives was now courting her quite assiduously. Not, he admitted with a rueful sigh, that his endeavors had borne fruit. He had all but presented his heart to her on a platter and she seemed to take not the least notice.

  Only last night as they stood on the starlit terrace, he had been waxing poetic on her many charms—had been, in fact, on the verge of making her an offer—when she had quite suddenly snapped her fingers and cried out, "Woodruff blossoms! Of course!" and left him with only that dreadful bird for company.

  St. Ives's musings were interrupted just then by a soft rap at the door.

  "Do I intrude on your meditations, my friend?" Sir Godfrey Mimms peeked into the room and stood waiting politely to be invited in. St. Ives smiled. Sir Godfrey's blunt features, friendly demeanor, and bland coloring always reminded him of an amiable badger.

  "Of course not, Sir Godfrey," he said, rising and beckoning the gentleman in. "Do join me here. How go your studies?"