His stepcousin Edward was still in the library, pacing in front of the fireplace. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and he was frowning like a thundercloud. Bertie did not know him well, nor did he look altogether approachable, but it seemed he would have to do.
Not about to be defeated by the knotty problems of address—was it Cousin Edward, my lord cousin, Cousin Earl?— Bertie made use of the time honored custom of tugging at the gentleman's coattails.
"Not just now, infant!" was the thoroughly unsatisfactory response. Infant indeed!
"I am just trying to find how to spell a word," Bertie insisted petulantly.
"Botheration, child! A spell, you say? Why, look in a spell book, for heaven's sake. They are all about you here."
With that, Edward strode from the library, leaving Bertie quite to his own devices and more than a little confused.
As the child stared after him, he thought for a moment that he heard the silvery tinkle of a bell. Could it be teatime already? But, no. It wasn't coming from the drawing room. There it was again. It seemed to come from behind him. There on the table was the book he had seen Diana regarding with such interest a few minutes earlier. He stepped closer. He didn't hear the bell anymore, but he could swear he smelled crème caramel! Uncanny! It was his favorite dessert. He stepped closer.
Mercifully oblivious to the mischief at hand in the library, Hippolyta joined Julian St. Ives and Sir Godfrey Mimms in the privacy of her laboratory. There they sat poring over several of the volumes they had carried away with them from the library. All about them the shelves were lined with curious bottles and jars of all descriptions, a stuffed frog or two, a great many parchment scrolls, several curiously wrought instruments which defied classification, and a good deal of dust—Hippolyta did not encourage housekeeping that might interfere with her work. In one corner, a perch was set up for Trevalyen. There the bird now sat preening and fastidiously grooming his feathers.
"Do you happen to recall the witch's name, Sir Godfrey?" Hippolyta asked hopefully, looking up from the depths of an ancient tome.
Sir Godfrey frowned and studied the matter for several seconds. "It is not her name precisely that's come down to us. Apparently, you see, the family developed a strong superstition that speaking the name aloud might prompt further sinister notice. Believe it or not, we Mimms have spent centuries making ourselves obscure."
Regarding Sir Godfrey's bland, squinting countenance, Hippolyta could credit his statement quite well, but she bit back a quivering smile and declined to comment. She caught St. Ives's twinkling eye for a moment and realized with a flutter of fellow feeling that he was at some pains to discipline his expression as well.
"Egads! A wag!" Trevalyen interjected with a sudden croak. Hippolyta shot the bird a dark look.
"However," Sir Godfrey went on, a trifle embarrassed, "I do recall a family nickname for the creature—Old Spindle Shanks we called her."
"Gracious!" Hippolyta exclaimed. "Did you not fear even more dire results might arise from such an insulting epithet?"
"One would have thought so, come to think of it," Sir Godfrey agreed.
"Is there nothing else you can remember that might be of help?" she asked.
Sir Godfrey shook his head forlornly. Hippolyta sighed and looked at Julian St. Ives. She knew that these gentlemen depended on her expertise, but, truly, she needed more information than had been thus far supplied to be certain which route to take.
"I know of several counterspells," she told them at last, "but they are quite finely tuned and could easily go astray if applied in the wrong circumstance. An error, you must realize, might result in Lady Bristlethwaite's sudden transformation even before her wedding night."
Not, she decided with a sniff, that spending the rest of one's natural days as a peaceful doe in a woodland glade might not be preferable to the marriage bed. But, of course, there were, no doubt, some very forward stags to be dealt with as well, so…
"Well, then," Sir Godfrey said stoutly, "if that is the case, I must put aside my own selfishness. I am sure that the lady may count on any number of suitors more worthy and… less dangerous."
"We have only begun, old fellow," St. Ives reassured him. "Let us not give up just yet. Besides, do you not think it would be best if you opened your heart to Lady Bristlethwaite? One never knows, but she is an ardent student of the occult as well and might hit on a solution of her own."
"I say," Sir Godfrey exclaimed, "I had not thought of that! How can I have forgot what a remarkable lady she is?"
"Perhaps it is best then," St. Ives went on smoothly, "that you work alongside her ladyship, and Lady Polly and I combine our efforts. Divide and conquer. Now, you must tell us, Lady Polly, what else you need to know in order to make your efforts… more precise?"
Hippolyta thought for a moment. The vague legend was very little help and Sir Godfrey's memory of family lore no better.
"Is there any hope of some sort of physical artifact?" she asked, suppressing a shudder at a sudden and alarming vision of the unfortunate brides represented as stuffed and mounted hunting trophies.
"What a great cabbage head I am not to have thought of it!" Sir Godfrey exclaimed. Immediately he pulled from his finger a largish ring set with a red stone. "This ring has been in the family forever. Legend has it as the very one given to the first victim of the curse—although how that can be, I own I cannot say. After all, once she was transformed, it stands to reason it must have dropped off her hoof in the forest or some such place."
"I daresay," Hippolyta said as he handed it to her, "but it is better than nothing, I suppose."
They were interrupted at just that moment by a hesitant knock at the door. On being bid to enter, the door opened and Lady Bristlethwaite peeped inside.
"Well, so here you all are!" the lady ventured, looking a bit at a loss. "I wondered where you had all gone off to."
"Ah, my lady," Sir Godfrey blustered, his cheeks reddening, "I was just about to seek you out. Would you care to take a turn about the gardens with me?"
When they were left alone, Hippolyta looked dismally at the ring she held in the palm of her hand. It emitted only the faintest tingle of magic, and a vague impression of the past.
"Why so downcast, Lady Polly?" St. Ives asked, regarding her quizzically.
"I am not, really. It is just that I believe this to be a greater task than Sir Godfrey had supposed. He seems to place an enormous faith in my powers. In other years, he might have done so with confidence, but lately I cannot seem to sort out anything to satisfaction. Oh! It is become such a mire."
"You must forgive me, my lady. I am afraid it was at my suggestion that Sir Godfrey laid his difficulties before you to begin with. You must believe it was not my intention to put you at sixes and sevens."
"Do not distress yourself, St. Ives. It is not this matter alone, but… you see, it is simply that I had only five years of my late lord's tutelage before I was left entirely on my own. I cannot think it was nearly time enough. If it were all mere charms and philtres, I would do well enough, but in great matters I begin to fear I shall betray his trust."
"And pray, what other dilemmas have been placed before you besides those of Sir Godfrey?"
She was silent for a moment as she paced back and forth, torturing a small lace handkerchief. "I do not know quite how to phrase it," she began at last, "but I sense that something enormous is about to take place. I have seen signs of late that do not bode well at all, but I have not a notion what to do about them. I had just as soon know nothing!"
"Tell me," he said quietly.
"Oh, it is the tea leaves, both mine and Diana's. I was quite horrified to see the shape of an hourglass in hers last night."
"And that, I collect, is something to be feared?"
"Trust me, St. Ives, it is quite, quite dreadful. And I have another chair appear in my own cup, so there are even more visitors on the way. I wonder if the two symbols might not be related?"
St. Ives watc
hed helplessly as she paced before him. He was quite out of his depth, but perhaps it would help her to talk through the difficulty. "Have you any notion what, in particular, these signs might portend?"
"It could be any combination of horrendous events. I am afraid I shall not know until the events—or visitors—are upon us. If only I knew how to prepare! But what may be worse still," she went on, "I begin to suspect that Diana might well have inherited a penchant for magic even stronger than my own—a notion which you must know sets me quite atremble!"
"That," he allowed, "is a staggering thought. But come, Lady Polly, you must not fidget yourself over what cannot be helped. For whatever it is worth, you have my word that I shall do my best to aid you."
"Thank you, St. Ives," she said with feeling. "I hope we shall be equal to the challenges, whatever they may be. As for the immediate difficulty, I had best set my mind to the task straightaway. I would not like to have Sir Godfrey's hopes raised, only to be dashed. It is altogether possible, of course," she continued slowly, "that Lady Bristlethwaite will reject the notion of remarriage."
"I suppose that is a possibility," St. Ives returned uncertainly, "but only a very slight one, I must confess. Even so, should that indeed be the outcome, what of Sir Godfrey? I should not like to see the poor fellow forego the joys of his lady's embraces."
"Poor fellow indeed!" she exclaimed with some heat. "Why is it that most men cannot be satisfied with a comfortable friendship?"
"I assume," St. Ives replied, considerably taken aback at this outburst, "because it is not in the nature of things. Besides, you cannot mean to imply that only men are swayed by their… physical natures."
Hippolyta responded by blushing quite crimson and crossing to the window where she stared fixedly out across the countryside.
Here was the riddle again, St. Ives thought. Surely her reactions were more those of a green girl than a worldly widow, albeit a young one. What had brought Lady Polly to this view of love and the passions that accompanied it? He gathered that the late Earl of Trevalyen had been a good deal older than she, but, by all accounts, he had been a decent and generous man. Surely he could not have used her ill.
Perhaps, he thought wryly, it was that the old gentleman's passions had not been aroused and, therefore, neither had hers been. He wished there were a way of knowing for certain. It would never do to question the lady herself on that score. Perhaps what was needed was an experiment.
As this thought crossed his mind, he noticed that the bird, Trevalyen, was watching him fixedly from his roost in the corner, cocking his head from one side to the other. He raised his eyebrows at the bird. It flapped its wings vigorously, looking for all the world as if it were urging him in Lady Polly's direction. St. Ives shrugged and made a mental notation: experiment one.
He slowly crossed the room to where Hippolyta stood silhouetted against the open window. He looked back at Trevalyen. The bird flapped its wings yet again. Uncanny! He turned back to the lady. All at once and with a great Whoosh! the bird flew directly out the window just above their heads, so startling Hippolyta that she stumbled backward, directly into St. Ives's arms.
"Umph!" she managed. "That foolish bird! I… I beg your pardon, St. Ives."
"Granted, my lady," he said in a low voice as he steadied her.
She gazed into his grey eyes and was disturbed to see that they seemed troubled, questioning. "What is the matter, St. Ives?" she asked softly.
"Merely this," he whispered as the sound of the raven's cry faded slowly to silence. Then he lowered his lips to hers.
The kiss, gentle and, in a way, inquisitive, lasted for quite a long time, or so it seemed to Hippolyta. When it was over, her spectacles were quite askew on the end of her nose. She took them off, polished them nervously with her handkerchief and set them back in place. What a curious experience. Not quite so dreadful an endeavor as she had been used to think. Quite pleasant, in fact. Of course, it was the train of events that so often followed such a deed she must fear. They were in the laboratory, however, she reminded herself. Surely she could not come to harm here. She peeped over the rims of her spectacles at St. Ives. He smiled back at her.
"Let's have done with these, shall we?" he asked as he lifted the spectacles from her nose and placed them in his waistcoat pocket. Then, taking her face in his hands, he tilted her head back, and kissed her again, somewhat more thoroughly.
"Oh, my!" she whispered faintly as a curious, wobbly sensation swept over her. What a revelation this was! She had never been kissed before today—not well and truly kissed. It was like a particularly potent form of magic, at once both fascinating and dangerous. At last, she began to understand why women young and old so often threw caution to the wind.
St. Ives's hands dropped to her waist. She raised a tentative finger to trace the line of his jaw, wondering if he would try to kiss her again. She wondered if she ought to stop him… if she could stop him. Only time would tell, she decided abstractedly. She blinked once and smiled tentatively. His arms tightened suddenly about her and he began to lower his head once more.
"Mr. St. Ives! Aunt Polly!"
Immediately, they tore their attention from one another. Diana stood aghast in the doorway.
Nine
Diana flung the chamber door closed behind her and threw herself down onto her bed, the scene she had just witnessed indelibly scorched in her memory. She had run blindly out of the library, mortified to the core by her stepcousin's untoward behavior, hoping to find comfort, or, at least, solitude. And what had she found instead? Her aunt in Mr. St. Ives's arms! The pair of them, starry-eyed, plainly entranced with each other! All that lacked was the mawkish violin music!
Oh, the humiliation! Would she never learn? How could she have been so utterly brainless, she raged, pounding at the bolster, so entirely witless as to develop a tendre for Mr. St. Ives, or to imagine that he held her in the least regard? First Lord Dumphrey and now this!
The pattern for her life had already been clearly cut out for her, she decided with a self-pitying sniff. She could see exactly how it would be. No one would ever fall in love with her and she would live out the rest of her days alone and bitter and wrinkled and grey! What was more, that wretched little Bertie would undoubtedly marry some tiresome, spoiled creature and she would have to devote the remainder of her days to caring for their loathsome offspring. Diana shuddered at the very notion.
Her foolishness must be evident to all the world, as well, else why should that vile Edward mock her so with that treacherous kiss? And her very first, too! Beast! The very effrontery of his behavior was beyond anything. One innocent little slap had begun it, but now she felt she might have slapped him all afternoon and well into the night and not been satisfied. To make matters worse, the odious wretch would very likely make light of it for the entertainment of those nasty blond creatures who followed him about.
If only she could sink into the ground and be done with it all! But there was a whole month yet to stay, a lonely month of anguish and chagrin and betrayal. No one loved her. No one would ever love her. Everyone thought she was a senseless young gudgeon, if indeed they thought of her at all.
Perhaps it would be best to keep to her chamber and go into another decline. She could see them even now, gathered about her bed, wiping tears from their eyes as she coughed weakly and forgave them in a small, tremulous voice. That would show them.
But, no. Fate seemed too perverse to allow her anything like sympathy. Jane would hover about her, throw nasty smelling powders onto the fire and make signs against the evil eye. Aunt Polly would concoct something vile for her to drink and that would be the end of it. It seemed there was nothing to be done but hold her head up and brave it out.
Of course, she might find something useful in that interesting volume in the library. If she could master it, magic might answer any number of difficulties. Wouldn't she just love to turn Edward into a toad! Or better yet, make him fall madly, hopelessly, recklessly in love with her. Th
en she would disdain him. What fun!
Just as her spirits began to lift a little, however, a infinitesimal shiver of guilt overcame her. The spell! How, she wondered, were Miss Varney and Lord Dumphrey faring?
Diana was not the only one seeking solace in the privacy of her chamber that afternoon. Hippolyta had immediately fled thence as soon as she had pulled herself from St. Ives's embrace. Even though her lips still burned, she forced her thoughts instead to her niece. The expression on the girl's face haunted her still. Surprise, even censure, she might have anticipated, but betrayal? What a coil her life had become!
Hippolyta curled up on her bed and reached for a plain wooden box on the nightstand. Lifting the lid, she withdrew a bundle tied up in a handkerchief of pale-yellow silk. She held it for a moment, frowning. She did not often consult her tarot, only when events were so tangled that ordinary reflection proved useless. She undid the knot, spilled the cards onto the counterpane, and began to shuffle them as she formulated her question.
There were so many things she might ask. What is the trouble that is coming? How does Diana figure in all of this?
What has happened to my heart?
That was the question that disturbed her most, she knew. Perhaps it was because the answer lay within herself, rather than in some arcane volume. A small voice in the back of her head was beginning to nag at her persistently. Embrace life, it said. Find love.
That, of course, was exactly what she had avoided doing all these years. She had closed her eyes to that part of what it meant to be a woman. She had buried herself in her work, lived inside her books, become distant and preoccupied with her empty life.
Empty? She sat up straight. Her life was empty? Was that why her mind wandered and her spells were ruined? Because magic was no longer enough? But what was? she sighed.
The sudden image of Julian St. Ives with his kind, laughing eyes flashed through her mind. Those moments in his arms had been pleasurable and, she must own it, strangely thrilling. And she did like him so very much, in spite of his intrepid behavior. It was difficult to admit, even to herself, that these last weeks she had caught herself listening for the sound of his footsteps, sought his face first in any gathering. In fact, the more she considered it, the more…
A Midsummer's Magic Page 8