His mouth was full, but he turned to her, on the point of swallowing. Suddenly his lips puckered, as if he had tasted something sour. He lifted his napkin, and she feared he was going to spit out the electuary. To stop him she leaned very close, widening her eyes. “Could I ride a different horse, my lord, please? I wish I could ride them all!”
He took a small, choked breath, and she worried he might cough out the remedy. Instead he picked up a water glass, washed down what was in his mouth, and dabbed at his lips before he answered. “I will let you choose, Miss Allington. But please, for the sake of my horsemaster, not the stallion. Jermyn will have a nervous fit if I allow a young lady to mount Seastar.”
She sat back, satisfied. There were no more bits of fruit in his bowl. It was done.
“I wouldn’t want to upset your horsemaster, my lord.” The title was coming more easily to her tongue, probably because everyone else used it all the time. It was still rather silly, in Annis’s view, but that didn’t matter.
With luck the electuary would do its work, and in a few hours the Marquess of Rosefield would be himself again—stiff, old-fashioned, repelled by an American girl with no moral standards. With some luck she would have put him off so thoroughly that she would be set free, allowed to go home to Bits and resume her life.
And, she hoped, learn everything her great-aunt Harriet had to teach her.
22
James
James marveled once again, as he went up to change into his riding clothes, at the abrupt change in his feelings. He had considered Annis Allington a wanton. Shameless. Her disregard for convention went against every principle of ladylike behavior he had ever understood. Annis Allington as the chatelaine of Rosefield Hall had been unthinkable.
Yet now he could hardly wait to see her again. He was eager to ride out with her, though she would refuse the sidesaddle Jermyn would set ready and might choose an inappropriate mount. Why had he said she could choose? Why, indeed, had he fawned over her at breakfast, fetching her food, insisting she sit beside him, fussing with her flatware as if he were a servant?
That had been a ruse, of course, the silverware, and the chair, too. He had simply wanted an excuse to bend close to her, to touch her through her shirtwaist, to breathe in her scent. She wore no perfume, but she smelled deliciously of soap and shampoo and clear skin. She seemed irresistible. It was as if he had lost control of his sensibilities. What had happened to him?
He had one boot on, and the other was waiting in Perry’s hands, when the nausea struck. It came all at once, out of nowhere. One moment he was extending his foot for his second boot, and the next he was doubled over the commode. He had never felt so sick, and certainly never so suddenly, or so thoroughly.
Perry, alarmed, knelt beside him, a towel in his hand. “My lord? Shall I send for the doctor?”
Still gagging, James shook his head. It was a minute or more before he could say in a choked voice, “Give me a minute. I must have eaten something—” He had to pause as he choked again and spit. The taste in his mouth was vile, and oddly tainted with something like pine needles, which made no sense at all. There had been nothing like that in his breakfast.
It wasn’t until Perry had helped him up and aided him in washing out his mouth and bathing his face with water that he remembered there had been something—some odd taste that had been in his mouth for only a second, but had that tinge of pine in it. He had been on the point of spitting it out, he remembered, but Annis had spoken to him, leaning forward so he could look directly into her amazing eyes, that forget-me-not blue, and…
He had swallowed it. Whatever that was that had tasted like a tree instead of proper porridge, he had let it slide down his throat. Thinking of it made his stomach contract again, and he pressed his fist to his lips.
Perry said in alarm, “My lord? Again?”
James shook his head. He couldn’t speak until the spasm eased. “Tell Her Ladyship,” he croaked. “Something at breakfast—see if anyone else is ill.”
“I’ll bring up some tea.”
“Help me get this damned boot off first. I’m going to have to lie down. Oh good God.” He gritted his teeth against a fresh wave of sickness. He was sure there was nothing left in his stomach. He said hoarsely, “Give my apologies to Miss Allington, will you, Perry? We were to ride—we will have to postpone.”
“Yes, my lord. Of course. Here, into bed with you. Let’s get your jacket off.”
James lay back on his pillows and closed his eyes as Perry pulled the coverlet over him, clothes and all. “Best bring me a basin,” James said miserably. “I don’t know if this is over.”
Perry hadn’t been gone more than ten minutes when a firm knock sounded on the door. Sure it was his mother, and knowing she wouldn’t be kept out if she had decided her presence was required, James called weakly, without opening his eyes, “Yes. Come in.”
He had stopped being sick, at least for the moment, but he felt as weak as a newborn puppy. The room was too hot, the air fouled, but he didn’t have the strength to get up to open the window, nor even to cross to the bellpull to ring for Perry. The door opened, and quick, light steps approached his bed. Those steps did not belong to Lady Eleanor.
James forced his eyes to open. When he saw his visitor, he groaned, “Oh my God. Miss Allington—too humiliating, really—I—”
“Nonsense,” she said. She set something down on the nightstand and began fussing with his pillows. “Here, my lord, see if you can sit up. I’ve brought you some ginger tea. That might ease your stomach.”
“Ginger?” he said, feeling more like a sick child than the man he wanted her to see.
“Yes, do try it. I had some in my things, because my maid suffers from seasickness.”
“I’m not—I’m never sick on the sea—”
She was urging him into a sitting position with surprisingly strong hands. “No, of course not, but you have the same symptoms, Perry says. Now, I’ll hold the cup for you. Try a sip.”
It was, of course, utterly improper for her to be alone with him in his bedroom. She had, in her typical careless way, closed the door. Anyone could think anything, but…
The tea felt marvelous in his mouth, and even better as it began to soothe his aching stomach. He drank it slowly, unsure if it would cause another bout of sickness. It didn’t. He didn’t feel well, precisely, but he felt strong enough to say, “Thank you, Miss Allington. But you shouldn’t be here, in a gentleman’s bedroom with no chaperone.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said briskly. “I knew what you needed, and I brought it. You’re feeling better, isn’t that true? That’s what matters.” She bent forward to place her hand on his forehead. “You’re much too warm, my lord. Let’s get some air in this room.”
She crossed to the window and pulled back the drapes, then opened the window with impressive ease. James knew how stiff that latch was. She exclaimed, “There! So much better,” as fresh air poured through, replacing the staleness with the scents of summer flowers and freshly cut grass.
She came back to the bed to take the empty teacup from his hand and replace it in its saucer. She stood by his bed for a moment, her hands on her narrow hips, assessing him.
She was in her riding habit, her hair pinned up, ready for her hat. She was wearing a pearl choker with a large moonstone in the center. It was out of place in her ensemble, of course, but he didn’t care. Her skin glowed in the sunshine from the open window, her pale freckles like gold dust on her fine straight nose. He couldn’t imagine he had ever thought her plain.
Annis was nothing like the rosy, beribboned girls he so often met in London. She didn’t fill every silence with torrents of words no one needed to hear. She stood looking quietly down at him, elegant in her height and slenderness, her eyes full of intelligence. She was better than pretty. She was much, much better than pretty. Even as shaky as he was from having been sick, as discomfited from being found lying in bed like a hapless boy, he wished she would stay with hi
m so he could see her, talk to her. He wished she would touch him again.
He suspected it wasn’t her ginger tea that had eased his illness. It was her presence. It was the matter-of-fact touch of her fingers, the glisten of sympathy in those forget-me-not eyes, the musical sound of her voice.
He still didn’t know if he liked her. The stunning thing, despite that, was how much he wanted her.
Of course he couldn’t possibly say that. Even the idea of it embarrassed him. He had the odd thought that she knew what he was thinking, and that embarrassed him even more. He hoped very much he was wrong.
She said, “If you feel ill again, have Perry send for me.”
“Very kind, Miss Allington,” he said.
She suddenly grinned, her face lighting, her freckled nose crinkling. “Couldn’t you call me Annis? Now that I’ve been in your bedroom?”
His cheeks warmed unbearably. “I—well, of course, if you wish it, I—”
“Good. And I will call you James. That’s settled, then.” With the teacup and saucer in one hand, her skirts lifted in the other, she turned to the door. It opened just as she approached, and a scandalized Perry stood back, eyebrows lifted and mouth open, watching her stride past him. Over her shoulder she said, “Remember, James. Send for me if you feel ill again.”
Then she was gone, leaving Perry staring after her and James groaning in confusion.
23
Harriet
In her slant-ceilinged room at the Four Fishes, Harriet slept for no more than two hours before a jolt of anxiety woke her. Her heart thumping, she got out of bed and went to kneel in the window nook to look out.
The roof of the inn was a thatched one, glittering now with drops of morning dew. The early sunshine illuminated the weave of wheat straw and reeds and gave her glimpses of other things here and there—heather, perhaps, or sedge. She gazed into the thatch’s pattern, one hand at her throat as she tried to slow her breathing.
What had gone wrong?
She tried to convince herself she had imagined this rush of unease, that the late night and her fatigue had caused it, but the effort failed. Any Bishop witch worthy of the name knew better than to ignore her instincts. Something had happened.
Hastily she cleaned her boots and put on a fresh walking dress, worrying all the while. If the electuaries had not worked, Frances was stronger than she had suspected.
Harriet stopped at a tea shop in the high street, where she bought a cup of tea and drank it so quickly it burned her tongue. She also bought a scone, wrapped it in a napkin, and carried it with her to eat on the mile-long walk through the woods to Rosefield Hall.
She skirted the stable block and hurried across the bottom of the lawn to the folly. She knew, as soon as she set foot on the step, that her feeling had been right.
Annis was already there, pale-faced and pacing.
“What’s happened?” Harriet asked, without a greeting.
“He threw it up,” Annis said, also wasting no time on pleasantries. “I put it in his porridge, and I saw him eat it, but then—he was really ill, his valet said, so I took him some ginger tea, and he looked awful.”
“Were you ill?”
“Yes.” She was frowning, but she didn’t look afraid, only worried. “I felt as if I was going to come out of my skin for a little while. I wasn’t sick, though. I was fine by breakfast.”
“How long between when you consumed the electuary and the marquess did?”
Annis pressed her lips together, thinking. “It must have been four hours. I took it when I got back to my bedroom, which was—I think it was about four. They breakfast at eight-thirty in Rosefield Hall.”
“Did you see Frances at breakfast?”
“No. She stayed in her room.”
Harriet sank onto the cold stone bench, her arms folded. “She did it again, then.”
“You mean Frances?”
“I do.” Harriet breathed a long, tired sigh. “You took the electuary in time. He didn’t.”
“So she did the—the maleficia—again?”
“The maleficia is in the manikin itself,” Harriet said. “She repeated her rite, to renew the spell.” A spurt of anger made her clench her jaw until it ached. She wished she had Frances in front of her right this minute so she could give her a piece of her mind. “The electuary came too late for James. He couldn’t tolerate it.”
“I think I understand,” Annis said. She sank down beside Harriet and leaned back against the pillar. She was dressed in her riding habit, and with her slender waist and long legs in the divided skirt, she looked as elegant as any Fifth Avenue society girl. “Frances repeated her rite, so the electuary was poison for poor James.”
“‘Poor James’ is correct. He’s caught in a struggle he doesn’t even know is happening.”
“What do we do now? Can we try again?”
“We must, Annis.” Harriet linked her hands in her lap and thought about it for a moment. “Can you get some rest this afternoon?”
“Oh yes. All the other guests are terribly old. They always sleep in the afternoons.” She added, with a moue of disappointment, “We were going to ride this morning. I was going to be allowed to choose my own horse.”
“You were?”
Annis nodded. “I suppose James was still—um, still influenced by the—by Frances. That part was rather nice, that feeling that my wishes mattered. I suppose that wasn’t real.”
“It’s hard to know,” Harriet said. “You do have to account for the effects of the maleficia. If that’s what it was, it wouldn’t last.”
“Aunt Harriet—do you think that’s what Frances did to Papa? Do you think she made a manikin and created a cantrip to make him fall in love with her? I don’t think he is anymore.”
“The trouble with the maleficia, used like this, is that it doesn’t actually create love. It creates—” Harriet paused, not sure how to explain such a thing to seventeen-year-old who knew nothing of the world, or of relations between men and women.
Annis said, “I understand. It’s not love, it’s that other thing. Lust, I suppose. The way a stallion wants a mare, but when he’s done his work, he doesn’t care if he ever sees her again.”
“Oh my,” Harriet said. “Annis, you…”
Annis thrust out her chin. “Please, Aunt Harriet, don’t tell me you’re shocked, too!”
“Oh no, no,” Harriet said hastily. “Not shocked at all. Surprised.”
“Because young ladies aren’t supposed to know anything about sex?”
“Exactly!” Harriet gave a small chuckle. “I’m pleased, though. I don’t agree at all with the custom of keeping young girls in ignorance until they marry. I suspect many a marriage that might have been happy is spoiled by that.”
“Well,” Annis said. She sat up, her back straight, her hands in her lap. “I will confess to you, Aunt Harriet, I don’t actually know much about men and women. But I know all about horses, and I can guess. Extrapolate,” she added, with a little shrug.
“Excellent. The more you know—about everything—the better practitioner you will be.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Annis said. “When we’re back in New York, I want to learn everything you can teach me. I want to be what you are. To do what you do.”
“To be an herbalist?”
“To be a witch,” Annis declared.
“Just be certain you want that for the right reasons.”
“I want it because it will set me free,” Annis said.
Harriet answered, “That is the best possible reason.”
The beautiful weather broke in the afternoon, swiftly and dramatically. A roll of thunder rattled the old-fashioned windowpanes in the Four Fishes. Harriet startled awake just in time to see the rain begin, great sheets of it that splattered her window and began to drip on the windowsill. She jumped up, taking care not to bump her head on the low ceiling, and found a towel to tuck beneath the leaking sash. Beyond the rooftops of the village she could see the
rain-pocked bay, the water turned gray as lead.
She found her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders, then curled herself into the window nook to watch the storm drench Seabeck Village. In moments the dry street ran with muddy rivulets, and the shopkeepers hurried out to take down their awnings. The avalanche of rain slackened to a steady drizzle that showed no sign of easing any time soon. Harriet supposed she would have to borrow an umbrella from the innkeeper. She hoped he wouldn’t ask too many questions.
First she needed food. The scone of this morning was all she had eaten. She had walked a good distance and was going to have to do it again. Her empty stomach made her long for one of Grace’s big breakfasts, meals always accompanied by a stream of innocuous chatter. She suffered a momentary bout of homesickness at the thought.
“Stop it, Harriet Bishop,” she told herself. “This is no time for self-pity.” She made herself wriggle out of the nook and go to the wardrobe to find her warmest clothes.
In the dining room downstairs, which was little more than an extension of the kitchen, with its big wood oven and open hearth, she was the only customer. The innkeeper, no doubt persuaded by her ready cash, seemed to have adjusted to the idea of a woman traveling alone, although he spoke to her as little as possible. He brought her a bowl of hot lamb stew and a loaf of fresh bread. He set a dish of butter on the table and stood back, his hands under his apron.
“Need anything else, miss?”
“No, thank you. This smells marvelous.”
“The wife is known for her lamb stew.”
“Do thank her for me.” Harriet hadn’t laid eyes on “the wife.” She supposed the woman labored in obscurity, as so many wives did, while her husband dealt with the public.
It was, in fact, a quite respectable stew, although Grace would have found fault with the faint tang of meat kept too long. Harriet didn’t mind it, hungry as she was. She ate all the stew and half the bread, liberally spread with butter. Grace would not have approved of the butter, either, with its strong sour taste, but Harriet found it delicious. The rain continued to sluice from the thatched roof. The windows in the dining room leaked even more than the one in her room. Without apology, the innkeeper placed rags and buckets where they were needed.
The Age of Witches Page 18