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Authors: Connie Brockway

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BOOK: So Enchanting
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“But . . . but . . . what if it
isn’t
a prank?” Hayden hastily interjected. “That makes as little sense as a threat against her. What would be the object of such a prank, and who was its target? The postmaster? My father?”
The boy had a point.
“We should investigate,” Hayden concluded.

 

The lad had positioned himself at Amelie’s side, visually aligning himself with her. Amelie accepted his championship, her lashes fluttering like sheets on a clothesline. The girl’s initial distress had faded. She gave every appearance of settling in nicely to her new role as damsel in distress.
“We? Oh, all right then.” Sheffield sighed. “Has anyone threatened your life, Miss Chase? By either word or action?”
“No.”
“And there has been nothing of a remotely suspicious nature which has in any fashion endangered you?”
Amelie did not answer at once, and he pounced on her hesitation. “I see there has been. Would you be so kind as to tell us what that was?”
“It’s hardly worth mentioning.”
“Indulge me. I am here as your guardian’s representative. If you are in danger, it is my duty to see you are removed from it.”
“
You
are Lord Collier’s representative? But I thought Lord Hayden . . .” Amelie blushed again.

 

Hayden, displeased at having his shining armor brusquely repossessed by his uncle, moved closer. Fanny could empathize. Hayden’s looks were better suited to silvery armor than Sheffield’s, who would look more natural in, say, dented black.
“The decision of whether action is required may rest with my uncle,” Hayden said in a tight voice, “but that does not preclude my concern in this matter. Rest assured, Miss Chase, I will not hesitate to act on your behalf and in your best interest should the need arise.”
Oh, for the love of heaven. Are all young people so earnestly pompous?
“Yes, yes, Hayden, very pretty,” Sheffield said dryly, clearly sharing her sentiments. “Now, can we get on with it?”
“Please tell us, Miss Chase,” Hayden gently prompted.
“Well,” Amelie said, “last winter I was crossing the river when the ice broke and I fell through.”
Fanny recalled the incident. It had been an accident.
“Had I been a few feet farther out, where the channel runs deeper, I may not have been able to”—Amelie paused dramatically—“pull myself back onto shore.”
Hayden dutifully gasped. Sheffield shot him an impatient glare.
Bernard stood up, startled. “My dear Miss Chase,” he said, “why have I not heard of this before?”
“You were in New York City.”
“Ice does on occasion crack,” Sheffield said, ignoring the little byplay. “Especially if a spring is underneath.”
“Indeed, yes, Lord Sheffield,” Amelie said, returning her attention to him. “But this is a favorite place of mine where I often skate and picnic in the summer. I know the bottom well. There is no spring in that location.”
“By the stand of oaks,” Bernard murmured.
Amelie flashed a smile in his direction. “You know my habits well, Mr. McGowan.”
The banker flushed.
“Additionally,” Amelie went on, “I had crossed at the same spot only a few hours earlier and had been doing so regularly for some weeks. And the weather, rather than warming as it had for the previous few days, had once more turned quite cold.”
“A bright day, was it?” Sheffield asked.
Amelie nodded. “I believe so.”
“Expanding and shrinking ice would explain a weak spot in its surface. Likely over a spring,” he added with an air of finality. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” Amelie said, a little huffy now at having her near tragedy so summarily dismissed. “There was an ax lying on the bank. I didn’t notice it when I began to cross, but when I made it back to shore, I saw it tucked beneath a pile of brush.”
“And the sight of this ax made you think someone had purposely chopped through the ice in order to lay a trap for you?” Sheffield asked, his tone sardonic.

 

Amelie snapped her mouth shut, doubtless feeling that since she hadn’t wanted to reveal the story in the first place and had only been coerced into doing so by Sheffield, his manner was not only insulting but grievously unfair—all feelings Fanny assumed, because that was how she felt.
“No, she did not,” Fanny said, unable to keep silent. “Amelie thought someone had been fishing from the banks and used the ax to break through a spot, thereby inadvertently weakening her crossing. You are the one who asked if anything imperiled her well-being. She was simply telling you what you wanted to know.”
Sheffield’s gaze shifted toward her. “So I did. I stand corrected, Mrs. Walcott. You play the part of fond companion most convincingly.”
Play? Convin—Oh!
Before Fanny could retort, he’d swung back to Amelie with an improbably charming smile. “Forgive me, Miss Chase, if I appeared to badger you. I am a barrister by training and I am unused to dealing with
innocent
young ladies. Now, has your health in any other way recently been jeopardized?”
Amelie concentrated, her brow puckering prettily. “Well,” she finally said, “it wasn’t just me, but shortly thereafter both Fanny and I were taken terribly ill. We were bedridden for two days.” She paused to cast a shy glance at Hayden. “Fanny was quite worried.”
“Worried enough to send for a physician?”
“The nearest physician is in Perth. And poor Fan was even sicker than I.” Amelie glanced at her. “She was beside herself. She finally resorted to procuring some sort of tisane from . . . a local woman.”
“I could have gone,” Bernard announced. “You should have sent for me.”
With all the overpowering male personalities filling the room, Fanny had momentarily forgotten Bernard, still sitting at his desk.
“We appreciate the sentiment,” Fanny answered, “but you would have been in the middle of the Atlantic, returning from your trip.”
“Ah, yes,” Bernard said, musing. “The Shield, Eagle, and Flags thirty-cent. Original paste.” Bernard kept track of the past by the dates on which he’d acquired specific stamps.
“Perhaps it was just a bad bit of fish,” Sheffield suggested, regarding Bernard oddly. “Or a rancid twist of cheese?”
“Possibly,” Amelie allowed, once more looking slightly peeved that another life-imperiling incident was being dismissed.
“On the other hand,” Hayden put in, “someone is concerned enough about Miss Chase’s health to have felt it necessary to alert my—alert us. I think it would be very irresponsible to discount the warning without at least making some inquiries.”
Sheffield nodded thoughtfully. “You think it our duty, then?”
“I do.”
“And you, Mrs. Walcott,” Sheffield suddenly asked, his brilliant eyes lancing toward her. “What do you think?”
Fanny didn’t hesitate. “I think it a great lot of tommyrot, but mysterious tommyrot. I do not think Amelie is in any danger, but I dislike mysteries and I should like this one cleared up.”
“Then I suppose we must,” Sheffield said. “Never let it be said we shirked our duty.”
Hayden blustered. “It will, of course, also be an honor.”
“Oh,
thank you
, Lord Hayden,” Amelie breathed.
Involuntarily, Fanny rolled her eyes, and in doing so caught a glimpse of Sheffield doing the same. He saw her. For a second, his generous mouth quirked in a conspiratorial smile and they were comrades-in-arms, reasonable adults forced to deal with the exaggerated emotions of the very young. Then he appeared to recall his dignity and looked away.
He strode across the room and secured Hayden by the elbow. “Come along, Hayden. We have yet to settle in at your father’s lodge, and besides, there is only so much gallantry I can stomach in a single morning.”
“But,” Hayden protested, “shouldn’t we arrange a meeting with Miss Chase? And Mrs. Walcott, of course. To talk about . . . things and discover . . . things?”
“We’ll make arrangements later.”
“Might I suggest dinner at my house? What is today? Monday? What say Thursday evening?” Bernard asked. “I’d be delighted to have you all as my guests. I don’t employ a chef, but there’s a local woman makes a passable roast when called upon to do so.”
“But, Mr. McGowan,” Amelie inserted hastily, “do you think that’s wise? I mean, what about Brutus and Caesar . . . ?” She referred to Bernard’s two monstrous hounds. The poor beasts had been imported already trained to attack trespassers. “You recall Fanny’s apprehension about them.”
“My guard dogs,” Bernard explained, then added, “I am a keen philatelist, and often away on trips adding to my collection, which I am humbled to admit is accounted one of the most extensive in Great Britain.” He dipped his head in a modest gesture that had the effect opposite of conveying modesty.
“You will doubtless think it silly, but there are people who would travel great distances and commit the gravest of crimes to acquire an Inverted Head Four Annas. Brutus and Caesar dissuade such types from carrying out any mischief whenever I am gone.”
Sheffield regarded him blankly a second before saying, “You’re right. I do think it’s silly.” Again, Fanny had to catch herself from laughing.
Uncertain how to take this, Bernard instead looked at Amelie. “Your concern does you credit, Miss Chase. I had forgotten abut Mrs. Walcott’s aversion. Perhaps my invitation was ill-considered. ”
Good.
The last thing on earth Fanny wanted was to be stuck at a dining table with—
“I know!” Amelie exclaimed. “We can dine at Quod Lamia!”
Fanny briefly closed her eyes.
Oh. Damn.
Amelie might as well have handed him an announcement: “This is Francesca Brown, whom you exposed as a fraud six years ago.”
Sheffield’s head snapped around, Bernard looked frankly uncomfortable, Hayden seemed fascinated, and Amelie, being long familiar with the name with which Fanny had dubbed their house, suddenly recalled the meaning and blushed.
“ ‘Which . . . witch’?” Sheffield mused interestedly.
“Fan named the house when we moved in.”
Be quiet, Amelie! Please. Before he remembers.

 

“You might not warrant it, but she has a naughty sense of irony.” Amelie twinkled, the supposed threat to her person completely forgotten.
Ah, youth.
“Oh, I can quite believe that,” Sheffield said, smiling sunnily in return. He didn’t glance at her. She was safe.

 

For the time being.
“What say you, Fan?” Amelie asked eagerly. “We could host a small party. Our Miss Oglethorpe is a fantastic cook. Please.”
What could she say? It was Amelie’s house, and Fanny was, when all was said and done, a paid companion. She could acquiesce gracefully or she could provoke speculation by refusing.
She smiled weakly. “Lovely. Shall we say Thursday at eight o’clock?”
Chapter Eight
If she married Lord Hayden it went without saying that their children would be exquisite-looking, Amelie mused, sauntering along beside Fanny as they made their way back to Quod Lamia. But would they have red hair? Or red-gold? Hazel eyes . . . perhaps blue? They would be not overlarge—unless by some fluke they ran to Lord Sheffield’s massiveness—but be very nicely proportioned. Very nicely.

 

She was being silly, of course. She supposed many young ladies had indulged in just such daydreams after meeting Lord Hayden. The thought made her frown. Three whole days before she could see him again . . . Well, she’d just have to see about that.
“You’re upset,” Fanny said abruptly.
Amelie glanced over at her friend. “Pardon me?”
“You were frowning. You’re worried. I knew it. I
knew
your pose of insouciance was feigned,” Fanny declared, her brow puckering.

 

Amelie blinked, uncertain what Fanny meant.
“Amelie.” Fanny touched her arm. “My dear, I sincerely do not think anyone is trying to, er, do you a misdeed.”
Oh!
Fanny was referring to the anonymous letter. But . . . misdeed? In spite of herself, she laughed. Which only made Fanny study her more closely and, indeed, Amelie knew her amusement was inappropriate. But that blunt, plainspoken Fanny should resort to vague euphemisms struck her as funny.
Now Fanny would take her laughter as a sign that Amelie was putting on a brave face, and she really wasn’t. Sure enough, Fanny was studying her worriedly. Amelie did not want Fanny to fret a moment over her. She sobered.
“I’m sorry, Fan,” she said, “but to hear you pussy-footing around a subject when you have never been anything but frank with me is so ridiculous. And the only reason I
am
diverted is because I am
not
worried.”
“Really?” Fanny said, clearly wanting to be convinced. “You aren’t curious about where this letter came from?”
“Of course I am,” Amelie replied. “I am also curious about the fairy Grammy Beadle claims to have caught. It doesn’t mean I believe she actually has a fairy stashed away somewhere in Beadletown in a pickle pot. I suspect both Grammy Beadle’s fairy tale and the writer of this letter are simply people seeking attention by saying ridiculous things.”
“That’s awfully insightful of you, Amelie,” Fanny said.
“Well,” Amelie said, adopting her “reasonable” voice, one—had Fanny but recognized it—she’d learned from Fanny herself, “what other explanation is there? Am I supposed to believe that someone actually wants to kill me? Pshaw. On the other hand, if Lord Sheffield thinks it best for me to leave here and go with him to my guardian’s house . . .”
At this, Fanny smiled and shook her head. The reappearance of Amelie’s desire to leave Little Firkin reassured Fanny that her unconcern over the letter was real and not bravado. “Don’t waste much hope there, Amelie, m’girl. You heard him. He’s here only to assess the situation and make recommendations to Lord Collier.”
“Do you think he might ask us to go to London?” Amelie asked.
Fanny shrugged. “If nothing is resolved about that letter, perhaps. But in the meantime you’ll simply have to wait. Though I must say, you quite impress me, my dear. I was concerned you would be frightened, and here you are trying to figure out some way the situation might be worked to your advantage. When did you become so Machiavellian?”
Amelie gave a wan smile. “Oh, a long time ago. Too long. Not that there’s anyone here to notice, let alone appreciate, my deviousness, or anything else about me, for that matter, other than my”—she glanced at Fanny—“
supposed
special powers. Except,” she continued, smiling apologetically, “for you.”
She went on. “What’s the use of having one’s wardrobe created by the House of Worth when the only ones around to see you are sheep?” She sighed deeply. “I’ll be an old maid by the time I am free to enter society again.”
“Twenty-one is hardly an old maid,” Fanny said, in that “reasonable” tone. “And there’s no sense grousing about it.”
Fanny was always telling her one must accept the things one could not change. Perhaps that was what came from having a cool temperament. Amelie was not so fortunate. She railed against the well-meaning tyranny her father’s will imposed, at times coming close to hating him for it. Of course, she didn’t. She understood he’d simply been trying to protect her. But that she should have to remain exiled because of her father ’s belief in hobgoblins was just
so
unfair! And that was exactly what the supposed “dangerous factions” in London that had driven them here were: hobgoblins out of the tormented imagination of a dying man.

 

During all her years in India and later in London, Amelie never felt a moment’s unease. She recalled both her former homes as places of excitement and color, movement and vibrancy—the antithesis of life in Little Firkin, which was frankly as boring as a place could get. Lord, she disliked living here!
But now, amazingly, fantastically, the immediate future glittered with promise. She would not let a letter cast a pall over it. Or allow anything else to dim
his
light.
“Do you not think him the
perfect
gentleman?” she asked, clasping her hands and whirling around in the center of the road. “Such address! So debonair! Such refinement! And did you
see
the cut of his coat? I am convinced it was tailored in Bond Street. I have an eye, you know, and I not only study the ladies’ fashion magazines, but the gentlemen’s too.”
Fanny did not reply.
“What is it, Fanny? Do not say there is something about Lord Hayden of which you disapprove.”
Fanny glanced at her. “Good heavens, was I just commending you on your maturity?” she asked. “You sound remarkably like you did the morning your pony was delivered.”
Amelie felt too deliciously euphoric to take offense. “Then you
do
approve!” she said. “Is he not smashing?”
“Smashing?” Fanny repeated. “I see I shall have to review the amount of sensationalist fare entering the house.”
“You can’t distract me by putting on that governessy tone.” Amelie ground to a halt, putting her hands on her hips and tapping her toe. “I insist on knowing your opinion of Lord Hayden.”
Fanny threw her hands up. “All right. He’s a very handsome young man.” She began walking again.
Amelie did not. “Is that all you have to say?”
“He’s a very young man,” Fanny said.
“He’s older than me.”
Fanny looked over her shoulder at Amelie. “
You
are a very,
very
young lady.”
“But you concede he has address.”
Finally, Fanny stopped. “Fine. He has address.”
“And polish.”
“Yes, yes. He positively gleams.”
Amelie pouted. “Now you are being sarcastic, and you always told me that sarcasm is the province of mean-spirited journalists and vulgar politicians.”
At this, Fanny grinned. “I always fancied I’d make a good politician.” She turned her head forward again and continued on her way, Amelie behind.

 

There was no use for it; Fanny would not be persuaded to enthusiasm. Even over a paragon like Lord Hayden.
Fanny was a darling, but without a single excitable bone in her body. If Amelie could wish one thing for her friend, it would be that she had a more passionate nature.

 

Not for the first time, Amelie wondered what Fanny’s marriage must have been like, and if Mr. Walcott had been as cool a customer as his wife. She supposed it was so; otherwise Fanny would have spoken of him more often. As it was, Amelie couldn’t help but feel sorry for poor, dead Mr. Walcott, who, in his short time as a husband, had made so little an impression on his wife that she seemed to have more or less forgotten him.
But she felt even sorrier for Fanny, who, she assumed, had known love only as a tepid, placid sort of affection. Amelie was certain that when
she
fell in love it would be spectacularly intense and all-consuming. As well as tender, noble, and enduring, of course. She wouldn’t have it any other way, and, as Fanny often pointed out, she generally got what she wanted.

 

They’d just reached the steps leading up to Quod Lamia’s long, deep porch when the front door opened and Vicar Oglethorpe stomped out, slamming it behind him. He stopped, snapping his hat viciously against his knee.
“Dirty,” he muttered angrily.

 

“Excuse me,” Fanny said, her voice an arctic blast.
Amelie fell back a step. The vicar intimidated her. From the moment they’d arrived in Little Firkin, he’d accused her of willfully conspiring at witchcraft, and nothing her father or Fanny had said could persuade him otherwise. As luck would have it, he had actually witnessed a plate flying from the table. It had flown straight at his head.
She knew his fixation on what he’d seen disturbed Fanny, too, for once she’d said, “The man must not be right in the noggin. Here he insists that all signs of the preternatural in our house desist, and for years now they have, and still he natters on about all the dark deeds occurring at Quod Lamia.”
“I suspect you shouldn’t have named the house Quod Lamia, then,” Amelie had offered, and Fanny had given way to one of her unexpectedly roguish and wholly delightful grins.
“I suspect not.”
They hadn’t discussed the matter again, but as time went on, the vicar ’s mania became more pronounced. Amelie supposed it had something to do with his sister having left his house to come to work for them. Not that the vicar especially liked his sister—Amelie decided he didn’t like anyone—but he viewed her decampment not only as a personal affront, but as a sure sign that the two women at Quod Lamia had used unnatural influence to tempt her into their midst. In actuality it had been much simpler: They’d offered her a wage.

 

Fanny had stopped at the bottom of the stairs and was glaring up at the vicar, even from the disadvantage of her inferior height appearing far more commanding.
He looked up from swatting at his trousers and his lip curled. “Your
house
is dirty, Mrs. Walcott. You ought to teach that slatternly creature you call a maid how to use a feather duster and a mop.”
He was talking about Violet Beadle—though using the term
maid
in reference to the girl was stretching the definition of the word a bit. He started down the steps.
Fanny held her ground. Fanny always held her ground.

 

“Though,” he intoned darkly, “I think we both know that the furnishings are not the only unclean things about this household.” He stopped a few steps above her.
For a long moment, they locked gazes, but then Fanny smiled and began calmly mounting the stairs, deliberately heading straight to where the vicar stood. He had no choice but to move or risk being knocked aside. And both Amelie and the vicar knew Fanny was quite capable of such an act.

 

With an angry sputter, he leaped out of her way just in time to avoid a collision. Fanny sailed past with regal disregard, turning at the top of the stairs.
“I’m surprised you’d sully yourself by entering the house,” she said.
“I have a duty to the sister who has chosen to dwell in this—”
“Den of iniquity?” Fanny cut in.
“Insolent, irreverent wench,” the vicar shouted. “How
dare
you mock me?”
“Well, why not go for broke, Vicar?” Fanny drawled in that scornful manner with which she verbally lashed anyone who dared speak rudely to either her or Amelie. “If you must be a caricature, you might as well speak in clichés.”
Despite knowing Fanny could handle the vicar, Amelie fidgeted. She wished Fanny would not bait the man. He’d turned an alarming shade of red and actually stomped his foot. His hand clenched into a fist. Fanny yawned, delicately hiding her mouth behind her hand.
“You needn’t worry about Miss Oglethorpe,” Amelie offered, trying to console him. He looked like he might strike Fanny. “She dislikes us, too. And she is a most devout . . .” Oh, Lord, what denomination
was
Vicar Oglethorpe? She wasn’t sure she even knew. . . . No. She didn’t. “Whatever it is you are.”
His eyes bulged and she hurried on, at the same time backing up. “She is always praying over us. I hear her in the kitchen . . .” She trailed off.
Her attempt at conciliation had been in vain. Oglethorpe raised a shaking hand and pointed a finger at her.
“You.
You
are the root—”
“Of all evil?” Fanny again cut in. “No, that would be money. Though Amelie does look to come into scads of that someday.”
“Quiet, Lilith!” the vicar thundered, and stormed past Amelie without glancing at her, which, Amelie suspected, had been Fanny’s goal all along. They watched him go, sending up little puffs of dust.
Fanny was a genius at deflecting the vicar’s attention from her. Indeed, Amelie was not sure whom the vicar considered the greater threat to his flock—assuming he had one somewhere—the witch or the witch’s keeper.

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