Sorcery & Cecelia: Or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot (10 page)

Of course, I shall do my utmost to help her—and I can certainly sympathize with her reluctance to marry that odious man Schofield.

What a muddle it all is—and how I wish you were with me so I could be encouraged by the confidence and courage you put into those familiar words, “We must clearly
do something
.” Indeed we must—but what?

And thank heaven again that you weren’t riding in your usual neck-or-nothing fashion when you encountered that mysterious barrier in the grass. I smell Miranda behind that, plain as plain, and am very grateful for your charm-bags. Mind you keep your own close by you.

—
K

20 May 1817

Rushton Manor, Essex

Dearest Kate,

Your letter arrived this morning and I pounced on it at once. I was relieved by your news of Oliver, though it is not exactly specific. Thomas certainly does seem to delight in being enigmatic. It would not surprise me in the least to learn that he had invented the name “the Mysterious Marquis” himself. However, I must say that I admire Thomas’s thoroughness. Papa received a note from Oliver yesterday, saying that he had gone off to stay for a few days with some friends he had met in London and, of course, neglecting to give their direction. (It is quite obvious to me that the Marquis arranged for Oliver to write the note; Oliver would never have thought of such a thing on his own.)

I find your description of the change in the bloodstains on Thomas’s handkerchief very worrying. I haven’t the least notion what it means, but I’m quite sure it means
something.
Washing does not normally turn bloodstains violet, however strong the hartshorn, and after all, the Marquis
is
a wizard. I think you should keep it very safe, but I do not know what else to recommend. I
wish
I knew more about magic; then perhaps I might advise you better.

I should also mention that I saw the announcement of your engagement to Thomas, Marquis of Schofield, in last Friday’s
Gazette
, which arrived with today’s post. Fortunately, there were also letters from Aunt Charlotte to Papa and Aunt Elizabeth, so they cannot truthfully say that they learned of the engagement from the newspaper. Not that Papa would mind in the least, but Aunt Elizabeth is a different matter. She is not in transports over your engagement, by the way. She keeps her reservations to herself in company and says all that is proper, but my long experience with her allows me to detect a certain lack of enthusiasm. I suppose it is because Thomas is a wizard. She is taking me to visit the Reverend Fitzwilliam this afternoon, which is a sure sign she is upset.

Regarding the Marquis—I sympathize with your position, but I am very much afraid that you have let your justifiable annoyance run off with your sense. We have several months in which to arrange a way for you to jilt Thomas; I doubt that Miranda Griscomb will wait so long. I must own that your Marquis has been very clever. No matter what Miranda intended, she will never be able to force him to become engaged to Dorothea now. Though, really, it is most inconsiderate of him. For how can you find and encourage an eligible connection while you are engaged, however spuriously, to the Marquis?

I am afraid I find your Thomas’s “explanation” very inadequate, but at least he has confirmed some of our suspicions regarding Miranda. I wonder how he knew what she was planning? I must tell you that the reaction of most of the local bachelors to Dorothea’s departure has not been at all what I expected. None of them seems the least bit cast down. In fact, with the exception of Robert Penwood, they seem to have forgotten her almost completely. At church yesterday, I heard Jack Everslee refer to Dorothea as a “taking little chit, but bird-witted”—this after he was ready to call Martin out two weeks ago for (he claimed) slighting Dorothea’s eyebrows!

I find this very disturbing, particularly knowing what little we do about Miranda Tanistry Griscomb. It seems to me very likely that she has put some sort of spell on Dorothea to make her irresistible as long as she is about. For, you remember, the same thing happened to Oliver—he was very taken with Dorothea, but as soon as he went up to London, he forgot all about her. This makes it all the more urgent that
something
be done to overset Miranda’s schemes and rescue Dorothea. For it is quite obvious to me that Dorothea is an innocent pawn in her Stepmama’s game; she is so terrified of Miranda that I doubt if she could cooperate even if she wished.

I was also shocked and disturbed by the Marquis’s accusation about Sir Hilary. Upon reflection, however, I find it quite plausible to think that Sir Hilary stole a chocolate pot from Thomas, and even that he conspired with Miranda to poison the Marquis. This shocked me even more; it is a perfect example of what Aunt Elizabeth and the Reverend Fitzwilliam are always saying about the Shallowness of Society’s Judgments and the True Worth of Men being more than mere address. It is very lowering to discover that the Reverend Fitz is right about
anything.
However, it has given me an Idea.

If Miranda Griscomb and Sir Hilary Bedrick are working together, would it not be a good thing to make them suspicious of each other? And as we have known Sir Hilary for ages, do you not think that Miranda would find it quite plausible that you were in league with him to foil her plans for Dorothea and the Marquis? I don’t mean, of course, that you should tell her any such thing, but if you were to see her at a ball or some such and mention Sir Hilary’s name, and then look confused, she might very well jump to conclusions without any further effort on your part. And if Miranda were to think that Sir Hilary were trying to foil her plans, she might very well try to poison
him
with chocolate, and stop bothering you and Oliver and the Marquis.

I should point out that this plan has an element of risk, for it will bring you to Miranda’s attention again in quite a different way. I do not like to think that this might put you in danger. On the other hand, you have already been nearly poisoned and come close to being turned into a tree, even without pretending to be working with Sir Hilary. I trust you realize that this plan will probably annoy the Marquis as well. He sounds like the sort of person who wants to think of everything himself.

In the meantime, I will go up to Bedrick Hall and look about. (I had already determined to do so, for I must get that book of Sir Hilary’s back
somehow
, and I have discovered that it is quite impossible to post something anonymously in a town as small as Rushton, particularly a parcel.) It will have to wait a day or two, as I must think up some tale for Aunt Elizabeth.

Later

I have just returned from visiting the Reverend Fitzwilliam with Aunt Elizabeth. Mrs. Fitz was not in evidence, which is unusual; she is apparently not in the best of health due to her Interesting Condition. Aunt Elizabeth and Reverend Fitz discussed it at some length, and with much hyperbole out of respect for my tender sensibilities. (Though I cannot imagine how Aunt Elizabeth can believe that I
have
any sensibilities; she has certainly lived with us long enough to know better!)

In any case, we had not been at the house for very long when an additional visitor arrived, a Mr. Wrexton. He stood stock-still in the doorway for the longest time after he had been announced, just staring over at Aunt Elizabeth and me. Aunt Elizabeth took one look at him and stiffened in her most absolutely starched-up manner. I could not see any reason for her to take Mr. Wrexton in dislike, for I observed him closely. (He is a moderately tall man of about forty-five, I should guess, and dressed with great elegance. I must hasten to add that I do not mean the exaggerated sort of elegance that Oliver affects; Mr. Wrexton is more like James Tarleton—positively understated.) This was a mistake, for it meant that both Aunt Elizabeth and I were all but staring at him. As soon as she noticed, she gave me one of her looks, and I knew I would be forced to endure a lecture on manners for the better part of the way home.

In any case, Reverend Fitzwilliam performed the necessary introductions and Mr. Wrexton joined us. He says he is staying with friends in the area and has always made it a practice to call on the vicar when he does so. I thought this a little odd, but Reverend Fitz was flattered to have his profession so highly thought of. Aunt Elizabeth was quite cool for the remainder of our visit, which was much shorter than usual. Mr. Wrexton took her hand and bowed very low over it as we left, and said something about coming to call on Papa. Aunt Elizabeth was not encouraging.

Just outside we met Robert Penwood, driving his gig into town on some errand. I could not say much, due to Aunt Elizabeth’s presence, so I exercised
all
my powers of persuasion and managed to get Aunt Elizabeth to agree that I might drive with him, and Robert to agree to take me up. So I climbed into the gig and Aunt Elizabeth continued on home.

“Robert,” I said as soon as we were off, “I must talk to you about Dorothea.”

He looked at me with dislike. “I suppose she told you everything.”

“Well, I think so, but she was in the greatest distress!” I replied. “You did not meet Miranda—Mrs. Griscomb—but I did, and Dorothea has every reason to be terrified of her.”

Robert stared down at his reins. “I know. If there were only something I could do!”

“There is a great deal you can do!” I said impatiently. “It only wants a little
resolution
, Robert!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cecy!” Robert said. “What do you expect me to do? Ride off with Dorothea across my saddlebow, like the hero of one of those novels you read? Elope to Gretna Green? Have a little sense!”

“From what Dorothea said, I don’t think she would have minded either one,” I told him. “Though riding flung across someone’s saddlebow sounds excessively uncomfortable to me. But
something
must be done to rescue Dorothea from Mir—from Mrs. Griscomb.”

“Don’t talk fustian!” Robert said. “Mrs. Griscomb is Dorothea’s Mother; she has every right to—”

“No, she is not,” I interrupted. “She is Dorothea’s Stepmama, which is an entirely different thing.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Robert said gloomily. “She is responsible for Dorothea’s welfare.”

“You think forcing Dorothea to marry the Marquis of Schofield is looking out for Dorothea’s welfare?” I demanded. “Really, Robert!”

“And how can I compete with a marquis?” he said roughly. “I’m neither rich nor titled, and as for prospects…” He snorted.

“Dorothea loves you,” I pointed out. “And she can’t marry the Marquis of Schofield, because Kate has just become engaged to him.”

If I had thought Robert would be pleased by this intelligence, I was quite out, for he pulled at the reins so hard that the horse jobbed and we were very nearly overturned. He looked positively fierce. “Cecy! Is this another one of your queer starts? Because if it is, you and Kate can just stop your interfering right now.”

“Oh, stuff!” I said, “
I
didn’t have anything to do with Kate’s betrothal to the Marquis, and she’s never even met Dorothea. All I meant was that we can turn it to our advantage.”

“How?” Robert said suspiciously.

“You can become engaged to Dorothea before her Stepmama has time to find another man to offer for her,” I said.

“Don’t be a fool, Cecy,” Robert said, but he sounded a trifle more hopeful. “Mrs. Griscomb would never consent to her daughter’s—her stepdaughter’s marrying a nobody.”

“You are not a nobody,” I said firmly. “Why, your grandfather was the son of a duke! And it is Dorothea’s Papa who must consent to her marriage, not her Stepmama.”

Robert stopped the gig and looked at me with an arrested expression. “You’re right. Cecy, I never thought of that!” After a moment, he slumped again. “But I cannot think that Mr. Griscomb will favor my suit any more than his wife does.”

“You won’t know unless you try,” I said. “And you simply cannot leave Dorothea at the mercy of that woman without any hope whatever!”

“I’ll do it!” Robert said. He paused, then went on diffidently, “I don’t suppose—would you write to Dorothea and tell her? I know it isn’t the thing to be asking, but…”

“I’ll see,” I said noncommittally, for it occurred to me just in time that Miranda may well read Dorothea’s letters (it would be just like her). And in any case, I do not think Dorothea would be very good at dissembling. It would never do for Miranda to become suspicious because Dorothea was happy! So I am writing you with this news instead, and when you meet Dorothea and have a chance to judge, you may tell her as much as you think wise.

Robert was quite congenial for the remainder of my ride with him, if you can consider someone who is in ecstatic raptures over another lady to be congenial. He let me down at the end of the drive and went off to Tarleton Hall to discover Mr. Griscomb’s direction. I sincerely hope that Mr. Griscomb is not in some outlandish place weeks from Town. I would feel much reassured if Dorothea’s future were safely settled.

When I arrived at the house, I was informed that I had had a caller while I was away. You will never guess who it was, Kate—James Tarleton! I cannot imagine what he wants of me, but whatever it is, he wants it rather badly, for he left a message that he will call again Thursday and hopes I will go driving with him. I am strongly tempted to have the headache.

Your cousin,

Cecy

25 May 1817

11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Cecy,

Aunt Charlotte says I must go to bed and stay there until she tells me I may get up. I shall do so as soon as I finish this letter to you, and then, if possible, go into a decline of the most spectacular sort.

I apologize for not having written sooner, but, indeed, things have been happening so rapidly there was not time to pause and think it out. Now it appears I shall have all the time I need and more.

Dorothea arrived a week ago, Miranda apparently having no qualms about travel on the Sabbath. Dorothea wasted not a moment in calling here, for I returned from the modiste’s on Monday to discover she had left her card. She paid another call on Tuesday, and I was able to offer her what comfort tea and sympathy could provide. The poor child has the most touching faith in you, Cecy. Every sentence she speaks has a “Cecy says” sprinkled in it somewhere. Evidently she has the notion that you have a sort of Grand Plan to reunite her with Robert. I tried to clarify matters a little, but could not really tell her much without contradicting her apparently unshakable faith in you. She seems to have been able to conceal much of her fear of Schofield since learning of my betrothal. Indeed, she wished me happy in a very affecting way, and then spent a merry quarter hour cutting up his character with me.