Sorcery & Cecelia: Or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot (15 page)

Aunt Elizabeth and I paid a call on the Reverend Fitzwilliam yesterday. The Reverend Fitz does not recall having been at school with anyone named Strangle, and, in fact, became almost distressed in his efforts to recall the name. I said that I must have been mistaken in my understanding of what you had written me, and very likely you had only meant that Mr. Strangle was at some other school at the same time, or at Brasenose just after the Reverend Fitz. I do not, of course, think anything of the kind, but there are times when it is necessary to employ a polite fiction. Particularly with the Reverend Fitz. Whatever the explanation, I thought you should know about Mr. Strangle.

Mr. Wrexton arrived barely fifteen minutes after we did, bringing a bottle of wine he had apparently promised Reverend Fitzwilliam on Wednesday. We spent a pleasant half hour in innocuous discussion before Aunt Elizabeth insisted that we leave. I have begun to wonder whether she suspects that Mr. Wrexton is a wizard, though how she could have discovered that is beyond me. It would explain her apparent distaste for his company.

I have heard nothing from Robert, but I did not really expect to have any news from him this soon. I am, in fact, rather grateful. It has occurred to me that even if Robert does obtain Mr. Griscomb’s consent to marry Dorothea, Miranda would have no compunction about feeding him poisoned chocolate or making one of his cravats strangle him. I am very sorry this did not occur to me before I sent him off looking for Mr. Griscomb; still, something must be done about Miranda in any case. We cannot allow her to continue wandering around enchanting marquises, turning people into beech trees, frightening horses, and leaving ribbons about to strangle people. This simply means that we must deal with her a little sooner.

I shall make up a charm-bag for Robert, in case he finds Mr. Griscomb and announces his engagement before Miranda has been dealt with, and one for Dorothea as well. I will send them with my next letter. It will take me a little while to get them finished, as I do not dare work on them in Aunt Elizabeth’s presence. I will also ask Mr. Wrexton’s opinion, in a very general sort of way, of what can be done about particularly unscrupulous and powerful wizards. In the meantime, perhaps you could tell Dorothea that Robert has been quite moped since she left. I am sure she will let this slip to Miranda, which will give Miranda the impression that Robert is still in Rushton.

Georgy is being a goose, as usual. Oliver would be far more likely to lecture her at great length on the impropriety of her conduct than to absent himself from Town as a punishment.

Word has got round that Sir Hilary is back in residence, by the way, and Aunt Elizabeth has reluctantly agreed that we must pay a formal call sometime this week. It is fortunate that she has so strong a sense of duty, for otherwise I am sure she would refuse to visit a practicing wizard. She was stiff enough with him before he was ever admitted to the Royal College.

Your new dresses sound wonderful; you will have to model them all for me when you return from London. Take the greatest care of yourself, and if any notion occurs to you of how to deal with Miranda or Sir Hilary, write me at once!

Your faithful,

Cecy

4 June 1817

11 Berkeley Square, London

Dearest Cecy,

I have given Dorothea your message about Robert. Dorothea had a most singular message for me—but let me start with your news. Far better for Sir Hilary to have suspicions of you than to have certain knowledge you are in a conspiracy against him when he catches you absconding with another of his books. What can such a volume tell us to match the risk you would run? After all, the important thing is that its existence confirms the sorcerous background of the Tanistry family.

That Mr. Wrexton says you have an aptitude for magic surprises me very little—remember when Georgy and I tried to charm away her freckles with morning dew? Then you tried, with the very same dew, and they faded completely. To this day, Georgy has never had another. Which just shows you.

The Marquis’s handkerchief is perfectly safe. I put it into the second charm-bag you sent for me, on the grounds that it could be anyone’s handkerchief, but it is my blood.

Dorothea called this afternoon, and I gave her the carefully edited news you sent regarding Robert. She was delighted by the mere sound of his name, and we discussed his virtues at great length, I thought, considering how few of them he possesses. After perhaps half an hour spent listing his excellences, Dorothea gave a little start. Then she plumped her reticule down on the tea table and began rummaging about in it. After a moment, she very gingerly brought out a small parcel, about the size of a teacup, done up in a crumpled bit of striped paper and a quite ordinary bit of string.

“I almost forgot,” she said, putting it into my hand. “This is for you. Thomas sent it.”

She informed me that he’d given it to her that morning when he took her out driving in the park. “He knew I would call here this afternoon, for I told him so yesterday. We were talking about you and I said you would be at Countess Lieven’s tonight. That was when he asked me to go driving with him.”

“You were talking about me?” I said. “Why?”

“Well, it is only natural, isn’t it?” replied Dorothea. “After all, he is betrothed to you.”

I regarded Dorothea with wonder. I never thought anyone could be sillier than Georgina, but Dorothea shows every sign of it. “And he gave you this to give to me?” I asked. She nodded.

I scrutinized the little parcel cautiously, half suspecting it to be some piece of Miranda’s handiwork. But the paper was the green and white striped sort that Gunther’s uses to wrap up boxes of bonbons and the string displayed signs of much previous use. I felt quite certain Miranda would do things a bit more elaborately.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” asked Dorothea.

I undid the string and opened the paper. Inside there was a seashell, quite a pretty one in its way, but nothing extraordinary. I examined the wrapper minutely. There was no sign of any message. I turned the seashell over and over, but it was precisely what it seemed—a seashell. Finally, with a little sigh, I handed the shell to Dorothea.

“How very provoking of him,” she said. “He told me it was something of great importance.” Idly, she put the shell to her ear. “I can’t even hear the sea in it.”

I took the shell from her and put it to my own ear. She was correct. For a long moment, I could hear nothing from the shell. Then, quite as plainly as if he were standing behind me, I heard Thomas speak.

“Kate,” he said, “if you mean to go to Countess Lieven’s tonight, I beg you, do not. With matters as they stand now, I can manage things by myself, but I cannot protect you and handle wizards, too. Please use your common sense for once and stay at home. I will tell you when it is safe to return to Society.”

There was another moment of silence, then the hushing sound proper to seashells began.

“Why, how queer and white you look, Kate,” said Dorothea. “Are you feeling ill again?”

“No, no,” I said. “Here, listen to it now. What do you hear?”

“Why, the sea,” she said. “I can’t think why Thomas thought it was so important. It is quite an ordinary seashell.”

“I shall have to ask him about it tonight at Countess Lieven’s,” I said, and poured us each another cup of tea.

So, Cecy, in a few minutes I must begin to dress. I am a little late because I wanted to write to you on receipt of your letter—I shall write again directly I am back this evening—and because I took the time, after Dorothea’s departure, to use the heel of my slipper to reduce that seashell to small bits. This act of wanton destruction has made me feel a little better, and I am looking forward to this evening very much. Perhaps I will be able to use the same technique on my lord, the Marquis of Schofield’s skull.

Later

I shall add a few lines to this letter before I send it off just to say what a satisfactory evening it was. There must be some fiery element in the air of London, for I never liked an atmosphere of discord at home. Yet, at Countess Lieven’s tonight, there was discord aplenty and it merely sharpened my enjoyment. The guests were split in two groups—some were whispering about Dorothea and her string of admirers, some about Georgy. (Apparently, Georgy’s friendship for Dorothea excites comment.) It added an element of enjoyment for me, when Georgy and I greeted Dorothea, to know our friendliness with her displeased so many onlookers.

When Frederick Hollydean sidled up to me after the first dance to ask me to join him in the Sir Roger de Coverley, I had little choice but to consent. But before the set was made up, he said softly to me, “I wonder, do you share your sister’s talents at the tables?” I did not get his meaning and I told him so. He dropped his voice to an even more conspiratorial whisper and said, “
Gaming.
Do you like it?”

I dropped his hand and stepped back. “That is a very poor jest,” I said. My voice was quiet but cold. I do not know what my expression was, but I have an idea I might have resembled Aunt Charlotte to some degree, for Frederick dropped his eyes and began to beg my pardon extensively. I left him in mid-apology. This is the first reference to Grandfather’s tendency that I’ve heard in Society. I suppose it must be known, but only Frederick Hollydean would find it a suitable topic of conversation. Still, it afforded me an escape from the dance with him.

After a moment or two I was able to compose myself and gaze calmly about the ballroom. It was wonderful to be out of my bedroom and free to dance and laugh and receive complimentary remarks upon my appearance. Either flouting snobbish young ladies improves my looks, or everyone there expected me to be at death’s door after listening to the odious Marquis spin tales of my ill health for a week, for I have never received so many compliments in my life.

The dress was everything I had hoped. Georgy helped me with my hair, which she dressed with a gilt ribbon in a mode she insisted on calling
à la Grecque.
She lent me a pair of sandals of gilded leather, and (though Aunt Charlotte would certainly have shot us both dead on the spot if she had noticed) painted my toenails gold as well. On the whole, I think I looked very well, though, of course, vastly
fast
for a young lady in her first Season, betrothed or not. Had Dorothea not been there, in fact, I should have repented of my rashness, for it might have given some of the gentlemen there a misleading idea of my personality. But I could have been wearing a jewel in my navel and gone unnoticed by every man in the room, so long as Dorothea was there for them to rest their eyes upon. So I enjoyed myself immensely until the evening was half over, despite Miranda’s gimlet gaze upon me as I danced.

Midway through the evening, the Marquis of Schofield arrived, looking a little weary, I thought, but as impeccably dressed as ever. He sought out Dorothea at once, and she slighted Michael Aubrey to give him an allemande, which he accepted with every show of enthusiasm. I was dancing with Andrew Grenville (George still has his arm in a sling, but does not bear a grudge against me) when he spied me. The look in his eyes could have cracked glass. I suppose the look in my eyes might have done some damage, too, for when he noticed my expression, Andrew exclaimed, “Oh, I say, I’m frightfully sorry—have I stepped on you again?”

I reassured Andrew and we went on dancing. But though we were moving as the other couples moved, the odious Marquis began to dance in our direction. He came toward us with a kind of graceful determination, tacking like a ship through the sea of dancers. When the allemande ended, Andrew turned from me to Dorothea with a glad cry as the orchestra began a waltz. The odious Marquis snatched me before I could elude him.

“What are you doing here, you—hetaera?” Thomas demanded.

“It may interest you to know, my lord, that my uncle is an antiquary and I am perfectly well aware what a hetaera is,” I informed him.

“You don’t surprise me,” he replied grimly. “Didn’t you get my message?”

“Indeed, I did, my lord,” I replied. “I disregarded it.”

“Oh, did you?” he sneered. “Doubtless you knew better than I.”

“Quite so,” I said. “You were reasoning from incorrect information.”

“Go on, Miss Talgarth,” said Thomas. “Correct me.”

“You said you could handle things by yourself,” I said. “Plainly you are mistaken.”

My lord the Marquis of Schofield made no reply to this in words, but executed a waltz turn that would have given me convulsions a month ago. As I have had a good deal of practice dancing lately, I followed him without mishap, and when we had come forth to smooth water once again, I continued.

“I wonder if you have been in communication with James Tarleton of late?” I said in a tone of mild inquiry. “Does
he
believe that you can handle things by yourself?”

Thomas executed another sudden maneuver and I found myself dancing the waltz in the Russian room at Countess Lieven’s. Only slightly discomfited by this piece of effrontery, I followed his lead as he danced over to a settee in the corner. With a good deal of violence, he helped me take a seat. I arranged my skirts becomingly and smiled up at him insincerely. Thomas seated himself beside me and took my hand in his. From a distance it might have appeared to an observer that we were gazing ardently into each other’s eyes. Seen close to, the annoyance in Thomas’s expression was forbidding.

“You realize, don’t you, that you have just ruined the effect I have put better than a fortnight’s time into achieving?” he demanded. His voice was soft but fierce. “There will be no point, after this, in pretending to Miranda that I have any interest whatever in Dorothea. Her plan has failed, and the moment she realizes that, my plan does, too. And it is all your fault.”

“Perhaps if you had told me your plan—,” I began.

He shook his head impatiently. “What’s the point?” he demanded. “I expected Dorothea to exert, er, an appeal she manifestly lacks.”

“You certainly haven’t behaved as if she lacked a thing,” I said.

“That’s what I meant Miranda to think. But she nearly murdered you when she thought you were all that stood in the way of her plans for me. Then you wouldn’t cry off and I had to make the best of things without provoking her into another attempt to kill you.”