Sorcery & Cecelia: Or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot (16 page)

“Thoughtful behavior from a man who looks as though he’d like to kill me himself,” I remarked.

“It might have worked if you had listened to me and been a little helpful, but that was too much to expect. What, after all, was my wish compared to your desire to make a cake of yourself in front of the entire Ton? Why didn’t you damp your dress as the Cyprians do? Then no one would have to rely on imagination at all.”

“Oh, stop being so absurd,” I said. It is the oddest thing, Cecy, that I was not at all angry. If anyone else had said such things to me, I would have slapped him. But all I could think of was that Thomas had no interest whatever in Dorothea, and if the expression of fury on his face was anything to go by, he had a great deal of interest in me.

“We are in a great muddle, it is true,” I told him, “but I haven’t made it any worse. Or at least not much worse. What was I to do? Pretend to languish for months while you play cat and mouse with Miranda? I would like to help you, if I may, for I am grateful for what you have done for Oliver. But I cannot be of much use until you tell me more about your plan—and your problem, for all I know certainly is that it concerns a chocolate pot.”

“Well, you will probably make mice feet of the entire business but you can do no worse than you did by coming here this evening,” he snarled. His tone was harsh but his expression had softened a trifle. He stared into my eyes for a long moment, then said with great satisfaction, “I regret to inform you, my dear half-wit, that you have a headache.”

“Don’t be silly,” I began—and then I did have a headache, quite abruptly. Not as severely as that awful day when he came to ask me to cry off, but definitely a headache. I put my hand to my temple.

“My dear Miss Talgarth,” said the odious Marquis in a somewhat louder voice, “may I fetch you something? Ratafia? Spirits of hartshorn? Sal volatile? Your Aunt Charlotte?”

“No, no,” I said, “it’s nothing. It will pass in a moment.”

“Take you home?” he replied, as if I had not spoken. “Of course, my dear, at once. You should not have risen from your sickbed so promptly. Doubtless you are having a relapse.”

Before I could protest, he was gone to find Aunt Charlotte. In less time than I would have thought possible, he had arranged to drive me home himself—yes, without even a chaperone, for, of course, Aunt Charlotte could not leave Georgy. Oh, odious that man may be, but he has more address than I would have thought possible.

Scarcely was I out in the fresh night air than the headache began to fade. I took my hand away from my forehead and blinked at him. “You shouldn’t do things like that,” I told him.

“Don’t you want an explanation?” he replied. “How could I speak in there?”

I did not answer. The brush of Thomas’s sleeve against my arm distracted me from his words. He was so near to me I could catch the faint scent of him, an interesting combination of shaving soap and wood smoke. It occurred to me that I had never been alone in the dark with a gentleman before. I found it a novel sensation and I wished to give it my full consideration, but Thomas went on talking.

“I never meant it to be a chocolate pot,” he said. “I had a pocket watch I meant to use. But when the ceremony took place, things were a trifle rushed. Sir Hilary desired me to wait until he felt I was ready for such a strenuous exercise of my magic—and the wait would have been a long one, for he found it useful to be able to draw upon my magic for the execution of his spells. He was seeking me—and at the moment of the ceremony, the spell he was using found me. I knew he was nearly on me and I acted with dispatch. My magic was safely focused, but not through the pocket watch.” He broke off. “Are you listening?”

I collected my scattered thoughts and said, “Yes, quite so, the chocolate pot,” as intelligently as I could.

Thomas sighed. “Yes. I don’t know why. There were a dozen more suitable objects on my desk at the time. Somehow it found the chocolate pot a more congenial spot. And somehow a little of Sir Hilary’s magic, just a whiff of it as the seeking spell hit, found its way into the chocolate pot, too.”

“How distressing,” I said. I don’t think Thomas can be considered musical, but his voice is very pleasant to listen to. I found myself speaking almost at random, more attuned to the pitch and inflection of his words than to the sense.

“It took me a long time to find out about Sir Hilary’s contribution,” Thomas continued, “for I left for the Peninsula that night and took my chocolate set with me. And if you think an officer on Wizard Wellington’s staff travels in sufficient state to warrant taking a chocolate set everywhere he goes, well, you’re mistaken. But while we were on campaign, we were far enough that Sir Hilary’s magic couldn’t reach me. It wasn’t until after Waterloo when we all mustered out of the service that I came back to settle down and discovered that England was as good as a wasps’ nest to me while Sir Hilary thought I had his magic under some sort of control.”

Thomas fell silent at last. I was able, with a little difficulty, to recollect my wandering thoughts. “How did you lose the chocolate pot?” I asked.

It seemed I was not alone in my distraction, for it took Thomas a moment to reply, and then his words had an abstracted air. “Oh, a bit of a misunderstanding,” he replied, then said more briskly, “Oh, the devil, we’re here.”

And we were in Berkeley Square.

We behaved very properly, of course, for I knew Aunt Charlotte would certainly cross-question the servants when she arrived home. I was turned over to the maid who had kindly waited up for me, who helped me to untangle my hair and exclaimed in horror when she saw the state of my toes. When she left me I began this letter, for Cecy, how can I sleep? He doesn’t care two pins for Dorothea, and never did.

Love,

Kate

10 June 1817

Rushton Manor, Essex

Dearest Kate,

Of course your odious Marquis does not care two pins for Dorothea. I cannot think how you could ever have supposed otherwise, for one really cannot count the emotions aroused by that insidious spell of Miranda’s. I am quite put out, however, to learn that he was simply counterfeiting the effect, especially after all the thought we have put into trying to rescue him from it. He might at least have told you what he was about, and saved us both the effort.

There are, in fact, a great many things he might have told you, and I am exceedingly sorry you did not think to have him take a turn around the park on your way back from Countess Lieven’s. He seems to have been in a confiding mood, and you might have got the full tale out of him. However, there is no sense in regretting it now. I can only hope that his mood has lasted, and that you have been able to chivy him into providing a few more of the details. For I must tell you, Kate, that I am not likely to get anything out of James Tarleton. He has not been next nor nigh the house this past week, and it is quite impossible to question someone who is not present.

Fortunately, Mr. Wrexton has been more particular. He has called three times, once to take tea and chat with Aunt Elizabeth, and twice to take me driving (and give me the first of my magic lessons). Aunt Elizabeth does not know of the lessons, of course, but she still does not approve of my outings with him. She cannot do more than be rather stiff about it, though. Mr. Wrexton is, after all, a friend of the vicar’s, and as she had already consented to my driving alone with James Tarleton, she could not object to the outings on grounds of propriety. I believe she is worried that he is growing particular in his attentions, and means to offer for me. This is quite absurd, but I can hardly explain to Aunt Elizabeth that Mr. Wrexton’s only interest in me is as a sorcery student.

My lessons are going well, I think, and as a result I may be able to shed a little light on the extremely muddled explanation Thomas gave you regarding the chocolate pot. It seems there are a great many magicians who, in order to use their magic most effectively, must have an object through which to focus their power. This object must be kept nearby when casting spells. (I believe it works along the same lines as wearing spectacles—some people need them, others don’t; every pair is different and it does no good to try to use someone else’s; one can see without them, but not nearly so well; and they do one no good whatever if they are not in place when one requires them.)

I believe that what Thomas was trying to say is that the chocolate pot is the object he uses to focus his magic. If so, its absence is a very serious thing, for without it his magic cannot be nearly as strong as it ought to be. With both Miranda and Sir Hilary hounding him…well, I do not like the implications in the least. I do not know what effect the “whiff of Sir Hilary’s magic” that got into the chocolate pot would have, but I doubt that it can be a good one.

Thomas must know all this, and I can only say that it was
exceedingly
careless of him to have let Sir Hilary get hold of that chocolate pot in the first place. He would have been much better off, I think, if he had broken the silly thing and made himself another focus. I suppose he was too proud. Thomas’s good sense appears to come only in flashes. It was very silly of him to suggest, for example, that you damp your dresses when you have just got over a shocking cold. One would think he
wished
you to have an inflammation of the lungs. And he himself admits that dangling after Dorothea in that odious manner was a stupid thing to have done. He has, however, managed not to fall into any of Miranda’s traps, which argues rather more intelligence than he has been evincing recently. (On rereading your letter, I see that Thomas was not, in fact, advocating that you damp your skirts, so perhaps I am doing him an injustice in that instance.)

Speaking of magic, I do appreciate your loyal remembrance of our attempts at clearing up Georgy’s freckles, but I cannot in conscience take the credit. I think Aunt Elizabeth’s Strawberry Complexion Lotion far more likely to have done the trick—that, and the fact that since that summer Georgy has followed Aunt Charlotte’s advice and avoided sitting in the sun.

I have not had another chance to investigate Sir Hilary’s library. And it is the outside of enough for you to be asking me what I may learn by doing so. If I knew that, I should not need to ransack the library at all. I had hoped to manage it yesterday, when Aunt Elizabeth and I paid our duty call at Bedrick Hall, but under the circumstances, perhaps it was as well I did not attempt it. When Sir Hilary’s butler ushered us into the gray sitting room, Sir Hilary was already there, along with Mr. and Mrs. Everslee and the Reverend Fitzwilliam. They had all come to congratulate him on his appointment to the Royal College of Wizards and (in the case of Mrs. Everslee) to see if there was any chance of his holding a party in celebration. Not that Mrs. Everslee has become frivolous, you understand; it is just that now both Dorothea and Georgy are away and Patience will finally have a chance to shine. Provided, of course, that there is an event for her to shine at.

The conversation consisted of empty pleasantries, for the most part. Then the tea tray arrived, and I was hard put to keep my countenance. For there, right in the center of the tray, was a perfectly beautiful blue porcelain chocolate pot.

I could feel Sir Hilary watching me as the footman set the tray down, so I pretended to be absorbed in what the Reverend Fitz was saying. (Something about the drains in the parsonage, I believe.) Then Sir Hilary asked Mrs. Everslee if she would be good enough to pour, and I turned my attention to the tea along with the rest of the group.

Mrs. Everslee gave Aunt Elizabeth a cup of tea, then turned to me. “I will have chocolate, please,” I said, for I had had time enough to think and I did not see how Sir Hilary could try to poison me in such company.

“I did not realize you were fond of chocolate, Miss Rushton,” Sir Hilary said.

“Oh, I like it of all things,” I replied as carelessly as I could manage. “I am so glad you thought to serve it.”

“The pot is meant for chocolate, and I thought it deserved to be used,” Sir Hilary said blandly.

“To be sure,” I said. I took two cucumber sandwiches and one of the macaroons, then made a show of studying the chocolate pot. It was very like your description; I am quite sure it is either Thomas’s or another copy like the one Miranda had at Sir Hilary’s investiture. “It is very nice, but it does not go with the rest of your tea set,” I observed dispassionately.

“That shade of blue is difficult to match,” Sir Hilary replied. He paused, then went on with apparent casualness, “How does your brother go on?”

“Oliver is quite well,” I said, and took a bite out of one of my sandwiches.

“I am glad to hear it,” Sir Hilary said, swinging his quizzing glass absently on the end of its ribbon. “You have had news of him recently, then?”

“Oh, Oliver has never been much of a hand at writing,” I said. “But it is very kind of you to ask.”

I gave Sir Hilary my most brilliant smile, tore my eyes away from the chocolate pot, and turned to offer Aunt Elizabeth one of the macaroons, thus putting an end to a most uncomfortable conversation. This maneuver placed me facing the large windows that look out over the side lawn and the little pavilion just in front of the hedge where the maze begins. As I held the plate out to Aunt Elizabeth, I saw a flicker of movement among the bushes. In another moment, someone ran across the open space and disappeared behind the pavilion. I had just enough of a glimpse to make me quite sure that it was James Tarleton.

I swallowed my dismay and irritation—really, the man is impossibly bad at sneaking about—and turned back to the Reverend Fitz. Sir Hilary was looking past me at the window, which made my spirits sink. There was nothing I could do but hope he had not seen James, or that he was uncertain of the identity of whoever was skulking in his bushes.

Somehow, I got through the rest of that tea, but my feelings were in such turmoil that I did not think it wise to attempt to slip away to the library. Aunt Elizabeth and I left at last, and I promise you that I will never again complain of her insistence on limiting our calls on Sir Hilary to the formal thirty minutes.