The Midnight Witch (3 page)

“Yes, Lady Lilith.”

“But have them shown to the dining room first. Everyone will be drained from standing in the sun for so long.” I turn to speak to Freddie, but he has already divested himself of hat and cane, snatched up a glass of wine and is striding through the door to the study.

The morning room is blissfully shady, the sun having long gone off its tall windows. I encourage Mama to sit beside the fragrant bouquet of flowers which fills the hearth. I remain standing, the better to greet our guests. For over an hour the great and the good, mostly members of the aristocracy, some British, some having traveled from abroad, express their sympathy at the passing of the duke, and we graciously accept their condolences. My feet are soon aching and the pain in my brow has sharpened so that it is hard not to frown. It occurs to me that my mother and I are expected not only to hide our grief, to remain dignified and composed, whatever we are feeling, but we are also required to assist people we hardly know who stumble over their platitudes and condolences. It is incumbent on us, the hostesses and chief mourners, to put others at their ease, never mind our own inner turmoil. What use are offers of sympathy when they demand such effort of will and stoicism in return? This entire event, the food, the flowers, the manner in which one must conduct oneself, is for the benefit of people other than the family of the deceased. Who was it, I wonder, who decided that heartbroken relatives should host a party at the very moment all they wished for was to be left alone to grieve?

“Lilith.” A low voice shakes me from my thoughts. “Lilith, I am so very sorry.”

I turn to find Viscount Louis Harcourt striding into the room, his habitual confident step that of a man who knows his position in the world and is proud of it. He extends a hand, snatching up my own gloved one, kissing it briefly and holding it to him. “How very pale you look,” he tells me, “and how very beautiful.”

“Louis.” I summon a small smile for him. After all, whatever the occasion, should not a girl be gladdened by the sight of her fiancé?

“Your father was a fine man. He will be greatly missed.” He pauses and moves a little closer, so close that I can feel the warmth of him. I am tall, but still he has to stoop a little to speak in my ear. “If there is any way I can be of help … anything … you have only to ask. Darling Lily, you know that, don’t you?” He reaches behind my ear. “Oh, how sweet,” he says, opening his cupped hand in front of me to reveal a large butterfly. “Must have mistaken you for a flower.”

“Louis, please, this is no time for party tricks.”

“I only wanted to see my girl smile,” he tells me.

I look at him levelly. If the thought flitted through my mind that I might mention to him the uncalled spirit I heard earlier, I quickly dismiss it. Would he even take such a thing seriously? His habit of using his magic at inappropriate moments is something I am accustomed to, as is the way he has of employing the sleight of hand of a music hall magician. I am aware, today, that there is more to it than a desire to amuse. He wishes to remind me that we share a special bond, because we are both born witches. As if I need reminding. It is one of the main reasons I have not resisted the match my parents always wanted for me. I think it comforted my father, in his last days, to know that I would marry into such a strong, wealthy, well-respected family. Louis and I grew up together. Our parents move in the same rarified social circle; his father and mine were, if not quite friends, then at least fellow Lazarus witches. The earl of Winchester always slightly resented my father’s superior position in the coven. It was as if having to settle for a lower ranking in the aristocracy, being only an earl rather than a duke, made it rankle more that he must also defer to Father when in his witch’s persona. My father did not count Louis’s father as a personal friend, but they shared a mutual respect, born of an understanding of how the world works for singular families such as ours.

And, after all, my parents were not the only ones to regard Louis as a fine catch. Most of those here today know nothing of his coven membership; they simply see him as one of the most eligible bachelors in London. Dear Louis, I believe that is how he has always regarded himself. He knows how attractive he is, with his golden hair, bright blue eyes, and easy grace. He knows the effect he has on young women, knows how many mothers would have happily consented to him marrying their daughters. He exudes wealth and breeding effortlessly, with his fine features and twinkling eyes. I confess I find him attractive—it would be difficult to feel otherwise. And I am fond of him. But it is a fondness born of childhood acquaintance and many years of familiarity. There is something missing, at least for me. I believe he does love me, though I am not so naïve as to think his feelings for me would be the same if I were not the daughter of a duke, and heir to the title of Head Witch.

Is it foolish of me to hanker for some girlish notion of romantic love? Does such a thing even truly exist, I wonder.

After a few moments of giving me his rather intense attention, Louis moves on to express his sympathies to Mama and I slip away. I have no appetite, but remove myself to the dining room on the pretext of looking for something to eat. In fact, I merely wish to make sure all the guests are being properly looked after. None can leave until they have been fed and watered, and the sooner they all go, the happier I will be. The instant I form the thought I feel guilty. These people are, for the most part, here because my family matters to them. I should not be so ungrateful. I should not resent their presence. And yet, looking at such a quantity of glamorously turned-out men and women, who are at this moment busy helping themselves to a glass of this or a bite of that, it is hard to see them as genuinely sympathetic mourners, and easier to see them as partygoers, here to see and be seen, to show off their finery, to engage in tiresome one-upmanship or gossip.

I am spared pondering the matter further by the arrival of the earl of Winchester, Louis’s father. As always his presence unsettles me. I know that he will be watching me closely, and that if he can find a way to remove me from my inherited place in the coven and put Louis in my stead, he will do so. Having me marry his son is surely the easiest path to power.

“My condolences, Lilith,” he says. “Your father was a great man. His loss will be keenly felt by many.”

“Lord Harcourt.” As always with Louis’s father, I find I am on my guard. Will this continue, I wonder, when I become his daughter-in-law?

“You have been left a very special legacy. Rest assured, should you find your inheritance …
burdensome
 … there are those who would be only too happy to relieve you of it.”

“And you would no doubt count yourself among them.”

“Each of us must play to our own strengths, don’t you think?”

“I have no intention of
playing
at anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” I turn on my heel and walk briskly from the room. I will not, must not, let him see how anxious I am about taking up my father’s position in the coven. Any sign of weakness would be seized upon. I can never afford to give him the slightest cause to claim I am not up to the task. Never. One day he and I will be of the same family, a family of which he is the head, but even then I will remain his superior in the coven. He makes no secret of how uneasily this sits with him. I will not allow him to bully me into deferring to him where coven matters are concerned, however much deference I will be required to show him in society.

It is a blessing to see my dear friend Charlotte Pilkington-Adams stepping lightly into the room. Dressed as always in the very latest fashion she somehow succeeds in making even funereal attire look becoming. The fabric of her gown is not the heavy crape Mama insisted we both clad ourselves in, but the lightest devore velvet, the cut of which allows her to move freely, while still softly enhancing her youthful curves. Though the outfit must be uncomfortably warm, she gives no outward sign of suffering any discomfort at all. Her abundant blond curls are pinned decorously beneath her hat, but still manage to peep out attractively. Charlotte’s pretty face lights up at the sight of me, so that she has to quell her natural exuberance in order not to seem too cheerful for the occasion.

“Darling Lilith.” We exchange kisses. “Such a horridly difficult day for you, and yet you look wonderful.”

“And you are a very welcome drop of sunshine, Charlotte. Thank you for coming.”

“Have you been endlessly cornered by bores? I would have rescued you sooner, but there is such a crush at your front door I could scarce get in.”

“We’ve never been so popular. Funerals hold a morbid fascination for some, I suppose. And an opportunity to gossip.”

“Your father was greatly admired. And people want to support you. Is there anything I can do?” She takes my hands in her own. “You must be utterly exhausted.”

“You can keep the countess of Framley away from me. She’s bound to make cutting remarks about Father not being laid to rest in a mausoleum.”

“I should have thought that was his business and nobody else’s. Silly old bat. Fear not, I shall keep a beady eye on her and intercept if she comes near. I notice Louis is here looking delicious as ever.”

“Try to resist nibbling him,” I tell her. “Cook has gone to some trouble to provide canapés and suchlike.”

“Don’t I know it! How is a girl supposed to keep her figure when you tempt us with such sinful treats?” She underlines her point by snatching up a tiny smoked-salmon mousse
en croute
from a passing silver tray. “In any case,” she goes on, “I wouldn’t dream of coming between the two of you.
The
most glamorous couple in London. How you do tease, keeping us all waiting for a wedding date.”

“You’ll have to suffer for a while yet, Charlotte. I’m not going to be rushed into anything.”

“Hardly rushed. You’ve been engaged forever.”

“We’ve been engaged for precisely a year. And now I am in mourning. I couldn’t possibly start organizing a wedding. Even Mama would stop me, and you know how keen she is to see me settled as Viscountess Harcourt.”

“As long as you’re not planning to run off and join the movement for women’s votes or something so energetically modern.” She sighs. “I suppose you’re right. I simply thought it would be such a lovely cheerful thing for you to have to think about, after these terrible few months. You will find yourself at something of a loose end now.”

I have to remind myself often that dear, sweet Charlotte, whose friendship I value so highly, knows nothing of the Lazarus Coven, nothing of my own new role within it, nothing, in short, of the fact that her best friend is a witch. She has no idea what demands there will be upon my time and my thoughts now. She sees me as a young woman who wants nothing more than to be a bride and has no obligations other than those to her fiancé. How far that is from the truth. But I can never tell her. Just as I can never tell Mama. Must I always keep secrets from people I care for? Must I always hide the greater part of myself?

It is late in the evening by the time the last of the guests leave. Mama has already retired to bed. Freddie slipped away some hours earlier, to heaven knows where, to do heaven knows what. At last, with a slow summer dusk descending, I am free to climb the broad staircase to the sanctuary of my own room. I find my darling black cat, Iago, stretched out upon my bed.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.” I smile as I stroke his silky fur. The cat stretches farther, making himself an impossibly long and slender shape on the white bedspread. I lean down and kiss his sleek, black head, causing him to set up a rumbling purr. “You will miss Father, too, won’t you, my little friend?” By way of an answer he gently nudges at my hand, his whiskers tickling my palm. I clearly recall the day, more than a decade ago, when my father presented me with him. He was not a kitten, but a young cat, not yet properly grown, thin and soft as a velvet scarf. The intense blackness of his fur the perfect foil for his vivid green eyes.

“Oh, Papa! He is splendid!” I cried, taking the cat from him at once. “And his eyes are nearly the same color as my own.”

“His name is Iago,” Father told me. “So that you will always remember that no one, however handsome, however clever, is to be trusted entirely.”

I was familiar with Shakespeare’s tale of jealousy and betrayal. The cunning character of Iago and his slippery treachery were etched into my young mind.

“But I trust you, Papa.”

“A child is obliged to trust a parent. It is different when you have choice in the matter. Then it is up to your judgment.”

It had seemed a curious thing to say, but then I was only a girl, how could I have understood? Now, now I understand very well. Indeed, the Lazarus creed has enforced the lesson daily since I turned thirteen.
Faith in Silence.
If you do not speak your secrets aloud, others will not have the chance to betray you with them. Keep the faith, and keep silent. It is what I have been trained to do all this time. It is something I am unlikely ever to forget.

Although my father had subtly and gently been preparing me to take over the role of Head Witch ever since I was born, it was only once I had been inducted into the coven that my instruction began in earnest. These sessions always took place at nighttime. Withers, though not a witch himself, was always complicit and helped make sure my absence from the house was not detected. Later, when I was old enough to warrant my own lady’s maid, Father found Violet for me. It has been such a boon, all these years, to have someone in my everyday life who knows about the existence of the coven, and of my place within it. We attend coven meetings together, and if I need to go out on coven business I am accompanied by Violet. This system has served us well over the years. Were I to venture out unchaperoned, eyebrows would be raised and questions asked, not least by Mama. Fortunately, my mother is a sound sleeper, so that all those secret hours spent in the company of my Lazarus tutors went unnoticed by her, even if she did have cause, from time to time, to comment on my apparent tiredness, or the dark circles beneath my eyes.