Charles Bewitched (2 page)

July 1842

near Galiswood, Hampshire, England

Charles gazed morosely at
the green-gold fields sliding past his window. Not even hurtling through the
countryside at the thrilling speed of thirty-five miles per hour aboard the new
railway was doing anything to improve his mood.

Dash it all, it was
summer
—time
for his long holiday from Eton. By rights he ought to be looking forward to
endless lazy weeks fishing in Papa’s trout stream and reading Captain Marryat
and Walter Scott in the shade of the Folly…but no. No tales of shipboard
adventure or derring-do on the Scottish moors for him.

He scowled at the carpetbag
at his feet, where
A Brief History of Judicial Reform in England 1066-1189
seemed
to scowl back at him from its open top. Since when was a six hundred and
thirty-two page book (including index—he had to admit that, in fairness)
considered brief? Keeping company with it were
History and Policy of the
Norman and Angevin Kings
(three hundred and twenty three pages)
Henry I
and the Charter of Liberties
(four hundred and forty seven pages) and
England
in the Time of Henry Beauclerk
and Henry Fitz-Empress
(five hundred
and six pages). There might have been more; he thought he’d seen his tutor
slipping another calf-bound volume or two into his bag this morning when he
called to pay his respects as he left school. Honestly, sometimes being polite
just wasn’t its own reward.

And now he had to spend his
summer hols reading those horrors and taking notes on them, because the history
master Mr. Grace didn’t think he’d done well enough in history to pass his
exams this coming year. Never mind that his Latin and Greek and Maths were more
than acceptable, and his secret magic studies proceeding quite satisfactorily
(though fire spells were still hard for him, which was humiliating). None of
that seemed to make up for his history marks. How unfair was that?

And then there was the fact
that Mama and Papa had gone off to Ireland for the next six weeks, to visit Pen
and Niall and their baby. He’d made it to unclehood at last, and wasn't even
invited to go along and see his new niece. Not that he was desperate to see a
squally blob of a baby girl or anything, but it might have been fun to go to
Ireland. Pen had hinted at some interesting things about magic she’d learned
there in one of her letters, but had gone all close-mouthed when he’d asked.
Ally and Michael and Michael’s father Dr. Carrighar, on the other hand, might
be more forthcoming…but of course, he wouldn’t have a chance to find out, would
he?

Not going to Ireland meant
not even being able to go home to Mage’s Tutterow, but spending the hols with
Persy and Lochinvar. Oh, all right—if he were going to be honest, he’d have to
admit that staying at Galiswood wasn’t a bad thing at all. Persy was a lot less
bossy than Mama; she didn’t do things like fuss with his hair in public if it
wasn’t just so, like if he’d forgotten to brush it in the morning. Lochinvar
was, of course, the best of fellows, and Lord Northgalis a nice old man who
doted on Persy and was always kind to him in a bluff, chaffy sort of way.

Then, of course, there was
Lord Chesterfield. He’d gotten over his youthful excesses of admiration and
instead liked to look at the horse with Lochinvar and discuss his points like a
good horseman, but inside he still got as excited as he ever had when he was a
child all those years ago. Lochinvar sometimes let him ride Lord Chesterfield
when he visited, so actually living at Galiswood would probably mean more time
riding the finest horse in three counties. He grinned at his faint reflection
in the window of the carriage; not a bad trade-off for not being able to fish
at home.

The train began to slow,
brakes squealing shrilly. Charles flicked his carpet bag shut with his foot—no
one shared his compartment, so he could do things like that—and picked up his
tall beaver hat, which he would put away and not even look at till the start of
Michaelmas Half. What a relief it would be to escape Eton clothes for a month
or two! If he had his way he’d wear a neckerchief and loose jacket every day
until it was time to put on more formal clothes for dinner.

He was out the door of the
compartment almost before the train had fully stopped, earning a surly, “Watch
it, boo-oy!” from a porter waiting on the platform to unload baggage. And just
a few yards down was Lochinvar, head bare in the warm July sunlight, smiling as
he caught sight of him.

“The train didn’t run away
with you, then!” he called.

“I know. Deucedly dull!”
Charles took his proffered hand and gave it a hearty shake. “I hoped we’d at
least run over a sheep. Where’s Perse? I thought she’d come along.”

For just a moment,
Lochinvar’s smile dimmed…or was it just a trick of the light as he bent to pick
up Charles’s carpetbag? “She was out when it was time for me to leave,” he
said. “Are those your trunks? I’ve brought Polly with the dog cart.”

Charles went to pat Polly,
one of Lord Northgalis’s carriage horses, and examined Lochinvar while he
directed the porter’s loading of his trunks into the boot of the cart and
tipped him generously. Something wasn't right, or he’d eat the first fifty
pages of
Henry I and the Charter of Liberties
. Where had Persy gone? She
knew he was arriving today—why, for his other holidays at home she’d come all
the way to Mage’s Tutterow to greet him on his arrival. Strange.

“She isn’t ill, is she?” he
asked anxiously once they’d settled in the cart and clopped out of the tiny
station yard.

“What?”

“Persy—is she ill?”

“No, not at all,” Lochinvar
said, then continued, more quietly, “At least, I don’t think she is. She’s been
a little…
off
for a bit now.”

Now that was even stranger.
Persy and Lochinvar were not just married; they were
married
. If something
were troubling Persy and she hadn’t told Lochinvar about it…that just didn’t
seem possible. “Off how?” he asked.

Lochinvar frowned at Polly’s
rump. “It’s hard to put a finger on it. Not quite sad—she can still laugh at
times. Distant, maybe. As if she’s not quite paying attention to everything
around her. She’s taken to walking a lot, yet on some days she almost
barricades herself in the house and refuses to even go into the garden.
Certainly nothing like she’s ever been before.”

“That doesn’t sound like
her,” Charles agreed. Persy had never been particularly moody. Some of the
fellows at school had horror stories about their sisters’ bad tempers and
vapors, but neither Persy nor Pen had ever been that way. Hmm. Unless, perhaps,
there was something of a very delicate nature bothering her, like a baby on the
way…but he couldn’t figure out a way to ask Lochinvar
that
without
extreme agonies of embarrassment. And besides, why would Persy be “almost sad”
about a baby? She and Lochinvar had been married nearly five years now, and
there had been no hints that they were going to present him with a niece or
nephew, as Pen and Niall had.

Lochinvar sighed. “I’m
hoping that your being here will cheer her up,” he said. “I do know she was
looking forward to it. If you could try to engage her—ask if she’ll work on
magic with you, maybe—I’d be grateful. It might help pull her out of this cloud
she’s in.”

“Oh, I was going to do that
anyway. I wonder how she is with early English history?” he added.

“Some cramming to do over
hols? I thought that bag of yours seemed suspiciously heavy.”

“I swear that history books
weigh twice as much as any other sort. And are twice as boring.” It was his
turn to glower at Polly’s flanks.

“I hope that you’ll be
willing to do something other than just read all the time.” Lochinvar’s voice
warmed into a teasing tone. “The entire stable is waiting for you, including
his lordship.”

“I should think so! How is
Lord Chesterfield?” Charles asked eagerly. It had been months since he’d been
on a horse. No stables for the students to keep horses at Eton.

“As fine as ever, and
looking forward to a few good rambles—” Lochinvar broke off, his attention
drawn by something to the left of the road. Charles looked too: two or three
plumes of smoke could be seen drifting up from a hollow some ways off.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Gypsies. At least, I assume
it is—that’s where they often camp. Except that they usually aren’t here in the
summer. Odd.” He fell silent, frowning again. “I don’t like Persy wandering
around alone if they’re in the neighborhood. Not that we’ve ever had trouble
with them, but still….”

“Persy can take care of
herself,” Charles reminded him. “She’s not just anyone, remember. And she’s not
silly.”

“True,” Lochinvar said, but
his eyes remained troubled. He didn’t seem inclined to chat more, so Charles
gave himself over to enjoying the ride. The sky was cornflower blue, lightly
covered with a lace veil of high, thin clouds. They had left the fields close
to the village and had entered the wooded country around Galiswood, and a soft
breeze fluttered the leaves of the tall trees, oak and elm and lime. He’d grown
fond of living somewhat closer to civilization—Windsor was a bustling little
town—but it was pleasant to rusticate now and again. The wind carried a scent
of wildflowers, and off to their right among the trees he could see a pair of
long grass-covered mounds in a clearing, dotted with tiny white star-like
flowers.

“I didn’t know you had
barrows at Galiswood!” he exclaimed. Mage’s Tutterow was on the other side of
Galiswood, and he’d never driven on this road. “My Latin master was going on
about digging one up on his uncle’s land when he was at Oxford, looking for
Roman treasure.”

“Did he find any?”

“He wouldn’t say.” Now, that
might be an interesting way to spend a few afternoons. “Do you think we could—”

“No,” Lochinvar said firmly.
“For one thing, those aren’t on our land, though we do have several. For
another…” he hesitated. “For another, the village folk wouldn’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“They’re superstitious. They
won’t hear that they’re just ancient burial mounds full of not much more than
maybe a few rusty utensils and a great deal of earth. They’re convinced they’re
fairy forts or some such rubbish.”

“Oh.” Charles looked back
over his shoulder at the grassy mounds. “Do you think they are?”

Lochinvar shrugged. “No. At
least, I’ve never seen a fairy near one. I doubt there are any left in this
part of the country, if there ever were. Unless you assume that fairies were
actually the original Britons, driven into hiding when the Romans came.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Maybe he’d ask Persy. She might know. Ally hadn’t ever said much about the
fairy folk, apart from that they could be dangerous and she preferred not to
have anything to do with that old, perilous branch of magic. Hmmph. Now, if he
had to study history, why couldn’t it be about old magic instead of old kings
and laws?

“Oh, it’s you,” said Lorrie
Allardyce, opening the door to Persy’s sitting room at Charles’s knock. “Down
from Eton, are you?”

“Yes, Miss Allardyce.” It
still felt funny to call someone who wasn’t Ally Miss Allardyce, even though
Ally had been gone for years and Lorrie had been Persy’s maid since before she
married Lochinvar. “My sister isn’t back from her walk yet, is she?” He peered
hopefully past her head—he now topped her by several inches—looking for Perse.

“No,” Lorrie said shortly,
then sighed. “I’m sorry. No, she hasn’t returned yet. I did remind her that
you’d be arriving this afternoon, so I don’t know why she’s—” She folded her
lips for a moment. “Come in, and I’ll ring for tea for you. You’d probably like
some right now.”

So long as the tea included
a liberal plate of cakes and sandwiches to go with it, he would. “Thank you.”

He followed Lorrie into the
room and sat down in one of the chairs by the window. Lorrie rang the bell and
spoke to the footman who answered it, then sat down in the chair opposite him
and took up a piece of mending she’d evidently dropped when he knocked. “And
how is school, Mr. Leland?”

“Er, fine, thank you.”
Charles hesitated then said, all in a rush, “Do you know what’s wrong with
Persy? Lochinvar was just telling me he’s worried about her and that she hasn’t
been herself lately.”

Lorrie glanced down at the
torn lace flounce in her lap. “Look at this,” she said, holding it up for him
to examine. “I spend more time doing repairs like this than anything else. Lady
Seton is constantly wandering the woods and coming back with her clothes torn
to shreds, but when I ask her how it happened she can’t seem to remember. She
even came home missing a shoe the day before yesterday. I swear, it looks almost
as if she’s fleeing something, tearing her skirts as she runs.”

That did not sound like
Persy at all. She and Pen had liked to run around out-of-doors as much as
anyone—but that had been when they were small, not now that they were grown
women. And the fact that she couldn’t remember—maybe she was fibbing to put
Lorrie off for some reason…but why? “Lochinvar says that sometimes she doesn’t
go out—that she stays in the house.”