Lady of Magick (4 page)

*   *   *

Joanna left Miss Pryce to her unpacking and descended the stairs to demand explanations of Jenny.

Jenny, however, was not to be drawn.

“Her father and stepmother placed her in a very unfortunate situation,” she said, “and I am helping her to get out of it”; and no more would she say about the sudden advent of Miss Gwendolen Pryce in Carrington-street, except to adjure Joanna to be civil to her.

“I hope I am civil to all your guests, Jenny,” said Joanna, a little affronted—but only a little, for it was true that she was often quite uncivil about them after they had gone.

Jenny patted her hand in silent apology. “But what were you coming in such a hurry to tell me, Jo?” she said.

“Oh!” said Joanna, diverted instantly, though only temporarily, from Miss Pryce. “You will never guess: Sophie and Gray are going to Din Edin!”

*   *   *

Governess or no, Miss Pryce, it transpired, was very fond of children. Agatha—for whom Miss Pryce represented that almost magickal thing, a new and interesting person who did not speak to her as though she were a simpleton—was instantly smitten; and no sooner had Miss Pryce made Agatha's acquaintance than she was dragooned into a game of hunt-the-slipper in the nursery.

Joanna had other concerns to occupy her—chief amongst them, at present, the implications of Sophie's visit to Din Edin, which she must lose no time in bringing before Sieur Germain and Mr. Fowler; it was no hardship to be spared an afternoon of pretending to be baffled by Agatha's entirely transparent hiding-places, and she told herself sternly how absurd it was that she should begrudge Agatha's worshipful attention.

She penned a brief reply to Sophie's letter and, setting it aside, sat down again with her notes and Mr. Fowler's from the previous day's meeting with Oscar MacConnachie, which she had still to read through, transcribe into longhand, and copy out fair for Lord Kergabet's files. The first two of these tasks required her full concentration, but the last left her ample attention to spare for the puzzle of what—for it was evidently not a distaste to other people's children, and surely the owner of that dreadful gown and that pitiful carpet-bag was not the woman to abandon her situation on a whim—should have made Miss Pryce's situation with the Griffith-Rowlands so very unfortunate as to lead her to seek refuge in a household of complete strangers.

*   *   *

After dinner that evening, when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room, Joanna at once sought out Sieur Germain; Mr. Fowler, she remarked with some amusement, appeared to be paying awkward court to Miss Pryce.

“And is it true that His Majesty has given his permission for this venture?” she demanded, having given him a précis of Sophie's letter.

“So it would appear,” said Sieur Germain. “You know of course that His Majesty finds it difficult to deny your sister anything; and in any case I saw no compelling reason to advise him against it, as things stand. Of course she shall be guarded, as she is in Oxford—and Lord de Courcy will keep an eye, and can dispatch both of them back to Britain at once, should the need arise.”

“I think you underestimate Sophie's capacity for attracting trouble,” Joanna muttered—almost, but not quite, under her breath.

Sieur Germain smiled grimly. “Her father may, but I assure you that I do not.”

“She has invited me to visit them in Din Edin next spring,” said Joanna. “I thought, perhaps, we might turn such a visit to our own purposes . . . ?”

“I expect so.” Sieur Germain's smile curved up in approval. “I expect so.”

*   *   *

It soon became apparent that Miss Pryce was very fond of horses, as well as of small children; when not embroidering baby's gowns and bonnets for Jenny, or inventing tales for Agatha, or playing melancholy Cymric songs upon the pianoforte (to Joanna's ear, at any rate, they sounded very melancholy, but that might be only because they were very slow), she soon took to trailing after Joanna into the stable mews, and making friends with both the grooms and their charges.

Whilst driving out with Jenny in the carriage and pair one afternoon, Miss Pryce persuaded the Kergabets' coachman to let her take the reins briefly and, on the strength of this and subsequent trials, was permitted to drive Jenny without other supervision than Harry the footman. Joanna rather fancied that Miss Pryce hankered after a riding-horse; the Kergabets kept none in Town, however, but Joanna's own mare, Kelvez, and the surly gelding on which the grooms were mounted, for the purpose of escorting Joanna—and no gently bred young lady (Joanna included) was likely to wish to tackle Old Spider-Legs.

It was with considerable astonishment, therefore, that Joanna,
upon entering the stable mews one morning, beheld both Kelvez and Spider saddled and bridled, and Gwendolen Pryce standing between them, both sets of reins clasped in her gloved left hand. Her ordinarily saturnine face wore an expression of unalloyed delight, which rendered her almost unrecognisable.

“What are you doing?” Joanna demanded. “Where are Gaël and Loïc?”

“I am going riding with you,” said Miss Pryce. “Gaël and Loïc are gone out on an errand for Mrs. Treveur. Gaël is expecting to ride out with you when he comes back; I offered to tack up for both of you whilst they were out.”

Spider snorted and tossed his head sharply, yanking on the reins; Miss Pryce, holding her ground without apparent effort, said, “None of that, you great lummox.”

Spider snorted again, more quietly, shifted his great hooves, and was still. With her free hand, Miss Pryce reached up to gently rub his nose.

Joanna stared. She did not know how much of Miss Pryce's tale to believe—Gaël and Loïc surely were not such fools?—but many a young man's head was turned by a lovely face, and Miss Pryce's was very lovely when she smiled like that, with the flush across her sharp cheekbones and her dark eyes shining. That aside, Joanna was torn between an impulse to snatch the reins of her own mare from Miss Pryce's hand and leap into this adventure with both feet, and a dread of the likely consequences to Miss Pryce, to Lord Kergabet's grooms, and to herself if she did so. Perhaps, if they did not stay out too long . . .

“I like to ride very fast,” she said, after a long moment's contemplation. “Gaël can sometimes keep up with me; I don't expect you can.”

“We shall never know unless we try,” said Miss Pryce.

*   *   *

To Joanna's further astonishment, Miss Pryce proved to possess a riding habit with split skirts, and rode astride—though upon reflection, it would have been more astonishing had she been able to
find a lady's saddle to fit Spider, or to persuade him to be ridden sidesaddle.

“Many ladies ride so, in Clwyd,” she said with a little shrug, when Joanna ventured to comment.

“In Breizh, also,” Joanna conceded. “But I never learnt, because my father would not allow it.”

In London, however, it was not at all the done thing, and they drew not a few stares on their sedate amble to the gates of the park, from the tradesmen and errand-boys who populated the streets at this early hour. But once on the bridle-path—where today it appeared they were the only ladies present—Joanna quite forgot to notice whether they were being looked at, for it seemed that Miss Pryce could keep up with her after all.

“Where did you learn to ride like that?” she demanded breathlessly, when they slowed to a walk on a gently curving stretch of the path to let the horses breathe.

Miss Pryce gave another of her little half shrugs. “My stepmother is frightened of horses,” she said; “the more time I spent in the stables, or on horseback, the less I saw of her. And, of course,” she added with a sort of determined nonchalance which invited Joanna to treat the thing as a most entertaining joke, “it irked her that I should be making friends with the grooms and stableboys, and not with the dull daughters of her horrid friends.”

This was perhaps the longest speech Joanna had ever had from Miss Pryce, and certainly the most revealing; she was not altogether certain how to reply to it.

“Has Spider got his wind back?” she said instead, leaning down to lay a hand against Kelvez's flank. “We had best be getting back, before the Watch is called out after us.”

*   *   *

“Joanna Claudia Callender, what in the name of Hecate were you
thinking
?”

Jenny was apparently too angry to sit still—or perhaps, just now, she found the advantage of height appealing—for she paced to and
fro before Joanna and Miss Pryce, like a Breizhek fishing-yawl in a storm.

“If you like to make a spectacle of yourselves in public,” she continued, “that is your own affair, and there are certainly worse means of doing so than by galloping through a public park at dawn. But to go there unescorted, against Kergabet's express instructions, and to involve Gaël and Loïc—not to speak of Mrs. Treveur—knowing that they should be held responsible, if you were to be hurt, or worse—”

She dropped onto the sofa, now, with a pained huff, and smoothed one hand absently over her belly.

“Please, Lady Kergabet,” said Miss Pryce. “It was not Miss Callender's idea, and certainly not the grooms'; it was mine.”

“I see,” said Jenny, regarding her with narrowed eyes; turning once more to Joanna, she added, “And Miss Pryce forced you to accompany her, I suppose? Coerced you into the saddle at knife-point, perhaps?”

“No,” said Joanna. She dropped her gaze to the carpet and the muddy toes of her riding-boots. “Of course she did nothing of the kind.”

“I rather thought not,” said Jenny.

She sighed, then, and said nothing at all for such a long time that Joanna had to fight a strong compulsion to fill the silence with explanatory and apologetic babble.

Miss Pryce did not resist so successfully. Joanna could see her hand twitching fretfully, and the sway of her skirts as she shifted from foot to foot; at last she burst out, “I only wanted to go riding. Mrs. Griffith-Rowland would not let me—she said I must remember my place, and astride a horse was not it—and Spider is a dear boy really—he would never hurt me, any more than Kelvez would hurt Miss Callender—and the weather was so fine this morning—I
am
sorry, Lady Kergabet, truly.”

Her voice hitched; Joanna, looking up at her sidelong, saw her throat work. “I . . . I shall go upstairs and pack my things.”

She curtseyed gracefully to Jenny, and turned away.

“Gwendolen,” said Jenny.

Miss Pryce turned back towards her, face carefully blank.

“If you wished so much to ride,” Jenny said, “why did you never say so?”

After a long silence, Miss Pryce said doubtfully, “I beg your pardon, ma'am?”

“Gwendolen, come here.”

Miss Pryce hesitated—glancing aside at Joanna, who attempted an encouraging smile—and slowly, haltingly, crossed the room to stand before Jenny.

“When you spoke of packing your things,” said Jenny, “where did you intend to go?”

Miss Pryce hung her head and spoke to her toes: “To the Griffith-Rowlands', I suppose, if they should consent to take me back. Or to my father's house, if he will have me.” She paused, then raised her chin defiantly. “Had I any coin for the passage across the Manche, I should go to my sister Branwen, in Rouen. Though,” she added, and here defeat crept into her tone once more, “I expect her husband would only send me back to Papa again.”

“Sit by me,” said Jenny, patting the sofa seat.

Miss Pryce sat, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. Joanna looked away from the flare of hope that lit her face; it felt wrong to witness this conversation, but worse to flee the room without Jenny's having dismissed her.

“I have welcomed you to my home,” Jenny said, “and I did so because I wished to help you, and felt you might be . . . less unhappy here.”

Joanna gripped her elbows in an effort to keep still; plainly, Jenny's words were not for Miss Pryce alone.

“I can do nothing for you if we cannot trust each other,” said Jenny. “I recognise that your trust is not easily won, and I understand, I believe, why that should be so. But you have now lived a month in this house, and I think have had no cause for . . . alarm?”

“No, indeed, ma'am,” said Miss Pryce, her voice so low as to be nearly inaudible. Joanna, by a sort of sympathetic instinct, shook her head.

“If any thing distresses or alarms you, you must tell me,” said
Jenny. “And if there is anything you need, or that you wish for, you have only to ask, and I shall see what can be done. I do not wish to treat you like a child; you have had enough of that, I think. And no one here will pry into your secrets. But there must be no more trickery and sneaking, and certainly no more taking advantage of the servants. I wonder that you should have done so, being so recently in a like circumstance yourself.”

Joanna peered sidelong at the occupants of the sofa, and saw that Miss Pryce was hanging her head.

“I did not think it through,” she murmured.

“Jenny,” said Joanna, “you will not punish Gaël and Loïc? I am sure they will not be so gullible again.”

Miss Pryce's head snapped up, the better to glare at Joanna. Jenny, however, continued as though Joanna had not spoken. “You will apologise to Gaël and Loïc for involving them in your scheme,” she said, “and to Treveur for the trouble he and his staff were at in searching for you; and then I think we need say no more about it.”

Miss Pryce blinked. “I . . . I thank you, Lady Kergabet.”

“Go upstairs and take off those horsey things,” said Jenny, patting her hand.

Miss Pryce rose from the sofa; when Joanna made to follow her, however, Jenny's voice—soft, but with steel beneath—stopped her in her tracks: “Joanna, a word.”

Joanna sat down again. “I know what you are going to say,” she began. “I ought to have known better.”