Sorcery & Cecelia: Or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot (12 page)

I am enclosing another charm-bag for you to make up for Thomas. It may lessen the effect of Miranda’s spell; if so, it will give him a chance to think clearly about his idiotic notion of jilting you to offer for Dorothea. I’ve doubled the mixture to make the charm stronger. Sir Hilary’s book (which has been truly useful; if you happen into a bookshop, do see if you can find a copy. I should like to have one, if I can keep it hidden from Aunt Elizabeth) says that a charm-bag, properly prepared, can work from a distance, though it is better if one keeps the bag near one. So even if you cannot get Thomas to carry it, it may help. I don’t know how you are going to get the hair for it; perhaps you should just ask him.

It would probably also help if you could think of some way to get Thomas out of London. All of the boys here (except Robert) completely forgot about Dorothea the day after she left Tarleton Hall, so it is only when she is about that Miranda’s spell has any effect. On second thought, it may not be wise to persuade Thomas to remove from London. Miranda would certainly drag Dorothea off to follow him, no matter how odd it would look

It seems to me that your conversation with Miranda went
very
well. If she does not now believe that you are working for Sir Hilary, she must be a complete idiot, and we both know that that is not so. I wish I could think of a way to plant some similar suspicion in Sir Hilary’s mind, but I cannot think of a way that is not much too risky. Sir Hilary, after all, has known us both for a good many years, and I fear he would be exceedingly suspicious of any tale either of us brought him.

I am truly glad you were not seriously hurt when the footbridge collapsed, and it is just like Aunt Charlotte to go into one of her grand fusses over a ducking. I had to tell Aunt Elizabeth about it and the cold (she is beginning to wonder what we can be corresponding on at such length when I never have any gossip to report to her). So Aunt Elizabeth is sending you some of her Special Cough Mixture, the one made with blackberries. I trust you will not find it
too
nasty. She also gave me a long lecture on the Proper Deportment of Girls Who Are Engaged to Be Married, which she wished me to pass on to you. I deduce from this that she, too, does not approve of your chatting with George Grenville when you are engaged to the odious Marquis.

And now I must tell you about my drive with James Tarleton last Thursday. He arrived most punctually in a curricle, looking wonderfully elegant in an olive coat, tan pantaloons, and Hessians polished bright enough to see your face in. I saw him from the window, and all I could think was that Oliver would kill to be able to dress like that. Of course, I had not intended to drive with him, but I had forgotten to tell Aunt Elizabeth that I had the headache. She told Mr. Tarleton that I would be down directly, and I was forced to go.

Mr. Tarleton was very quiet until we reached the end of the drive, which gave me the opportunity to study his team. They were the most perfectly matched pair of grays I have ever seen, and all my annoyance at Mr. Tarleton disappeared in a ridiculous longing to drive them. I was so absorbed in admiration that I was quite startled when Mr. Tarleton finally addressed me.

“I believe I owe you an apology, Miss Rushton,” he said.

Kate, you could have tipped me off the seat with the end of your little finger. I stared at him with what I am sure must have been an expression of thoroughgoing stupidity and finally managed to say, “I beg your pardon?”

He flushed under his tan and said stiffly, “I suppose I deserved that. I can only say again, I apologize for misjudging you, Miss Rushton.”

I opened my mouth and shut it without saying anything. (I have never been more thankful for Aunt Elizabeth’s constant adjurations to think before I speak. Had I not stopped to consider, I would certainly have said something dreadfully insulting and had to walk all the way back to Rushton.) “Does this mean that you have decided I am not in league with Mrs. Griscomb?” I said at last, in as careful and neutral a voice as I could manage.

He looked at me with a somewhat surprised expression, but said readily, “Yes, that is what I mean.”

“Good,” I said. “Then you won’t mind explaining why you were spying on Dorothea.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said. His voice was much less friendly, and his eyes narrowed. “And just why do you want to know?”

“Dorothea is my friend,” I told him firmly. “And she has enough problems already.”

“I suppose that is what you were doing in Sir Hilary’s library,” he said in a cold, considering tone. “Helping Dorothea with her ‘problems.’ ”

“That was nothing to do with Dorothea, and it’s nothing to do with you, either,” I snapped. “And if you brought me out driving just so you could insult me—”

“Oh, not
just
to insult you,” he said in the most maddening way. “I think perhaps—Ah, there’s the lake.”

The curricle swept around a bend in the road and I saw that he was quite right. I was surprised at how quickly we had reached it; really, Mr. Tarleton’s grays are a perfectly splendid team. (And no matter how annoying he is, I must allow that he drives to an inch.)

“What are you planning to do, drown me?” I said.

His lips twitched. “I believe I can resist the temptation,” he said. “Though, I admit, it will be difficult.” His expression changed and he studied me the way Aunt Elizabeth studies a difficult pattern before she begins to embroider. “I don’t know what to make of you,” he said, half to himself.

“You needn’t make anything of me,” I said coldly. My temper was rising; in spite of his apology, he was apparently still in doubt as to my motives. I was determined not to quarrel with him, however, as I was sure that quarreling would only make Mr. Tarleton more positive that I had some ulterior motive for coming out riding with him. (I could hardly tell him, after all, that I was only there because I had not had sufficient forethought to establish that I had the headache before he arrived.) So I said, “I would like to get down and walk a little.”

“I can’t leave the grays,” he said shortly.

“You don’t need to,” I said from between clenched teeth. “I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own. I’ve been doing it since I was two.”

He laughed and reined in the grays. “Very well, then. We will both let our tempers cool.”

He had seemed more amused than angry to me, but I was too glad to be getting away from him to correct him. I jumped down before the curricle had quite stopped and began walking briskly toward the spot where Jack had arranged his picnic. I was halfway there, and just climbing over a rather large rock, when I heard Mr. Tarleton call out.

I turned, one foot still on the rock, and stood stock-still, staring. Now I know what all those novels mean when they talk about being too stunned to move, which I have always thought a great piece of nonsense, because unless one has been struck over the head or ensorcelled or some such, one is perfectly capable of moving. But it is not so, Kate. For I
was
too stunned to move.

The air between the curricle and me was
rippling
, and it smelled like something burning, though I could not see any flames. James Tarleton was standing in the curricle, his mouth moving as if he were shouting, but I could not hear anything at all. The rippling grew rapidly worse, and so did the burning smell. It was like looking in a very old, distorted mirror, or through a very badly made windowpane. James leapt down from the curricle and ran toward me, still shouting soundlessly. He had something in his left hand that he was waving back and forth in front of himself, as if he were trying to clear a path.

Suddenly he tripped and fell, and did not rise again. I shook off my paralysis and ran forward. (Perhaps I ought not to have done so, with the air behaving so oddly, but I was not thinking too clearly at the time.) I do not have a perfect recollection of the next few minutes, though I have a vague impression of suffocating heat. Then I plunked to my knees beside James Tarleton.

He was barely conscious, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. I ripped off his cravat in a manner that would surely have drawn a protest from Oliver, had he been present, and stopped short. A length of ribbon was twisted around his neck, of the same lavender shade that Miranda Griscomb was wearing the day she and Dorothea left for London.

I pulled at the ribbon, but though it was not knotted, it would not come free. In fact, it grew tighter, and James Tarleton’s breathing became even more labored. In desperation I upended my reticule, hoping that I might have a forgotten pair of scissors in it. My charm-bag fell out. I grabbed it at once, jerked it open, and dumped all of the crumbled herbs over James’s neck, muttering as I did as much of the protective spell that goes with the charm-bag as I could remember.

The effects were immediate. The ribbon loosened, and I snatched it away and crumpled it up in my fist. James’s breathing eased at once, and he began to come back to consciousness. I watched him with the greatest anxiety, as I was not at all certain of my ability to come up with a reasonable explanation of what had happened should he be permanently damaged in some way. And so I heard him mumble, “Cecelia! No!” and then, “Thomas will murder me.”

I sat bolt upright and stared down at him, noticing for the first time that his left hand was still clenched around that ostentatious enamel snuffbox I thought he had disposed of. I had no time to wonder why he was clutching such a peculiar object, for just then his eyes opened and he started to struggle upright. “Cecelia!”

I shoved him down again, and not gently. “Lie down until you’ve got your breath back,” I said.

He froze, staring at me as if he could not believe his eyes. “Cecelia? Miss Rushton? You’re all right?”

“Yes, I’m all right,” I said. “You’re the one who almost got killed. Don’t you have
any
sense?”

“More than you seem to,” James said grimly. He sat up and looked around. The rippling and the burning smell and the heat were all gone as if they had never existed. “How did you get out of—” He broke off as his eyes fell on the little velvet bag with my initial on it, which was lying empty on the ground next to my reticule. “Where did you get that?” he demanded.

“I made it,” I said. “And you ought to be glad I did, for it saved your life. Have you got a pair of scissors?”

“Scissors?” He stared at me with an irritated expression. “What would I be doing with a pair of scissors?”

“A knife, then,” I said impatiently. “I don’t want to have to hang on to this silly ribbon until I get home, and I have a decided aversion to letting it lie around loose where it can find someone else to strangle. I don’t know much about magic, but if we cut it up into very small pieces I don’t see how it could possibly do any more harm.”

“Ribbon?” His irritated expression changed to worry, and he said in a gentle, humoring tone, “Cecelia, please, explain what you are talking about.”

“This,” I said, opening my fingers far enough to show him a corner of the ribbon. “When I came up to you, after you fell, it was wrapped around your neck, choking you. I could see it getting tighter.” I shivered slightly, due, I am sure, to the contrast between the recent strange heat and the wind that was now coming off the lake. “I dumped the herbs from the charm-bag over it, and it loosened up enough for me to get it off, but I don’t know whether it’s safe to let go of it or not.” (I was remembering the letter in which you said that Thomas had told you that Oliver fell afoul of the same tree in Vauxhall Gardens that had almost caught you. I was not about to make the same mistake and leave a spell lying about for someone else to trip over.) “I believe,” I added, “that it’s Miranda’s.”

James’s expression had been changing slowly from worry to thoughtful consideration, but as soon as I mentioned Miranda’s name he looked at me sharply. “What do you know of Miranda? And no more games, Miss Rushton.”

“What do you know of Thomas?” I countered.

I had the satisfaction of seeing him change color, then he said, not very convincingly, “Thomas who?”

“You know quite well,” I said severely, “and you need not pretend otherwise. You muttered his name as you were coming around a moment ago.”

He stared at me again, then shook his head. “I don’t think I should tell you.”

“Perhaps you have forgotten that my cousin is engaged to him,” I said sweetly, for I was quite certain that the Thomas James had been mumbling about was your odious Marquis. After all, it is exceedingly unlikely that there would be
two
Thomases mixed up in Miranda’s business.

“Just how much do you know?” James said in a detached voice.

“I know that Miranda Griscomb is a magician,” I said cautiously. “And she’s put a spell on Dorothea to make every man she meets fall in love with her, and taken her to London to try to trap the Marquis of Schofield. And I know that Miranda and Sir Hilary Bedrick have an, er, uneasy alliance.” I glanced at James and added, “And I know that you are a friend of the Marquis’s, and—That’s why you were spying on Dorothea!” I said suddenly, then bit my lip in chagrin.

“You are too clever by half,” James said grimly.

I glared at him. “I suppose that’s why you changed your mind about me so suddenly, too. Thomas Schofield wrote you about Kate and Georgy and Oliver, didn’t he?”

“He sent me a message, yes,” Mr. Tarleton said. “I’d very nearly come to the same conclusion myself, however.”

“How nice,” I said coldly. “Does that mean you will leave off spying on me? You aren’t very good at it. I told you that the first time I found you skulking in the bushes, and you haven’t improved any since. That act you put on for Miranda’s benefit, pretending to be enamoured of Dorothea, wouldn’t have fooled a ten-year-old child.”

“That’s none of your concern,” James said stiffly.

“It is when you take me out driving and one of Miranda’s spells nearly strangles you,” I pointed out. “How
did
you keep from falling under Dorothea’s spell? I mean, under the spell Miranda put on Dorothea?”

“Thomas has seen Miranda use that spell before,” James said. “He gave me something to keep it from affecting me.” And he held out that bright blue enameled snuffbox with the peacock on the lid! I stared at it and finally understood why James always seemed to be using it whenever Dorothea was around. I felt rather silly, too, for you told me that Thomas’s handkerchief had a peacock embroidered in the corner, and I really should have connected it much sooner with the peacock on James’s snuffbox.