Sorcery & Cecelia: Or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot (24 page)

When I finished my first cup of tea, I brought out your most recent letter. I hope you will not object, though I know it was never meant for anyone’s eyes but mine, but I asked Lady Sylvia to read it. I felt that she was not only personally involved, but also interested on the basis of her expertise as a wizard. She read it through rapidly and returned it to me, saying that she did not blame me in the least for my concern at your closing paragraph. She said it was very clever of you to have worked out the double focus, that she considered Thomas a great gudgeon for not breaking the chocolate pot himself long since, and that she would speak with Thomas the instant he returned. “But in the meantime,” she said, pouring us each another cup of tea, “tell me exactly what your cousin was referring to when she says you went to a gentleman’s lodgings in the middle of the night.”

I told her the whole, stressing the fact that time
was
of the essence, and that a call during the day would have included Aunt Charlotte, who would have insisted on chaperoning me herself.

“Your Aunt Charlotte,” Lady Sylvia said. “Surely that must be Charlotte Rushton?”

I nodded.

“Would that be Elizabeth Rushton’s sister?”

I nodded again.

Lady Sylvia’s brows rose. “Well, well. Your cousin Cecelia comes by her magical aptitude very understandably then. These things do run in families, you know. Oh, yes. They do indeed.”

And no more would she say.

Please write to tell me the very
instant
you receive this letter. Your illness worries me very much.

Love,

Kate

P.S.
You will not attend Sir Hilary’s party now, of course, but I send with this letter a dress length of amber taffeta. It was ordered for me but the modiste never cut it out. I hope there is enough fabric to provide a dress for you, despite your greater height. Perhaps when all this is over, you will be able to wear it in happier circumstances.

3 July 1817

Rushton Manor, Essex

Dearest Kate,

I am so sorry that my last letter worried you; I did not intend that it should. It was very foolish of me to have added that last paragraph, but I was not thinking too clearly at the time.

Thanks to Mr. Wrexton, I am quite well now, and very glad to know that my efforts with the chocolate pot were not ineffective. I am beginning to think it a pity that you have promised to jilt Thomas at the end of the Season; he appears to need someone around with more wit than he has. It is a good thing his Mother has returned. Between the two of you, you may be able to bring him to his senses.

Also, I must thank you for the amber taffeta you sent with your letter. I am taking it to Mrs. Hobart this afternoon to choose some ribbons and have it made up for Sir Hilary’s party on Saturday. For I must tell you, Kate, that we will be going to it after all. The invitation card arrived this morning. This is not so unlikely as you may think, for Aunt Elizabeth has apologized to Sir Hilary for her behavior. It is exceedingly provoking of her, for she seems to think she has misjudged him, and while it is quite true that it was not Sir Hilary who was teaching me magic, it is also true that Sir Hilary has been doing things which are
far
worse.

I had better explain how all this has come about. After I wrote you last Friday, Papa came up to my room to see me. Aunt Elizabeth had told him the whole story (as she knows it) of the incident at Sir Hilary’s, with particular emphasis on the wicked magic that Sir Hilary was supposedly teaching me. Papa had come to hear my side.

I was feeling very tired, and was lying on the daybed in the satin dressing gown that Aunt Charlotte gave me last year (blue, of course, but the embroidery is so pretty that I do not care). Papa stopped short, frowning, when he saw me, and said anxiously, “Cecilia, are you unwell?”

“I am not feeling quite the thing, Papa,” I admitted.

“I came to find out what was behind the tale your aunt brought me,” he said, “but I can return some other time if you would rather not discuss it now.”

“It is quite all right, Papa; I am only a little tired,” I said. I was more than just a little tired, but I had decided that I would much rather explain things to Papa then, no matter how much effort it took. I knew that if I let him leave, I would spend the rest of the day worrying about whether he was fretting, which would not have been at all restful.

“Very well, if you are sure, Cecy.” Papa pulled one of the chairs over beside the daybed and sat down. He looked at me very gravely. “Your aunt says that you have been letting Sir Hilary Bedrick teach you magic, against her express wishes,” he said. “Is this true, Cecy?”

“No, Papa,” I said. “At least—I
have
been learning magic, but not from Sir Hilary. And Aunt Elizabeth never actually
said
I was forbidden to do so. Though I must admit that I knew she would not like it,” I added conscientiously.

“Elizabeth says you were carrying a book—,” Papa started, and he looked so sorrowful that I had to interrupt before he finished.

“
Epicyclical Elaborations of Sorcery
by Everard Tanistry,” I said. “And it is a perfectly dreadful book, and I quite understand why she was upset, at least—How did Aunt Elizabeth know how horrid it was?”

“What were you doing with it, Cecy?” Papa asked. His expression had gone very stiff when I said the name of the book, but he relaxed just a little as soon as I said that it was perfectly dreadful. “Who gave it to you?”

“No one gave it to me, Papa,” I said. I raised my chin and looked at him. “I fooled Sir Hilary’s servants into sending it over along with some of the books you asked for last week. I had seen it in Sir Hilary’s library, and I wanted to look at it because—Papa, will you promise not to tell Aunt Elizabeth?”

“Cecy—”

“Please, Papa! She’ll write to Aunt Charlotte, and Kate will be in dreadful trouble, and she does
not
deserve it.”

“I see. Very well, Cecelia, I will not tell your aunt—either of your aunts—why you wanted to look at that particular book.”

“Thank you, Papa. It was like this—,” and I explained to him about Miranda. Not the whole story, of course; just that you and I had discovered that Dorothea’s Stepmama had been Miranda Tanistry before her marriage, that she did not seem to be a particularly pleasant person, that we thought she was a sorceress of some kind, and that you have told me that she has a strong dislike for Thomas. All of which is quite true, even if it is nothing like the whole.

“And when I saw the name Tanistry on a book in Sir Hilary’s library, I thought perhaps it might have been written by a relative of hers,” I finished. “And I thought that I might find out something that would be useful for Kate to know about her family if I looked at Sir Hilary’s book closely.”

“I see,” Papa said again. “And did you?”

“Well, only that if she
is
related to the man who wrote that book, then her whole family is a great deal more wicked than I had thought,” I said. “Do you know what that book is about, Papa?”

“Yes,” he said, and smiled at me. “That is precisely why I was worried when Elizabeth told me you had been studying it.”

“You mean Aunt Elizabeth thought I was trying to learn those dreadful spells for—Well, that is the outside of enough!” I said indignantly. “Just because she dislikes magic, she thinks everyone who uses it must be wicked! Even if it’s me!”

Papa laughed, then sobered and shook his head. “Try not to judge your aunt too harshly, Cecy,” he said. “She has more reason than you know to dislike Sir Hilary. I think it was that, as much as the magic, that made her react so strongly.”

“Why does Aunt Elizabeth hate magicians so?” I asked. “I have wanted to learn about magic forever, and she will not even let me talk about it!”

Papa sighed. “Cecy—” He paused, and shook his head again. “Your aunt does not hate magicians,” he said deliberately. “She is an excellent magician in her own right, or she was once.”

“
Aunt Elizabeth
is a magician?” I said incredulously. “But…”

Papa nodded, and began to explain. When she was younger, Aunt Elizabeth was apparently not only a magician, but an extremely good one. She became engaged to a man named William Camden, who was also a wizard. Papa says he was very devoted to his craft, which is where the trouble started. For the more magic he learned, the more he wanted to learn. This is not necessarily a bad thing, Papa was careful to explain, but in this case the results were quite tragic. William Camden became obsessed with magic and neglected all his other duties (including Aunt Elizabeth).

Finally, he went to Sir Hilary Bedrick for tutoring (Sir Hilary apparently has quite a name for training up young wizards). But William was still dissatisfied with his progress, and tried to hurry things up by studying some of Sir Hilary’s magic tomes on his own. He was killed experimenting with one of the more sinister spells. (Papa would not be too specific about exactly what William was trying to accomplish. From this I conclude that it was something truly dreadful, for Papa does not usually pay much attention to whether his tales are suitable for females.)

Papa says that this is the real reason why Aunt Elizabeth does not like magic, magicians, or Sir Hilary Bedrick. She gave up her own practice when William died, despite Papa’s urging her to continue. I think perhaps she felt she ought to have done something to keep William from blowing himself up (or whatever it was), and gave up her magic out of guilt.

“Well, I am very sorry for Aunt Elizabeth,” I said. “And I understand a little better why she was so upset with Sir Hilary. I suppose I can even see why she doesn’t want me to learn magic. But Papa, I
like
magic, and Mr. Wrexton says I am very good at it.”

“Mr. Wrexton? Is that who you’ve been getting your lessons from?” Papa said.

“Yes, and he doesn’t know anything about that dreadful Tanistry book,” I said. “He’s only had time to teach me about charm-bags and animation spells.”

“You don’t need to reassure me about Michael Wrexton’s principles,” Papa said. He looked at me closely, and sighed. “You really want this, don’t you, Cecy? Very well, then; I’ll speak to your aunt. But no more investigations in Sir Hilary’s library. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Papa,” I said. “And thank you!”

I ought to have been quite elated by all this, but when Papa left I was too tired to write you with my good news and the astonishing story of Aunt Elizabeth. I do not know what I will say to Patience Everslee when next I see her, for she has always maintained that Aunt Elizabeth suffered a grave disappointment in her youth, and I have always told her that it was most unlikely. And now Patience has turned out to be quite right. It is most annoying.

Aunt Elizabeth came in in the afternoon and gave me back my supplies for making charm-bags. She made it quite clear that she disapproved of the entire matter, and said that as Papa had explained the true circumstances she had written Sir Hilary Bedrick a most apologetic letter. (It is quite provoking, for I could not tell her that Sir Hilary was just as bad as she had thought without bringing in Thomas and Miranda and everything! So now she thinks she has misjudged Sir Hilary, and that is why we are to go to the party after all.) She gave me a sharp look and added there was no reason for me to mope about when I had got my way again. I told her I was not moping, I was really very tired. I do not think she believed me then, but when I spent the rest of that day and most of the next sleeping, she was forced to change her mind.

Saturday morning I was still just as tired as I had been the previous day. Having so recently recovered from a bad cold yourself, Kate, you will understand why I was determined not to spend another day staring at the same four walls. It was not as if I were truly ill, for I promise you I was not—I did not even have the headache. I was only tired. And as there have been mornings in the past when I was very tired (the day after Aunt Elizabeth found us in the Twelve-Acre Field at one in the morning, struggling with the goat, for instance), and as I had previously been able to continue my ordinary activities in spite of my tiredness, I decided to do the same that day.

My resolution did not carry me very far. To be precise, I managed to dress and make my way down to the sofa in the library. I was quite put out, though I must admit that it was a great relief not to be in my bedchamber any longer. Papa came to find me a little later, looking worried, so I pretended to be absorbed in a novel and did my utmost to appear just as usual. He seemed somewhat reassured when he left, and I collapsed gratefully back onto the sofa. It is a great strain to have to reassure people that one is perfectly well when all one really wishes is to be left alone to sleep.

I was not, however, left alone for long. A few minutes after Papa left, Danvers tapped at the library door to inform me that James Tarleton had called. “He asked for you expressly, Miss,” Danvers said, and there was a note of disapproval in his voice. I am told that butlers do not generally approve of occurrences that are out of the ordinary, and Danvers has always been the most correct of butlers.

“Show him in here,” I said, struggling to a sitting position. “And have someone bring in a tea tray. Oh, and I believe Aunt Elizabeth has gone down to inspect the herb garden; send someone to inform her of Mr. Tarleton’s arrival.” I was very pleased with myself for thinking of this last, for the longer it was before Aunt Elizabeth learned that James had called, the more time I would have to speak with him alone. The herb garden was the farthest place I could think of that also sounded entirely reasonable.

Danvers unbent a little at this evidence that things were not going to be completely irregular, and a moment later he brought Mr. Tarleton into the library. James looked a trifle pale and very worried indeed. I felt a stab of guilt. I really ought to have made more of a push to let him know about the chocolate pot, so that he would not have kept fretting over Thomas. As the door closed behind him, he came swiftly across the room toward me. “Cecelia! What is the matter with you?”

“There is nothing whatever the matter with me, Mr. Tarleton,” I said. “I am a little tired, that is all.”