Sorcery & Cecelia: Or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot (4 page)

“Thank you,” he said curtly. Then, apparently feeling that this was too abrupt, he added, “I hope you found the South Meadow pleasant.”

Dorothea murmured something that was almost completely inaudible, so I said that it had indeed been a pleasant ride, and we went on into the house. It did not occur to me until later to wonder how he knew where we had been riding. I supposed it might have been a lucky guess, but it seems to me just as likely that he had been the rider I had seen in the avenue. As there is nothing I can think of that would have drawn him in that direction on an errand, I thought he must have been following us to watch Dorothea. (It is not unprecedented; Martin De Lacey did as much last Tuesday, in order to meet us “by accident” and so have a chance to see Dorothea.) I suggested as much to Dorothea, but she shook her head at once.

“James would never do such a thing,” she said quite positively. “He does not like me, you see.”

“You must be wrong,” I said, taken aback.

“Oh, no, I am quite sure of it,” she replied in a soft voice. “He avoids me most of the time, and when he cannot, he ignores me. I do not even know what I have done to give him a dislike of me.”

I would have responded indignantly, but I could see that the subject was distressing for Dorothea, so I did not continue it. James Tarleton seems to me to be treating his cousin quite shamefully. And if he
was
watching us from the avenue, then his behavior is worse than she supposes. I do not see, however, that there is anything I can do about it for the moment, especially as I am not at all certain that Dorothea has read the situation aright.

Apart from a little riding, and a few morning calls on Dorothea, nothing else has happened that is at all note-worthy. There are a few amusements planned for the immediate future—Patience Everslee has proposed a picnic by the lake (I am quite sure her brother Jack talked her into it as an excuse to see Dorothea, for you know how Patience hates the water). Not to be outdone, Robert Penwood has arranged an outing to see the maze at Bedrick Hall. I find that I am to be included in both parties, as Dorothea and I have become such excellent friends, so perhaps I shall have more to say that is interesting (or at least amusing—Robert and Jack are making
such
cakes of themselves!) in my next letter. Give my love to Aunt Charlotte and Georgina, and tell Oliver that Papa and I are both well. And do
try
to talk Aunt Charlotte into buying you at least
one
gown in a decent color!

Enviously,

Cecy

30 April 1817

11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Cecy,

Your optimism is justified. What a wonderful time we shall have next Season when you can be here to manage things firsthand!

Be sure I shall tell you every detail, but I mean to set it all down in an orderly fashion, for I have learned something of
great
importance.

Tonight we went to Almack’s Assembly. I dreaded it, you know I did, and at first it was just as bad as I feared. We were introduced mercilessly for the first twenty minutes and then Georgy vanished into a swarm of young men. After a while a young man detached himself from the swarm and asked me to make up part of a set for a country dance. He had beautiful manners, save for the way his head kept swiveling on his neck in an effort to keep Georgy in view. When the set had ended he made a beeline back to her and claimed the next dance, plainly his reward for the sacrifice of dancing with me.

You know me well enough to know what I did then—retire to the sidelines with a stiff back and an “I don’t care a jot” expression concealing the fact I felt a complete antidote. Just as I found a good spot to fade into the other wallflowers, I found myself intercepted by Lady Jersey, who began with a great deal of fudge about her respect for Aunt Charlotte and ended by introducing me to the man at her side.

Cecy, I promised you, if I could faint, I’d have fainted then. The man, very dark, not too young, not too tall, with a sardonic expression of pained civility was the Marquis of Schofield. And Sally Jersey thought it would be perfectly plausible for me to dance with him. And the next dance a waltz! I stammered something completely idiotic. He took my hand and said, at least, I
think
he said, “Yes, I know,” and we waltzed.

Cecy, if this is what a London Season can be like, I don’t wonder people like Sally Jersey enjoy themselves year in and year out. It’s better than a play. Of course you know how
well
I waltz. For the first few bars I was utterly certain I would cannon into someone and fall down, or step on him, or trip over my hem, so I staggered after his lead, rigid with discomfort. But he danced very simply, with none of the panache of the other couples, and I was able to follow him well enough to relax a little. (Do you ever wonder if driving a team is like dancing? Being where you’re wanted when you’re wanted, with no words, just hints? I never thought of it from the horse’s point of view, but perhaps it is, and perhaps that is why good dancers and good drivers are both rare and highly thought of.)

When he was able to believe I would not topple over or froth at the mouth, the Marquis spoke, softly enough that I could only just hear him over the music.

“I owe you my thanks,” he said. I must have looked completely mystified, for he smiled and said, as though reminding me of a joke we’d shared, “I’m Thomas.”

We danced in silence for a complete circuit of the room while I digested this. Then, when he judged I was ready for more, he said, “You sprang a trap intended for me and I’m grateful. Miranda can be very obtuse sometimes, but I trust that seeing us together will disabuse her of the notion that you are me in disguise.”

I promise you, by this time, my head was spinning.

“I do have methods of going unnoticed,” he continued, “but I have never assumed a lady’s identity. Miranda’s imagination can sometimes reach more lurid heights than even Mr. Lewis and his Monk.”

I finally found my voice, but not, unfortunately, much to say. “She doesn’t like you.”

“I don’t like her, either,” he replied. “And she won’t like you after this dance convinces her you know me. So don’t go into any gardens by yourself, will you? In fact, stay in well-lit ballrooms as much as possible.”

“That’s all the explanation I get?” I demanded. “Who is Miranda? Why does she wish to poison you with chocolate?”

“That’s all the explanation you get,” he replied. “For the rest, forget it. It’s no concern of yours. Just mind your own affairs. Practice your dancing. With enough study you might attain a degree of proficiency.”

“What a rude thing to say!” I replied. “I would practice, but practice requires a partner.”

He smiled with such a degree of cynicism I almost expected his teeth to glint metallic. “You won’t lack for partners now. I’ve made Sally Jersey give me a waltz with you. Everyone will be agog to find out why.”

“Don’t you want to know what I’m going to tell them?” I asked.

“Oh, they won’t ask, don’t think it. No, they’ll dance with you and then say I am justly called mysterious,” he said.

“You are odious.”

“Quite so, but admit you’ve never danced better than these last few moments when you were too angry to think about it.”

The music ended and he had returned me to Aunt Charlotte before I could think of a suitable answer. For, of course, he was right. Infuriating. I did not sit out a single dance. In fact, I danced until I got a stitch in my side. Aunt Charlotte told me my face was red, but I didn’t care. I had a wonderful time, and if I could only have thought of something truly cutting to say to the Mysterious Marquis, my evening would have been quite perfect.

Now, tell me, I beg you, all about the picnic at the lake and Robert’s pranks in the maze. (For you can never convince me he could resist such a perfect chance to get Dorothea as much to himself as propriety permits.) My love to you all.

Your footsore cousin, Kate

P.S.
Before you ask, no, no sign of the white-haired lady (who must be the Miranda Thomas mentioned). Perhaps she disguised herself as someone else?

2 May 1817

Rushton Manor, Essex

Dearest Kate,

I am positively eaten up with envy. Dancing
every
dance at Almack’s! What did Aunt Charlotte say? Oh, I
wish
I were there to see! The Mysterious Marquis sounds quite intriguing, which I suppose is what he wants. I feel compelled to point out that he
did
find out who you are in order to say thank you, and I cannot think of any ulterior motive for him to have done so. I quite agree, however, that he should have given you more of an explanation. After all, this Miranda person very nearly poisoned you instead of him; the least he could do is tell you why. Particularly as he seems to think she will be interested in you now that you have danced with him. Personally, I do not see that this follows at all logically, but I suppose the Marquis expects you to take his word for it. Men are like that; they think all females are like Georgy and Dorothea—sweet, biddable creatures who aren’t worth explaining things to because they won’t understand above one word in seven.

I may be doing Dorothea an injustice in saying that; she is certainly not so goose-witted as Georgy. She lacks a certain spirit, however—
she
would never suggest slipping out after midnight to kidnap a goat from Squire Bryant! I am quite out of patience with her today. You remember I said in my last letter that I would ask her about Oliver’s infatuation? Well, Wednesday, when we were quite private, I broached the subject as delicately as I could, and Dorothea immediately burst into tears! She refused to explain this extraordinary behavior, much less discuss her attraction for the male population of the county. The only bit of information I could gather was that she does not have a
tendresse
for Oliver, which is just as well, under the circumstances.

Perhaps I am growing restless. The stirring tales of your adventures in London simply do not compare with my quiet life at Rushton Manor. I have consoled myself with concocting a plan to force Aunt Charlotte to get you a gown in a becoming color. It came about in the most fortunate manner! You see, yesterday it rained and Aunt Elizabeth decided that we should sort through some of the trunks in the attic. I was quite prepared to be bored silly. It is one thing to go through dusty old clothes and faded ribbons when one has someone to laugh with about how curious they look; it is another thing entirely to spend an afternoon cooped up in an attic with Aunt Elizabeth.

Just as we were preparing to go up, however, Mrs. Fitzwilliam called. Aunt Elizabeth sent me off to begin alone, while she had a cup of tea and a good gossip with Mrs. Fitz. (She did not say that was what she wanted, of course.) So I poked about in the trunks without interference for nearly an hour, and in doing so I found the most
stunning
silk shawl! (I believe it was Mama’s.) It is rose-pink, with the most delicate embroidery and—but you will see for yourself soon enough.

For I am sending it to you, with a letter to Aunt Charlotte saying that Mama most
particularly
desired you to wear it for your first Season. Aunt Charlotte will not wonder at it, since she thinks I am caper-witted enough to have forgotten the shawl in the excitement of your leaving. And since a rose-pink shawl would look exceedingly odd with a blue dress, Aunt Charlotte will
have
to have a dress made for you in rose! I am sure you will be able to handle things from there.

Jack’s picnic is tomorrow; I will write you all about it then.

3 May

Well, it has been a day! I am inclined to think that it must match even the excitement of a day in London, though I do not currently have a basis for comparison. You will have to judge for yourself.

It began with Mary, the little upstairs maid who is so good about slipping me tea when Aunt Elizabeth has decided my character will be improved by an evening’s fasting. I was trying to decide what to wear to Jack’s picnic when she knocked at the door. She came in, looking upset, so of course I asked what was wrong.

“It’s Mr. Oliver, Miss,” she said. “That is, it’s his room. Mrs. Gordon said I was to give it a proper clean, seeing as he’s gone, and I found this under his mattress.”

She handed me a little drawstring bag about half the size of my fist. It was made of leather, with a gold “O” embroidered on it in rather large stitches (the kind I use when I am trying to finish something quickly, that Aunt Elizabeth always makes me pick out and do over). I opened it and nearly gagged on the strong scent of herbs. I shook a little into my hand, but the leaves were so dried and crumbled I couldn’t tell what any of them were. I could, however, see snippets of wavy brown hair mixed in with the herbs.

“I didn’t mean to snoop, Miss,” Mary went on. “But Miss Rushton’s that strict, I didn’t rightly know what she’d do if I said I’d found a charm-bag in Mr. Oliver’s room. I was afraid I’d be turned off, Miss. So I come to you.”

“You did quite right,” I said. I shook the bits of herbs and hair carefully back into the bag and pulled the drawstring shut. “You don’t happen to know what
kind
of charm-bag this is, do you?”

“No, Miss,” Mary said, looking surprised.

“Then there’s no need for you to be involved any further,” I said briskly, hiding my disappointment. I wished very much that she
had
known what kind of charm-bag it was, for I haven’t the slightest notion how one tells the differences among love charms, curses, protections, or blessings! The only thing I was reasonably sure of is that it wasn’t the sort of charm-bag used by barren women who want a child—there would be no sense at all in anyone putting something like that in Oliver’s room! “I will take care of this,” I told her. “Don’t speak of it to anyone else.”

“Yes, Miss Cecy,” Mary said, and went away looking somewhat relieved. I sat down on the bed with a plop, wondering how on earth a charm-bag had gotten into Oliver’s room and what, if anything, I ought to do about it. It wouldn’t be the least use to tell Papa; he would just look at it and nod and say that the Sumerians had a very similar sort of thing, only made of goatskin stuffed with clay and feathers, and isn’t it interesting how such things change over the years. Aunt Elizabeth would probably have strong hysterics and insist on calling Oliver back from Town—you know how she feels about anything that smacks of magic, however faintly. And I am persuaded that calling Oliver home would be the worst possible thing to do. After all, whoever put the charm-bag in his room is
here
, not in Town. Unless, of course, Oliver did it himself, but I think this exceedingly unlikely. If the bag were his, he’d have taken it with him. Oliver may be nearly as hen-witted as Georgy, but he is not absentminded the way Papa is!