The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (21 page)

I
T WAS LATE in the afternoon by the time Ivy walked through the door at Whitward Street. The driver had let her off Downhill, for her funds had been scant (the fare being more than she had expected) and he refused to go the entire way. As a result she had been forced to walk the last mile through a downpour as the clouds let loose in a violent torrent.

Though it was Ivy who was shivering and wet, it was Mrs. Lockwell who was in a state of distress upon her arrival. Where had Ivy been for so long? Did she not know Mr. Rafferdy’s carriage would be here in only two hours? What could she possibly have been doing all this time?

Ivy gripped the packet of lace and started into the story she had formulated. She needn’t have bothered. The future was of far too great a concern to Mrs. Lockwell for her to consider the past.

“What a state you are in!” she despaired. “How will you be made to look presentable in so short a time? Your hair will need five hundred strokes if it needs one. And if you do not have a scalding bath at once, you will catch your death. Now, up the stairs with you!”

Thus was disposed any notion of Ivy resting quietly for a few hours before the party.

The bath was taken—gratefully, for she felt chilled after her dash through the rain—and thereafter ensued an hour’s worth of tugging, pulling, fussing, and arranging. At last Mrs. Lockwell pronounced she could do no more, and as she surveyed herself in the looking glass, Ivy could not deny that her appearance was good. Rather than marring her complexion, the exertion of the day had heightened her color and brought out a vividness in her eyes, which made them a match for the gown she wore.

The dress had been Mrs. Lockwell’s in her youth. It was a rich thing, made from Murghese silk that glittered like sun on leaves. Over the last few days Rose had carefully brought it in to match Ivy’s size, and Lily had taken off the sleeves and retied the ribbons to give it a more fashionable appearance.

“Look at you, Ivy!” Mrs. Lockwell exclaimed, her despair quite forgotten. “I was no older than you when I last wore that dress. It was at the ball where I met your father. How I loved to dance! I could dance all night in those days and still beg the musicians to play. If I had known I would never have the occasion to wear it again, I might have refused your father’s proposal. But it came so quickly, as did your brother. After that my figure was never the same, and then there were so few balls to attend. So few.”

Her mother’s voice faltered. Ivy looked at her with concern. Mrs. Lockwell seldom mentioned their brother, who had died soon after a difficult birth and nearly took his mother with him. For many years after that it was thought Mrs. Lockwell would never bear another child. But then came Ivy, and a few years later Rose and Lily all in a hurry, and so their little garden flourished after all.

The moment passed. Mrs. Lockwell gripped Ivy’s hands and pronounced that all eyes would be upon Ivy the moment she stepped through the door. Ivy, in contrast, hoped it was the case that no one would notice she was there. Though if she were to win a glance from
him,
she supposed she would not mind.

After that there was nothing to do but sit in the parlor and try not to wrinkle her dress. It was difficult to stay still. Despite how long she had been awake that day, Ivy was anything but tired. After her encounter at the house on Durrow Street, her mind was abuzz with thoughts. Only she did not know what to think—except perhaps that she should be in terror. Yet she was not. She had gone there hoping to meet someone who knew her father, and she had.

But who was the man? And why did he affect such a peculiar costume? She was certain he was not one of the two magicians who came to the front door that night, though he had spoken as if he knew them—rather, as if he was at odds with them.

An urge came upon her to run upstairs, to go to Mr. Lockwell, to ask him about the man in the dark mask. But he could not answer her questions, and at that moment Lily, who had been sitting by the window, cried out, “The carriage is here!”

Rose gasped at the sight of the cabriolet drawn by a handsome gray, and Lily was at once exultant for her sister and anguished that she was not going herself. She demanded that Ivy catalog a whole host of details—everything that was worn, and said, and eaten, and danced, and whether Mr. Garritt was there, and how he looked, and if he asked about her. Then Ivy was kissing her sisters, and gripping her mother’s hands, and hurrying out into the purple evening.

The driver helped her into the cabriolet. While she could not help feeling a note of disappointment to find the seat beside her empty, she could not say she was surprised. He had said he would send the carriage for her, not that he would come himself.

Besides, she could claim no imperfection in the situation, for to drive through the New Quarter on a warm evening was such a novelty that Ivy found, like her mother, she could not think of what had happened to her that day, or of what might happen that night. Instead, she watched the lamplighters move along the avenues even as their celestial counterparts set the stars alight in the sky. The rain had washed the city clean, and the air was a confection of clematis and violets and peony. Music and light spilled out of so many grand houses that the two seemed at once ubiquitous and united, as if to play a note was to send forth a ray of illumination, and a quartet was enough to set the grandest halls aglitter.

Too soon the carriage stopped, and Ivy found herself walking up the steps of a great house of white stone toward that music, and that light, and the bright sound of laughter.

A terror seized her at entering the parlor, in which her own familiar sitting room would have barely served for a nook. Just as her mother had predicted, all eyes turned toward her, though it was in no way a cause for delight. Fortunately, though severe, her discomfort was brief, for almost at once she found herself greeting Mrs. Baydon, who was, she knew, a friend of Mr. Rafferdy’s. Given their mutual acquaintance, and this being the house of her husband’s aunt, Mrs. Baydon felt free without any fear of impertinence to make the introduction herself.

“Besides, I feel as if I know you already,” Mrs. Baydon said, taking Ivy’s arm and leading her into the parlor. “We have heard such a great deal about the three Miss Lockwells. You will discover you are quite famous here. Our dear Mr. Rafferdy hardly speaks of anything else.”

“Then I imagine you must make every effort to talk instead of the weather or the doings of Assembly,” Ivy said, genuinely startled.

“But it is not so at all!” Mrs. Baydon replied. “We ply him for every detail of his encounters with you and your sisters. We have not had such amusement in a long while.”

Ivy could not believe that was the case, but her companion was all kindness, and of an age with her, and she was grateful for the security of Mrs. Baydon’s arm as they made their way about the parlor. Her companion was light-haired, like Ivy, but taller, and her pink gown was of the latest mode. Ivy could not help but notice how old-fashioned her own gown was in comparison, but the brilliance of Mrs. Baydon’s charm was enough to illuminate them both, and more than one older fellow remarked that he had never seen a pair of more handsome women.

A moment of dread came upon Ivy when she was presented to their patroness. Lady Marsdel asked where she lived, and what the situation of her sisters was, and why Mr. Rafferdy had taken such a fancy to her family. Ivy answered Lady Marsdel’s questions as plainly as she could, in no way attempting to inflate her situation, though neither did she try to demean it. As for the last question, she said she could not speak to another’s feelings, but she did not think that she or her sisters were the object of any sort of special regard. She thought only that Mr. Rafferdy, possessed as he was of so agreeable a manner, had simply made the best out of the chance events that had precipitated their several recent encounters.

“I am pleased to see you are a young lady of good sense,” Lady Marsdel said with a snap of her fan. “Yet you are also very pretty, Miss Lockwell, if not very tall. I think the reports of your charm have been understated. And while I believe you are correct that Mr. Rafferdy has made the best out of his meetings with you and your sisters, I am not inclined to assign chance much credit for their frequent occurrence. I should say instead that you would do well to be on your guard against them in the future. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ivy said, though in fact she could not say she did understand, and she felt quite rattled. Thankfully, with that they were dismissed; she curtsied again and was led away.

“Do forgive Mr. Baydon’s aunt,” Mrs. Baydon said. “But you see, she takes a great interest in Mr. Rafferdy. He is the child of her cousin, and very much a favorite of hers, for she has no sons of her own.”

“And where is Mr. Rafferdy?” Ivy said, looking around and thinking that they had gone all around the room by now.

“But did he not tell you? Oh, I can see by your expression he did not. How awful of him! Yet I cannot be surprised, given his general want of character. The dreadful man has abandoned us.”

Ivy came to a halt. “Abandoned us?”

“He is not coming. He sent me a note claiming he is ill.”

“Ill? Is it very serious?”

“But you must not worry!” Mrs. Baydon said with laughter. “You do not know our Mr. Rafferdy well, or else you would not. I have never seen him afflicted by a physical ailment. I am certain his complaint is of a far different sort, and I suppose there was someone he feared he would meet if he attended tonight, someone disagreeable to him. However, it will be his loss, and I cannot say I am sorry, for I have you all to myself this evening. Come, we shall have a grand time.” She led Ivy onward through the warm and noisy room.

They spoke as they took several more turns about the parlor, though most of the energy in the conversation was on Mrs. Baydon’s part, for which Ivy was grateful, as for her own part she was distracted. She could not keep her thoughts from Mr. Rafferdy.

It was strange that he was not here. She could not help but consider Mrs. Baydon’s suggestion that he had not come because there was someone he wished to avoid. And who could that someone be but Ivy herself? After all, Mr. Wyble was not in attendance tonight. Yet if that was the case, why invite her in the first place?

It was a thing done on a whim, she decided, after they stopped to sit and a glass of wine and a bit of cake had steadied her. The impulse to invite her had come out of his benign nature, and his understanding of her limited situation, and a kind wish to expand it. However, he had soon after realized his mistake; it had been inappropriate, just as she had said at the time. But once extended, the invitation could not be rescinded. The only solution was to not attend the party himself, to avoid any appearance of impropriety or indiscretion—on his part or on hers.

Good. She applauded his sense. She was grateful he had not placed either of them in an awkward position; she was utterly relieved. She could not be more glad that he was not here.

Still, as she looked about the room, she could not help thinking how pleasant it would have been to see him, if only to catch his eye for a moment and win one of his smiles.

However, he was not here, and with the matter resolved, Ivy was able to properly enjoy herself. They were invited to play cards with Lady Marsdel’s brother, Lord Baydon, and her nephew, Mr. Harclint. Ivy was paired with Lord Baydon, and in that she was lucky, for Lord Baydon was corpulent and jocular and an excellent player, while Mr. Harclint—inclined to be thin, serious, and to forget which suit was trump—caused Mrs. Baydon to at last surrender her cards with a sigh. She rose and begged her leave of the two gentlemen, claiming she needed some air.

“Will you come with me, Miss Lockwell? I think another turn about the room would do me good.”

“I imagine a turn away from Mr. Harclint’s playing is more what is needed,” Ivy murmured as they strolled.

“I hope my motivation for leaving was not
that
obvious.”

“It was perhaps to Lord Baydon,” Ivy said. “As for Mr. Harclint, I fear such a thing is no more obvious to him than when to put down his queen.” For a time after that, if anyone they passed inquired as to the cause of their mirth, the two young women could only lean upon each other and laugh.

At last they ended up at a table where Mr. Baydon sat reading an issue of
The Comet.
He gave Ivy’s hand a firm shake upon their introduction, though that hand was the only portion she was able to see of him aside from a crop of curly hair, as the balance remained hidden behind his broadsheet. Mrs. Baydon brought out a puzzle, and as they fit together the wooden pieces, a little group gathered around them.

Before long they had completed enough of the puzzle to see it was a painting of a country scene. Mossy trunks slanted beyond a fieldstone wall, and twisted branches disheveled with old leaves wove together against a stormy sky. Red tinged the clouds, but whether from a sun that was rising or setting, Ivy could not say.

More than once Sir Earnsley remarked upon their skill in fitting the puzzle. “The speed with which you work is most impressive,” the old baronet proclaimed. “By Loerus, I could no sooner piece together a picture than I could paint one.”

“If I could paint a picture, I am sure I should not like for it to be cut up into small pieces,” said Mr. Harclint, who had wandered their way and plopped into an empty chair. “I am sure Lord Farrolbrook has never turned any of his pictures into puzzles. It is said he’s a painter of extraordinary skill.”

Ivy mentioned that she was not familiar with Lord Farrolbrook, and they were treated to a rather long discourse on the man who was “surely the most illustrious member of the upper hall of our Assembly.” Ivy thanked Mr. Harclint for the education. Her words seemed to encourage him to continue, but at that moment a fit of coughing on Mrs. Baydon’s part prompted him to go fetch a cup of water. Ivy noted that Mrs. Baydon’s affliction was well-timed, but she could not complain.

“For all his descriptions, Mr. Harclint has failed to tell you the most important fact about Lord Farrolbrook—that he is purported to be a skilled magician.”