Sorcery & Cecelia, Page 2

  I’m sure it would be entirely proper for you to attend Sir Hilary’s installation; after all, we have known him forever. Honesty compels me to add that Aunt Elizabeth would certainly disagree with me, but that is only because she disapproves of magic and magicians. Patience Everslee thinks it is because she suffered a Grave Disappointment in her Youth, but I simply cannot picture Aunt Elizabeth in such a situation.

  16 April

  Lady Tarleton’s dance was last night, and, oh, Kate, what a lot I have to tell you!

  We left Rushton Manor at about eight. I wore my pomona green crape and your gloves, and the little gold locket that Mama left me. Papa looked very well, though a little rumpled as always. Oliver was surly but elegant in silk breeches, a dark green dress coat, and an enormous cravat, which he proudly informed me was knotted in a style called the Mathematical. And you would not have recognized Aunt Elizabeth! She wore a stunning gown in gold silk and a necklace of amber beads, and looked most elegant.

  We are not, of course, such great friends of the Tarletons as to have been invited to the dinner beforehand. When we arrived at Tarleton Hall, the dinner things had already been cleared. Lady Tarleton and Dorothea were greeting their guests, and Tarleton Hall was already beginning to fill up. Simply everyone was there; quite a number of persons appear to have left off going to London until later, so as to attend the party.

  The dining room at Tarleton Hall is enormous; it’s easily four times the size of the sitting room at home. The ceiling is painted with wreaths and medallions, and there must have been a hundred candles in tall, four-armed stands all around the room! I know that by now you must have seen far grander things in London, but it was quite the loveliest sight I have ever beheld.

  And Patience was right—there was waltzing! At first Aunt Elizabeth would only allow me to dance the country dances, but then Lady Tarleton came to my rescue. She persuaded Aunt Elizabeth that it would be unexceptionable for me to waltz at a private party, and even got her son James to stand up with me. He is as dark-haired as I am and quite good-looking, and he dresses with great elegance. (Just before we left, I heard Oliver ask him about his style of tying his cravat, which is apparently something quite out of the common way. Mr. Tarleton gave him a set-down, of course, and I must say I think Oliver deserved it.)

  I minded my steps most carefully, and only trod on Mr. Tarleton’s toes once, which was not my fault. For when I asked whether he would be returning to London for the rest of the Season (just making conversation, which I have always been told is essential when one is dancing with a gentleman), he looked so very black that I could not help stumbling a little. He apologized very nicely and said that he would be staying at Tarleton Hall and not going back to London. On thinking it over later, I find it very strange, for you remember that Robert Penwood told us that since his return from the army, Mr. Tarleton considers the country entirely flat, which is why he has seldom visited Tarleton Hall in the past. Though now that I think of it, I do not know how Robert could be sure of such a thing.

  Mr. Tarleton is an excellent dancer, much better than Robert or Jack, and I was disappointed when the music ended and he escorted me back to Aunt Elizabeth and Papa. To my surprise, he stayed to speak with Papa—some question of a difficult line in a Greek manuscript he was translating, on which Mr. Tarleton wanted an opinion. Naturally, Papa was perfectly willing to go off with him then and there. Aunt Elizabeth was very nearly as miffed as I, for she had told Papa most particularly before we ever left Rushton Manor that he was not to vanish into Lord Tarleton’s library. I must add, however, that Papa and Mr. Tarleton were not gone above a quarter of an hour, which makes me think that Mr. Tarleton must have a great deal of address. I have never known anyone who could persuade Papa to abandon an interesting manuscript. And I could tell he found it interesting from the manner of questions he put to Mr. Tarleton. Nonetheless, Aunt Elizabeth maintains that they both behaved disgracefully.

  Dorothea was perfectly lovely. All the men were quite smitten with her, and I must tell you, Kate, that Oliver was among them. He behaved quite foolishly, even after Aunt Elizabeth reminded him most sharply that it is not at all the thing to dance more than twice with the same lady. She made him escort me in to supper at the end of the evening, which put both of us out of temper—Oliver because he had hoped to claim Dorothea’s hand, and me, because there is nothing quite so lowering as having one’s brother take one in to supper as though there was no one else who wanted to. Even the excellence of the refreshments (lobster patties, savory pastries, and those wonderful little lemon tartlets, among other things) was not enough to soothe my feelings.

  Oliver still intends to leave for London today (really, he must do so, because the arrangements have all been made and he has several commissions from Papa to execute), but now he speaks of cutting his visit short, and I know it is only because Dorothea is staying on with Lady Tarleton for another month. Do not show this letter to Georgina; there is no point in your having to cope with Georgy’s reaction to this news when it is all Oliver’s fault. Besides, I hope that seeing Georgy again will bring Oliver to his senses. Unfortunately, one cannot depend upon such things, however much one would like to.

  And it is not Dorothea’s fault in the least, for I promise you, Kate, she did not encourage him in the slightest. She did not encourage anyone in the slightest, that I could see; they all just buzzed around her like so many bees. She and I are to go riding together tomorrow, which I think unexceptionable, as Oliver will be well on his way to London by then. But what on earth am I to do when he returns? For you know Oliver; he will make a great push to join us in everything, just as he used to do with the two of us and Georgina. And I will not be a party to it. Georgy may be a selfish pea-goose, but she does not deserve such treatment. I must simply hope that you will have good news of Oliver to send me, so that I shall not have to fret over this impossible situation.

  Yours in haste,

  Cecy

  20 April 1817

  11 Berkeley Square, London

  Dear Cecy,

  It is the outside of enough for you to say I am bamming you just because London hasn’t changed Aunt Charlotte a jot, nor Georgina, save to make her more of a watering pot than ever, and if I am to be accused by you, in addition to everyone else, of telling tales when I explain to you what happened to me at Sir Hilary’s investiture, I shall go straight into a decline.

  The past several days were spent putting the final touches on Georgy’s and my gowns, assembling gloves, fans, bonnets, slippers, and stockings in such quantities that it sometimes seemed to me we were preparing for a voyage to the Indies instead of for the Season.

  Once we were equipped to Aunt Charlotte’s satisfaction, we were presented to Society for the first time at Lady Jersey’s Venetian breakfast. (For Lady Jersey is indeed an acquaintance of Aunt Charlotte’s, and appears willing to oblige us with any number of vouchers and introductions.) This involved rising early and waiting fully prepared for two hours while Aunt Charlotte made certain that the carriage was properly clean so that we could not possibly soil our gowns en route. We were then tucked inside and conveyed to Lady Jersey’s breakfast as though we were made of bone china. Descending from the carriage, I snagged my stocking on the buckle of my slipper, but Georgy arrived intact. Her introduction to the assembled guests could not possibly have been more satisfactory. With perfect serenity she triumphed over the entire guest list. Not only was she the loveliest girl there by far, she displayed a very becoming reserve. Not even the attentions of the elderly Duke of Hexham troubled her. She sailed through it all calmly while the mamas of her rivals glared at her perfection.

  If the Venetian breakfast was the opening shot of a war, the next few days featured a perfect volley of entertainments. Routs, drums, suppers, luncheons—we received invitations to them all.

  Oliver arrived on Friday. At first he seemed as glad to see Georgina as she to see him, but he was very quickly dismayed by her steady stream of admirers and annoyed
by their demands on her time. (Yes, Cecy, we have callers here in Berkeley Square. Indeed, Aunt Charlotte says the knocker, which is never still, gives her the headache.) Among the new acquaintances we have made are the Grenvilles: Alice, George, and Andrew. George and Andrew are twins, though not the sort of twins who dress alike or finish each other’s sentences. They are both impressed with Georgy’s beauty, although I think it puts them off a little when she pretends she cannot tell them apart. Alice is their younger sister. She shares what the twins call the Grenville coloring, chestnut hair and fair skin that tends to freckle, with her twin brothers. Alice is very delicate in appearance but very brisk and lively in spirit and orders the twins about mercilessly. Her father, Lord Grenville, will give a great ball later in the Season, and Alice has already asked us to attend. Michael Aubrey, who is some sort of relation of the Grenvilles and a constant companion of the twins, has already tried to get Georgy to agree to give him a dance. Georgy knew just how to deny him without discouraging him. It’s the sort of thing she’s been getting a great deal of practice in lately.

  You and I expected this, but I think it came as a bit of a surprise to Oliver. At first he was delighted to meet our new friends, but by Saturday morning, Oliver said he was already tired of London and longing to be back in Essex. No entertainment we suggested pleased him. What he wanted was to be alone with Georgy. Barring that, he wanted to be where he did not have to make polite conversation with any of Georgy’s admirers. Thus, I was able to persuade him to desert Georgy’s outing to see the bears at the Tower and walk me to the hall to see Sir Hilary’s investiture. As usual, Oliver was a rather taxing companion. He complained the whole way that the drizzle took the curl from his hair, and said he thought the Royal College of Wizards ought to at least arrange to have pleasant weather for their investitures.

  Once inside, we encountered a great press of people, almost all of them dressed in their best and many in the lordly robes of the college. I have never seen such embroidery in my life, nor ever heard of the brocades, silks, and cloths of gold and silver that were there.

  The investiture itself is a brief and simple ceremony, a matter of presenting the honored newcomers to the college with a blue sash, a silver medallion, and a daub of scented oil between the eyebrows. That, repeated twelve times in rapid succession, would hardly provide entertainment enough for an entire afternoon, so the college expanded the ceremony with a choir of boys from the abbey school and a detachment of Royal Guardsmen to arch their sabers over the wizards as they approached the dais for investiture.

  I think the ceremony was all that could be wished. Even Oliver was not bored. He pushed ahead, squeezing forward to see better, but because I am so short, it did me no good to try. Instead, I skirted the back of the crowd and walked along the north aisle, gazing about me at the hall. There are many banners, very threadbare and tattered, and many stone slabs underfoot, well worn by centuries of steps, all worked with symbols and signs to identify the wizards who placed them there. I walked along happily, admiring the splendid clothes of the onlookers and the general air of faded elegance and chilly, damp, historical glory, until I encountered a little door in the north hall, only latched, not locked, its pointed arch scarcely higher than my head.

  I only meant to glance in to satisfy my curiosity, but beyond the door I found a cloistered garden, planted with daffodils and hyacinths, as tranquil and remote as if it were in Essex or some more distant place. I couldn’t resist stepping through the door. It swung shut behind me and as I took a few steps forward, I saw I was not alone. In the center of the garden was a tea table and two chairs. In one chair sat a little woman with hair so white it was almost blue in the sunlight—which was odd, for the day outside was a gray and drizzly one (at least, it had been as we walked to the hall). I took the vacant chair at the little woman’s gracious gesture. The instant I sat, my legs and feet went first pins and needles, then quite numb. The little woman watched me very hard and when she saw my puzzlement she beamed with pleasure. At first I thought she was old, because of her hair, but when I looked closely I saw she had only powdered her hair white, as was the custom in our grandparents’ day. Her skin was smooth and carefully painted, her eyes were dark and very hard. She smiled kindly at me and asked if I would take chocolate with her.

  You and I often played at dolls’ tea party together, Cecy. I will never again remember such games with pleasure. The very thought chills me, for now I know how the dolls felt when we poured out tea for them. For the life of me all I could do was nod and smile inanely and hold out my cup. She took this for acceptance, and poured me a cup of chocolate from the most beautiful chocolate pot I have ever seen. It was blue porcelain, a blue that made me think of the sky in September, or the lake at Rushton, or Georgina’s eyes. I could scarcely look away from it.

  “I was sure you couldn’t resist one last attempt to recover it,” she said. “Sir Hilary mocked me, but I knew you could not stay away. So I set a trap, as you see, and you have fallen in. But I suppose you deserve credit for confounding my expectations so completely. You’ve always seemed so exceptionally masculine to me, Thomas, it never occurred to me to think what kind of woman you would make. Really, who would expect you to disguise yourself as your utter opposite?”

  Understandably, I found her words as puzzling as they were insulting, but it was difficult to spare enough attention from the chocolate pot to be properly vexed with her.

  “Do drink your chocolate, Thomas,” she went on, a chill amusement behind her gentle words. “It won’t hurt you a bit—and think how appropriate it will be for you to go this way. Almost by your own hand.”

  I was very confused and very frightened. With all my heart I wanted to get up and run away. But all I could do was say, “That is a very singular chocolate pot.”

  “You have the most sardonic sense of humor, Thomas,” she said, “really, almost morbid. It’s a fake, of course. I thought you’d realize it at once. Hilary couldn’t deny me my chance at a trap for you, but he wouldn’t risk using real bait. No, you’ve ventured your last stake, my darling Marquis, and all for a cheap copy of your own magic. I find that most amusing, don’t you?”

  “Not really,” I said, and spilt my chocolate on her.

  She dropped the chocolate pot, which instantly became the drabbest earthenware bowl imaginable, and overset her chair as she leapt to her feet, slapping at the dark stain on her dress, which rapidly spread to her hands. It seemed to burn her, for she kept jumping and slapping. The pins and needles vanished. I swept my skirts up and found I was able to get to my feet and run, stumbling and gasping, for the little door. It was latched but not locked, thank goodness, and I slammed it to behind me, then leaned against it to catch my breath. And realized every onlooker in the hall was staring, for I had slammed the door at the very height of the smallest choirboy’s solo.

  I don’t need to tell you the rest, do I? How Oliver collected me, as red as a lobster with his shame at owning my acquaintance. How Aunt Charlotte scolded me for a liar when I tried to explain, forbade me to use the spinet, and set me to learn an entire chapter of the prayer book by heart as a punishment, or how Georgina shook her head as I tried to convince her by showing her the tiny spot on the hem of my gown where the chocolate splashed and ate clear through the fabric, leaving only a little hole edged with black.

  So, my dearest Cecelia, I depend on you to understand that if I meant to lie, or even jest, I could do a much better job than this (remember the goat, after all!). Never, never have I wished so to have you here with me, and it seems sheer cruelty of fate to decree that your Season is to be next year, when I am making such a mull of it alone. Oh, Cecy, yes my bed has lion’s feet, and yes—all my gowns are blue muslin, and if you were only here, surely you would manage some way to coax Aunt Charlotte into mercy, or at least help me drill the prayer book so I might get my punishment over more quickly.

  Your miserable cousin,

  Kate

  25 April 1817

 
Rushton Manor, Essex

  Dearest Kate,

  Sir Hilary’s investiture seems to have been a true adventure. I do wish I’d been there (though I quite see that it must have been excessively alarming while it was happening). I am appalled by Aunt Charlotte’s reaction, but it is just like her to disbelieve you, when anyone with an ounce of sensibility would realize how foolish it would be to make up such a tale. And you have never been foolish, Kate. Aunt Charlotte should know better. After all, she was at Rushton when Oliver’s dog bit that horrid Hollydean boy, and you did not cry or faint like Georgy, but called Canniba to heel and then made Frederick hold still while you bandaged his hand. I am also reminded of the way you kept your head and came up with perfectly splendid explanations of where we had been whenever Aunt Elizabeth got wind of one of our expeditions and began asking awkward questions. (On second thought, perhaps it is better not to mention that to Aunt Charlotte.) It should have been quite obvious that you had sustained a severe shock, for otherwise I am sure you would have come up with something else to tell Aunt Charlotte, and so avoided memorizing prayers.

  I have read most carefully the account of Sir Hilary’s investiture in the London papers (which arrived here several days late, as usual), but I could not find anyone named Thomas among the list of guests. I thought he must have been there, for it is obvious that Thomas is a magician (else how could the white-haired lady in the garden have mistaken you for him? Unless, of course, she is impossibly nearsighted, but I am sure you would have noticed that). It seems, however, that Thomas did not go to Sir Hilary’s investiture, which I think shows a great deal of good sense, given what happened to you.

  I mention this because it seems to me that if the white-haired lady is indeed trying to make away with someone named Thomas, it would be only right to warn him. And it does appear that this is exactly what she was attempting to do. (For, of course, even the strongest and hottest chocolate does not make holes in one’s gown. Stains, certainly; I am still trying to get the brown splotches out of my second-best gloves.) I do so wish I were there to help, for Aunt Charlotte and Georgina are bound to be a great handicap. However, I have the greatest faith in you.