Sorcery & Cecelia: Or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot (9 page)

My experiments with Canniba and the charm-bags have been quite successful (you may imagine how careful I have had to be, to keep it all from Aunt Elizabeth!). Last night I made up one for myself (the incident with my mare has made me rather nervous), and this morning I made up one for Oliver. I had almost finished it when I was interrupted by the arrival of the post and the subsequent argument between Papa and Aunt Elizabeth. I went to Oliver’s room at once, hoping to find a bit of his hair in his hairbrush, but there was none. So I am forced to enclose two incomplete charm-bags—one for you and one for Oliver. You can tell which is which by the embroidered initials. I am sorry they came out crooked, but I was in a great hurry. Put a lock of hair into each one, close them up, and put yours under your pillow or carry it in your reticule. (Oliver’s had better go into his mattress, I suppose.) And once you’ve closed them, don’t open them again; that breaks the protective spell.

I haven’t the least notion whether this will do any good, but I have to do
something
! Write me as soon as you have word of Oliver, and take the greatest care of yourself, and do be kind to Dorothea. She does not deserve her Stepmama in the least.

Your worried,

Cecy

15 May 1817

11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Cecelia,

Still no news of Oliver.

Aunt Charlotte has decreed that I am to remain in my room until further notice. After the night we spent beating the shrubbery for Oliver some rest was welcome, but solitary confinement soon grew tiresome. I have reread your letters and racked my brains and can come up with nothing new regarding this muddle, except to suggest that if charm-bags are useful to those who wish to have children and Mrs. Fitzwilliam is increasing at last, there may possibly be more households than Rushton Hall with interesting additions to the bedclothes.

I am sorry to tell you that I haven’t found your silk yet. There was a lovely green watered moire but it seemed a bit dark to me. When we visit the modiste again (if Aunt Charlotte ever relents), I will ask for a snippet to send you to judge by.

I have given up hope of getting my blood out of the Marquis’s silk handkerchief. Such a pity, for it is a lovely bit of silk and in one corner, where some people put their initials, there is a peacock embroidered with the finest stitches, complete down to the shading from green to blue on the peacock’s breast. I soaked it in cool water and rubbed the stains until my fingers were numb. (No need to tell me I must not rub silk too roughly; I remember Aunt Elizabeth’s instruction in these matters.) I even tried her trick of using spirits of hartshorn in the rinse water. All I could think of as I scrubbed was the odious Marquis: his droning chant, his soft mutter as he bandaged my hand, his shameless flight at the sound of Georgy’s vapors, and his probable complacency at my incompetence if I couldn’t get the stains out.

But I didn’t get them out. The blood has set—the spirits of hartshorn did no good at all, unless that is what caused the stains to turn violet when dry instead of brown. It is a far more attractive color, but I would still like to be rid of the stain entirely.

I completed the charm-bag you sent for Oliver, by dint of shaking Georgy’s lock of his hair out of her prayer book and closing up the bag as you instructed. Georgy won’t notice the lock of hair is missing. She never used her prayer book much anyway, and since she has adjusted to the delights of Town, she has little time to be homesick.

I have mended every article of clothing in my sewing basket, including the stocking I ripped at Lady Haseltine’s, and have experimented with new ways of doing my hair. At the moment it is screwed up into a knob at the top of my head, which is not at all becoming but keeps it out of my eyes. And it does stay up for a change, with only two combs to hold it. It is still raining. Georgina is at the Grenvilles and Aunt Charlotte is home guarding the house lest I venture out of my room. I always wanted my own bedroom. I never guessed how dreary it could be to be shut up all alone.

Later

Cecelia, Oliver is safe. I don’t know where, but I believe Schofield even when he’s being provoking.

Just now Aunt Charlotte sent to tell me I was wanted in the blue saloon. I went down just as I was, wearing the oldest muslin gown you let me pack and a sash of Georgy’s that Canniba once played with. At the foot of the stairs Aunt Charlotte met me and opened the door to the blue saloon. I entered and she closed the door on me before I knew what she was about. Astonished, I turned and tried the knob, just as I heard her latch it from outside.

“Remarkable woman, your aunt,” said a familiar voice behind me. “Thinks on her feet.”

I whirled about to stand with my back to the door, hands pressed against the panels.

Across the room Thomas, Marquis of Schofield, rose from his chair, smiling at me in a decidedly sardonic way.

I turned back to the door and pounded my fist upon it. “Aunt Charlotte!”

“Do you really dislike me so much?” asked Thomas. There was a rising tone under his words, a slight unsteadiness that made me turn back to face him. Once I did, I could see the unsteadiness must be laughter, for he was having difficulty in restraining a grin.

I drew myself up with as much dignity as the knowledge that I looked an utter fright allowed me to muster and said, “I am completely indifferent to you, my lord. Only I forgot something in my room.”

“Oh, I see,” said Thomas. “Something important?”

“Your handkerchief,” I replied. “Though I’m afraid I was not able to get the stains out of the silk.”

“Keep it,” said Thomas. “In fact, I wish you would accept it as the first of many things I wish to give you.”

I looked at him very hard. “Are you foxed?” I demanded.

Thomas grinned broadly. “I ought to be, but I’m not. I came here today for two reasons. The first was to tell you that your cousin is safe.”

I put my hands over my mouth but not in time to catch the sound of surprise I made. “Oliver? You’ve found him? Where is he?”

“Miles from here, in a place where no one will think to look for him,” Thomas replied. “You understand I dare not tell you his whereabouts. In any case, I doubt the name would be familiar.”

“Where did you find him?” I demanded.

“Oh, in Vauxhall Gardens,” Thomas replied airily. “Remember your tree? I ought to have done something about it when I found you, but I left it as it was and Oliver stumbled on it. He was eavesdropping in the shrubbery, it seems, and so he may have deserved some slight misfortune. Still, I think turning him into a beech tree was a little excessive. I changed him back and I’ve sent him somewhere safe. No one has anything against him, of course. It was intended for you.”

You may imagine how I gaped at him.

“You’ve made them curious,” he continued. “They don’t know what your part in all this is and they wanted to ask you.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know, either,” I snapped.

“Oh, that’s of no importance,” he assured me. “That’s part of the second reason I came here. You will agree you owe me some slight favor for rescuing you and your cod’s head of a cousin? I wish to make you an offer.”

I nodded as intelligently as I could and said, “Very well, I am very grateful to you for recovering dear, stupid Oliver. What sort of an offer?”

Thomas regarded me with an air of disbelief. “An offer of marriage, my dear half-wit. What other sort of offer did you expect?”

Cecy, I do think it is unfair. People in novels are fainting all the time, and I never can, no matter how badly I need to. Instead, I stared at him for what seemed like years, with the stupidest expression on my face, I’m sure, because I felt stupid. For I couldn’t imagine why he should say such an extraordinary thing. Finally I realized he was waiting for me to say something.

I said, “I can’t imagine why you should say such an extraordinary thing.”

“Well, that’s simple enough,” Thomas replied. “In the first place, it may soothe them to know what your part in all this is, though I doubt it. And in the second place, I need a fiancée rather urgently.”

“London is full of girls on the catch for husbands,” I reminded him. “Why pick me?”

“Oh, I’ll think of something,” Thomas assured me. He grinned again. “I’m sure you have many sterling qualities.”

How I longed to slap him. “There’s more than a touch of brass about
you
, my lord,” I said. “Sterling qualities!” I snorted.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “It reminds me of someone. You’ll be perfectly free to cry off when the Season is over, you know. But I need a good reason not to fall at someone’s feet until then. And you’re the only woman I could possibly ask, since anyone else would take it all far too seriously. Oh, come now, Kate, think what fun you’ll have jilting me.”

“What a singular notion of fun you must have,” I said. “Still, it might be amusing at that. But what if we should set a fashion? Soon every betrothed couple in the Ton could be jilting one another for the fun of it.”

“I’ll risk it,” he said, “but you will agree, won’t you? Your aunt will certainly have some strong words for you if you refuse, for I’m afraid I discussed this with her before you arrived.”

“That’s why she locked me in,” I said. “Oh, you odious man, I wish Miranda
had
lured you to her garden and I wish you’d drunk up every drop of her horrible chocolate.”

“No, you don’t, really you don’t,” Thomas assured me. “It would have been so unpleasant, you have no idea.”

“That’s so,” I agreed coldly. “But I don’t get an explanation, do I? No, all I get is roundaboutation and arrogance!” My voice rose alarmingly.

“Softly, softly,” he said. “I had no idea you felt so strongly about it. Well, perhaps it isn’t exactly cricket to propose to you without giving you an idea of what you’d be getting into. How’s this, then—you accept and I’ll explain, hmm?”

“First you explain, and then I’ll tell you whether I accept or not,” I countered.

“Do you take me for a flat?” he asked. “No, either you agree to marry me and I explain things to you—or you don’t and I don’t.”

“But you just said that wasn’t cricket—,” I protested.

“Well, I’m not playing cricket,” Thomas answered. “More like a foxhunt, really.”

“Oh, very well,” I said crossly. “I agree. Now, out with it.”

“You already know Miranda doesn’t like me,” Thomas began. “I have another enemy as well—but right now Miranda is my chief concern. She’s sending someone to London expressly for me to fall in love with and marry. I’m not quite sure how powerful she is at the moment—it depends upon the degree of cooperation she’s received from my other adversary. But I can’t take the chance that they are working together. I need to make quite certain she can’t trap me into proposing to the girl. So, Kate, our betrothal.”

“Names, Thomas,” I said, “I demand names.”

“Miranda, I told you,” he answered. “Miranda Tanistry.”

I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. “Tanistry? Not Griscomb?”

“Oh, I suppose,” he replied. “She married some nabob or other, they say. But she was Miranda Tanistry when I first crossed her path. Why, do you know Griscomb?”

“Never heard of him,” I declared. “What about your other adversary?”

“Sir Hilary Bedrick, if you must know.”

You may imagine my reaction, Cecelia. After a moment I mastered that sinking sensation enough to say, “But that’s impossible! We have known the Bedricks forever.”

“Yes, very likely,” he said, “dear Sir Hilary has every social grace. Nevertheless, he stole something rather important from me, and he and Miranda have been working individually and in unison to get me from under their feet permanently ever since.”

“And to do that, they’ve decided to turn Oliver into a tree and burned a hole in my dress with hot chocolate—” I began to list recent events quite clearly but after a few words I was sputtering.

Thomas nodded. “Yes, quite so.”

“All that—because Sir Hilary stole something from you. Something like a chocolate pot, for example?” I demanded.

I had the satisfaction of watching his face redden slightly. “Something like that,” he agreed. “Any more questions?”

“Yes, thousands,” I said.

At that moment Aunt Charlotte began to unlock the saloon door. Thomas reached out and took my hand, turned it palm up, and said, “I believe that’s healing very nicely.”

Aunt Charlotte opened the door just as he turned my hand over again and brushed a kiss across my knuckles. I experienced a nearly overpowering desire to hit him in the eye. Only the thought of Aunt Charlotte’s reaction prevented me. Instead, I stood mute while he informed her that I had accepted his proposal of marriage, and took his leave of us with an oiled ease that suggested he has had years of experience slithering into betrothals and out again. When he had gone, I turned to Aunt Charlotte.

“I hope you are quite satisfied,” I said as levelly as I could, and left the room.

Evidently the Marquis of Schofield’s offer for my hand in marriage came as a considerable surprise to Aunt Charlotte. While it is true he has not displayed the slightest interest in Georgy, and no other gentleman has displayed any particular interest in me, Aunt Charlotte was not expecting an offer for anyone but Georgy. That I have received the first proposal, and that it should be a brilliant match—well! Aunt Charlotte’s temperament has never been precisely sunny, and this turn of events has made her moodier than ever. On one hand, it affords her an opportunity to gloat over rival ladies bringing out eligible daughters. But on the other, I think she feels that Georgy has been slighted.

So here I am again, locked in my room, this time from the inside. I am in such a state of indignation that the first person who wishes me happy is likely to get her ears boxed. Please don’t tell me you are delighted—help me rather to contrive the best possible way to jilt the odious Marquis!

Yours,

Kate

17 May

I shall add this scrawl to my letter to let you know I received your most recent letter. Thank heaven it arrived before Dorothea did, for I promise you that if she thinks Robert is “always most truly a gentleman” I shall need to school my features not to betray myself by laughing.