Chapter 1
Mrs. Beeton's Book of Magickal Management.
"Irene, if I am forced to marry the Marquess of Chomondley, I will simply die."
Irene Crawford nodded and cast a curling charm on a lush lock of the speaker's black hair.
To an outside observer she would appear sublimely unconcerned with this horrifying pronouncement, as indeed she was.
It had to be admitted that by her own account, Lady Flora Wittingham was in constant peril of immediate expiration, which just as constantly failed to eventuate.
This day alone, Lady Flora had been forced to eat cold kedgeree when she arrived late at the breakfast table, wear a pale green day dress that muddied her complexion, and accompany her father and his guest on a stroll about Rabton Hall's icy grounds while Cyril, Marquess of Chomondley, treated them to an extended description of his own estate in the North.
Flora had, in private, declared all these misadventures likely to herald her immediate removal to Paradise.
And yet, the lady had survived these torments and many others to live to this moment, where she was dressing for dinner in her pretty chambers.
Indeed, despite frequent threats of imminent demise, Lady Flora had survived to the age of eighteen.
Eighteen was an age just right, the Earl of Rabton considered, for a pretty, well-bred gel to be properly affianced to a gentleman of noble title and considerable property.
All the better that Lord Chomondley not only shared Lord Rabton's politics, but his fondness for lingering over port and pipe.
He was also five-and-thirty; another good age, the Earl thought, for a man to take a wife and ensure his succession.
Chomondley seemed partial to Flora, and needed only to be brought up to the mark.
The Earl had not condescended to ask his daughter's opinion on the match, and would have been astonished to know that she could hold one.
Flora was an affectionate girl, and rather isolated, since Rabton Hall was the premiere house of the district and the surrounding estates had rather failed in their duty to supply girls of Flora’s age with whom she could associate.
She had no bosom friend, and while she sometimes treated Irene as more of a companion than a servant, Irene’s official title was lady's maid.
No matter what confidences Flora bestowed upon her, Irene could grant Flora neither grace nor absolution for her confessions.
Not that such Papist institutions would ever be given entrée to Rabton Hall!
Instead, Irene usually concerned herself with the care of her mistress's clothes, the arrangement of her hair, the mixing of various potions for her complexion, and the casting of such small spells as could assist in these ventures.
She tried not to give her opinion on such potentially perilous topics as Flora's inner turmoil, and Flora did her part by graciously declining to request Irene's thoughts on the same.
Consequently, Irene was considerably startled when Flora's hands ceased in their fretting against each other and flew up to grab Irene's own.
Irene stilled, staring at her mistress in the glass.
Flora's complexion was unusually pale except for two red spots high on her exquisite cheekbones, and her large, dark blue eyes were brimming with tears.
"My lady?" Irene ventured.
"Oh, Irene," Flora whispered. "I do mean it, you know. I think I will die if Papa makes the Marquess propose to me. And I think—" she drew a deep breath. "I think I would rather I did. I have not even come out yet! I was so looking forward to my Season. What should I do?"
Irene was not unsympathetic to Flora's plight.
It would be a terrible thing, she considered, to be forced into marriage with a man so much older than oneself, and moreover, one with whiskers so very blonde and bristly.
Lady Flora had wealth, beauty, and reason, and Irene thought it outrageous that with these advantages, in this year of 1894, Flora was still not free to choose what path in life she might follow.
Irene was well supplied with reason, but lacked beauty and wealth, and in her darker moments she feared that her own path stretched out narrowly, with no allowance for shortcuts, byways, or meanderings.
But Flora, however kindly a mistress, was still a mistress, and Irene was her servant.
Flora's papa paid Irene’s wages. If she were to say what she thought—that Flora should stand her ground and refuse the Marquess, since it was in these enlightened days illegal to force one’s daughter into unhappy matrimony—the Earl might hear of Irene’s interference.
At that point, Irene had no doubt, the unwise lady’s maid who had made such an impertinent suggestion would be released into the world, to find her own way therein.
On occasion, when she feared Flora’s happiness was really at stake, Irene had adopted the road of cautious hints. This was clearly one of those occasions, and she cast around for a way to influence Flora's thoughts without venturing a direct opinion.
"Do you recall that time last winter when you were ill and I read the works of Miss Austen to you, my lady?" she began.
"Oh yes. Such lovely books, with happy endings, and such a shame that there were only six. But Irene, what does that have to do with now?”
"It was Pride and Prejudice which has come to mind," Irene said delicately. "Particularly the chapter regarding the proposal Mr. Collins made Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
"Oh!" Flora said, her eyes widening. Irene took advantage of the shock to gently free herself from Flora's grip. "Why, she refused him! And Mr. Darcy also, though that was only because he was proud, and she knew better later and a good thing too. Do you think I could say no to the Marquess?"
Irene would rather give a direct opinion on whether Flora’s cherished rubies went well with the daffodil-yellow ballgown (no) than answer this question.
She ostentatiously returned her attention to Flora's ringlets, attempting to indicate with a quirk of an eyebrow that if Lady Flora thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet's actions might be applicable to her own, that was entirely Lady Flora's privilege.
"Elizabeth Bennet had a supportive papa," Flora mused. "He said he would not like her to marry Mr. Collins, and her mama's threats came to nothing." Her face was clouding over, and the tears threatened again. "My papa, though very good, is perhaps not so obliging."
Irene took a gamble. "The Bennet family were in some distress," she said, as if idly. "Five daughters, and an entail. Of course, with no brothers, you can see how Mrs. Bennet thought it best Elizabeth marry to keep the property in the family."
"No brothers?" Flora said, and then the stormy brow cleared. "But of course! Jamie comes down from Cambridge tomorrow!"
"Does he, my lady?" This question, hinting as it did of disinterest and ignorance, was, strictly speaking, a falsehood, and Irene resolved to say an extra prayer before bed to atone for it.
The homecoming of the Viscount Northcliff, a household favourite, had been all the conversation Downstairs for a fortnight.
"Oh, yes, Irene. He is bringing some friend he says could not afford to travel home for Christmas, can you imagine? How horrible! We must be very kind to him."
"Certainly, my lady," Irene murmured, forbearing to mention what would happen should the housekeeper have the least suspicion that she was being very kind to any male guest.
"And I will speak to Jamie the instant he arrives. He will support me. I should think he wouldn’t like the Marquess at all, and he won’t allow Papa to press me." Flora looked radiantly beautiful in her relief.
Irene allowed herself the briefest moment for self-congratulation, and reset the curling charm that had faded with lack of attention.
Concentrating her will, she murmured a few phrases.
Dark red light streamed from her hands and lifted Flora's heavy black locks—only to fall apart when Flora suddenly twisted, breaking Irene's concentration.
Irene flinched in the wake of the failed spell, her fingers burning as if she had plunged them into boiling water.
"Irene! I have just thought—oh, have I hurt you?"
Irene gestured towards her mouth. Flora, reminded of the silence that followed a badly broken spell, went quiet with remorse.
But even genuine guilt could not restrain her equally real urgency.
"I had just thought," she whispered, "That if the Marquess were to propose tomorrow morning, before Jamie arrived, I would not in the least know how to say no.
Miss Bennet had to be rather abrupt, in the end.
Irene, is there anything about properly refusing a proposal in The Book? "
Irene shook her head. There were, to be sure, dozens of etiquette books that would advise Flora on how to gently and genteelly decline an unwelcome proposal, but few accounted for a disobliging papa. The Book of which she spoke, Irene was quite sure, contained no such advice.
"We must make sure," Flora insisted, and Irene let out a breath that would have been a sigh, had her vocal cords been of any use at that moment.
Nevertheless, she left Flora trying to repair her hair with more mundane efforts and hurried up the back stairs to her narrow bedroom, which she did not have to share.
Her position entitled her to this privacy, and even some degree of luxury, with a chair and a table—both relegated from other parts of the house—and a decent lamp to read or sew by.
Irene knew very well that the housemaids envied her the privilege of the single room, but she could not despise the treat—not when it allowed her to bend over her scalded hands, and whimper in silence until the wake of the interrupted spell subsided, the pain passed, and her voice returned.