Chapter 1 #2
Then she reached into her small and crowded bookshelf, a discard from the nursery Flora had long ago left vacant, and retrieved Mrs. Beeton's Book of Magickal Management.
This venerable publication was The Book in which Flora placed such trusting faith, and why not?
With its aid, Irene had achieved what the godless might term miracles.
Full of good sense, admirably organized, and clearly written, The Book rarely failed its devotees in the practice of household magics.
In this, it was unlike lesser publications, which often resulted in the death of the ill-advised practitioner by the consumption of poisonous concoctions, severe burns in the event of a particularly strong wake, or, as in the unfortunate case of one poor housekeeper from N—, the accidental transmutation of the human form into that of a vase of lilies.
No, servants who sought the assistance of Mrs. Beeton rarely damaged themselves in permanent fashion. A restless lady of the house who moved before the completion of a curling spell could cause pain, but never disfigurement.
When Mr. and Mrs. Crawford had regrettably departed earthly soil four years earlier, The Book and considerable magickal talent had been almost the only things they could bequeath their only child.
Fortunately, before her own untimely demise, the Countess of Rabton had been of a kindly disposition, and lady's maids with magickal ability were both all the fashion and exceedingly rare. She had thought Irene, then sixteen, a neat, good sort of girl with nice manners. True, she had not been trained in service, but a clerk’s daughter had to take part in her own share of household labours, and Irene seemed to be a quick study who could adequately fit herself to Flora’s needs.
Besides, she had no looks to speak of. The Countess could hold forth for several hours on the evils of employing attractive household staff.
Irene herself had once cherished other ambitions, but even at sixteen she had been too practical to ignore the workings of necessity.
Indeed, as she moved down the stairs, The Book under one arm, she focused with the ease of long practice only on her current task, allowing no whimsical fancies to stray into her conscious mind.
She only permitted herself to think of them at the end of every quarter, when her wages were counted out by the butler, and she slid each half-crown into her savings box.
Through long experience, Irene knew that considering her true desires at any other time only made her unhappy.
The sound of another voice in Flora's chambers aroused both her curiosity and her concern. The voice was certainly male. Had the Viscount Northcliff returned early, and gone to greet his sister in her suite? Even as Irene thought it, however, she recognised the voice.
It was that of the Marquess of Chomondley.
Irene froze. For his Lordship to enter Flora's private chambers—while she was unchaperoned, no less—was quite beyond the bounds of propriety.
She crept closer, ready to raise the alarm at the first hint of danger, and brave what scandal resulted.
In so doing, she inevitably overheard the substance of the conversation.
"—do think you should leave," Flora was saying, her usually pleasant voice pitched high.
"Come now, Flora—may I call you Flora? And you must call me Cyril."
"You may not, my lord."
"But when we are man and wife, such a confusion of syllables as 'Marchioness Chomondley' would be a bother, do you not think so?" His voice was a warm, wheedling thing, like a garter snake winding itself into a summer nest.
Flora's voice was beginning to sound desperate. "Please leave, my lord. I must remind you that your presence is most improper."
"I will not, until I have an answer to my question. Come, Flora, will you not make me the happiest man in the Empire?" It was a question, but the Marquess did not appear to be asking. He delivered each word with measured certainty.
Irene's fingers adjusted their grip on Mrs. Beeton's Book of Magickal Management, which, in addition to its other admirable qualities, was amply proportioned and weighed a good five pounds.
For a moment, a wistful thought escaped Irene's otherwise firm control.
If only she had access to more potent magics!
If only the bailiffs had let her keep her father's books after that sad, shabby little funeral!
But the books had been valuable, and the debts to the doctor substantial, and Irene would have to make do with what she had remained to her; to her nerve, her wits, and The Book, which no bailiff had thought worth the trouble of auctioning.
"I… Don't know how to answer you, sir," Flora was saying.
Irene frowned, and edged closer. There was something odd about Flora's voice, as if she spoke half-asleep. Irene, who had woken Flora every morning for nearly four years, was very familiar with that drowsing tone.
"Say yes," his Lordship said in that same slow cadence. "It is a good match, and your father wishes it. You do not wish to disappoint the Earl, do you?"
"No," Flora said.
"You want to be a good girl, don't you?"
"Yes," Flora said.
"Then you will marry me, won't you, Flora?"
"Yes," Flora said, so quietly that Irene had to strain to hear through the thick wooden door. "Yes, Cyril, I will marry you."
"Excellent," his Lordship said. "Will you kiss me now?”
There was the sound of some muffled movement. Irene gripped The Book and reached for the door handle.
“Not yet?” the Marquess said. “I see you have some spirit. I am pleased. We’ll let this settle a little more deeply, shall we? I will go to your father now, and we will be married soon. And you will be happy,” he added. “I cannot abide women who mope."
Even with this warning, Irene had scarcely time to scramble back and proceed back along the hall at a decorous and unsuspicious pace before the Marquess opened Flora's door and swept out.
He paid Irene no attention at all, striding past with a self-satisfied smile so wide his whiskers could do little to conceal it.
Irene, on the other hand, stood still and stared after him in the rudest manner.
Then she shook herself all over and went in to her mistress.
Flora had scrambled onto her bed, and was pressed into the post furthest from the door.
Her hands clasped her dressing gown tightly under her neck.
Indeed, her entire body spoke of resistance and retreat, but her eyes were limpid, and she was smiling.
"He has gone to my father," she said. "We are to marry in the spring. Oh, Irene! How happy I am!"
She looked happy indeed, but Irene knew Flora's joy had no natural cause.
For as the Marquess of Chomondley had walked out of the room, she had seen it; an insubstantial tracery of white lines that limned his form and formed a glowing tangle of shapes above his head.
It was the white aura; the very sign and signal of magick most foul.
Irene suffered through the rest of the evening in silence, a silence which went largely unregarded by the rest of the household.
Flora was too full of raptures about her darling Cyril to pay any attention to anything else as Irene finished her preparations for dinner.
Mrs. Framble, the housekeeper, did note at the dinner of the upper staff that Irene seemed even quieter than usual.
She resolved to keep an eye on the girl, lest she be sickening for something.
The news of the engagement, in the traditional course of such joyous tidings, had flowed swiftly downwards through the household staff, and all agreed that His Lordship the Marquess of Chomondley was a decent choice for Lady Flora.
Of course she deserved a duke, but there were none available, so a marquess would have to do.
Irene chewed the inside of her lip more than the good Bakewell pudding served to her by little Elsie, the scullery maid.
The white aura! Could she have been mistaken? Irene had never seen it before. She had thought the white aura the province of desperate criminals in city stews, and penny-dreadful novels. She had never expected to encounter it in the honourable surrounds of Rabton Hall.
But she had always been especially skilled in making out signs of magick invisible to non-practitioners, and it had been clear as a summer sky as the Marquess made his smirking way down the hallway without even a glance in her direction.
And Lady Flora's affections had changed suddenly—and inexplicably, were anything but foul magick the cause.
So, then, the diagnosis was made. Irene nodded, passed the salt mechanically, and set herself to determining a cure.
Irene could not accuse a Marquess of employing evil magick to his face.
Neither could she approach the staff more senior to her with this conundrum, as she would have done with anything less serious.
Irene considered going directly to Lord Rabton, and had Mrs. Framble not spoken at an opportune moment, she might well have done it, and this story might have had a much sadder end.
For the Earl of Rabton, though not really an evil man, was disinclined to listen to such nonentities as lady's maids at the best of times, and if Irene had the effrontery to bring him a tale certain to disrupt both his household and a most fortuitous engagement, the results might have been most determinedly against her favour.
But Mrs. Framble did speak. "I hope this friend of his young Lordship is a good sort of gentleman," she said.
"All I know is that he is a scholarship student and no valet attends him," the butler said in foreboding tones, and at this sign of poverty the senior staff shook their heads, all save the first footman, who was most eager to gain experience acting as valet for Mr. Simon Young, and Irene, who brightened considerably at this reminder of the Viscount's homecoming.