Chapter 1 #7
At this distraction, his will failed him.
The death spell broke. And the wake of that most diabolical of castings washed over him in a rushing wave, all light and fury.
It was so cacophonous a noise that the Earl of Rabton, turning over in his massive bed, dreamed of the Russian guns at Balaclava, and Mrs. Framble, drowsing, hoped that washing day would not bring thunder, and little Elsie, lurking in the corridor, squeaked and ran swiftly to peek through the cracked library door.
But what a tableau revealed itself to her wondering gaze.
There were Miss Irene and his young lordship, leaning upon each other as they strove to rise and regain their wits.
There was her ladyship, hurrying to Mr. Young's side as he sat up and put a hand to his poor head.
There was The Book which she had often seen Miss Irene consult, ignobly discarded on the floor.
And there, though Elsie did not know it, were the remnants of Cyril, Marquess of Chomondley.
His spiritual part had been consigned to the Great Judge, and though earthly residents may anticipate the outcome of that courtroom, naught but the Lord of Heaven can proclaim the final sentence.
But the fate of the corporeal body may be more easily ascertained, and that of Lord Chomondley was nothing but a flurry of white ash, even now drifting down to settle on the library hearth rug.
Elsie saw Lady Flora in her nightgown bending anxiously over a young man, saw Miss Irene near-swooning against Lord Northcliff, and vowed once more that not a single breath of what she had seen would pass her lips.
Then, quiet as the church mouse she resembled, she withdrew from the gap in the library door, and nearly from our story.
"Jamie," Flora said. "Jamie, did I dream? I had such horrible nightmares, I thought that he— That I—" Here she had to struggle to hold back her tears, but hold them back she did, while Simon patted the air above her shoulder with awkward tenderness.
James knelt by his sister, and explained what had happened.
Her gasps and cries soon modulated to an icy silence, and she stared at the dust of the late Marquess with real hatred.
"Well, then, I am glad I did it," she said.
"The white aura! What a detestable beast!
And Irene, I am so grateful to you. You are a true friend. "
Irene, hovering on the edge of the little group, could only duck her head and murmur. The ash on the floor was beginning to bother her, lying as it did in the uncannily accurate shape of a man.
"No, no, it was a wonderful spell, how clever of you and Jamie to think of it!"
"It was Simon's spell," James said, seeing that his friend would not. "He turned it up, and Irene’s advice perfected it. I did hardly a thing."
Flora gave Simon a smile of melting adoration. "Oh, Mr. Young! I am so very grateful that you came to my aid."
"You are most welcome, Lady Flora," Simon said. Emboldened by this new ability to complete a sentence in her presence, he courageously offered Flora a deep bow.
James pulled himself together, with no little effort. “Now, you had better go back to your room before the household rises, Flora. Simon, how's your head? Shall I call for a physician?"
"I'm quite well, and shall bid you my own farewells. Miss Crawford. Lady Flora."
"Mr. Young," Flora said, and swept into her very best curtsey, so that she quite robbed Simon of the ability to speak again. She quit the room a moment after he did, and James blinked at Irene, where she was methodically sweeping up the remnants of the late Marquess of Chomondley.
"Lord, Irene, you don't need to do that."
"Someone must, my lord. Do you want me to leave it for little Elsie, when the ash has been ground into the carpet?"
James had not the least idea who little Elsie might be, but the picture of Irene clearing away the dust of this enemy offended him in a way he could not voice. "I want you to stop and listen to me," he said. "And you, Irene, what do you want?"
Irene stood and stared at the tips of her boots, hurt. After what they had shared—what they had felt—should she be paid off with a few pounds and a kind word? Well, of course she should, and she knew it well, but her heart rebelled within her. She would not take his money.
"Nothing, my lord," she said, and slid into her voice a hint of surprise at the mere suggestion.
"Irene," James said, and some catch in his voice made her lift her eyes to his. "I mean it most sincerely. I know you have a yearning long-contained within you, for I saw it when we combined our wills. Please, but tell me what you yearn for, and I give you my oath that I shall make it come true."
And Irene, at his word freely given, at the strange look in his dark eyes, at the thrilling tone of his voice, felt the dams of self-control that she had kept so well-tended for four long years break, and the secret dream within rushed out as if borne upon a river in furious flood.
"I wish to learn magick, my lord!" she said.
"I know I can do more than curl hair and mix skin-brightening potions.
I want to study spell theory as Mr. Young does, and make the incantations as clear to casters as Mrs. Beeton has.
I want to test variations of spells for ease and efficiency and I want to… I want to make my own spells, too!"
James smiled, and Irene feared she saw mockery in it. But the raging waters could not be so easily penned up again.
"In these enlightened days, ladies can learn medicine, and practice it, including those cures that magick only can accomplish.
Miss Edmona Lewis is greatly admired as a sculptor.
Mrs. Gaskell's novels are adored. But the universities will not let women take degrees, even could I find the money for the fees, and private tutors are far beyond my grasp. I hope that in time I will… but I fear I will never—I wish that I—” Irene snapped her mouth shut and stood, hands clenched at her side, shoulders heaving with her fervor.
"Then by my name," James said softly, "you shall, my lady."
Irene sighed. "I am not a lady, my lord."
"Would you like to be?"
"My lord?"
"Irene, you have known me for nearly four years, during which time you have been constant companion to my sister.
You have this very night glimpsed my deepest, most innermost self, and I felt your clear-eyed appraisal and approval, as you felt mine of you.
You cannot deny that. Do you think you could address me by my Christian name? "
Irene clenched her fists at her sides. "No, my lord."
"Then, Miss Crawford, I shall not address you by yours. It is unseemly, you know, for a gentleman to do so without permission."
"To a lady, my lord."
"Yes, Miss Crawford."
Irene bit her lip. "I really think it is too bad, my lord, for you to be making such sport of me."
"I am not, Miss Crawford, I assure you, and I beg your forgiveness for having led you to believe that I was. The truth is that I am afraid. Can you guess why?"
Irene would not guess, though a wild hope had sprang up within her, like the fancies she could not now dismiss with all her strength of mind. Still, she could not believe their fulfillment, even when the Viscount Northcliff sank to one knee on the library hearth rug.
"Miss Irene Crawford," said James, "will you marry me?"
Irene squeezed her eyes tight, for the sight of his hopeful face weakened her. “I cannot do that, my lord.”
James was silent a moment. “You mean that you think you should not.”
“It would be a terrible misalliance, my lord. You are a peer, and I am a clerk’s daughter. I have, these past four years, been in service in your father's house.”
“Yes,” James said quietly. “But I have seen your heart, and you have seen mine. I saw you, and I love you. Will you say that you do not love me?”
Irene steeled herself to lie, and found that after all, she could not do it. Her eyes flew open, and she reached for James, who took her trembling hand in his, and here we must, like Elsie, discreetly make our retreat.
The Earl of Rabton was horrified by the tale his children had to tell the next day, in which all the credit of the counterspell's research went to Simon, and all the glory of its casting to James.
At her own request, Irene appeared nowhere in the story.
The Earl pumped Simon's hand twelve or thirteen times, and called him a good fellow, a very good fellow indeed, and offered him the best port in the cellar.
It was a pity that Mr. Young was a mere scholar with no title or property—for Lord Rabton intended still to look far higher for his daughter's future happiness—but as a houseguest, he thought, Mr. Young was very handy indeed. What a shame he did not hunt!
The magistrate did have to be called, of course, and the local doctor, who inspected the ashes Irene had swept up and diagnosed death by magickal misadventure.
Only the wake of a death spell rebounding upon the caster could have caused such total dissolution, and the doctor signed his name with a flourish, and assured the Earl that the Coroner would do the same.
Under the circumstances, the magistrate thought, a private hearing could be arranged.
There was no need to trouble the commons with this story of foul magick among their betters.
When both gentlemen had shaken hands with the grateful Earl and been ushered out by the butler, James undertook an expedition to his father’s study to admit his engagement.
A more feeling son might have refrained from sharing this information at such a trying time.
However, a perceptive son could not fail to hope that, relieved by his daughter’s fortunate escape, the Earl might not regard the connection of his son and heir to a lady's maid as completely beyond the Pale.
Alas, this hope was doomed to failure, for Lord Rabton took the news very ill.
He blustered and swore and made threats of legal action, and then elected for more domestic punishment.
With great ceremony he declared that if James were determined to carry out this shameful business, then he would never be welcome at Rabton Hall for as long as the Earl should live.
James was confident that his father's anger would fade, and, moreover, was insulated from his father’s wrath by his mother’s farsightedness in the matter of his inheritance.
Nevertheless, he was saddened by this breach, however temporary it might prove to be.
"As you wish, sir," he said, and the old man was checked for a moment by his son's dignity.
Still, he could not bring himself to relent. "And take that chit out of my house on the instant," he added. "For I am master here!"
This order, at least, James was happy to obey.
Irene, with her bags neatly packed, waited in the courtyard, oblivious to the outrage of the cook, the excitement of the kitchen maids, and the confused goodwill of Mrs. Framble.
That morning, Lady Flora had greeted her as a sister and a saviour, cried upon her shoulder, gifted her with a number of gowns more suitable to her new station, and said, with all the old vivacity, that without Irene she would simply die.
Irene saw James hurry towards her in his greatcoat, a single suitcase in his hand, and the corners of her wide mouth lifted in the smile that she wore, ever after and always, for him.
There was considerable gossip afterwards, of course, for in these impudent times, discretion is counted a sin, and tale-telling a virtue, one especially celebrated by the so-called gentlemen of the press.
There was another uproar when the new viscountess returned from her honeymoon and took the entrance examination at Cambridge, entering that hallowed establishment as a student of N— College, the first to live “out” with her husband.
The press attempted to gain the views of her sisters in academia, but the College closed around its newest member as water around a stone, serene and imperturbable, and the newspapermen had to give up and go away.
After that, when the engagement of Lady Flora Wittingham and Mr. Simon Young was announced three years later, the newspapers could barely rouse themselves to rake up a grumbling summary of the scandal gone by.
The family did reconcile, after Lord Rabton felt enough time had passed that he might be magnanimous in forgiveness—and meet his grandchildren, to whom he was thereafter a great favourite.
But among those who cared not for forgiveness nor family feeling, much was made of the poor Earl of Rabton, who was so unfortunate in his children.
Especially since those children, little caring of their father's woe, shamefully persisted in showing every sign of being blissfully happy.
And little Elsie the scullery maid kept her self-imposed silence most loyally, but for the rest of her long and fruitful days, she treasured what had been left for her on the library hearth rug the day Miss Irene and Lord Northcliff had left Rabton Hall: a battered copy of Mrs. Beeton's Book of Magickal Management.
If you like stories where magic is an open and established part of the world, with a touch of romance and a lot of humor, check out Magician First Class, the first in the Sparks and Recreation series!