Under her spell, p.14
Under Her Spell, page 14
“Like this?” she asked as she obeyed.
“Yes. Now do not move your hands. No matter what happens.”
“What is going to happen?” Her eyes glittered with excitement.
“You will find out in a moment.”
Madeleine took a deep breath and slowly raised her hands, palms down, just above Estelle’s. A miniature bolt of lightning flickered between them. Even though the fork of light was cold, Estelle gasped, as if she had been burned. Craning her neck so she could see it more closely, Madeleine gauged the strength of the girl’s gift. It was powerful. No wonder she found it impossible to sit or stand still.
“What is it?” Estelle asked.
“Hush. Switch your hands so they’re over mine.”
Again Estelle did as requested.
Madeleine smiled when the tiny streak of lightning tore between their hands again, stronger this time as Estelle’s magic recognized another’s.
“How are you doing that?” The girl pulled her hands back. “Tell me please.”
Hearing a tinge of fear in Estelle’s voice, Madeleine said, “Your hands are steady, even when it appears that you are about to be struck by lightning. A few more tests, and if you pass those as easily, I will start teaching you about illusions.”
“Wonderful!” She clapped her hands and bounced up and down with enthusiasm. When Madeleine grimaced, she halted. “I am sorry. I forgot that you are not feeling well.”
“I will be fine by your next lesson on the morrow. All I need is to find a quiet place for a few hours.”
“There is a section of the garden beyond the tall boxwood hedge where I go when I want to be alone.”
“Is it private?”
Estelle wore an impish smile that brought her uncle to mind. “No one has ever found me there. It cannot be seen into from any window in the house.” She lowered her voice. “It is whispered that some of the early earls used it for assignations.”
“More likely the servants, because I’m sure an earl could have a tryst anywhere in his house.” Heat slapped her cheeks at her unthinking words that suggested she had firsthand knowledge.
The girl did not seem to notice. “Do not be so certain of that. Grandmother would not allow Uncle Christopher to bring Allegra Wallace to Sheffield Priory.” She put her fingers to her mouth, then leaned toward Madeleine to add in a whisper, “She was his mistress in London. An actress at one of Great-Uncle Gilbert’s theaters, or so I have been told. I hear, as well, that she is a mean-spirited woman who loves to be the center of everyone’s attention by being utterly outrageous. I have no idea what Uncle Christopher ever saw in her.”
Into her mind came the words that Lady Sheffield had spoken the afternoon Madeleine had first come to Sheffield Priory: She is dressed well and has the good manners not to correct her elders. Not like that concubine you used to insist I receive. Was that why Christopher had returned to the country and was inviting his friends here? To avoid a scene in London with an ex-mistress? She could not pump the girl for information, no matter how she wished to.
“Say no more.” Madeleine held up her hand to forestall Estelle’s next comment. “Your uncle’s business is his own.”
“Forgive me. I should not have spoken so. You have been so kind that I have allowed myself to talk again without thinking.”
“I am glad you consider me a friend whom you can be honest with. It will make our lessons much easier.”
Estelle jumped to her feet, and Madeleine sensed the girl’s magical tension as if it were her own. In a way it was. Once they were connected, each lesson would require them to be more open with each other. She hoped Estelle was prepared for that.
She hoped she was.
Chapter Eleven
MADELEINE OPENED the door in the boxwood hedge and smiled. Later she must thank Estelle, because the overgrown knot garden on the other side of the hedge was perfect. Not only was it private, but vibrant with life.
Pushing aside a strand of ivy that had drooped down over the doorway as if curious about her, she stepped through the arch and into the garden beyond. She closed the door and leaned against it as she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Everything smelled of recent rain and sunshine. The fresh uplifting scents of the countryside savoring its rebirth.
For the first time, she wondered how she would leave the country for the cobbles and smoke and stench of London. The few larger towns she and Roland had traveled through made her yearn for the serenity of the countryside. But living in London was Roland’s dream, so she would have to be satisfied with day trips out of the city. Even so, to be without the greenery that revitalized her magic . . . it was unthinkable.
Running her hand along the uneven texture of the hedges, she smiled. The roughness reminded her of Christopher’s face when his cheek was against hers while they kissed. She wrapped her arms around herself, not wanting to let the joy escape.
A mistake, because the unsteady tingle beneath her skin escalated. She was not sure what made her magic more insistent today, because she should have had until nightfall—hours from now—before she needed to release it so what remained in the wake of the powerful spell she had uttered could recover. Or had it already? She was astonished that it still demanded release. Perhaps it had been aroused by the lesson with Estelle, because her magic had become as impatient and demanding as a small child. She had thought it would remain as weak as she felt.
Madeleine sought the center of the knot garden. The middle of its complicated pattern had begun to disappear as the bushes grew with abandon. Once the innermost circle might have been closed, but a section of hedge had died and shriveled to allow her to enter the center. Grass and weeds clogged the space, but when she sat, each stem curved around her in a verdant cocoon.
She faced the sun, but focused her gaze on the hedge. She needed to slow her mind and free her magic. It was more difficult than she had expected, because her thoughts wanted to replay the hammer falling toward Christopher. Finally she was able to concentrate and let the magic flow out of her fingers and into the air around her.
Watching the sparkles explore the hedges, she could not keep from laughing. She put her hand over her mouth to keep the sound from drawing someone to the garden. Each little light found a leaf and bounced on it, rising higher and higher into the air.
“It has been too long since I was outside for this, hasn’t it?” Madeleine asked. “I should have realized that a change of scene was good for us.”
Again she laughed softly. When the magic was within her, it was a part of her. Only when she released it did she speak to the sparkles as unique individuals. She was curious which was correct. Were the sparkles a manifestation of her thoughts, a visual perception of what could not be seen, or were they something real and living beyond herself? Saza had refused to answer that question. Either the old woman did not know the answer or she was not willing to share it.
The sparkles settled on the leaves of the hedges, still as they rarely were. Realizing that her wandering thoughts were disrupting the process, she held up her hands and watched as the miniature lights began to dance over her palms. She smiled as tiny lightning bolts twirled, but grew somber when they formed the shape of the hammer she had sent off-course. Those sparkles became eye-searingly bright.
She blinked, then yelped when the white-hot light touched her skin. “Be careful.”
A single ball of light, gathered together from several of the sparkles, brushed her fingertips again.
“Ouch! I told you to take care.” Her eyes widened. “Or is that what you are trying to tell me? To take care with such powerful spells?”
The ball bobbled once, then a second time before it split apart into a glittering cascade.
As the sparkles rejoined the joyous dance, she knew her magical gift was trying to protect her. Just as Saza had. Some spells were to be used only in the most dire situations—which pushing aside the falling hammer had been—but only after . . .
“After all other spells have failed,” she said aloud. Instead of doing as she had been taught, she had allowed her feelings for Christopher to goad her into a careless decision.
The magic sparkles suddenly gathered together and shot toward her. As they rammed into her, she gasped. What was wrong? She understood when she heard firm footfalls.
She struggled to her feet when her brother came into view. “Roland!”
“Am I interrupting something?” he asked as he crossed the garden to where she was.
“No, not at all.” She tried to sound calm. Her magic had saved her from discovery, but her body ached as if she had run headlong into a tree. She shoved her hair back from her face, wondering if she looked as colorless as she felt. “How did you find me?”
“I encountered Miss Estelle while looking for you. She mentioned this garden.” His nose wrinkled. “That girl could talk the back leg off a donkey. She was jabbering about how excited she was that you were going to teach her our illusions.” As his brows dipped together in a scowl, he said, “You are not doing that, are you?”
“I agreed to teach her some simple illusions she can use to dazzle her young friends. Not the ones we use in our show.”
“Nothing that will reveal what we do?” he demanded, his voice tight with anger.
“Roland, I cannot believe you would accuse me of undermining the very performance that provides us with food and shelter.”
His expression eased. “I know. I know.” He massaged his forehead. “I am sorry, but I have heard that Lord Sheffield has hired two other illusionists.”
“I did not see the wagons belonging to any other magic acts.”
“They have not arrived yet. I was told that he hired The Kent Magicians and—” His nose wrinkled again. “Magic Unlimited.”
She understood. The illusionist who called himself Magic Unlimited was her brother’s bête noire. Pietro Spagnola also came from a long line of traveling performers, and his family had sought a haven in England, far from Napoleon’s imperial dreams almost a hundred years ago. In spite of that, Pietro always affected an Italian accent to impress potential patrons, and he never failed, when his path crossed theirs, to criticize Roland’s techniques.
“Don’t worry about him, Roland.”
“I loathe the man, but he is a skilled illusionist. If Mr. Birmingham sees him, we might lose our chance for a London engagement.”
“Don’t worry about him, Roland,” she said again, patting his arm. “Have you heard there is to be a finale with all the acts on the final night of the Jubilee Faire?”
He nodded. “And that is when I must be ready with a new and magnificent illusion.” His face grew long again. “You know that Pietro Spagnola will have something flashy.”
“Stop fretting about him. When it is the most important, you are at your best.”
“Do you believe so?”
“Yes.” She curled her fingers into her palm as the magic throbbed there. She would need it to make sure Roland had his chance to shine in front of Christopher’s uncle. “With every bit of myself.”
“I am glad you are here to assist me, Maddy.”
“We are a team.” She took his hands. “The Amazing Nightingales. For now and forever.”
“I am glad to hear you say that. When I learned that you had gone for a stroll with Lord Sheffield, I was unsure if you would want to continue assisting me.”
Her smile felt brittle, but she kept it in place. “I plan to assist you as long as you want me to.”
He gave her a big hug, astonishing her because her brother seldom was so demonstrative. It was another sign of how anxious he was about the performances to come.
MME. RENAUD WAS everything a French seamstress should be. She was flighty and demanding and very assured of her own vision for Madeleine’s gown for the Jubilee Faire. Coming into Madeleine’s rooms, she was followed by several maids. They set up a changing screen in the bedroom and arranged several boxes on the floor in front of the windows. By them, they placed a cheval glass and a small round wooden box. Unlike the other cases, it did not have handles, and Madeleine guessed it was for standing on so the length of a hem could be checked. Mme. Renaud allowed no questions as the servants hurried away. The seamstress made it clear that Madeleine might know how to be a magician’s assistant, but Mme. Renaud was the expert on color and styles.
“Ruffles and frills are all the style now,” the modiste said as she bounced around the room like a stocky grasshopper. The image was enhanced by her green gown and hair that seemed to come to a sharp point over her long face. “You must have ruffles and frills.”
“On the torso of the gown, that is fine, but ruffles and frills on the sleeves, especially near the cuffs, can be a problem when I am assisting my brother. There are times when I must have my hands free to pass him something out of the audience’s view. A ruffle or a frill could complicate the smooth passage. Or, worse, it could reveal how the illusion is done.”
“Ah!” The modiste paused and faced Madeleine as if seeing her for the first time. “Something to consider . . .” She opened her large basket and drew out several sheets of paper. “Here are the designs I drew. Tell me what elements of each would be troublesome.”
Madeleine’s respect for the seamstress grew as Mme. Renaud spread out the pages and listened while Madeleine explained how she handed props to her brother. The modiste asked questions and nodded to the answers and asked more questions. She sketched new lines atop her drawings until they both were satisfied.
“Excellent,” Mme. Renaud said as she set aside the sketches. “Now we must choose a color. What color do you usually wear when you perform?”
Madeleine opened the cupboard and took out her two gowns. She brushed her fingers against the well-worn fabric, thinking as she always did about when she had seen her mother don them. In that moment, her mother changed from a wife and mother to a glorious creature, the perfect match for her husband in his elegant morning coat.
“Blue is a good color for you.” The modiste tapped her finger against her pursed lips. “But blue is a common color. You must have something more vibrant, more eye-catching. Come. I have some fabrics we can drape across you in front of the mirror.”
“That sounds fun.”
When Madeleine stepped forward, Mme. Renaud shook her head. “No, no, mademoiselle. The fabric must be against your skin.” She motioned toward the screen. “Remove your clothes.”
“What?”
“Your outer clothes. Leave on your chemise and petticoats and corset.”
Madeleine nodded, trying not to be scandalized. She almost laughed at the thought, for the world deemed her licentious because of her work. None of those who looked down their noses at her would guess the thought of disrobing in front of Mme. Renaud made her feel awkward and shy.
She went to do as the seamstress requested. Hanging her blouse and black skirt over the screen, she paused to collect her dressing robe from the bathing room. She buttoned it around her.
“Non, non,” cried Mme. Renaud as soon as Madeleine stepped out from behind the screen. “No robe, mademoiselle!”
The seamstress had drawn the draperies, so Madeleine undid the front of the dressing gown and set it on the sofa.
“Up here. Vite, vite!”
Assuming Mme. Renaud’s words meant for her to be quick, she obeyed. She stepped onto the middle of the round box and faced the mirror. Her eyes grew wide, because she had not seen her reflection except in the small mirror in the wagon. She had not guessed how much she looked like her mother at this age.
Mme. Renaud draped bright red silk around Madeleine. Stepping back, she tapped her lips again. “Vibrant, but I am not sure if that is the right color. Let’s try the green.”
“Oh, my!” Madeleine gasped when the modiste drew out a length of emerald green silk. Letting the red fall to the floor, she drew the green around her. It was the exact shade of Christopher’s eyes.
“Is there something wrong with this color?”
“No! It is lovely.”
“But your face is red.”
“Just excited,” she said, which was the truth. The very thought of Christopher holding her again made her blood pound at every pulse point.
“Another color.” She wrapped an ethereal white around Madeleine, before trying a purple, then a gold. Each time, she stepped back and pondered and muttered something under her breath. “Do you have a preference?”
“They are all lovely.”
“But it must be the perfect color. The women must be envious of your gown and the men must be thinking of it lying crumpled at your feet as they draw you up against them.”
Madeleine giggled. She put her hand over her mouth, shocked. When was the last time she had giggled like a little girl? Other than when she released her magic and watched it dance with joy?
“The gold is better for creating envy and fantasies,” came a deep voice from behind her.
She stiffened when, in the mirror, she saw the reflection of Christopher walking toward her. Holding the length of fabric close to her, she watched his gaze sweep along her. A smile edged his lips, and an answering flame rose within her. Facing him, she quivered with longing. She doubted she had ever seen a more thrilling sight than him taking slow, deliberate steps toward her. Like a predator stalking its prey, but if he captured her, the result would be rapturous.
Mme. Renaud broke the spell by asking, “Do you think so, my lord?” Her broad smile revealed that she was jubilant an earl had come to see the beginning of one of her creations. “I have been trying to persuade Mlle. Nightingale that she needs something spectacular because she has the carriage and beauty to wear a vibrant color.”
