Under her spell, p.27
Under Her Spell, page 27
“She is my guest,” he said, holding onto Maddy’s arm. “I invited The Amazing Nightingales to stay at Sheffield Priory.”
“And I am to have nothing to say about it?” She jabbed a finger at his chest as her face became a deep red. “I am still your mother, no matter how many strumpets you parade through the halls of my home.”
“It is all right, Christopher,” Maddy said, her voice faint. “I do not want to stay where I am not welcome.”
“What are you saying?” demanded his mother, ignoring her as she had Allegra.
“She was saying that she is willing to leave as soon as The Amazing Nightingales have completed their performances.”
“She should leave immediately. Her brother is performing, but she is not any longer.”
Maddy’s voice was strained. “But I travel with my brother. While he is here—”
“You should remain in your wagon.”
“The hot weather—”
“Is not my concern.”
Madeleine hesitated, then said, “As you wish, my lady. I will pack my belongings and move out of your house. If you wish, I will have another container of salve taken to your room.”
“If it would make you feel better after your deception.” His mother was not willing to bend even that much.
“Good-bye, my lady.” She hesitated, then said, “Good-bye, Christopher.”
“Maddy—” He halted himself when he realized he was talking to her back as she ran out of the garden. “Mother, if you will excuse me . . .”
“I will not!” She planted herself right in front of him. “I will not have you chase after that actress and shame me further. I have heard enough of her lies.”
“She never tried to deceive you. She tried to be honest with you.”
“Women of her type have no idea of the meaning of honesty.”
If he had not been so furious, he would have laughed. No one he had ever met was more honest than Maddy. She refused to lie, even to better herself or to guarantee The Amazing Nightingales a long run in London.
“You have seen Maddy,” he said, trying to emulate the calm voice she had used, but failing. “She is still the caring woman who brought you balm to ease the pains in your knees.”
“She pretended to be someone she was not, and you defended her instead of telling me the truth.”
“I tried.”
“If you had tried hard enough, I would have listened.”
He realized arguing would gain him nothing. His mother had made up her mind again, and no facts would budge her. “I understand, but—”
She sniffed. “I tried to raise you to be a decent man, but you are just like your father.”
“My father?” He was startled at her well-placed stab. What did his father have to do with this?
As if he had asked that question, his mother said, “He thought only of himself and his pleasures as well. Oh, don’t give me that shocked expression. I tried to hide the truth because I did not want you to think that he cared more for his mistresses than for you.”
“What are you talking about?” His mother must have created another version of reality. “My father never did anything out of hand line during his entire life.”
Her laugh was bitter. “Yes, I know you see him as a paragon of staidness, but that was an illusion created to protect you when you were a child. As you grew older, there never seemed to be the right time to tell you that your father was involved with more women than your Uncle Gilbert even dreamed of. If you don’t believe me, ask your uncle. Ask Pimsworthy. Either of them will confirm what I have told you.”
He stared at her. He wanted to state that she was lying, but the truth was on her face. She had lied. She had lied to him all his life, and now she was being honest. She had created a world of illusion where she could live without being hurt by her husband’s infidelities. So many questions battered his lips. But if he spoke even one, he would hurt her . . . just as his father had done. How ironic that he had tried to remake his life so he was unlike his father, and he had become just like him!
He opened his mouth, and, for a moment, he considered arguing with his mother. She must have thought he would, because she drew in a deep breath, ready to defend herself against the delusions she had foisted upon him.
Instead he said, “It is kind of you to inform me of the truth, no matter how belatedly.”
“It will be equally kind of you, son, to do as I request and keep that woman from beneath my roof.”
“She has said she would gather her things and leave. I believe her.” And he did believe her—about everything. Maybe he could not imagine real magic in the world, but he could accept that Maddy did. Certainly she had brought a special something into his life, something that he could not define with simple words. Was that what magic was?
“Help me to the house.” His mother set her hand on his arm. “This is taken more out of me than I expected.”
“You should rest.”
“I shall when you help me to the house.”
He wanted to say he would send someone to escort her to her rooms, but offered his arm. Maddy was going only as far as the wagon. He would seek her out there and concede that he was no longer certain of anything. And then . . . He had no idea what would happen then. It was an unsettling thought for a man who had been accustomed to being in control of his life.
HOURS LATER, Christopher walked into his rooms. He had searched every inch of the house and the fairgrounds for Maddy, but he had not found her. He had gone to the wagon and also to the stage. Nightingale had told him that Maddy had not been at either during the day. As twilight descended, his spirits were as dark.
Where was she? Had she left Sheffield Priory? She had told him good-bye, but he had not guessed she meant that literally. He had thought her words were for his mother’s benefit. How could she leave with that terse farewell?
A shadow moved on the sofa, and his heart leaped with abrupt joy. He rushed toward it, but paused when the shadow turned up a lamp.
“Estelle!”
“What is wrong with you?” she demanded. As she stood and walked toward him, he sensed something different about her. Was it her poise or the way her eyes cut through him as if she could see everything he tried to hide, even from himself? Her demeanor reminded him of Maddy’s.
“The short answer is everything.” He went to a nearby table and served himself a glass of wine. He faltered, then poured a second glass. Handing it to his niece, he said, “I assume you have something more specific in mind.”
“Grandmother has banished Madeleine from the house.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“What would you have me do?”
She stared at him in astonishment. “Why are you asking me? You love her! You need to listen to your heart.”
“I have listened to Maddy, and she told me good-bye.”
“Because she believes you have betrayed her over and over. First with Miss Wallace, and now with Grandmother.” She scowled. “Don’t try to deny it.”
“I would not because it is the truth.” He lifted his glass, then put it down untasted. “Just as it is the truth that she would not heed anything I do or say now.”
“Why should she, when you have lied to her from the beginning?”
“I did not lie about everything.” He had been honest when he spoke of how much he wanted her, how her laughter created music within him, how he was in awe of her illusions.
“It was enough.” Estelle shook her head. “I am sorry for you, Uncle, that you fail to see the truth even now.”
“Which truth? That I made a mess of something that should have been wonderful?”
She crossed her arms in front of her. “Most people see Madeleine as an illusionist, but everything about her is utterly real. You are the illusionist, Uncle Christopher. You have created an illusion of being a carefree rake for reasons I cannot fathom, other than to believe someone hurt you. You want to keep from being hurt again, so instead you wound the woman who has touched your heart.” She put her hands on her hips. “I used to admire you. I thought you were the bravest, wisest man I had ever met.”
“But now you don’t.”
“No. Only a coward and a fool would allow anyone to treat the woman he loves so horribly.” Tears blossomed in her eyes. “Madeleine came into this house and brought a wondrous magic with her. She has changed my life, and she has changed yours. The difference is that I embrace the changes and you push them away.” She walked out of the room.
Christopher sat by the unlit hearth. When had Estelle become so wise? He had seen the changes in her since Maddy’s arrival, but he had not guessed how deep they went.
A flash of light from the Jubilee Faire caught his eyes. Tonight Nightingale and Allegra were doing a new illusion to impress Uncle Gilbert. Would Maddy miss that? Even if she did not stand on the stage with her brother, she would go to see the performance. Wouldn’t she?
He strode out of the room. He might have one more chance to speak with Maddy and mend the differences that were driving them apart. He was not going to waste it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Madeleine walked toward the bright lights, drawn by the excitement of the crowd and her own curiosity. She had spent most of the day alone. The long walk to the clearing by the shore and back had given her a chance to think. Her hopes that the magic in the clearing would give her some answer to the contretemps had come to naught. Not even her own magic had come forth. In spite of all her efforts to meditate, her thoughts had kept returning to the moment when she had told Christopher good-bye. The pain in his eyes stalked her. She had berated him for breaking the promise never to hurt her, even as she was hurting him.
But even now, after those long hours, she did not have an answer. She could not stay with a man who did not believe in magic, but she did not want to leave him. Around and around she had gone, never finding an answer.
People were gathered in front of the stage where Roland was performing with Miss Wallace’s help. He was extolling the bravery of a volunteer they had called up and who was now behind a curtain at the back of the stage. They must be most of the way through the simple illusions that were all Miss Wallace could handle. Roland looked anxious, his hands trembling. She scanned the crowd and saw Mr. Birmingham on the far side of the stage, watching intently.
Walking around to the side of the stage, she was astonished to see a large man standing there. She did not recognize him. When he asked her name, she told him as she edged to one side to walk around him.
“I am sorry, Miss Nightingale,” he said, blocking her way. “You cannot go any closer.”
“But—”
“Only the performers are allowed backstage tonight. Mr. Nightingale’s orders.”
“He did not intend to keep me out.” She tried to make that assertion sound as if she did not have a drop of doubt rolling icily through her. Roland would not have given such an order, but Miss Wallace might have.
“He said everyone, Miss Nightingale, and made me swear that I would keep everyone out.” Dismay lengthened his face. “I am sorry, but I did promise.”
“I understand,” she said, even though she did not.
“Just for the rest of the performance. It should not be much longer now.” He hooked a thumb to his left. “They are setting up a table with some refreshments over there. You could get something while you wait.”
“Thank you.” She was not hungry, but she walked in that direction.
She had not gone far when she heard a sharp crack.
A gunshot!
Whirling, she looked at the stage. Roland stood in its center with a gun in his hand. Smoke swirled around its muzzle which was pointed skyward. Slowly he lowered it and pointed it at the tall casket at the rear of the stage.
Tonight? They were doing that illusion tonight? He and Miss Wallace could have practiced it only a day or two.
“No!” she cried, but everyone was intent on the illusion.
He could kill Miss Wallace if the door did not open.
Not Miss Wallace, because she emerged from the shadows by the curtains to stand beside him.
Then who was in the casket?
As if she had shouted the question, she heard someone yell with a drunken laugh, “Duck, Sheffield!”
She took one step and stopped. She could not reach the stage in time. There was only one way. Closing her eyes, she knew she had but seconds to save him. Her thoughts wavered as she heard Miss Wallace call for quiet so Roland’s aim would be true.
She focused on her own fingers, imagining them doused in the golden glow she used to make Roland’s fingers agile. Hers must be now as she made the motions that would halt the bullet from striking the casket. It must not hit anyone else either. She raised her fingers and whispered the words to send the spell toward the stage.
Nothing happened.
She tried again.
Just as before, nothing happened. What was wrong with her magic?
It was gone.
She wiggled her fingers, staring at them in horror. How could her magic be gone? She choked, recalling how she had begun the dark spell aimed at Miss Wallace and Christopher. She had not spoken the final word, but had her intention to use her magic for her own purposes destroyed her connection to it? Was that why she had not sensed any magic in the clearing? Had she—?
The gun fired.
The bullet hit the casket. Wood exploded in every direction, and the door sprung open.
“No!” she shrieked, but her voice was drowned out by other screams as Christopher reeled forward and collapsed, face first onto the stage. Blood flowed from beneath him.
Shoving through the crowd as more screams came from every direction, Madeleine somehow reached the stage. She yanked up her skirt to a shocking height and scrambled up on the stage. Not pausing to worry about the length of leg visible to the onlookers, she ran toward Christopher.
Her arm was grabbed. She dug her nails into the hand. She heard a yelp of pain, and she was released.
“Christopher!” she cried.
He moved and groaned as she rushed to where he was sprawled. Again she was stopped.
Roland spun her to face him. “Help me, Maddy!”
“Help you?”
“Explain to everyone that I am sorry. I thought the door would work. Allegra signaled me that the door was set and he was out of the way.”
“Not now, Roland.”
“But I don’t want anyone to think it was my fault!”
She pushed away and called back over her shoulder, “Of course, it was your fault! You fired the gun when you knew the illusion was not safe.”
“Maddy, you know—”
She stopped listening to him. She had accepted his excuses for too long while she protected him from the consequences of his decision. Whenever anything went amiss, it was anyone’s fault but his. When something went right, the glory was solely his. She had been a part of that foolish game for too long. She would not be any longer. It was not solely that she could not help him. She did not want to any longer. It was time for Roland to accept his responsibilities instead of foisting them off on someone else.
Kneeling by Christopher’s side, she saw his back was unsteady, rising and falling in a jerking motion. She put her finger to his throat. His pulse was just as uneven. There was no hole in his back, so the bullet must still be inside him.
“Not a coward, Estelle,” he murmured. “Just a fool.”
She did not try to figure out what he meant. Instead, she tried to seek her magic for healing. It was gone! No! Not now! Not when Christopher was hurt.
A shadow fell across her. “Miss Nightingale.”
“Pimsworthy!” She had not seen him in the crowd.
“You should ask the young one. She can help.”
“You know . . .?”
“She inherited much from her parents.” The staid secretary added nothing more.
He did not need to, because Madeleine understood. Pimsworthy had shared Christopher’s brother’s interest in magic. Perhaps he had learned something during his service that allowed him to believe what few could.
“Where is Estelle?” she shouted. “Bring Estelle here right now!”
Pimsworthy rushed to the edge of the stage and helped the girl up onto the boards. With a gasp of horror, Estelle ran to kneel beside Madeleine.
“I need your help,” Madeleine said.
“Tell me how.”
“My mag—” She still must be careful. “My gift . . . I don’t know what is wrong with it. I cannot heal him.”
“I don’t know how by myself.” The girl’s eyes widened with fear.
“My son!” shrieked Lady Sheffield.
Mr. Birmingham stepped forward to keep her from rushing across the stage. “Someone send for a doctor!”
“There is not time,” Estelle whispered as she put her hand on her uncle’s shoulder. “He is dying.”
Madeleine wanted to groan a denial, but Estelle was right. There was no time. Her magic had faded, and Estelle did not know what to do.
But Madeleine did. “Clear the stage! Draw the curtain. Get everyone out of here!”
No one moved.
Jumping to her feet, she whirled to where Mr. Birmingham still held Lady Sheffield in his arms. Looking directly at Christopher’s mother, she said, “Tell them to listen to me. It may be the only way to save him.”
Lady Sheffield blinked, then ordered, “Pimsworthy, do as she says. She knows about healing.”
The stage was cleared except for the lady and Mr. Birmingham. Pimsworthy remained at the far edge to keep anyone from coming closer. Neither Roland nor Miss Wallace stayed, which did not surprise Madeleine.
