Under her spell, p.3
Under Her Spell, page 3
“The estate is where the earl and the rest of the Sheffield family live.” He dropped to sit on her bed and rested his elbows on the stained oilcloth covering the table. “Lord Sheffield is arranging an old-fashioned country festival to entertain his friends while they celebrate Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee.”
“A jubilee festival!” She clapped her hands with excitement, taking care not to bump her aching finger. She could easily imagine the earl’s splendid guests. Silks and brocades of the most incredible shades would be topped by so much jewelry that it would seem as if stars had descended to the earth. “How glorious!”
“And what would a festival be without magicians?” He twisted his fingers and a coin appeared. Laughing, he tossed it onto the table. She caught it before it stopped spinning, because it was one from the small cache set aside for their food.
“We could present our best illusions. When Lord Sheffield’s friends see us perform, they are sure to be eager to hire us for events at their own houses.”
“My thoughts exactly, but there may be an even better opportunity than you realize.” He grasped her left hand and pulled her down to sit next to him. Over the rustle of her petticoat, he asked, “Do you have any idea who is related to the Sheffield family?”
Madeleine smiled when she saw his eyes glittered with an excitement she saw in them only when he spoke of his grand plans for their future. “Who?”
“Gilbert Birmingham.”
She pressed her hand to the bows and buttons along her simple bodice. “The Gilbert Birmingham who owns Birmingham’s Majesty Theater near Covent Garden?”
“One and the same.” He took a reflective sip of his tea. “Just think, Madeleine. If we impress Mr. Birmingham, he could very well arrange for us to work in his theaters. He owns several. Once we are part of the program, we can work our way up to become the lead act in the show. If we can devise a truly breathtaking illusion to perform at Sheffield Priory’s jubilee festival, we are certain to convince Mr. Birmingham to feature us in his theater.”
“That would make all our dreams come true.” She smiled, because her parents had spoken often of how wondrous such an opportunity would be. When they died, other than the wagon, the dream had been the whole of their bequest to her and her brother.
Standing, he doffed an imaginary hat and said in his most sonorous voice, “For those ladies and gentleman who remain young at heart, and for all children who still believe in the wonder of magic, I present to you . . . The Amazing Nightingales!”
Madeleine jumped to her feet, applauding. “Bravo! Bravo!”
He bowed and laughed. “Do not cheer before you have seen the show.”
“But the reputation of the fine magician in the act—”
“And of his brilliant assistant,” he added.
“And of his brilliant assistant,” she repeated with a laugh, “has reached the ears of every theatergoer long before they even have the opportunity to see the name of The Amazing Nightingales posted in front of the theater.” She tilted her head and gave him a coy smile. “Did you know, sir, that I have waited a full month before I was able to obtain a seat because of the great demand to see The Amazing Nightingales?”
“Then a few more bravos, if you please.” He bowed again.
She threw her arms around him. “Oh, Roland, this could be just what we have been waiting for. Imagine it!”
“I am. I have thought of little else since I heard about the jubilee festival. We will have a regular performance at one of Mr. Birmingham’s theaters, so we will no longer have to live in this cramped wagon. We will be able to afford a fine London townhouse. In the winter, we shall be warm, because the coal furnace will heat each of the dozen rooms. And we shall have a cook to make our meals and a maid to clean up after, so you will not have to do both before we perform.” He glanced around the wagon. “No more cracked teapots or rusty pans. And, most definitely, no more wondering if we will be able to afford to buy food tomorrow.”
Sitting, she rested her chin in her palms and looked up at him. “That is such a pretty dream.”
“It does not have to remain a dream. We can make it happen.” The hope in his eyes wavered. “Don’t you believe we can, Madeleine?”
She grasped his hand. “Of course, I do. We have worked hard to achieve what we have thus far. Now we must work even harder.” She gazed at his hands and wished Papa’s dexterity was within them. Adding skill to them was tricky, because her gift must never be used to get her what she wanted. But if she thought only of obtaining Roland what he wished for . . . She looked up at his face. “What must we do to become a part of Lord Sheffield’s jubilee festival?”
“Mr. Green at the butcher shop told me word has been sent throughout the shire that anyone with any talent at entertaining should call at Sheffield Priory to set up an audition. If the earl and his mother are pleased with the audition, arrangements will be made for the act to work at the Jubilee Faire.”
“For how long?”
“Two weeks.”
Her eyes widened. “Two weeks? Two whole weeks in one place?”
“I understand the pay will be generous as well.”
“Two weeks.” Her fingers closed around her teacup, and she let the steam eddy up into her face, which was suddenly icy cold. She could recall only one time when The Amazing Nightingales had stayed in one place that long. During that fortnight, she had struggled to take care of their parents. Both of them were too exhausted from their lives of constant struggle, and she had known when she promised them to take care of Roland that it was their final request. At the end of that fortnight, when their parents could not be cured of the fever that sucked the life from them, she and Roland had left Papa and Mama’s bodies behind in an unmarked grave in a churchyard. Then they had continued on alone with the show that was their sole livelihood. They had always hoped to earn enough money to pay for a stone to be raised in the churchyard, but it had not yet happened. Maybe now . . .
Roland patted her shoulder awkwardly, and she guessed his thoughts matched hers. Commiseration made him uncomfortable, she knew all too well.
She put her hand over his and gave him a smile. She needed to stop thinking of the past and focus on their future. “A fortnight at Sheffield Priory would be wonderful. I should not be superstitious.”
“Superstitious?” He sat facing her. “I thought you tossed aside all that nonsense after we stopped traveling with that gypsy circus.”
Madeleine looked down at her folded hands, not wanting her brother to read the truth in her eyes. Butterfield’s Circus had only one genuine gypsy among its performers. Or so Saza had told her. The woman, who had fascinated Madeleine from the very first she saw Saza with her brightly colored scarves and full skirt, had spun tales of faraway places and spells. What she had taught Madeleine must never be spoken of, she had warned over and over.
Nobody will understand this gift you have been given, little one, she could recall Saza saying as if the old woman sat beside her, and many will fear it. It is important that you keep the gift to yourself, using it only when you can help others. Even then, the one you help should never be allowed to suspect you are helping. The gift is fragile, so you must safeguard it. Abuse the gift once, and you will suffer. Abuse it often, and it could be taken from you along with your life. Look for the one you will teach and pass along the gift.
“Roland,” she said as her trembling fingers picked up her cup again, “you know everyone in the theater is superstitious.”
“Not me.”
“Not you? You will not go on stage without your favorite gloves.”
“My best gloves. I want to present the proper image to the audience. Who wants to watch a tattered illusionist?” He chuckled. “Maybe I will have to acknowledge that I have a few superstitions once we are in the theater. It is early. You should be able to take the train today to Sheffield Priory.”
“You want me to arrange the audition?”
“Why not? I thought you liked handling such arrangements.”
She hated those tasks, but had taken them over because Roland’s attempts at getting bookings had been an utter disaster. He was either too nervous or too arrogant, acting as if he were doing the village a favor in deigning to consider performing for its residents. When the money left by their parents was used up and they came close to starving, she had offered to step in. Roland, at first, had refused, determined to do all the tasks their father had handled with such skill, but eventually he came to see that pride could not fill their empty stomachs. And she could not forget her promise to do what she must to take care of her brother and help him achieve the family’s dream. Even the discomfort of arranging shows was not too much to ask of her when she was fulfilling a deathbed vow.
He threaded his fingers together, then flexed them outward as he added, “While you are arranging for our audition at Sheffield Priory, I shall start working on the pistol and casket illusion again.”
“No!” She came to her feet.
He scowled up at her. “Madeleine, do I need to remind you that I am the magician in the act? To be honest, I am tired of doing the same silly tricks night after night. How many times can I pull Pudgy out of that hat before the audience falls asleep with boredom? Even if they do not, I will.”
She clenched the edge of the oilcloth. “Such illusions served Robert-Houdin well. He was the toast of France.”
“But people expect something more now. Something different. Something with the illusion of danger.”
“Maybe, but they enjoy our shows.”
“Which are fine for provincial audiences. If we want to garner Gilbert Birmingham’s attention, it will have to be with something more awe-inspiring than a simple illusion.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “The pistol and casket trick will be perfect.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Roland. There are other illusions we can devise. It is simply too risky to fire a gun into a casket when someone might still be inside. Papa set the illusion aside because he deemed it too unsafe.”
His lips straightened into a line as thin as his mustache. “May I remind you that I am not Papa?”
“No, you are not.” You do not have his skill with illusion, only his dreams of working in London. She silenced the traitorous thought. “Roland, we have a single opportunity to impress Mr. Birmingham, if he comes to Sheffield Priory at all. We cannot make a jumble of it by doing a trick with which we are still unfamiliar.”
“The jubilee festival shall not begin for a fortnight. That is plenty of time for both of us to prepare. It will not take me long to build the casket, and then we can practice.”
“That is absurd! We usually work on an illusion and refine it for several months before presenting it to an audience.”
“Madeleine, listen.” He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “We must be more than spectacular to gain Mr. Birmingham’s attention. I have heard of a lad in America, who has taken the stage name Houdini—”
“Like Robert-Houdin?”
“Apparently, and the lad is developing a repertoire of astonishing escapes. The pistol and casket trick would top even his illusions. If I can make such a trick work, Gilbert Birmingham will be eager to hire us and showcase us in London.” He smiled. “I know the trick makes you nervous, but it could be just the ticket to gain us fame and fortune.”
“It could be. Or it could be disastrous.”
“All I need to do is build the casket with a hidden trap door that opens so easily and unobtrusively that you can slip out unseen before the bullet is fired and back inside before I open the door facing the audience.”
She dampened her arid lips. “The latch on the door must be completely concealed, so no one in the audience can see it.”
“It will be.”
“The latch must be sensitive enough to open every time.” She reached across the table and clasped his hand. “Roland, you could shoot me if it failed even once.”
His smile fell, and he rubbed his finger against his mustache. “Then the answer is obvious.”
“We do not do it.”
“Don’t be silly, Madeleine. We must do it, but you cannot be in the casket.” He snapped his fingers and grinned. “We will ask for a volunteer from the audience.”
“So you can accidentally shoot a stranger?” She laughed coldly. “We would be hanged by the audience before the constable could be called.”
“You misunderstand me.” He pulled a pencil from under his vest and began to draw on the oilcloth. “Look here. If you stood here beside the casket, you could activate the latch. I would never fire until you gave me the signal that the person had slipped out.”
“And reveals to everyone how we did the trick.”
“I am sure there are ways we can convince the person not to talk about the trick. Of course, once we have the wages paid to performers in London, we can get a ringer to work in the audience.”
Madeleine tapped his crude drawing. “You want me to stand directly in your line of fire. I have seen your shooting, Roland, and, to be honest, being within the casket might be safer.”
“We will work out those little details.”
“Little?” She laughed humorlessly again.
“You will see. It will be the most sensational trick ever performed on stage, and I promise you that no one who witnesses our performance at Sheffield Priory will ever forget it.” Tracing his simple drawing, he said, “It will be, I vow to you right now, the fabulous illusion that finally will be our admittance onto the London stage.”
When he bent to continue working on his sketch, she whispered, “I hope you are right.”
THE CARRIAGE turned past the heavy, dark stone gatehouse that was bigger than most of the buildings in the nearby village. Madeleine had glanced out the window a few times while the hired carriage drove from the train platform and through the twisting streets. As the bulk of the gatehouse cast a shadow over the carriage, she looked up again. Anticipation twisted through her center. She was entering Sheffield Priory. She must be ready.
Passing through the gate, the carriage followed the arrow-straight road leading toward a house set amid glorious gardens. She peeked out at the flowers once, then returned to practicing what she intended to say to Lord Sheffield.
“My lord,” she whispered, even though the sound of the horse’s hooves and the clatter of the wheels would have made it difficult to hear her even if she shouted, “we would be deeply honored to have the chance to present, for your wonder and bemusement, a sample of the many illusions perfected by The Amazing Nightingales. Our work has been lauded the breadth and length of Europe.” She grimaced at the stretching of the truth.
The Amazing Nightingales had spent exactly two nights beyond England’s shores. The ship that was supposed to take them north was sent off-course by a storm, and the captain had sought shelter in a French port. The audiences there had been less than enthusiastic with Roland’s performances, but she did not intend to reveal that.
“I am sure you will be delighted with the entertainment we can offer your guests,” she finished. Would that be the right tone to take with the earl? She never had met anyone with a title higher than vicar or doctor. Once there had been a baron in the audience, but she had not spoken with him, too awed to approach such an important individual.
The carriage slowed to a stop, and her heart beat faster. Her stomach seemed to be jumping up and down inside her. Nothing else she thought about would calm her. The simple fact was that she had only one chance to present the act’s credentials and persuade the earl to allow them to audition for his fabulous festival.
With a steadying breath, Madeleine stepped out of the carriage with the driver’s help. She stared at the grand façade of Sheffield Priory. Even in her dreams, she could not have imagined anything so magnificent. Pale, unweathered stone marked recent renovations designed in an overwrought Gothic style. A broad pointed arch marked the main door. The rest of the front was an overblown copy of a parish church built by a madman. Stained glass was set within tall, mullioned windows. Gables sprang up like weeds and sprouted at every possible angle. Towers and chimneys were like stone blossoms atop them.
“Do you wish me to wait, miss?” asked the thin coachman as he wiped dust from his black coat.
“I should not be more than an hour. Can you wait that long?”
“No longer. I have a fare arriving on the mid-afternoon train.”
“I shall remember that.”
He held out his hand. “In case you forget?”
Madeleine untied the laces on her small bag. Five pence was an outrageous fare for such a short distance, but appearing at Sheffield Priory with road dirt upon her was something she could not do.
The coachman made the coins disappear with a speed that Roland would have admired. He gave her a cheeky grin as he climbed onto his seat. He tilted his cap forward onto his forehead, folded his arms over his chest, and leaned back against his seat.
She wished she could relax. Her knees wobbled like reeds in a high wind as she climbed the trio of steps to the grand door. Maybe she should have had the coachman take her around to the back entrance. Had other entertainers been so audacious as to come to the earl’s front door?
She had no chance to reconsider because the heavy oak door, stained by years of exposure to sun and rain, came open without a creak. A gloved hand swept out of the shadows, motioning to her. She swallowed her fear and entered.
She went four paces into the great round foyer and halted. So many times their wagon had passed grand estates, and she had imagined what the huge houses must be like inside. What she had guessed was pale in comparison to the reality. Her eyes widened as she stared at the exquisite woodwork following the curve of the stairs up to a gallery and triptych windows aglow with colored glass. The center window was a tree with wide-flung branches that reached into the companion windows. To the left was a hare. To the right a stag. She wondered if the design came from Lord Sheffield’s crest.
