A Certain Magic (8 page)

Alice gave a gurgle of laughter. “What a delightful
on dit
for the
ton
that would be,” she said. “Do make sure you are in the middle of someone’s ballroom when you do it, Piers.”

He chuckled and lounged back in his chair, watching her stitch her embroidery. He yawned again.

“What do you think of Miss Borden?” he asked.

“She is very pretty,” she said, “and very alluring, I believe, despite her shyness. Certainly she attracted a great deal of attention this evening. I do not believe she missed a single set, except for the waltzes, of course.”

“Do you think I should marry her?” he asked.

“Piers.” She looked at him imploringly. “No!”

“Because I am too old for her?” he asked. “I am not quite decrepit, Allie. I am still capable of a number of activities associated with youth.” He grinned at her bowed head. “I love making you blush.”

“Your age has nothing to do with it,” she said. “If you loved the girl and she loved you, I would urge you to the marriage. But then, if that were so, you would not be asking my opinion at all.”

“Perhaps I could love her, too.” he said. “She is pretty enough, as you say, Allie. And she has other charms. And she is very biddable.”

“Oh, Piers,” she said, resting her right hand on her work and looking up at him. “Does love mean no more to you than that?”

“Well,” he said, smiling wickedly at her, “if I am to spend the rest of my life looking at a woman and lying next to her at night, her appearance is of some significance.”

“But that is not love,” she said, exasperated. She picked up her needle again and stitched on.

“What is, then?” he said. “Tell me, Allie.”

“It is physical attraction, of course,” she said. “But there is so very much more than that, Piers. If it were only beauty, what would happen when the couple grew old? There has to be a mutual respect and liking, a mutuality of mind, a companionship, a friendship.”

“And that is it? That is all?” he asked, smiling at the top of her head.

“And something else,” she said quietly. “Something in addition to all those things. Something that words cannot express. A certain magic.” She spoke more firmly. “And above all, there has to be a determination from the start to make the other happy, to put the other’s comfort and joy before one’s own.”

“Allie,” he said fondly, “all the world would be bachelor or spinster if your definition held. I might be looking forever and never find a bride. I might never breed those heirs of mine.”

She said nothing, but stitched on. He finished drinking his chocolate and put his head back against the cushions of the chair. He closed his eyes.

“What I should do,” he said, “is marry you, Allie. Don’t you think that would be a good idea?”

“Gracious!” she said, her hand stranded in midair. “No, Piers!”

But he was grinning at her, his head turned sideways on the cushion. “Have I outraged you?” he said. “I’m sorry, Allie. I was just teasing. I wouldn’t insult you by making you an offer.”

“Insult me?” She frowned. 

“I would be a poor bargain, wouldn’t I?” he said. “A fellow like me. After Web. Do you find living without him very hard, Allie?”

She threaded her needle through her work and folded it neatly and deliberately. “No,” she said. “I cannot dwell on the past, Piers. It would be to deny the wonder of life. I was fortunate to have him for nine years. I have no regrets about those years. I did my best to make him contented, and he devoted his life to my happiness. Even Nicholas I would not erase from my life, despite all the pain of losing him. But all the grieving and pining and moping in the world will not bring either of them back. I have to live on. I have to find happiness with what is left. And I am well blessed. I do not find living difficult.”

The smile remained only in his eyes. “You and Web had the love you described, didn’t you?” he said.

She drew circles on her palm. After a while she nodded.

“And that leaves me,” he said. “I am taking Miss Borden driving tomorrow afternoon, you know. Or I suppose I mean this afternoon. Do you think that after last night at the theater, tonight at the ball, and tomorrow afternoon in the park, old Bosley will be having the banns read?”

“I do not know Mr. Bosley,” she said, smiling at him. “But I think perhaps he will wait for a more formal offer. Do have a care, though, Piers, unless you have definitely decided that Miss Borden is the girl you wish to make your bride.”

“I really did not intend to single her out for more attention within the next week,” he said. “But she told me over supper that all the other young bucks who surrounded her this evening frightened her. She was afraid that they were going to be calling on her uncle and inviting her out. She seemed truly terrified at the prospect and looked very grateful when I suggested forestalling them by calling early on her uncle myself and offering to take her driving. She actually looked full at me for a whole second. I think she must see me as a father figure, don’t you, Allie?”

She laughed. “A father figure? You?” she said. “I shall say to you what you said to me awhile ago, Piers. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

“That bad, eh?” he said ruefully. “Do you think your servants are tossing and turning in their beds, afraid for your virtue, Allie?”

“I would not be at all surprised,” she said. “This is highly improper, you know.”

“But you don’t really mind, do you?” he asked, getting to his feet. “It’s just me. You know you are perfectly safe with me, don’t you, Allie?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “But it is quite scandalously late. After two o’clock. Good night, Piers.”

“Good night, Allie,” he said, setting his hands at her waist. “Thank you for letting me come in. You have made me feel as you and Web never failed to do—relaxed and comfortable. I shall walk home and sleep the rest of the night away, I am sure of it.”

She smiled at him as he lowered his head and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

***

Bruce was in the blackest of moods when Alice arrived at Portman Square the following morning. The physician had been summoned and had given the incredible verdict that Phoebe had indeed succumbed to a case of the measles. She was in bed with a high fever, a sore throat, and a headache.

“It is ridiculous,” Bruce said. “A woman of forty does not have the measles.” He sounded aggrieved, as if he suspected the doctor of having deliberately given a false diagnosis.

“But clearly it is possible,” Alice said calmly. “Poor Phoebe. She must be feeling wretched.”

“What about my feelings?” the fond husband replied. “There are the children not half well yet and needing to be taken about for air. And there is Jarvis out until all hours of the night or morning, doubtless making a begger of me at the tailor’s and at the gaming tables. And there is Amanda. How am I to go on without Phoebe?”

Alice did not point out that perhaps White’s and Brooks’ and any other club her brother frequented could probably survive without his constant presence for the next week or so.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Bruce,” she said. “I shall nurse Phoebe, and Jarvis shall be given the task of taking the children about during the daytime. It will give him something to do, and they will be delighted to have the company of their elder brother. As for Amanda, I am sure a week of somewhat fewer social activities will not harm her.”

“Phoebe will never recover,” he said, “She is burning with fever and worrying over Amanda.” 

Alice sighed. She knew quite perfectly what her brother was going to say next.

“There is no choice in the matter,” he said. “You will have to take Amanda about, Alice. You are a widow, after all, even if you are rather young. That makes you respectable.”

Alice did not point out that she had been hoping to return to Bath within the week. She did not mention the fact that she had no wish to attend any other social function in London. What was the point? She was a widow and as such could not possibly have anything else of value to do with her life but serve the needs of her brother and his family.

“For a couple of days, then,” she said. “Perhaps we will be able to make arrangements with the family of one of Amanda’s friends to take her about after that.” 

“I would not dream of inconveniencing anyone outside my own family,” Bruce said. “I cannot imagine what would make you suggest such a thing, Alice. All I am asking you to do is dress up and enjoy yourself. Anyone would think I was begging you to make some great sacrifice.”

“I shall look in on Phoebe,” Alice said, “and then find Amanda to discover what is planned for today.” It seemed that Amanda had a walk in the park planned for the afternoon with a friend whose mama was unable to accompany them. In the evening there was to be a private concert at the home of Lady Wingham. At least, Alice decided, she would get air and exercise and doubtless hear some good music. At least there would be no dancing that day.

And at least she was unlikely to catch more than a glimpse of Piers as he drove Miss Borden in the park. She very much doubted that he would be at the concert. Although he had liked to hear her play the pianoforte at Chandlos, he had always professed a horror of vocal music.

Piers had asked her if she found life hard without Web. She had answered truthfully. For though it had been dreadfully hard at first, and though she still found herself storing up some anecdote to tell him or planning to consult him with some problem or decision, she had faced reality after the first few months with a determination not to crumble or draw other people’s pity.

It had been a dreadful wrench to have to leave Chandlos, of course. Dreadful to leave the neighborhood where she had always lived and which she had always loved. And yet she had settled to life in Bath with surprising ease and contentment. She loved the city and its activities, and she had formed a pleasing circle of friends and acquaintances. Life was by no means exciting there, but it was very bearable.

And now that had all been upset, or threatened to be upset. She was in London, which she had always found exciting, though Web had not liked to spend much time there. And she had been to a London theater and found it marvelously fascinating and to a London ball and felt like a girl again. 

She wanted to stay. She wanted to be a part of it all. And perhaps she would have considered herself wonderfully blessed by circumstances if that were all. For now, whether she liked it or not, she was being forced into the very heart of high society for a few days.

But that was not all. For she was being enticed again by a very old dream, one so old that she had thought it quite incapable of being revived. She had thought it could never bring her pain again.

But it was bringing her pain. And the need to dissemble after all these years of doing so just seemed too much of an effort now.

For several days she would be forced to watch him with younger girls, smiling at them, charming them, choosing which one he would make his bride. And discussing his choice with her and asking her opinion.

And for days she must be his friend, smiling at him and listening to him, laughing at his careless wit, accepting attentions which should be improper but which were not so because they were such very old friends and she knew she had nothing to fear from him. She must accept such brotherly gestures as hands at her waist and kisses on her cheek.

Perhaps she must even waltz with him again and feel the warmth of his closeness and smell the distinctiveness of his cologne.

And when he asked her opinion of his chosen bride, she must try to dissuade him from choosing a girl who could bring him only restlessness and boredom and ultimate unhappiness. And if by chance he chose someone who would be suited to him, she must smile her encouragement.

She must never look into his eyes, her own unmasked, and say, “Choose me, Piers. Choose me!”

Perhaps she could. Perhaps she still had enough youth and beauty. And certainly she had more social significance than when she had been merely Alice Carpenter, the rector’s daughter. But she would not. For she had far too much to lose.

She had a friendship to lose that was more dear to her than anything else in her life. A friendship that was agony to continue but that would be a living death to lose.

At the age of fifteen she had begun to train herself to cultivate a friendship where she had longed to entice love. For fourteen years she had held that love only in the deepest, most secret recesses of her being and been his friend with the rest of herself.

He had never known. Web had never suspected. And years before she had given up feeling guilty or trying in vain to deny her feelings. For there is no guilt in harboring a forbidden love unless that love sullies or diminishes the affection one should show to a lawful partner.

Web had never suffered from her love for his best friend. Perhaps she had cared for him all the better for having to make her love for him a conscious thing. And she had loved Web. Very, very dearly. Her love for him had had all those ingredients she had listed to Piers the night before. All except one—that last, nameless something that she had only ever felt for Piers himself. 

She would die if she lost his friendship, she felt. And yet she longed and longed to be able to flee that friendship in order to return to the dull haven of Bath.

She saw Mary and Richard on their way for a short drive in the barouche with Jarvis after luncheon and returned home to Cavendish Square in order to change into something more appropriate for a walk in the park.

***

Mr. Bosley was not at home when Mr. Westhaven arrived late in the afternoon to take Cassandra driving, to the latter gentleman’s disappointment. He had looked forward to being entertained once more with an account of the man’s wealth, his manner of acquiring it, and his hopes of disposing of it.

However, Mr. Bosley had had a talk with his niece before leaving for an afternoon of business in the city.

“So, Cassie,” he had said with a rumbling laugh, “you had to sleep the morning away, did you, because you were dancing with all the young dandies all night.”

“Everyone was most obliging, Uncle,”  she said.