The Crafters Book Two (11 page)

“But surely he takes a chance there,” I suggested. “What if the real Mr. Horatio Culpepper should choose this very moment to contact Stepmamma? The wizard would be discovered!”

He drew a deep breath and somberly replied, “Precious few posts run between this world and the next, Miss Delilah. Your American cousin was most thoroughgoing in establishing the safeguards for his plot.”

For the first time in my life I felt a pang for my poor stepmamma. To lose one she held dear, solely because his person provided a convenient key by which the black sorcerer Crafter might invade our home! “He shall pay for this,” I vowed. I offered my hand. “I call upon your honor as an English gentleman, sir. Reveal to me your true identity, and I will do whatever I may to help you and thwart this blackguard.”

He did not take the hand I offered. “Nay, Miss Delilah,” he said. “I will not speak my true name to any living soul until I have redeemed it. Ours is a great and ancient family whose fame remains in shadow until I have expunged this smirch upon us.”

“Then you will need nothing of me,” I said, turning from him in sorrow.

“Can you believe
that?”
In his rage, the spell of disguisement slipped a trifle and I glimpsed the man as he was, magnificent, heroic! “Miss Delilah, our acquaintance has been brief, yet even so I have come to feel that your spirit is somehow—somehow higher, finer, purer than those of ordinary women. Let me entreat but a moiety of the compassion which must of necessity reside within your dear heart for my ill-starred sister’s fate. Lady Athena Kirk-Chatenaire might have accepted the suit of an earl, a marquis, even a duke of the blood royal! Instead her young life and hopes were thrown away, squandered for the sake of the illusory attractions of your American cousin. Now he will attempt the same roguery with you. Mastery of your person brings mastery of your property, and that property needs must include the token he desires. I beg you, for the sake of my lost sister, for the sake of your dear, departed mother, for the sake of all English womanhood,
do not succumb!”

“Never!”
I swore with more fervency than ever stirred my self’s core. In my zeal I was yet able to note that the distracted man had let fall the very information which he sought to hide: his name. Who has not heard of the Dukes of Kirk-Chatenaire? How else explain the intimacy with His Royal Highness the Prince Regent so cavalierly mentioned earlier?

A blush upon his cheeks disclosed that he, too, had realized his error. “Well, Miss Delilah, it seems I must trust your discretion now, being unable to trust my own,” he said. “Is my name ... my honor ... safe with you?”

“Entirely,” I vowed. “Utterly.”

“Brave girl!” he exclaimed, and took the hand so lately declined. Pressing it tenderly, his eyes soft with sentiment, he said, “That is well, for it is the hope of my heart that someday—some happy, happy day when all this is behind us—you may condescend to accept the name which you have so courageously agreed to defend as ... your own.”

Enclosed please find a vial of Mamma’s tansy philtre, darling Caroline. Trust that you shall hear more anon from

Your Friend,

Delilah

* * *

July 1804

My Sweetest, Most Sympathetic Friend Caroline,

Your reply was all that a lonely spirit under siege might wish.

I rejoice to learn that Mamma’s tansy potion yielded such satisfactory results and extend my heartiest felicitations upon the occasion of your engagement to Lord Cranbrooke-Purslaine-Dewberry of the Huntingdonshire Cranbrooke-Purslaine-Dewberrys. Pray convey to his lordship my thanks for granting me the liberty to call him “Dewy.”

I regret I shall not be able to do so. Soon I shall be dead. Be not amazed, dear Caroline, at such devastating news. I am certain that by this time you have gathered that my situation is no longer one of social normalcy. The manner by which you have received this missive ought be clue enough, for it shall not reach you via the common post. Such mundane avenues of communication are closed to me now. Still, you
shall
receive it. Although I am imprisoned, he cannot, he shall not, deprive my assaulted soul of this one means of relieving itself.

When I have done writing, I shall apply those teachings of my dear departed mamma’s (as preserved in her meticulous Greek) which are supposed to effect the transportation of distant objects through the exchange of equivalent masses. The raw materials for such an undertaking lie within easy reach in this, my cell. He has already ransacked the attic study—indeed, it was his first target, the swine—without encountering the prize he seeks. All else he regards as trash, unworthy of his attention. Therefore I shall be free to send this one last piteous missive to you, the companion of my youth, the friend of my bosom.

Should the object of equivalent mass which I must needs transport hither to permit my letter to reach you at Bath prove to be one of your highborn fiancé’s
billets-doux,
I promise on my honor not to read it.

O Caroline, and what matter if I should read it? What harm would it do? The knowledge I might glean there from would perforce go down into the grave with me. He has been searching the house, top to bottom, for hours. He has not yet found the accursed
token
which he so passionately desires. Passionately! Yes, there is passion in the man, but not of the tender sort reserved for Love’s gentle service. It is for Power alone his heart beats faster—the Power of command over Death itself and for that Power’s sake he is willing to wager the price of his immortal soul!

What is my life to him? A mite, a speck, a fly to be obliterated at a blow! I am no longer his tool, his toy, his foolish puppet. I have served my purpose, to my shame. He cares naught for human life, else why do I now share this attic chamber with a corpse?

Steel yourself, Caroline! The chill which crept over our limbs as we read of such ghastly interludes as this in Mrs. Radcliffe’s volumes was but a tame and homely
frisson
compared to the sensation of cold dread which invades me now. I write so that I need not spare a thought to the poor dead man in the corner. Break, heart ! We shall not see his like on earth again. He perished in my defense, defying the monster to the last. Ah, nobility! For it is solely in the vale of direst peril that we learn the true meaning of that empty word, and it is only too late that we discover where our untutored hearts most sincerely and worthily ought bestow their freight of Love.

Chivalry, thy name is Pericles Crafter!

* * *

Caroline, if I live and Providence grants that we meet again soon, I will thank you to kick me once, firmly, where it may do me some good. I am a goose. Only a goose would mistake unconsciousness for death. Only a greater goose would so lose all proper sense of comportment that she fling herself joyously upon the gentleman mentioned when the signs of life return to him. Only the greatest goose in all the world would so far forget herself that she leave her personal correspondence unguarded so that the gentleman may read it and discover those delicate revelations of affection never intended for his eyes.

Ah, welladay, there is no mending some things. And so we are to be married. If we live.

My mind’s eye forms a picture of your expression, and it is not a flattering one. Do not gape so, sweet erstwhile companion, at these words. I was duped, misled, made a pawn by the man I trusted, whose tale of woe, witchcraft, and whimsical sisters I too readily believed. He is no more the Duke of Kirk-Chatenaire than he is Horatio Culpepper! He is not witchcraft’s victim, but its master! The face and form he claimed were fixed upon him by my darling Pericles’ sorceries were in truth self-inflicted, a clumsy disguise procured by his substandard enchantments whose slippage I did on occasion espy. Had I but known!

But how could I know? Oh, the plausible scoundrel! I had no sooner dispatched my last message to you, my precious friend, than he was at my side, urging me to initiate the scheme we had compounded between us for the purpose of overcoming the supposed “Wizard Crafter.” I was to lure poor, unwitting Pericles into the front parlor, on the pretense of showing him some family relics.

“I leave it to you to select the objects themselves,” the so-called Duke mewed in my ear. “But I caution you to make certain that they are truly things which once belonged to your ancestor Thomas. These Crafters have a nose for the authentic.”

“I cannot include the token he seeks,” I replied. “The little wooden skeleton. For one thing, I have never seen it beneath this roof, and for another, it would be unwise to lay such an item before our enemy unless we have a plan for his immediate overthrow.”

“Unwise, most unwise to be sure,” the glib wretch assured me. “This is but bait, my adored Delilah, the lure to divert his attention while you slip
this
into his tea.” He urged a small gray chamois bag into my palm. On loosing the yellow drawstring I found it to contain a measure of acrid brown powder.

“But if you poison him, how shall you ever free your sister?” I queried.

“It is no poison, but a drug whose virtues subvert the mind and subdue the will of whosoever ingests it. I have acquired it only at great personal risk, but I would dare more for dear Athena’s sake ... and your own. The evil Wizard Crafter is too sly to give me the chance to apply this ...
remedy—ha,
ha!—myself, but he has no cause to suspect you and every reason to desire sight of old Thomas Crafter’s keepsakes. Once he has downed the brew and its effects take hold, I may in safety command him to perform the requisite rites to release Athena and restore me. Only then shall I give the blackguard his just reward, a length of good, clean Sheffield steel through the marrow of his rotten heart!”

Sweet friend, as I glance up from these words and see my dearest Pericles riffling through book after book for some means to our salvation, I shudder to recall how it was less than an hour ago I thrilled to hear the vile pseudo-Duke swear to slay him. Heedless girl that I was!

I took the pouch and gave my word that the drug would find its way into the tea, the tea into Pericles. To protect it, I took the precaution of wrapping the pouch itself in the bizarre black handkerchief which that peculiar and most mysterious gentleman had given me upon the horrid day of Mamma’s death. (I
have
written to you of him, have I not? As he never called upon us again thereafter, I wonder what might have become of him.) Thus guaranteed against spillage, the pouch was concealed in my bosom.

As the “Duke” had predicted, my unsuspecting darling responded to my invitation with alacrity. When he entered the parlor, he was bewildered to find me there alone,
sans
chaperone. A ready lie, fed me by the “Duke,” informed him that Stepmamma and Papa had been called from home unexpectedly. The souvenirs of Great-grandpapa Thomas lay temptingly arrayed upon the table, hard by the tea things. I told him I was willing to postpone our interview, should he feel ill at ease without a duenna, but that for my part I saw no harm in entrusting my honor to his own. His dark violet eyes were alight—with hunger for the wretched
token’s
power, I surmised. Ah, how wrong I was!

“I confess, ma’am,” he said, seating himself beside me on the divan, “I find these circumstances more than wonderful. Your honor’s safe with me. Heaven witness, there ain’t a single hair of your head I’d see come to harm.”

“Tea, sir?” I asked brightly, interposing a brimming cup.

My heart fluttered. Pericles is the finest of gentlemen, the handsomest example of Nature’s handiwork. What woman in her right mind would not find herself thrilled to hear such words of devotion laid at her feet? Alas, that worm of a
soi-disant
Duke had envenomed my ear against accepting Pericles’ tribute at face value. My heart perceived the truth, my mind insisted it must all perforce be falsehood. Oh, naughty mind!

I attempted to attract his attention to the family relics presently bestrewing the tea table. “Will it please you to examine these, Mr. Factor?” I offered, still using the name by which he was commonly known beneath our roof. “You may handle any you like while I prepare your dish of tea to your taste. Sugar, I believe? And a spot of milk?” It was to be my chance to introduce the drug.

Oh, happiest chance not taken! His eyes still upon me, he picked up the mementos of Great-grandpapa Thomas one by one in quick succession, with all the polite disinterest of one compelled to view a friend’s butterfly collection. He was done with them too soon to permit me to bring forth the chamois bag, unwrap it from the enrobing black handkerchief, and tip the brown powder into his cup. All too soon—as then I thought his tender eyes were fixed upon me again.

“Very interesting,” he said, giving me to know it was not.

“Oh, sir!” I protested. “Surely you have not examined these objects thoroughly at all. Why, look. Here among them is a box which might contain ... some relic of more than passing fascination for you. I have heard that my great-grandpapa Thomas enjoyed wood carving.”
There,
I thought, with some smugness.
That should draw his notice from me.

I was mistaken. “I don’t care a fig for your great-grandpap, Miss Delilah,” he said somewhat heatedly. “Beggin’ your pardon, but we’re plainspoke folks back home. All this truck’s nothin’ to me. What I come here to say—to say to you—to say—”

Whatever he had come to say, he did not say it. Rather a most disconcerting change came over him. His skin paled. A light dew garlanded his noble brow. He held a hand to his heart and swayed as if taken with the vapors. And through all this access of giddiness, I saw him grit his teeth, clench his eyes tightly shut, and I heard him mutter, “The devil! Oh, the ring-tailed devil! His power’s still on me, bridling my tongue, but I
will
speak! My heart’ll just about bust itself clean open if I don’t fight off that potion for your sake and have my say.”

I believed him to be speaking of his demonic master and was much troubled. What if he should summon up Beelzebub himself to aid him in all sorts of mischief? To distract him from this suspected spellcasting, I hurriedly seized the very box which I have mentioned and opened it. “Oh, look!” I cried desperately, holding the contents up before his eyes. “What a common-looking stone. Whyever would Great-grandpapa Thomas take such pains to house it in so fine a casket? The box is lined with best Spanish velvet, yet this looks for all the world like an ordinary garden pebble. Did you ever see—?”