The Wizard of London (40 page)

He
also took them to a fox den, and let them play with the cubs while mother
watched benignly, though he warned them after, when he was taking them home,
that they must never try such things when he was not about. “I have the
speech with the wild things,” he said. “And they know me. They will
abide much from me that they will never tolerate elsewise.”

“Well,
of course!” Sarah replied, matter-of-factly.

It
was a good thing he was along; he showed them a better way of scrambling up to
their window. “I mind me,” he said reminiscently, peering in
through the open casement, “when there was a bright-eyed lass a living
here had a farmer’s lad all head-tumbled and heart-sore, because he
thought she’d set her cap on the steward’s son. But when the banns
were posted, it was the farmer lad who won the day. Of course,” he said,
with a wink, “it might be that
I
had a hand in that.”

“With
the little purple flower?” Sarah replied archly, referring back to the
Shakespeare play.

“Now
that would be telling, and I never tell.”

And
he was gone in an instant, and they got back into their nightdresses and
crawled into bed to fall asleep the moment they got under the covers.

And in the morning,
they might have thought it was all a dream—except that when Sarah stuck
her hand into the pocket of her pinafore, she pulled out, much to her surprise,
an owl feather.

THE strange Spirit
had rattled David as nothing else had in many, many years. He longed for
someone to discuss the incident with, but Cordelia was in London, and he did
not think there were any other Masters living near this place.

Which
left only Isabelle. After all, she was no expert on these things. He
didn’t even know if she could see the Elementals and nature spirits.

But
on the other hand, there was only one name for that terror that had overcome
him. Panic—named for the Great God Pan…

Surely,
that had not been—surely not. It had worn the guise of a mere boy, not
the Great Goat-footed One. Why would the Sylvan Faun do such a thing?

For
that matter, what would he be doing in England? This was not his place, he
belonged in Greece!

And
yet, David had seen with his own eyes lesser Fauns in England, little boyish
earth spirits that haunted the gardens of Earth Masters. They had come, so why
not Pan?

But
why should it be so?

Perhaps
Isabelle was no Elemental Master, but she did know of the Elementals, and other
such creatures, too. Perhaps she had even seen this one herself…

A
dozen times David made up his mind to ride over to talk to Isabelle, and a
dozen times found an excuse not to, until the day after his encounter when he
was very nearly run to earth by a lady determined to have him for her daughter,
to the point where he seized on any reason to go riding alone again.

“My
dear woman,” he said insincerely, “I would be charmed to speak with
you, but I have an appointment to pay a call at Highleigh Court.”

Mrs.Venhill
stared at him. “A call?” she repeated. “I was not aware that
you had any acquaintances in this part of the county.” Her mouth
tightened. She knew exactly what he was doing. But he had no intention of
giving her a way to disprove his statement.

“I
do not,” he said calmly. “But an acquaintance of mine, a
Mrs.Isabelle Harton, is a guest there. I have not seen her in many years, and
she was quite eager to renew her acquaintance with me.”

That
last was the only lie; the rest was absolute truth, and carried the lie like
froth on the top of a wave. And since he did not mention a
Mister
Harton, this would, he hoped, lead her to think that Isabelle’s husband
was no more, and she was a young, lonely, and presumably attractive widow.

And
in a case such as this, an acquaintance out of one’s youth was going to
trump just about any cards a matchmaking mama could lay out. She was beaten,
and she knew it. She retired gracefully from the battle lines, murmuring,
“Ah! Well, of course you must go, it would be insufferably rude if you
did not!”

Of
course, now he had done it; he had to go, or at least appear to go, or
Mrs.Vennhill would be very well aware that he had been putting her off. Do that
too many times and one found one’s invitations no longer extended or
answered.

So
he found himself on horseback again, riding off into a day that threatened
rain. Not the cleverest idea he could ever have had, but it was too late now.

And
he might just as well follow through with the putative visit.

After
all, if it
did
rain, he would have to have shelter somewhere until it
passed, and as a visitor he could at least claim that much even if the visit
proved to be awkward.

He
had no doubt that although he was not expected, he would be received with the
proper respect, and so he was. The horse was taken around to the stables, and
he was shown to the library, that being a proper and reasonable place for a
gentleman to amuse himself when the lady he has come to see might be busy.

He
did amuse himself by looking through some of the titles of the books there, and
as he had half expected, a good number of them were occult or esoteric in
nature. So the owner of the house
was
in Isabelle Harton’s
circle of acquaintances, or at least, presumably knew many of the same
practitioners of psychical magic that she did.

He
took one down and began to leaf through it, but it was heavy going, and he was
having a difficult time untangling the sense of it, when light footfalls
heralded the arrival of a newcomer, and he looked up to see Isabelle stepping
into the room. She walked briskly over to him, and boldly tilted the book up to
read the spine.

“Blithering
idiot,” she said, without preamble, and waved at the shelves. “Our
host collects any sort of occult writing, but if you examine the shelves
carefully and know some of the authors, you will soon determine that he has
grouped his books according to their usefulness, or lack thereof.” The
half-smile she produced had more than a hint of irony in it; it was the smile
of a knowing, worldly-wise woman, not the pretentious irony of a girl.
“His categories—and I apologize in advance—are Useful,
Moderately Useful, Nothing of Note, Idiot, and Blithering Idiot. I fear that
the Blithering Idiots number twice as much as all the rest combined, but he
takes some amusement in having them about. I am told, though I have not
actually attended such a function myself, that one of the entertainments for
his close circle of friends is to take down a book from those shelves and read
it aloud as portentously as possible without cracking a smile or laughing.”

He
looked from the book to Isabelle and back, and felt something constrict in his
chest. The woman of the photo was, in person, so much more.

The
Isabelle he had known had been quiet, a little shy, diffident. Her attractive
qualities had been shaded by that diffidence. If you knew how to look at her,
she was quite pretty, and he had taken a certain amount of pleasure in knowing
that nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand would never see her
true beauty. Unlike Cordelia, of course, who was so strikingly handsome that
even a dolt knew how attractive she was.

The
woman that Isabelle had become was like Cordelia in that she left the
impression that she was completely self-confident. It probably did not matter
to her that the frock she wore was a trifle out of date, nor that it had never
been in high mode. She wore it with an air that made what she wore irrelevant.

And
there was beauty there, for those with eyes to see it. She had never been
beautiful before, but she was now.

It
was not the sort of beauty that would make her into a subject for photographic
postcards, or cause artists to beg her to pose for them. But it was a beauty
that would outlast those whose features made them into public icons.

It
was the sort of beauty that would look good on the arm of a public official,
and presiding at his dinner table. And the confidence she exuded would make her
at home at any gathering of Elemental Masters though she did not share their
gifts.

This
could have been his—and he had thrown it away.

“You
are looking well,” he said, making his words formal, a barrier between
them.

She
inclined her head, graciously, with no sign that she shared the emotional
turmoil that racked him. “And you, though I confess that when your card
came in, I was rather nonplussed. We attempted to have an interview with you
about the threat to my two pupils a few months ago, in which a foreign
Elemental Master was involved. Is this the cause of your visit?”

Pupils?
What pupils? An Elemental Master attacking children?

Belatedly,
he recalled the business in Berkeley Square, and suppressed irritation. This
was the last thing in the world he wanted to talk about. “I thought that
matter had been adequately closed,” he replied.

“Not
in my opinion.” The inflection was of mild rebuke. “But then, I am
responsible for them, and you are not. I believe steps have been taken to
ensure their safety that do not require the approval of the Master of the Hunt,
nor the Wizard of London.”

He
felt himself flushing with embarrassment. Something about the way she said
those two titles—especially the latter—made them sound overblown,
like something a child would give himself in a game of “I Conquer The
Castle.” But he endeavored to sound casually dismissive. “Is that
what others are calling me, the ‘Wizard of London’? There is no
accounting for gossip even among the Elemental Mages.” He shrugged.
“As for Master of the Hunt, that title and the duties that go with it
have nothing to do with what others outside the Master’s Circle do or do
not do. No one needs ask me permission for anything one gets from another
Elemental Mage so long as it does not interfere with their hunt duties. If they
choose to squander their power, they may do so in whatever fashion they
like.”

It
was an insult, he realized that a moment later. But she didn’t even blink
an eye in reaction. The insult simply slid past her, not as if she did not
understand she had been insulted, but as if it simply did not matter to her.

But
it was very clear that she was going to extract whatever guilt she could from
him before she let him go. “If the safety of two helpless little girls
has not brought you here,” she said, “then to what do I owe the
pleasure of this call?”

And
now he found himself at a loss for words. There were many things he could say,
and none of them were entirely the truth. Would she sense that? He had to
wonder about that. Just what were her psychical abilities?

“I
am visiting Mansell Hall,” he prevaricated, doing the only thing he
could, which was to set it aside. “I understood that you were visiting
here, and since it had been many years since we parted, I wished to pay a
courtesy call.”

The
moment the words were out of his mouth he could have hit himself. Of all the
things to say, this was, perhaps the one with the least truth in it. And she
would certainly sense that.

“Oh?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I was not aware that our social stations were
compatible enough for a courtesy call.”

Now
there, at last, she showed her claws. Not that he didn’t deserve it—

But
the fact that he deserved it made him feel resentful. She was not going to get
the better of him in this situation.

“Social
graces are never misplaced,” he replied, in a swift parry, “And I
have paid a call on Mr.Harton at the school already.”

But
she riposted just as quickly and to better effect. “In that case, would
courtesy not have dictated that you pay the call when my husband was also in
residence, and not when I was here alone? Especially as you have already made
his acquaintance?”

Hit
and hit again. She was right. This was—despite that there were servants
all around in this place, not to mention the teachers and pupils of her
school—ever so slightly improper
as
a courtesy call.
“Alone” she was, in that her husband was in London and presumably
not expected here for several days. Had he come to see the schoolmistress about
her pupils, it would have been one thing; that would have been proper and
reasonable, and as he was the one of more social importance, the call would
have been appropriately made at his convenience, not hers. Had he really come
to see an old friend, it would have been another case, for long friendships
dictated a relaxation of formal manners, and their differing social stature
would not have mattered, nor would it have mattered that Frederick Harton was
not present. Had he come to see the Hartons socially as a couple, that, too,
would have been appropriate.

But
to come here when her husband was absent and refer to it as a “social
call” implied something else. That he wanted to renew more than just
“the acquaintance,” and not as one of “friendship.”

And
the damnable thing was, now that he had seen her, he realized that there had
been something of that sort in the back of his mind, a thought that though she
was married to someone else, it might merely be a marriage of convenience on
her part. One of the reasons why he had never been able to warm up to any of
the young women of his circle was that none of them had struck that particular
spark within him that Isabelle had.

And
none of them had aroused much interest in him either. There just had been
nothing there, no moment of connection. Beneath young Isabelle’s
diffidence had been the banked fires of passion, and the promise that the man
who could arouse them would have a precious gift indeed.

Beneath
the mature Isabelle Harton’s serene competence, those fires of passion
blazed for those who could read such things. The promise had more than been
fulfilled, and it was the foundation for her attractiveness.