The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (31 page)

But now…She lifted a hand to her mouth but could not contain her smile. Now there was no
reason
to refuse hope any longer. Her logic had not been wrong; it
was
impossible. All the same, he was here; he had come. And now that a joy she had previously forbidden from her mind and heart was at last allowed to enter, it could only expand rapidly and quickly filled her. Speech was quite beyond her, but it felt as if a light streamed outward from her, radiating all around.

“Wonderful,” she managed to murmur at last. And it was so. This would make her life—all of their lives—wonderful indeed.

There was another cry from below. Ivy descended the stairs, moving with deliberation despite the frantic wavings of her mother’s hand. She regretted the plain dress she had put on that day, and she had done nothing with her hair, but there was no use in worrying about that now. If all the obstacles of position and wealth could not deter him, she could not imagine a plain frock would. She began to open the door, but Mrs. Lockwell held her back.

“This is a moment you will remember as long as you live, Ivy. You are a very lucky girl.” She smiled, smoothing Ivy’s hair with a touch. “And a very pretty one. No wonder he is so attached to you. Now go.” She opened the door, and when Lily started to follow, Mrs. Lockwell shooed her inside. “Back in with you, Liliauda. Go be a bother to your other sister. This is something Ivoleyn can do only by herself. Don’t give me that frown—I said go!”

Then the door shut, and Ivy stood alone on the front step. Her pulse fluttered in her throat. She could hardly draw a breath. All those thoughts, all those feelings so long held in check by sense, now given their freedom, welled up. Her eyes strained to behold him. She wanted nothing but to be near him. Yes, she would say when he asked her; with all her heart, yes. She gripped the railing as the driver came round and opened the door of the four-in-hand.

A woman stepped out.

Ivy blinked the sun-dazzle from her eyes. So unexpected was the sight that she could hardly comprehend it. But, no, she was not mistaken; for there was Mrs. Baydon passing through the gate and walking up to the steps, looking smart in blue silk. She reached the steps and greeted Ivy. The words were polite, but even in her confusion Ivy could not help but notice that they were spoken coolly; she did not reach for Ivy’s hand.

Ivy willed herself not to look past Mrs. Baydon toward the carriage, to search for the one she craved to see but who was not there. Instead, she gave Mrs. Baydon her full attention as well as a greeting that was every bit as welcoming as the other woman’s had been distant. At this, Mrs. Baydon’s cheeks colored. Ivy asked if she would come in, but Mrs. Baydon asked if they might sit in the garden instead.

“It is so pretty here. There is not a garden along the Promenade that blooms as wonderfully as your little yard here does. And there is that inviting bench under the wisteria. May we sit there?”

They went to the bench and sat. For a minute or more they did not speak. The wind made whispers in the ceiling of leaves above them.

“You have perhaps been given the wrong idea, Miss Lockwell,” Mrs. Baydon said at last. The words were stiff and practiced.

Ivy shook her head. “The wrong idea, Mrs. Baydon? About what?”

“It is not
his
fault,” she went on. “I do not blame him. Nor do I blame you, Miss Lockwell. You can hardly be faulted for wishing to better yourself. Rather, I blame myself and my husband’s aunt. We went too far in welcoming you into our circle, I think. We thought only of ourselves, of our own amusement, and gave no thought to how it must seem to
him
as well as to
you
—how it must appear as if some form of approval had been granted, some degree of favor, when in fact none was intentioned or even possible.”

Ivy did not know what to make of these words; she was at a loss. “Lady Marsdel’s kindness in allowing me to stay at her home is something for which I will always be grateful. However, I can think of no special favor I sought while I was there. Indeed, it was always my wish to be as out of the way, to be as little trouble to anyone, as possible. If there is some particular thing I did that made it seem I desired such attention or approval as you’ve mentioned, I hope you will let me know it so I can make an apology. For I confess, I cannot remember any such occasion myself.”

Mrs. Baydon’s expression softened, and now she looked at Ivy. “Please forgive me, Miss Lockwell. In your absence I was persuaded to…that is, I am ashamed to say I allowed myself to believe something unkind about you. Only now that I am here with you and see you once again, I know it was awful of me. Of course you went out of your way to have as little effect as possible upon my aunt’s house. Even so, be assured that you did have an effect—a most profound effect—upon our household and acquaintances.

“Nor was
he
the only one. We were all of us taken with you. Your charms are many and were much in evidence during your stay at my aunt’s. So you cannot think it so wrong of us, so terribly absurd, that we thought it was intentional on your part, that you wished to make yourself as agreeable to all of us as possible and that you had designs on him. Of course, a connection between two of such disparate positions can only be unthinkable. I felt it was my duty to tell my aunt, and she wrote to his father at once.”

The garden air went cold, or at least so it felt to Ivy. It took her a long moment to find the ability to speak. “I am all astonishment, Mrs. Baydon. I have been accused of something that I am sure I have never done. Who is this you speak of? Upon whom did you think I had designs?”

“Why, Mr. Rafferdy, of course,” Mrs. Baydon said with a puzzled look. “You mean to say you did not—you
do
not—seek to marry him?”

This was too much. To have restrained herself from engaging in any act, even any thought, that might have been deemed the least infraction against propriety, only to be accused of such a great crime—it was too awful to suffer. “I assure you, I have never sought after such a thing in any way! And if there was ever any sort of intention on his part, it was never something I looked for or encouraged. And I cannot imagine there
is
any such intention on his part. He considers me an acquaintance, a friend perhaps, nothing more.”

“I believe in that you might be mistaken, Miss Lockwell, or at least might once have been. But you mean to tell me he has never spoken to you of a proposal?”

“Never!” she said, and after that she could speak no further. Her voice fled her.

However, Mrs. Baydon brightened and took her hands. “I am relieved, Miss Lockwell. I am so relieved. Not only for
him,
but for myself. Of course such a thing would never have occurred to our dear, sensible Miss Lockwell. How could I have thought otherwise? And it was in no way Miss Everaud’s fault. She has never met you; she cannot know your goodness as we do. But for the rest of us—it was awful of us to believe as we did. We deserve in every way to be chastised for such foolish thoughts as we engaged in.

“But more importantly, I am relieved for
you
. I should have hated for you to have to suffer a disappointment. Yet now that I know the truth—that you never had such thoughts for him—I am assured you will be as happy as I am to hear the news that I came here to tell you today.”

“News?” Ivy said, certain she was beyond any further astonishment. “What news, Mrs. Baydon?”

She squeezed Ivy’s hands. “News of the grandest sort. Perhaps you remember me discussing my friend Miss Everaud? If so, then you know how dear she is to me, just as you know how much affection I have for our Mr. Rafferdy. How could I not find joy in something that gives happiness to two for whom I care so much? And he could not possibly do better. Not only is Miss Everaud the most beautiful thing you will ever see, she is the daughter of one of the finest families. It is an excellent match, I am sure you will agree.”

The heavy perfume of the wisteria blossoms dulled Ivy’s mind. “Match?” she said. “What match do you speak of?”

“Why, Mr. Rafferdy’s, of course,” Mrs. Baydon said, laughing. “And I know you will rejoice in it even as I do. He and Miss Everaud are engaged. It is all done and arranged. They are to be married in two months’ time!”

I
VY HARDLY REMEMBERED saying farewell to Mrs. Baydon or going into the house. She found herself in the front hall, the door shutting behind her. Her mind could hold on to no thought other than a single one.

Married! Mr. Rafferdy was to be married.

She could not be shocked. A little bit, perhaps. It was hard to believe he was ready to be settled in such a manner. But given his age, and the importance of his family and that of his betrothed, it was not truly surprising. A match would have been wanted on all sides.

“I will be happy for him,” she said aloud. She would hope Miss Everaud was half so pretty as Mrs. Baydon said, and half so sweet. She had no doubt she was every bit as rich. She should suit Mr. Rafferdy well—very well indeed. Yes, she
would
be happy for him.

A sob came out of her, and her cheeks were wet with tears.

There came the sound of shuffling steps. Wilbern was coming into the hall. Wiping her cheeks, Ivy dashed up the stairs. Lily and Rose were in the parlor, but Lily was pounding away upon the pianoforte, and the music did not halt as Ivy ran past the door.

She did not stop on the third floor, afraid Mrs. Lockwell might be in her room. Instead, she went around to the back stairs and up to the attic. Sunlight poured through the window, turning the dust on the air into sparks of gold, like some illusionist’s phantasm. Ivy went to a chair in a corner next to one of the bookshelves and sat there and wept.

It was only when she felt a touch on her shoulder that she realized she was not alone. She looked up and saw Mr. Lockwell standing above her. His hair flew in a white cloud around his head. His blue eyes, usually focused on some distant place, were instead intent upon her. She tried to speak, to tell him there was no cause for worry, but she could not voice the words.

He patted her shoulder. “Do not cry, little one,” he said. “This is your house now.”

Despite her tears, a wonder came over her. She took his hand, holding it against her cheek. “I love you, Father.”

He smiled at her. Then he pulled his hand away, moved to the bookshelf, and muttered as he ran his fingers over various tomes.

Ivy wiped her cheeks and stood. She drew a breath. There, it was done. There was no more need for crying. She had never really had a hope, after all. That Mr. Rafferdy was to marry in a way that suited his position was hardly something she could fault him for. She would never think ill of him, not after all the kindness he had shown her and her family. And she hoped that one day she would be able to meet him again, to give him all her wishes for happiness, as a friend who had only the warmest regard for him.

She would be well.
They
would be well. Their life here on Whitward Street was everything she could ask for. Any such small concerns she had about finances were nothing to detract from their contentment. It would all be worked out. She had no need to hope for a better situation.

“Besides, why would I ever wish for anything that would take me away from you?” she said to Mr. Lockwell, taming his hair with a touch.

“It was here,” he said, frowning. “But I can’t find it.” He pulled out a book and let it fall.

Ivy retrieved it, put it back on the shelf, and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll go see how dinner is coming along,” she said, and went to find her mother.

Mrs. Lockwell was not in her room, so Ivy went downstairs. She found Rose in the parlor, petting Miss Mew.

“Where is our mother?” Ivy asked. “I thought I would see if she needs help with supper.”

However, Rose didn’t know where Mrs. Lockwell was, so Ivy went in search of Lily.

“There you are,” Ivy said as she stepped into the dining room. Lily stood near the sideboard. “I asked Rose where Mother was, but she didn’t know. Have you seen her?”

Lily did not answer. She gripped the back of a chair and stared at the far end of the table.

“Lily?”

Ivy drew closer and saw that two of the chairs were askew. Cassity must have disarranged them. Ivy walked around the table to straighten the chairs.

“Oh,” she said.

A fly buzzed in a lazy arc across the room. Mrs. Lockwell lay on the floor in a patch of sunlight. Her eyes were shut, her mouth open, and her arms at her sides.

“Lily,” Ivy said, “go tell Cassity to fetch a doctor.”

Lily did not move. Ivy knelt on the floor, took her mother’s hand, and held it in her own. The fly struck against the windowpane; it bounced back, then tapped the window with its body again, again.

“I said, fetch the doctor,” Ivy repeated, sternly this time. Lily let out a sobbing noise and ran out the door.

However, there was no need for doctors. Ivy had only wanted to get Lily away. Mrs. Lockwell’s hand was icy in her own. She gripped it tight.

“We will be well,” she said to her mother, and again to herself. “We
will
be well.”