Sorcery & Cecelia: Or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot by Patricia Collins Wrede Read Free Book Online

presence, but waited until Lady Tarleton led Dorothea to a seat. Then he stood up. Lady Tarleton, of course, took no notice; she was busy with Dorothea in any case. I glared at him, but it was hardly the time or place for any of the cutting comments I wanted to make, so I said nothing at all.
    “There, now, child, it’s all right,” Lady Tarleton told Dorothea. “Now, what is it?”
    “It’s…it’s…it’s Mama!” Dorothea said. She waved the crumpled letter, which was still clutched tightly in her hand. “She’s coming here!”
    “Well, there’s no need to make such a piece of work of it,” Lady Tarleton said. “Goodness knows, we can manage a guest or two on short notice.”
    “She’s going to make me go to London,” Dorothea said tragically.
    Lady Tarleton pressed her lips together. “Miranda never did have any sense,” she muttered, then in a louder voice she said, “Time enough to discuss that when she arrives. Did she say when that would be?”
    Just then Aunt Elizabeth poked me and we said our adieus, it being clearly not the time to stay for tea. As I left, I noticed Mr. Tarleton watching me with such an expression—partly thoughtful, partly suspicious, and altogether annoyed. I would have given my best gloves to know just what he was thinking of then.
    So that is my tale. I am altogether exhausted; fortunately, it will be a few days before Robert’s expedition to Bedrick Hall, so I shall have time to recover. I shall also have time to consider what I ought to do about Oliver, the charm-bag, and James Tarleton’s spying.
    Do send news of how Oliver is faring; I find I am growing quite nervous about him. And if you have any advice, or any idea how I can discover what sort of charm-bag was hidden in Oliver’s bed, pray tell me at once! I am positively distracted.
    Your busy cousin,
    Cecy

5 May 1817
    11 Berkeley Square, London
    Dearest Cecy,
    Your letter and parcel arrived this morning as Georgina and I were sitting at breakfast with Aunt Charlotte, drinking cold stewed tea and wishing our toast was not always cold before it reached the table. (This is only one of the ways in which London does not surpass Rushton in terms of comfort.) The post arrived as Georgy was coaxing for the dozenth time to be allowed to have a domino and to go to Vauxhall in it. Aunt Charlotte is violently opposed to both these ambitions. (Indeed, I find it hard to tell which she objects to more.)
    Mere words cannot express my gratitude for the shawl. It is quite a brilliant scheme, and one which Georgy entered into with enthusiasm. In fact, with her help, I’m sure I shall have quite a presentable dress in time for Lady Haseltine’s drum. She has given me a pair of pearl eardrops to wear with it as a sign of encouragement. I think the dancing at Almack’s took a great weight off her mind. She is a shatter-wit, but it must be tiresome to be going everywhere with a sister who is one’s complete opposite.
    I have been practicing the accompaniment for two Italian songs that Georgina has been learning. She finds the melody simple enough but cannot seem to remember the proper order of the lines. One more good thing about Essex is that no one notices such things there. Here in London the audiences are more exacting. Not that the Haut Ton displays any particular appreciation for music—or the Italian language—but the young ladies are very competitive and delight in finding fault with one another’s accomplishments. I have encountered the Marquis of Schofield twice in the past few days. First, in St. James’s Park, where Oliver and I went walking so that Oliver could observe what other young men are wearing. We met on the footbridge across the long duck pond. The footbridge is a pleasing structure, Oriental in design, very delicate and fanciful, and too narrow for three people to walk abreast. Thus, when the Marquis reached the center of the span as Oliver and I walked from the opposite direction, he paused and greeted