Sorcery & Cecelia by Patricia C. Wrede & Caroline Stevermer

Author:Patricia C. Wrede & Caroline Stevermer [Wrede, Patricia C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-4532-5467-7
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media LLC
Published: 2012-11-20T16:00:00+00:00

12 June 1817

11 Berkeley Square, London

Dearest Cecy,

Nerves of steel aren’t sufficient. You must have nerves of adamant to sit at table with Sir Hilary, knowing what we know of him. I admire your calm all the more since you endured James Tarleton’s attempted stealth at the same time. Brava, cousin!

That said, I intend to try to follow Aunt Charlotte’s favorite advice and tell first things first so that I don’t leave anything out. The smallest details may prove to be important.

Saturday last, Thomas invited Aunt Charlotte, Georgina, and me to the opera. It was a revival of Handel’s Atalanta, which is very silly. The orchestra was first-rate (but despite his reputation, I’m afraid the tenor wasn’t), and I enjoyed it very much. Aunt Charlotte was enthralled by the chance to survey the boxes in our circle. From the overture to the finale, for the benefit of Georgy’s education, she pointed out all the people of whom she could not approve. She tried several times to get my attention so that I, too, could profit from this instruction, but I kept my eyes stubbornly on the stage.

Rather to my surprise, Thomas did not interrupt the music with conversation, or even pointed remarks. Instead, he simply slouched in his seat, apparently indifferent to everything but the need to stay awake. Aunt Charlotte eyed him sharply at first, but when his lack of interest lasted through the appearance of the opera dancers, she relaxed her surveillance.

At the interval, Georgy insisted on visiting the box adjacent to ours to greet some friends and allow them the chance to admire her new Mexican blue sarcenet gown. Aunt Charlotte accompanied her and I was left alone in our box with the somnolent Thomas.

In the dim light at the back of the box, I could not read his expression, but I thought his apathy most uncharacteristic. Hoping to provoke some response, if only annoyance, I said, “You must have wondered at it when I mentioned James Tarleton to you in our last conversation.”

Thomas stirred slightly but his voice held little interest as he replied, “No, I didn’t wonder. I was too busy being furious with you.”

“I believe he is a particular friend of yours,” I said. “My cousin Cecy knows him.”

“Yes, yes,” said Thomas wearily, “James is a splendid fellow. Bruising rider, crack shot, very handy with his fives—ought to be able to handle a dozen of your cousins. Why don’t you leave my friends and your relations out of this and tell me the worst at once. What mischief have you been in since I delivered you in Berkeley Square?”

“Why, none at all,” I answered.

“What, none?” he replied. “Not spilt anything, nor tripped, nor fallen down stairs, nor knocked anyone down, nor set them on fire?”

“I have not set anyone on fire this age,” I informed him. “I did step on Andrew Grenville’s foot, but he’s stepped on both of mine so often I can’t think that counts.”

“Nothing more sensational than that? I commend you,” Thomas said.

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