Chapter 4

“THEY ARE THE LONDON branch of the Royal Occult Society. Be on your guard, Elizabeth. They might have lofty titles, but they are hooligans. I shall speak with them, but do not allow them to bully you or needle you into a reaction.”

“I will not be goaded into anything beyond a ladylike response,” Elizabeth promised.

The three ladies walked to the common drawing room and greeted the gentlemen. Once introductions were made, Mr. Baxter said, “Very good to meet you, Miss Knight. Might I extend my condolences upon the loss of your dear uncle. He was a...most unique individual.”

“He was a dear friend of ours in the Society. I fear it will be a long time before we find someone of his calibre to replace him with.”

Elizabeth made no reply. She was surprised her aunt did not offer refreshment of any kind. Nor did she sit. Nor did she offer to allow the men to sit. Marie and Elizabeth flanked her, and they all stood awkwardly about.

“Gentlemen, might I ask the purpose of this visit? We are a house of mourning, after all, and are not prepared for visitors,” Aunt Cas said in the frostiest of tones.

“Oh, of course. We mean no disrespect with our visit, of course, Mrs. Spencer. We would have written, but we were under the impression that time was of the essence.”

Aunt Cass’ face was so stoic that Elizabeth began to worry that it might be her aunt, and not herself, that was going to be goaded into something.

“In matter of fact, we have come to assist with Miss Knight’s burdens. We have been led to believe she has inherited Mr. Leigh’s occult library.”

Elizabeth took her aunt’s lead and remained perfectly silent. The sight of three silent women seemed to rattle this Mr. Baxter, for he began to speak faster to break up the silence.

“Well, we understand that Miss Knight lives in a retired country rectory with her father and several siblings. We wished to make an offer to purchase Miss Knight’s books from her uncle.”

After a moment of silence, Mr. Baxter said, “We would like to offer seventy pounds for the entire lot.”

Seventy pounds! It was a shocking sum of money. She had no concept the collection’s true worth in terms of a book collector’s opinion, but what a tempting amount. She tempered her surprised emotions with the realities and truths of the situation. Beyond her uncle’s wishes for her further scholarship, there were the intangibles, such as the letters from her mother. No doubt worthless to others, but they were worth fifty thousand pounds to her heart. And, in either case, she was not selling anything until she went through it all and made her own decisions.

“That sum would help save Miss Knight from the ordeal of having to sort through any of those dusty old things,” Mr. Baxter said. “Young ladies have more important things to do with their time.”

Elizabeth’s mood soured promptly. “That is a very generous offer, sir, and I very much appreciate you coming here to make it. However, I have not made any decisions regarding the books, and I cannot possibly in good conscience make any such arrangement now. However, if there is a particular volume or perhaps an encyclopedia that you wish to purchase, I will look for it and place it aside if I feel it is something I can part with.”

“Well, it would be much easier, Miss Knight, if you permitted us access to the books. A young lady’s mind is not equipped to discern the nuances of occult manuscripts.” Mr. Baxter pointed at the wooden crates in the corner of the drawing room. “If those are them, I will happily peruse them now.”

“I do not wish to allow strangers access to my books when I myself have not yet had the opportunity to examine them all.”

It was Sir Mathew’s turn to speak. “We understand how difficult these tasks can be for a young lady, so we wish to take it away from you. Call it in honour of our dear friend’s regard for you. Just allow Mr. Baxter here to settle with your aunt, and we shall be on our way.”

“My niece is old enough to know her own mind,” Aunt Cass said. “If she says no, then that is her choice and everyone in this room will respect her decision.”

“I would be happy to look at a list of titles or subjects that interest you,” Elizabeth said. “I will not be keeping all of the library, so I would be pleased to set aside any particular volumes for you, after I have evaluated them for myself, of course. Many of the books have great sentimental value to me and I wish not to part from them.”

“Well, there are many books and items. Too many for us to think of without careful reflection,” Mr. Baxter said.

“There are some old journals, mostly written in Latin, that I would particularly like to have,” Sir Matthew said. “As well, there are three leather bound and gold embossed books with nothing more than an autograph on one page and a short biography afterwards no more than 3 pages long. They are pet projects your uncle and I worked on, and I would like to continue the work out of respect to him.”

“I will offer you ten pounds, simply for those, if you have them in your possession,” Sir Matthew. “Shall we shake hands upon the deal?”

Aunt Cass did not speak, signalling that Elizabeth was to carry the negotiations at this stage. She inhaled to ensure her voice was steady and asked, “May I inquire as to why you feel you should have it when they were given to me?”

“Well,” Mr. Baxter said, clearing his throat. “As you know, women cannot do the occult to any useful purpose. Your minds are too delicate and underdeveloped for the rigorous learning necessary. Latin, Greek, astronomy, astrology, herbology, riddles, puzzles, mathematics, and mineralogy. Even some medicine on occasion. It is obviously too much for a young lady such as yourself.”

“As my colleague here has said, we will happily purchase those three volumes for ten pounds. Immediately.” He reached into his jacket pocket to produce a leather wallet. He displayed a ten-pound note. “As we understand, your father’s financial situation is delicate, with such a large family and...an unwed daughter of your age.”

Elizabeth did not have the opportunity to speak because Aunt Cass butted in. “Gentlemen, I will not allow my niece to be insulted in my home. Not ever.”

Ten pounds was an exceptional amount of money for some journals and three books, which immediately alerted Elizabeth to several interesting pieces of evidence. First, they did not know her uncle had given her money in his will, allowing her a very small independence from her father. Second, they did not know she had some education in the occult, enough for her to find the books and determine which of the others were important. Thirdly, they wanted the books her uncle quite clearly did not want them to have; after all, if he wanted them to have the book, he’d have just willed them to the Society.

“I appreciate the financial offer you have made me. I cannot accept at this time. However, I would be very happy to provide the Royal Occult Society a list of the books I will be sending to auction and those available for private collectors to purchase. Mr. Henry Thorne has graciously offered to assist me in that endeavour, so you may speak to him or his wife.”

“Otherwise, I cannot make any promises. My uncle left me the books and with clear instructions in his will. I plan to carry out his wishes as best as my abilities and good sense allow.”

“My niece feels duty-bound to abide by my brother’s will and wishes. I will be assisting her in that task, as well Mr. and Mrs. Thorne, of Vane Park. If we require any specialized assistance, I will, of course, send a letter to the Royal Society requesting a specialist. Otherwise, gentlemen, I believe your business is concluded.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Spencer. It is always a pleasure to see you,” Mr. Baxter said, and in a tone that announced he hoped to never speak to Cassandra Spencer ever again.

Sir Matthew was less gentlemanly. “I will seek out Mr. Thorne and see if he is more reasonable than the women in his life. I look forward to you doing the right thing, Miss Knight. For everyone’s sake.”

When the front door closed behind the men, Elizabeth asked, “Did Sir Matthew just threaten me?”

“I hate the very sight of Sir Matthew and his silly little lawyer! Indeed, that man was threatening you the moment he arrived. How dare he insult you. My dear, I wouldn’t give that man a farthing, not even if he were begging naked and starving on the streets. I won’t tell you that you cannot sell the books to him, but if it is because of the money, I will give you twelve pounds myself to keep the books.”

“My dear aunt, I had no intention of giving that odious man anything beyond my name,” Elizabeth said. “To think the nerve of him to come here and insult me, especially after my uncle specifically asked in his letter that I continue his work on the autograph book. Sir Matthew doesn’t even think I am capable of understanding what an autograph book is, let alone the work involved.”

Maria turned to Aunt Cass. “With your permission, Mrs. Spencer, I would like to send one of your servants to my house with a note. My maid will find Henry and warn him.”

“Send Sally. She is very dependable.” Aunt Cass turned to Elizabeth and said, “My dear, do you wish to quit for the day?”

“No, Aunt. If anything, I am motivated more than ever to complete the task.”

AFTER MILD PROTESTS from her aunt and friend, Elizabeth returned to her bedchamber and continued sorting. On the Forgotten History of Female Occultists (1763) she put into the closet, on a shelf she’d set aside for the books she would make final decisions on later. Likewise, First Forays into the Study of Occult Flora (1803) went on the same shelf. She wasted no time deciding that The Great Men of British Occultism (1801) and A Study of British Occultism (1799) would go in the auction trunks.

Too quickly, however, the shelf she’d set aside in the closet was filled, and she moved on to the second shelf. She reminded herself that these would need to be purged and pruned as necessary once the first stage of the task was complete. Too many of the books had her uncle’s handwriting on them, and therefore she could not, at present, part with them. Perhaps it would be easier once faced with several closets of books. For now, however, she could not part with even that tiny speck of him.

Then, she discovered the autograph books. They were inside a box, wrapped in cloth. The box was placed inside a trunk, that was filled with straw, as if it was holding a precious piece of pottery discovered at an archeological dig far away. One of the leather-bond books had a ribbon tied around it, holding down a note underneath. Carefully, she undid the bow. She recognized her uncle’s handwriting immediately. It was not addressed to her, but she knew it was written with her in mind. The letter’s address read:

At first, she thought she was reading a poem, but soon recognized that it had the cadence of an incantation. She read to the end and looked about her expectantly. Nothing happened, except the sighing of wind outside the window.

She frowned and read the incantation again, just in case she had not read it properly the first time. The sigh of wind was louder the second time, and had an almost feminine tenor to it.

Disappointed, though not surprised, that she was unable to do even the basic magic that the incantation had expected of her, she opened the book and flipped the first page. It had been the only page she’d ever been allowed to see of the book when it was in Uncle Edward’s possession. It read SARAH EGERTON. It was a typical autograph ghost mark, with the clear ink signature on one side and the staining reflection pressed into the other half of the paper.

Around the ink bleeds were several ovals drawn, lavishly decorated into various herbs: sprigs of rosemary, a cluster of thyme, and bay leaves of various sizes. One section was turned into several steams of roses. At the opposite end, a few of the ink botches had been turned into beans of some sort next to a cup and saucer. At the bottom of the page was Sarah Egerton’s name, printed carefully and without embellishment.

Elizabeth glanced at the paper she held, shrugged, and read the incantation again. This time, the sigh was unmistakable for anything other than a woman’s annoyance.

Elizabeth flipped the page on the book and skimmed the biography. Mrs. Egerton, it seems, was the last female occultist to have been added to the collection, even though she was at the front of the book. She died in 1746 and called herself the last of the true English female occultists. She feared that a movement of genteel lady occultists would take her place, where they would not be taught the proper skills and would exist solely as ornamentation.

“Then it is well enough that you did not live to today, Mrs. Egerton,” Elizabeth said aloud to the book. “For you would have seen your prophecy come true.”

Another annoyed sigh. And then a feminine voice said, “My dear child, stop playing around with incantations if you are not ready for the consequences.”

Elizabeth yelped and fell backwards, hitting her back against the edge of the bed.

“Excellent. Now, follow my instructions carefully. I am to be packed very carefully back into my box, with the other books. Pay special attention to the straw. And keep me away from the damp. I dislike the damp greatly.”

She dutifully packed the books back as she had found them, all the while her good sense and her physical senses warred with each other. Had grief finally tossed her over the cliff’s edge? Would she need admitting to an asylum now? Had she really unlocked the ghost that inhabited the book, as her uncle had often said could happen?

When Elizabeth began to untie the leather strapping around one of the other autograph books, the voice snapped, “Miss Knight! Do not touch that one. You are clearly not ready for anything in this trunk yet. Clean out Mr. Leigh’s occult farming books and come back when you are not in such a state. There is no point to summon me until you are ready.”

A little spark of joy tickled Elizabeth’s insides. Had she really summoned one of the female occultists?

“Pardon my question, ma’am, but how will I know when I am ready to speak with you?”

The book sighed dramatically. “When you don’t ask questions like that. Now, kindly close the truck lid, child.”

Elizabeth did as the book instructed, and then stared at the now-silent trunk and wondered if she’d finally descended into madness. She lifted the lid carefully. Perhaps the book could not see her, if it were all snug and put away.

Elizabeth started for a minute or two longer before tiptoeing from the room. She made her way down the stairs, following the sounds of laughter. Maria and Aunt Cass were in the dining room. Each of them had empty wine glasses, and there was a decanter that was suspiciously very close to empty on the table.

“Oh, Elizabeth! Look what we found. A Guide for Young Ladies on How to Get a Husband.” Aunt Cass’s cheeks were flushed.

Aunt Cass cleared her throat, and held the book out in front of her. In a deep voice, she read:

Men do not desire wives who ponder upon grand subjects. They want dutiful, obedient wives. Young ladies who giggle, read newspapers, and bury themselves upon the pages of a novel will find themselves unmarried and alone. This volume, written by a man of sense who has been searching England far and wide for a wife, hopes to address this modern age of uncouth young ladies and how their revolt against the good and natural order of the world had caused many men of sense and education to be left desolate without a good woman to rely upon.

“Sounds to me it is not the ladies who are the problem!” Maria said through her own titters. “After all, I have found a husband and I giggle with the best of them!”

“I have been known to read a newspaper now and again, even!” Aunt Cass said, joining in the laughter.

“Perhaps my dear George was not a man of sense after all!” Aunt Cass declared, which sent Maria down another giggle path.

“My dear!” Aunt Cass said, trying to bring calm into her wine-addled voice. “Are you well? Do you require us?”

Elizabeth did not want to ask the question, but it was necessary. “Please don’t misunderstand what I am about to ask, but have any of the books spoken to you?”

“No, I am not ill. I merely want to know if any of the magical texts have spoken or sighed, or perhaps complained about the dampness of the weather.”

“I ask seriously. One of the autograph books those gentlemen requested spoke to me. Well, to be very specific, it was very saucy to me and told me to leave it alone.”

“To think, Mrs. Thorne? There is a book in this house with your personality!”

“Mrs. Spencer!” Maria exclaimed in faux outrage. “I must meet this saucy book. Come ladies!”

Elizabeth’s words fell on unheeding ears, for wine had warned off the good sense of the ladies. She followed behind the giggling women and up the staircase, her agitation growing with each step. What would she do if the book’s voice did appear? Or, perhaps a worse fate, that she had imagined the book speaking to her; that grief had transported her mind into a fanciful world. She did not wish to spend her remaining days locked away in a horrid asylum, and yet the possibility now seemed more and more likely.

The ladies waited laughing in the hallway for Elizabeth, who walked into her bedchamber. She lifted the trunk’s top carefully and dug out the protective inner box from the straw. Then, she opened it.

“For the love of...did I not just tell you to put me away? Oh, you have fetched company. I do not wish to appear to company. Good bye, Miss Knight.”

Elizabeth clearly heard the voice. She glanced nervously at her aunt and friend, who both stared gap-mouthed at the book.

Maria asked, in a very small voice, “Please tell me someone else heard the book speak.”

“She,” Elizabeth said, correcting herself. “You have both heard her, yes?” When both of her companions nodded their heads, Elizabeth blew out a breath. “I am all relief. I feared grief had overtaken me.”

“For a terrifying moment, I thought the wine had finally done me in,” Maria said.

“Why is the book talking?” Aunt Cass asked. “Do all occult books speak?”

“Yes, of course,” Elizabeth said. She placed the book back in its home. She didn’t bother to latch the inner box, but she pushed straw over it. Then she closed the trunk’s lid. She stood back from the trunk and talking book. “My uncle’s books never spoke to me, and I have never been certain that the stories he told were real or embellished to the point of absurdity. Thought, now I wonder if I had simply dismissed his stories out of ignorance.”

“It was all theory. He never practiced any incantations around me, for Father has always been a skeptic.”

“And your father does not support women in the occult,” Aunt Cass said. At Elizabeth’s expression of reproof, her aunt apologized. “I should have not spoken of things. I simply wish your dear mother were alive. She would know what to do.”

Elizabeth sighed. She had long heard the arguments. Her memory of her mother and father arguing were long faded, though she did know the tales. Instead, it was the arguments between her uncle and her father that she remembered the most. Her uncle shouting at her father that he had no right to keep Elizabeth away from him. That the occult arts were a part of her bloodline and hiding her inheritance was barbaric mistreatment. How her father shouted back, saying that no daughter of his would be filling her mind with nonsense when she should be learning how to manage a house for her husband.

It had been Aunt Cass and a reluctant Augusta who had provided the feminine bridge necessary to convince her father to let her cross it. And, in the end, Augusta has managed to convince her father by emphasizing the financial relief of having a daughter of age oft staying with relations in town. Plus, Mrs. Spencer had promised to expose Elizabeth to all kinds of society. Augusta argued this was the best way to find bookish, boring, so-very-sensible Elizabeth a husband.

And for years, Elizabeth had sat in the front row of the balls in London and at Bath, where the more desirable single ladies sat to be picked for dances: the ripest of the fruit in handy reach. She had endured being moved to the back row of chairs, too, when she was no longer considered the freshest face of the crop. Until, finally, she’d given up being seated at all and moved to assist with chaperoning and occasionally being asked to make a fourth at the card tables.

But by then, Augusta was gone and her father had grown accustomed to the financial relief of his wealthy relations taking his eldest, unmarried daughter off his hands for a few weeks at a time.

“Elizabeth? Are you well?” Maria asked, reaching out a hand to touch her friend.

Tears filled her eyes, but she gulped down the grief. She looked at her aunt and said, “I should have insisted upon coming to London for Christmas.”

“Oh, child no. My brother did not want you to see him in his state. He knew he was dying by then, and he did not want your last memories of him to be tending to his failing body. No, he made us all promise to keep you away. On that head, your father was doing our wishes by insisting you stay in Bryden. I am sorry he did not explain himself properly, or have that his new wife of his to do it, but know that was your uncle’s request.”

“No, indeed not. I personally saw to the hiring of three nurses and two new girls to care for him ‘round the clock. He always had the usual servants, plus the additional help so that no one was inconvenienced. Mr. Grant visited every day. And I was always about. All of his society fellows visited. And all the neighbours. Your uncle wanted for no company at all. Indeed, he made several comments about how he did not know the number of friends he possessed.”

“I only met him a couple of times, but from what I remember,” Maria said with a soft smile, “he must have said many disparaging remarks about the company not allowing him to sleep.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth whispered. Her soul wept for her uncle, but she knew to bear the pain with dignity. She took in several breaths until the crushing weight on her chest relented enough for her form sentences.

“What do you wish to do, Eliza?” Maria asked. Gone were the wine giggles now.

“I confess this task is too difficult for me at present. Might I assist with the farming books in the dining room and in the second drawing room?”

“Your company would be most welcome,” Aunt Cass said. “Come ladies. I believe the next batch of jam tarts are finally ready. And there is still the second opened bottle of wine that we have yet to finish.”

The three women embraced at that, all laughing amongst themselves, and, together, they walked back to the dining room. There, one of the footman had already begun the task of setting out supper on two small tables brought in from the drawing room. Jam tarts, cake, cold ham, bacon, and bread awaited them. They switched from wine to tea, and it wasn’t until they burned through the second four-hour candle that Aunt Cass announced it was time for sleep.