3 May

Well, it has been a day! I am inclined to think that it must match even the excitement of a day in London, though I do not currently have a basis for comparison. You will have to judge for yourself.

It began with Mary, the little upstairs maid who is so good about slipping me tea when Aunt Elizabeth has decided my character will be improved by an evening’s fasting. I was trying to decide what to wear to Jack’s picnic when she knocked at the door. She came in, looking upset, so of course I asked what was wrong.

“It’s Mr. Oliver, Miss,” she said. “That is, it’s his room. Mrs. Gordon said I was to give it a proper clean, seeing as he’s gone, and I found this under his mattress.”

She handed me a little drawstring bag about half the size of my fist. It was made of leather, with a gold “O” embroidered on it in rather large stitches (the kind I use when I am trying to finish something quickly, that Aunt Elizabeth always makes me pick out and do over). I opened it and nearly gagged on the strong scent of herbs. I shook a little into my hand, but the leaves were so dried and crumbled I couldn’t tell what any of them were. I could, however, see snippets of wavy brown hair mixed in with the herbs.

“I didn’t mean to snoop, Miss,” Mary went on. “But Miss Rushton’s that strict, I didn’t rightly know what she’d do if I said I’d found a charm-bag in Mr. Oliver’s room. I was afraid I’d be turned off, Miss. So I come to you.”

“You did quite right,” I said. I shook the bits of herbs and hair carefully back into the bag and pulled the drawstring shut. “You don’t happen to know what kind of charm-bag this is, do you?”

“No, Miss,” Mary said, looking surprised.

“Then there’s no need for you to be involved any further,” I said briskly, hiding my disappointment. I wished very much that she had known what kind of charm-bag it was, for I haven’t the slightest notion how one tells the differences among love charms, curses, protections, or blessings! The only thing I was reasonably sure of is that it wasn’t the sort of charm-bag used by barren women who want a child—there would be no sense at all in anyone putting something like that in Oliver’s room! “I will take care of this,” I told her. “Don’t speak of it to anyone else.”

“Yes, Miss Cecy,” Mary said, and went away looking somewhat relieved. I sat down on the bed with a plop, wondering how on earth a charm-bag had gotten into Oliver’s room and what, if anything, I ought to do about it. It wouldn’t be the least use to tell Papa; he would just look at it and nod and say that the Sumerians had a very similar sort of thing, only made of goatskin stuffed with clay and feathers, and isn’t it interesting how such things change over the years. Aunt Elizabeth would probably have strong hysterics and insist on calling Oliver back from Town—you know how she feels about anything that smacks of magic, however faintly. And I am persuaded that calling Oliver home would be the worst possible thing to do. After all, whoever put the charm-bag in his room is here, not in Town. Unless, of course, Oliver did it himself, but I think this exceedingly unlikely. If the bag were his, he’d have taken it with him. Oliver may be nearly as hen-witted as Georgy, but he is not absentminded the way Papa is!

Which led me to the question of who had left  the charm-bag in Oliver’s room. At that point a rather frightening thought occurred to me, and I jumped up and tugged at my own bed. There was nothing under the mattress, however, and I am not sure whether I felt more relieved or disappointed. I shoved the bed back together (rather the worse for my exertions, I fear) and sat down on it again to think.

Who put the charm-bag in Oliver’s bed? Papa wouldn’t have bothered. Aunt Elizabeth—well, given her dislike of all things magical, I simply cannot picture it. I certainly didn’t do it. As for the servants—Mary couldn’t have, or she’d just have cleaned the room and left. Mrs. Gordon has been our housekeeper for years and enters into Aunt Elizabeth’s sensibilities on everything, including magic, so she’s unlikely. And no one else would have had the opportunity to go into Oliver’s room.

I had just reached this point in my deliberations when Aunt Elizabeth knocked at the door to remind me to hurry, as it was almost time to leave. I jumped up and threw on the first thing that came to hand (my figured muslin walking dress, fortunately), shoved the charm-bag into my reticule, and dashed off to the picnic.

By the time our carriage reached Tarleton Hall, I had resolved to put the matter of the charm-bag out of my mind and enjoy the picnic. Lady Tarleton and Dorothea joined us (the disagreeable James, I was relieved to see, did not), and we went on to the lakeside. Patience was already there, firmly seated as far from the water’s edge as she could manage. Her brother Jack was down by the lake with Robert Penwood and Martin De Lacey, messing about with the boats. All three of them abandoned their work as soon as we (or, rather, Dorothea) arrived, and came to greet us.

Jack had apparently decided that a picnic was not impressive enough (and, I suspect, that he would not be able to get Dorothea much to himself). He had therefore come up with the boats. Patience wasn’t at all pleased, but she really couldn’t do anything about it except refuse to ride in one. Robert offered to stay behind with her (and Aunt Elizabeth and Lady Tarleton), which left me with Martin. (Jack, of course, had Dorothea as a partner.)

The boat ride was quite pleasant, though it was rather disconcerting to have a partner whose head was constantly turned sideways. You would have thought that it was Martin’s duty to chaperone Dorothea and Jack! This made our progress around the lake erratic, to say the least. I gave up trying to make conversation after the first few “Oh! Quite so” and “Umm, yes of course” responses, and concentrated on not being splashed by Martin’s rowing.

We made it around the lake at last, and started back. As we neared the shore, I saw something moving in the bushes. “What’s that?” I said without thinking.

“Umm, what?” said Martin, who had been watching Dorothea again.

“I thought I saw something in the bushes,” I said.

“Probably a dog,” Martin said without interest.

I could see it was no use talking to him, so I let him go back to Dorothea-gazing while I watched the bushes. Just before we landed, I distinctly saw a dark head pull back out of sight. I was stunned, Kate, for I was quite certain that the head belonged to none other than James Tarleton!

I did not say anything more to Martin, but as soon as I was safely out of the boat I announced that I intended to go for a walk. Martin offered (rather halfheartedly) to accompany me, but I told him I preferred to go alone. That brought Aunt Elizabeth down on me with a lecture about propriety, but as everyone else was staying by the lake with Dorothea, she eventually let me go.

As soon as I was out of sight, I circled around toward the bushes where I thought I had seen James Tarleton. (All of those years of sneaking about after Oliver and Robert came in very useful.) Sure enough, there he was, peering through a screen of bushes at the picnic. I was thinking so hard about an appropriate opening remark that I neglected to watch my feet, and trod on a twig.

James Tarleton whirled, and one hand went to his pocket. Then he recognized me, and his startled expression turned to a wary civility. “Miss Rushton,” he said. “I fear you startled me.”

All of the things I had been planning to say flew right out of my head. “What are you doing skulking about in these bushes and spying on us?” I demanded.

“I might ask you the same question,” he replied with a smile. He pulled a little blue snuffbox from his pocket and opened it as he spoke. I blinked, for I have never seen such a brilliant blue as that box was. It positively hurt my eyes, Kate. I was the more surprised because Mr. Tarleton had not previously struck me as the sort of person to carry around oddities in vulgar colors. Upon reflection, however, I have concluded that someone who sneaks about in bushes in order to spy on his cousin is quite likely to have poorer taste than I had at first assumed.

“You aren’t very good at skulking; I saw you from the boat,” I said. “And I came to find out what you mean by it.”

“I am sure your curiosity is very natural,” he said. “But I’m afraid I am not at liberty to explain.”

“I suppose you think I ought to consider it the most natural thing in the world to discover someone sneaking about in the bushes at a picnic,” I said with some asperity.

Mr. Tarleton’s lips twitched. “I don’t believe I would go so far as that.”

“Then tell me why you are spying on Dorothea!” I demanded.

All of the expression washed out of his face at once, and he shut the snuffbox with a sharp click. “What makes you sure it was Dorothea I was watching?” he said in a flat voice.

“Because it isn’t the first time I’ve seen you watching her,” I said. “And I think it is the outside of enough for you to ignore her at home and then turn around and spy on her behind her back.” I am afraid I was not very clear, but by this time I was quite annoyed.

“So you have appointed yourself her champion,” Mr. Tarleton said. There was a bitter, mocking undercurrent to his voice, and his eyes were very cold and suspicious. “Out of the noblest of motives, I am sure. Or could it be that you hope for some of her leavings?” He glanced pointedly back at the picnic, where all the men clustered around Dorothea like flies around a honey pot.

“I like Dorothea,” I said hotly. “She’s just like Georgy.”

His eyes narrowed. “And who is Georgy?”

“My cousin, Georgina Talgarth. She’s beautiful, too, and all the boys fall in love with her and all the girls dislike her because of it, and it isn’t her fault at all.”

Mr. Tarleton blinked, and looked thoughtfully back toward the picnic. “It hadn’t occurred to me that it might be unconscious,” he said, half to himself. “But if that is the case…” His voice trailed off and he stood frowning, deep in thought, as though he had quite forgotten I was there. He was still holding the snuffbox, and he stroked the lid with one finger in an absentminded manner. There was a peacock enameled on the lid of the box, in bright blues and greens, which I thought was quite appropriate.

“I think you had better leave now, Mr. Tarleton,” I said with as much firmness as I could manage. “I am sure you have a great deal to do at Tarleton Hall.”

“Undoubtedly,” Mr. Tarleton said. “However, I am in no hurry to return home.”

“Go away, or I shall tell Lady Tarleton that you are spying on Dorothea,” I snapped.

“Then I’ll tell her that you arranged to meet me out here in the woods,” he replied with maddening calm. “Assignations are not at all the thing for a young lady of quality.”

“Oh!” I said, too furious to make sense. “You are—you are the most unprincipled man I have ever met!”

“Quite so,” he said cordially. “Now, I suggest you return to your companions.”

“And leave you here to spy on us?”

“Why not? You aren’t planning to do anything…indiscreet, now, are you?”

I turned on my heel and stalked away, refusing to dignify that comment with a response. I spent the entire walk back to the picnic trying to think of something dreadful enough to be suitable for him, like frogs in his bed, and coming up with all the cutting remarks I ought to have used on him in the first place. When I got back, Aunt Elizabeth told me with approval that the walk had put some color in my cheeks.

You can imagine my consternation, therefore, when the discussion turned to Robert Penwood’s planned excursion to Bedrick Hall and I learned that Robert had invited James Tarleton to accompany us! “Oh, no!” I said involuntarily.

“I beg your pardon?” said Lady Tarleton.

“I mean, I am persuaded that there must be some mistake,” I said hastily. “It hardly seems that Mr. Tarleton would care for such an outing.”

“I shall speak to him about it,” Lady Tarleton said, and I was forced to let the matter drop. After thinking about it for some time, however, I have decided that James Tarleton will probably find some excuse to avoid being a member of the party. I find this thought very comforting; I only wish I could be more certain of it.

The rest of the picnic passed without incident. Patience and I had a comfortable chat while Robert and Jack and Martin danced attendance on Dorothea. I found myself watching her (Dorothea, I mean) more closely than usual, and I must tell you that I do not think she enjoyed the attention she was receiving. You know how Georgy accepts it sweetly whenever people pay her compliments? Dorothea would just nod and turn the subject, or say an uncomfortable “Thank you.”

We finished the picnic at last, and Aunt Elizabeth and I took Lady Tarleton and Dorothea back to Tarleton Hall. When we arrived, Lady Tarleton asked us to stop in for a moment, and Aunt Elizabeth accepted. Just inside, a footman handed Dorothea an express letter, with an apologetic look at Lady Tarleton. Dorothea opened it, and no sooner had she finished reading it than she burst into tears.

Lady Tarleton whisked us into the morning room, but not before the commotion brought a great many people into the hall. We were so taken up with soothing Dorothea that we did not at first perceive that the morning room was already occupied—by none other than James Tarleton. He, of course, did not announce his 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