9 EVERYTHING TURNS TO CUSTARD—A HORDE OF BARBARIANS—WITCHES EXPLAIN THAT WITCHES DO NOT EXIST—CECILIA CREATES AN EXPLOSION—THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN PIRATES AND WITCHES If there is anything disagreeable going on, mothers are always sure to get into it—even when at several miles’ distance. Mrs. Pettifer, sitting to afternoon tea with Miss Plim, jolted suddenly in her chair. The tea she had been about to sip shook in its cup, and she set it down in the saucer with a slight clink that immediately alerted Miss Plim to trouble. “What is it, Delphine?” she demanded, peering over the rim of her spectacles. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” “It’s Lottie,” Mrs. Pettifer gasped. “Oh my dear girl.” She pressed a hand against her pearl-swathed bosom, in which her heart was suffering tremors of anxiety (or too much tea). “What about Charlotte?” Miss Plim asked impatiently. “I fear— Oh, Judith, I fear she went forth this morning without a parasol, and that she will come home most dreadfully suntanned!” “Nonsense,” Miss Plim declared. She proceeded with the custard slice from which Mrs. Pettifer had distracted her. “Charlotte is far too sensible to tan. Never in all my life have I known a girl more cautious and circumspect. She will stay out of the weather, you mark my words.” “Perhaps you are right.” Mrs. Pettifer sighed, then murmured a short phrase. A shawl floated across from the sofa to her outstretched hand; Mrs. Pettifer wrapped it around herself comfortingly. “Lottie is down-to-earth,” she said, trying to convince herself. “And she is an adult, I must remember. She can be trusted not to be flighty, and to keep in the shade. Although I must confess, I thought she would be home by now.” She sighed again, to Miss Plim’s aggravation. “No doubt she has taken up with one of her jolly friends and lost track of the time.” Miss Plim almost choked on custard slice. She did not know what was more amusing—the idea that Charlotte had friends, or that Mrs. Pettifer actually believed it. Unfortunately, the opportunity to mock her sister was lost as at that moment Woollery appeared. “A Miss Bassingthwaite is at the door, madam,” he announced. “Good heavens!” Mrs. Pettifer ejaculated in astonishment. Miss Plim actually choked on custard slice. “A flying bicyclist come to visit! The shame!” “And Captain Lightbourne,” Woollery continued. “Not the Dreaded Lightbourne of Leeds? I’ve heard he threw his own house off a cliff because he didn’t like the wallpaper anymore! Pirates, Judith, at our very door! Quick, hide the silver!” Alas, Miss Plim, busily engaged with smacking herself on the chest and trying to breathe, left the silver to its doom. But Woollery had not finished. “Also, Mrs. Rotunder.” “No!” Mrs. Pettifer gasped. “Revolting Rotunder! Are we goners, Judith?” The only reply she got was a wordless, wheezing cough. “And Miss Constantinopla Brown, madam.” Mrs. Pettifer frowned. “Who?” A fragment of patisserie shot across the room and splatted against Woollery’s face. He blinked. “Shall I say you are not at home, madam?” he asked as half-digested custard dripped from his cheek. “Gracious, no,” Mrs. Pettifer said, more alarmed than ever. “That would be rude. Let the barbarians in.” The butler turned to perform this task. “Wait! Woollery!” Mrs. Pettifer recalled him urgently. He turned back, inexpressive. “Bring more tea for our guests. And cake.” “Madam,” he intoned, and departed. Mrs. Pettifer looked pale-faced at her sister. “What a disaster. Four visitors and not enough tea to offer them! Thank heavens I remembered in time!” “Hmhgh,” Miss Plim replied, reaching for a glass of water. Her life had flashed before her eyes while she was dying from custard, and although it had been entirely satisfactory, she realized there was still much to do to improve the lives of others around her. But before she could embark upon helping Mrs. Pettifer by means of a lengthy corrective lecture, the visitors entered. Mrs. Pettifer rose graciously to welcome them (and check her sixteenth-century golden goose statuette was safely out of their reach). Mrs. Rotunder, a distinguished matron in purple (and red, green, lavender) swooped into the room in a manner that would have made even a grand duchess feel gauche. Behind her came Constantinopla Brown, bedecked in lace and ribbons. She in turn was followed by a pretty, red-haired woman, then a man in such a ghastly waistcoat Mrs. Pettifer’s polite smile sagged somewhat. “Such an unusual pleasure to be visited by members of the piratic community,” she lied. “Will you sit down?” After all, the chairs could easily be reupholstered. And if the pirates were seated, they could not be stealing. (In fact, Cecilia Bassingthwaite pocketed a gold pen she found on a side table and Mrs. Rotunder surreptitiously tore the braiding off the cushion set at her back, repurposing it later as a hat trim.) The pirates arranged themselves on the sofas and Mrs. Pettifer angled her chair to face them. Miss Plim, however, would not come out from behind the tiered cake plate. “Sister, dear,” Mrs. Pettifer said through her smile, “won’t you say hello to our company?” “I most certainly will not,” replied Miss Plim, for whom social graces were something that happened to other people. “Never in my life could I have imagined pirates in the house of an alleged witch.” “Witches do not exist, dear,” Mrs. Pettifer said, the smile tightening. “Hence ‘alleged,’ dear,” Miss Plim snapped, and set about mauling a new custard slice with a fork. The pirates glanced nervously at each other. They knew trouble when they saw it. Miss Bassingthwaite sat forward a little, attempting to ease the tension. “I do not entirely understand the feud between the Wicken League and the Wisteria Society,” she said. “Surely pirates and—er, alleged witches are much the same?” She might as well have tossed a bomb into the room. With one sentence she managed to offend both parties. Eyebrows lifted, mouths pinched, bosoms heaved. Captain Lightbourne, wincing, pressed a thumb knuckle against his forehead. “Cecilia,” Mrs. Rotunder murmured through clenched teeth, “you are too young to understand.” “I’m younger than her,” Constantinopla interjected, “and I understand. And Tom . . . oh Tom, my beloved, what has become of you? . . . He would understand too.” She produced a great shuddering sigh. “Tom Eames is a pirate,” Captain Lightbourne explained to Mrs. Pettifer, and gave her such a winning smile, she blushed. “We have come to discuss with you his kidnapping.” “Witches are nothing like pirates,” Miss Plim said from behind the cakes. “They are Beryl Black’s true descendants and use the incantation as it was intended.” “Be that as it may—” Captain Lightbourne began. “Black Beryl’s first use of the incantation was to fly a hut back to England,” Mrs. Rotunder said. “Therefore pirates have the correct usage of magic.” “If we could just focus on—” Captain Lightbourne attempted. “Witches,” Miss Plim said, rising from her chair, “are subtle.” “Pirates have imagination,” Mrs. Rotunder countered, hat feathers shivering. “Witches are not thieves,” Miss Plim said. “You steal things all the time!” Constantinopla argued, gasping with indignation. “We redistribute wealth,” Miss Plim explained. Mrs. Rotunder huffed a laugh. “Redistribute into your own purses.” “That is for the good of society, dear,” Mrs. Pettifer explained, smiling sweetly. “After all, no one is happy unless a witch is happy. Alleged witch. Goodness, where is the tea?” “Witches swindle,” Mrs. Rotunder said, digging her heels in metaphorically and, alas for the Pettifers’ expensive Oriental rug, literally also. Miss Plim directed her fork like a dagger toward the pirate lady. “We creatively encourage behavior. Pirates wreck lives.” “Witches interfere.” “Pirates—” “Witches—” They spoke over each other in an excess of indignation, although they actually said the same thing: “—are the lowest of all scoundrels!” The air seemed to ring with undrawn swords, unthrown vases. Captain Lightbourne spoke quickly before someone said or did something that brought war to London, or at least to the Pettifer drawing room. “It is true the two communities are not exactly simpatico—” Everyone stared at him in bewilderment. “Sympathetic,” he clarified. “Ah yes, Captain Lightbourne is half Italian,” Mrs. Rotunder said in the same way one explains that a person has fungal infections. “Mr. Pettifer is half French,” Mrs. Pettifer said, and the sigh she gave made everyone shift uncomfortably in their seats. Cecilia cleared her throat. “Ned is trying to say that, although our communities do not all agree on . . . well, anything, we nevertheless have something in common now.” “And what is that, pray tell?” Miss Plim asked, clearly offended by the very idea. “As you know, Beryl’s amulet has been stolen—” Cutlery crashed as Mrs. Pettifer and Miss Plim both grasped the table in horror. “Stolen?” they chorused. Cecilia, growing pale, stated the obvious: “You don’t know.” “We were attempting to feed orphans all day, but could not find the little blighters,” Miss Plim explained. “We have not been to the museum.” “The amulet was stolen by Lady Armitage,” Cecilia said. “No!” Constantinopla cried, flapping a handkerchief dramatically. “Lady Armitage stole Tom, who was holding the amulet.” “What? Why?” Mrs. Pettifer reeled from shock to confusion. Miss Plim ground what remained of her custard slice into a gritty puddle. “It would be bad enough any pirate running off with our amulet,” she said, “but Armitage embodies pure evil. Such power in her hands could prove catastrophic. She is the Wisteria Society’s responsibility—you must stop her!” The visitors looked grim. “That is true,” Ned agreed. “However, not only has Beryl’s amulet (along with Tom) been stolen. The difficulty we all share is that a male pirate has flown off with an alleged witch.” The sisters gasped. “No witch would keep company with a pirate,” Miss Plim averred. “Surely none would be so incautious, so careless of her reputation, and more than that, so dismissive of her family’s reputation,” Mrs. Pettifer agreed. “Your information must be wrong, Captain. I appreciate you don’t understand our society, since you are of the piratic inclination yourself. But I know of no witch, alleged or otherwise, who would do such a thing!” “It was your daughter.” Mrs. Pettifer would have swooned, but Miss Plim hastily muttered words from the incantation to keep her upright. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pettifer, bringing you such tidings,” Ned continued. “But several witnesses confirm Miss Pettifer entered the premises of Alexander O’Riley, an Irish pirate of ill-repute, and remained on board as it flew away.” “At least he is of ill-repute,” Mrs. Pettifer said weakly as she grasped for a cup of tea. Ned, frowning a little in confusion, glanced at Cecilia, who shrugged. But before he could speak further, Miss Plim cleared her throat with what was an attitude of either authority or obnoxiousness, depending on who heard it. “Clearly Charlotte has kidnapped Captain O’Riley and forced him to pursue the amulet.” “Not at all,” Mrs. Rotunder said tightly. “Clearly Captain O’Riley has kidnapped Miss Pettifer.” “She is too powerful to succumb to kidnapping.” “He is too rude to be kidnapped.” Cecilia frowned delicately. “Every indication points to Miss Pettifer having entered the house willingly, and we all know if Captain O’Riley did not want her there he’d have expelled her.” The two older ladies exchanged a look that would have been a skirmish had they possessed fewer manners (and less cumbersome clothing). Eventually, both blinked. “Someone kidnapped someone!” they insisted, their voices merging in reluctant alliance. “But—” Cecilia began. “An unmarried woman has absconded with a bachelor,” Mrs. Rotunder explained in the slow, carefully enunciated manner that seems desirous of promoting comprehension but suggests its listener is incapable of such a thing. “This has occurred in public view. Under ordinary circumstances, a marriage would be required. But clearly a pirate cannot marry a witch! Kidnapping is a far more palatable scenario.” “I concur,” Miss Plim said. “The idea of Charlotte marrying any—er, that man is not to be entertained!” “Well . . .” Mrs. Pettifer said, having been fortified by tea. “It actually might be entertaining.” She caught Miss Plim’s scowl in much the same way a person catches a primed grenade, and hastily added, “But of course it is entirely wrong. Abysmal. Insupportable. Even if the captain is a very handsome gentleman.” “Hmm,” Ned murmured, in lieu of mentioning all the other things Alex O’Riley was. “I have only met Miss Pettifer briefly,” Cecilia said. “But it seems to me she and Captain O’Riley would be well suited.” Her observation cast a chill over the gathered company. Even Woollery arriving with tea and cake reinforcements did not dispel the mood. Ned threw Cecilia an exceedingly married look. “Imagine if they wed,” Mrs. Rotunder said. “All the opportunities it would offer for goodwill between our two societies!” Everyone shuddered. “Charlotte must be retrieved,” Miss Plim declared, smacking her hand against the tea table, “before the perfectly lovely feud we have enjoyed these past two hundred years is ruined.” “Captain O’Riley must be censured,” Mrs. Rotunder added. “And also made to paint his windowsills, but that is perhaps less urgent.” “Furthermore, the amulet must be recovered from that ghastly Lady Armitage before she can make a mess with it,” Mrs. Pettifer said. “And Tom must be rescued!” Constantinopla cried—although by this time everyone had become occupied with teacups and slices of ginger cake, so her addition went unnoticed. Mrs. Rotunder sat forward in her seat, teacup held like a sacred object before her. “I understand that you, Miss Plim, are not the leader of a nonexistent league of alleged witches. In this non-capacity I assume you do not have the authority to speak for those others who are not in the hypothetical league?” “No,” Miss Plim agreed. Mrs. Rotunder nodded. “Excellent. As a member of the Wisteria Society, I am taking it upon myself, with no jurisdiction whatsoever, to approach you and suggest our two societies call a temporary truce, and combine forces in order to hunt down”—she paused at a startled look from Mrs. Pettifer—“er, I mean ascertain the location of the two fly-aways, and restore them to their proper spheres.” “And rescue Tom!” Constantinopla added vehemently. “Of course, dear,” Mrs. Rotunder said, smiling at her. She turned back to the adults. “And retrieve the amulet.” “A temporary truce in the interest of preserving the feud seems like a sensible idea,” Miss Plim said. “I would authorize it if I was in a position of power over a group of witches.” “I think I’m getting a headache,” Ned murmured to Cecilia. “Sh,” she whispered, trying not to smile, and they shared a glance that Miss Plim, happening to notice, felt go through her like sunshine. She grimaced with disgust. “And so we are agreed,” Mrs. Rotunder declared. “This is not a romance; it is a cautionary tale.” She chuckled in the tone of an interfering old woman, which is even more chilling than that of a pirate. “Parting those two shall be sweet, even if it causes them sorrow. I shall let the Society know our plan, and be in touch with you again regarding details. If we manage this truce carefully, it should lead to a swift return of hostilities.” She quaffed tea then stood, a ravaged cushion dropping down behind her. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on whose perspective you favor), Mrs. Pettifer was too distressed about Charlotte to notice. The pirate maven snapped her fingers at the others. “Tally ho!” The younger pirates rose to go. But after nods and murmured farewells, suddenly Mrs. Pettifer stepped forward and caught Cecilia’s arm. “Please,” she said, her voice almost quavering. “My Lottie is a fragile girl, tender of heart and sensitive of spirit. Will she be safe with this Captain O’Riley?” “I’m sure she will,” Cecilia said, discreetly putting away the dagger she had instinctively drawn. Out of kindness, she refrained from mentioning that perhaps Captain O’Riley was the one who should be cautious. Charlotte Pettifer had seemed fierce enough to overawe a pirate, no matter how big and scary he might be. “You needn’t worry,” Ned added with a smile that eased Mrs. Pettifer’s heart, despite his waistcoat. “I’ve known Alex O’Riley for years. He’s a blighter and a rogue, with no respect for any rule and no consideration of manners . . . indeed, he once robbed the Princess Royal while wearing nothing but a bathrobe . . . and when someone accused him of burning down three police stations in Ireland he threatened to shoot them because in fact it was four . . . then there’s his habit of—” “Ahem,” Cecilia interrupted quietly, having noticed the increasing pallor of Mrs. Pettifer’s face. “Er, yes, well.” Ned grimaced an apology. “That’s all to say he is ultimately a good man. Rest assured, madam. I am absolutely certain no harm will befall Miss Pettifer.”
Chapter 12