2 MISS PLIM DISAPPROVES—THE PAST AND THE FUTURE—A DULL TALE IN WHICH NOTHING UNUSUAL HAPPENED—NEWS!—AN ACROBATIC BUTLER—MORE NEWS!—THE RACE IS ON It is a truth seldom acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a good fortune is not especially in want of a husband. Miss Judith Plim, socially advantaged and possessing several fortunes (although legally they belonged to other people), had always felt a man would add nothing to her happiness. As she grew older and the world offered no opportunity for her to test this theory, she became so determined in it that she assumed the same must be true for any woman. “Just consider poor Hadassah Greig,” she said to her sister, Mrs. Pettifer, as they sipped tea at a lace-covered table in the Pettifer drawing room. “Marriage has ruined her health. Why, she’s only been a bride three weeks and is practically bedridden!” “Hm,” Mrs. Pettifer replied. She flicked over a page in the magazine she had open on her lap. Miss Plim eyed her narrowly through a small, round pair of spectacles. “Are you listening to me, Delphine?” “Of course not, dear.” Mrs. Pettifer held out her hand without looking up from the magazine and, with a low mutter, transported a biscuit from a nearby plate to her fingers. “But don’t let that stop you from going on.” Miss Plim pursed her lips in lieu of employing the witches’ incantation to propel Mrs. Pettifer out the nearest window. Magic was not to be used for fun. Miss Plim was very clear on that—so clear, indeed, that she had made it the unofficial motto of the Wicken League by dint of sheer nagging. She was a stickler. Not for anything in particular, per se—but, rather, for everything. If there was stickling to be done, Miss Plim was the woman for the job. And nothing called for stickling more than witchcraft. “What are you reading in that rag that could be more important than the willful self-ruin of independent women?” she demanded of her sister. “An account of the Belfast riots,” Mrs. Pettifer said. “Huh.” (This was, it must be said, an awfully brief statement on the Irish situation from a woman who had recently used witchcraft to campaign against “that atrocious liberal” Gladstone, driving him so to distraction by subtly moving the pencil tray on his desk and the potted fern on his windowsill that he actually proposed Home Rule for the Irish and got himself laughed out of office.) “Several people have been killed,” Mrs. Pettifer reported. “It’s quite shocking.” Miss Plim pecked irritably at her tea. “Something more shocking happened yesterday.” “Indeed?” Mrs. Pettifer flicked over another page. “You smiled at someone?” “No. I was in Twining’s and that Darlington woman walked in. She acknowledged me politely with a nod.” At this, Mrs. Pettifer finally looked up, her velvety eyes growing wide. “Not Miss Darlington, the pirate?” “Indeed,” Miss Plim intoned. “How atrocious! What did you do?” “Arranged for a canister of tea to fall on her head, of course. What else could I do?” “Nothing,” Mrs. Pettifer agreed. “And how did she respond?” “Brace yourself, sister.” “I am braced, sister. Tell me.” “She laughed!” Mrs. Pettifer, despite the bracing, gasped. “This never would have happened a few months ago,” Miss Plim said, shaking her head as she recollected the offensive scene. The knot of black hair upon her crown reverberated with an attitude of disapproval all its own. “Apparently the woman has got herself married to some man, and it’s caused her to develop a sense of humor.” These last three words were spoken as if they tasted of raw lemon rind. “Married, in her advanced years, and moreover when she is independently wealthy! Women should only became wives if they have nothing better to do. Granted, Darlington is a pirate, therefore prone to stupid behavior. But altogether this modern trend for romance is quite ridiculous.” “Hm,” Mrs. Pettifer said, trying not to glance at the dozen red roses her husband had given her yesterday. They stood in a vase just behind her older sister’s head, making the thin, gray-clad woman appear to be wreathed with folly. If only she knew how Mrs. Pettifer had expressed gratitude to Mr. Pettifer for those roses . . . All at once Mrs. Pettifer was obliged to repurpose the magazine as a fan. “I blame education,” Miss Plim was saying, oblivious to her sister’s blushes. “The female brain is weakened with all those ramblings from male philosophers and foolish examples from kings.” With a click of her tongue, she damned the entire compass of pedagogical arts, selected a tiny salmon sandwich from the tiered plate before her, then muttered a few words to engage the teapot in refilling her cup while she herself cut the sandwich into quarters. “At least our Charlotte seems established as an old maid.” “My Charlotte,” Mrs. Pettifer amended, since the girl in question was her daughter. “Don’t talk nonsense, Delphine.” Miss Plim lifted the sandwich to her lips then lowered it again with an expression of vague revulsion. “You know that, as the Prophesized One, Charlotte belongs to the entire Wicken League.” In other words, herself. She was after all, as its leader, the very embodiment of the League. (Or the archetype. Or whatever noun necessary to justify Charlotte being in her control.) Mrs. Pettifer gave a sigh as complex as her tightly curled coiffure. “Don’t mention that prophecy. I still maintain Lettice just wanted to predict smaller bustles and higher hemlines.” “Balderdash. I heard her—” “You dictated to her.” “—and she clearly said the true heir of Beryl Black would come, bringing in a new era of greatness. Then she pointed at you. Seven months later, Charlotte was born.” Mrs. Pettifer recalled the scene with distaste. It had quite ruined her wedding day. The fact Lettice had died later that night only served to further inspire general belief in her prediction—mostly because the League witches knew a warning not to ask questions when they saw one in the form of a knife having accidentally fallen into the back of an elderly woman while she slept. Then again, scandal would have erupted had Charlotte not been prophesized somehow. Witches disliked seeing people go about their lives in random fashion; it was altogether untidy. Why, only yesterday Mrs. Pettifer herself had been predicted by various cards, crystals, and passing clouds to spend the week playing tennis, buying that charming pink hat in Harrod’s, and alas, having afternoon tea with Judith. “Lettice could at least have waited until I was on my honeymoon to announce her prophecy,” she said with a bitter look at her sister. Miss Plim would have shrugged had that not been unladylike (and rather difficult to do when one’s posture is even stiffer than an Englishman’s upper lip). “There was no time to waste. Rumor had it Margaret Cuttle was about to pay a medium to predict her granddaughter was the One. Can you imagine anything so unscrupulous?” Mrs. Pettifer thought of Lettice’s body in its blood-soaked bed, and decided changing the subject was advisable. “If you feared Charlotte marrying,” she said, “why did you insist on her receiving such a thorough education?” “The risk was necessary. Even if she weren’t the Prophesized One, Charlotte is a Plim, and therefore needed to be educated with her heritage in mind.” Plim women had been witches for almost two hundred years, although this did not equate to a blood inheritance of magic. Their power came from a Latin incantation Beryl Black had found in an old sea-washed bottle while digging a grave for her husband on the island where he’d shipwrecked them. (He asked her what the bottle was; she told him to go back to sleep.) After Beryl realized the incantation could move any object, regardless of weight, she used it to fly a local’s hut back to England, where she shared her tale with the ladies in her book club. Thus the Wicken League was born. (And a subgroup of lesser importance, comprising ladies whose book club contributions had involved drinking too much wine and reading aloud lurid scenes from penny-dreadful novels; they degraded the art of witchery into the crude practice of flying houses and declared themselves the Wisteria Society. The Wicken League had another name for them, too impolite to record here.) One of the first witches was Andromeda Plim, who betrayed Beryl to the authorities arranged for her darling friend’s early retirement. Once Beryl was safely tried and hanged ensconced in the countryside, Andromeda took over her leadership role, and a Plim had ruled the League ever since. So it was an inheritance that involved blood, just not Plim blood. Charlotte’s role as the next leader could not be left in the soft hands of Mrs. Pettifer, who believed in such nonsense as “love” and “quality of life.” Miss Plim had instead installed a strict regime of intellectual advancement and psychological repression that would have left boarding school headmistresses weak at the knees. And the results had proven as excellent as her crystal ball predicted they would. At nine, Charlotte had poured a perfect cup of tea while sitting in a different room from the tea service. At nineteen, she had stolen the earrings from Princess Beatrice’s earlobes without anyone noticing. She was the apex of Plimmishness. Put a glass or plate down in front of her and she would be utterly incapable of not moving it, even by the merest part of an inch. One day she would take charge of the Wicken League, fulfilling the prophecy and allowing Miss Plim to retire—i.e., stay on ruling from behind the scenes until she was at last dragged away to her grave. “I should like to see Lottie happy,” Mrs. Pettifer said with another sigh. “You would,” Miss Plim muttered sourly. She reached for a new sandwich but withdrew her hand empty. “Caviar. Really, Delphine, what is with this nautical theme? Do you not have any good, sensible Marmite?” Just then came a banging of the front door, and footsteps hurried across the entrance hall. The ladies glimpsed a gray-clad figure dashing past the drawing room. “Charlotte?” Miss Plim called, her voice as sharp as a hook. “Is that you?” The momentary silence seemed to wince. “Charlotte,” Mrs. Pettifer repeated in a wistful maternal tone, which is far worse than sharpness, for it can be ignored only at the cost of crippling guilt. “Your aunt is visiting. Come and say hello.” A woman stepped into the doorway, bright-faced and breathing a little too fast for good manners. “My word!” Miss Plim ejaculated with astonishment. “You look as if you’ve emerged from a hurricane.” Charlotte touched the one loose strand of hair fallen from beneath her hat. The hat itself was tilted; a few creases marred her skirt. “I took an unfamiliar route home,” she explained, “and found myself rushing. Hello, Aunt Judith. Good afternoon, Mama.” “Won’t you join us for tea?” Mrs. Pettifer asked. Charlotte hesitated, and the ladies watched her blink as she tried to contrive a good excuse. But failing to do so, she came to sit at the table with that particularly exquisite graciousness, which screams reluctance. “What have you been up to?” her mother asked, passing her a teacup. “Up to?” The cup shook in Charlotte’s hand. She set it down firmly and smiled. “Nothing. That is to say, plodding along as normal, feet on the ground, quite boring, really.” “Did you go to St. James’s as you planned?” Miss Plim inquired. “Briefly,” Charlotte said—and then unaccountably flushed. “I mean, only for a moment. Just in and out. Saw no one special, talked to no one, please pass the milk.” Mrs. Pettifer eyed her daughter with concern as she incantated the small silver jug across the table. “Are you quite the thing, dear?” Charlotte smiled again. “Yes. Of course. How was your own morning?” “I have been busy planning tonight’s dinner party and making sure Cook ordered plenty of pumpkins for the soup Lady Montague especially loves.” Suddenly, Mrs. Pettifer and Miss Plim gasped in unison. Miss Plim dropped the sandwich she was about to not eat; Mrs. Pettifer laid a hand against her lace-swathed bosom. “Is something the matter?” Charlotte asked as she anxiously returned their stares. “I think you are the one to tell us that,” Miss Plim said. “Dear,” Mrs. Pettifer whispered, “you have just poured the milk into your cup—before the tea!” Charlotte looked into her cup and blanched. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “It has been a difficult—which is to say, a boring morning that has quite dulled my senses.” “Ahem.” The three ladies looked up to see the imperious form of Woollery, the Pettifer butler, possessing the doorway. “Miss Gloughenbury,” he announced. Miss Plim and Mrs. Pettifer exchanged a glance. Although neither spoke, the former’s pained smile and the latter’s leaping eyebrows provided eloquence enough. A middle-aged woman sailed past Woollery in a magnificence of lace, ruffles, stripes, and beads. She carried a small white poodle also dressed to within what would have been an inch of its life were it not actually dead and taxidermied. “Darlings, how lovely to see you,” the woman declared. Her voice was so cultured, every vowel had its own bustle and feathered hat. Her face was a rictus varnished with the sort of glossy health obtainable only from jars. The three ladies murmured in response. “Although I fear I cannot entirely see you with all this light.” She raised a gloved hand to shield her eyes. “How brave you are to keep your drawing room curtains open. Alas, my own complexion is too refined for me to risk doing such a thing.” “You do use adjectives in the most charmingly obverse way, Maud dear,” Miss Plim replied. “Darling! And you—” “Won’t you have this seat, Miss Gloughenbury?” Charlotte said, standing. “I must be getting on.” “Do stay,” Miss Gloughenbury said, and Charlotte was obliged to stop halfway to the door or else be rude. “You will want to hear what I have to tell your mother and aunt.” “Oh?” Charlotte smiled in mild inquiry. “Yes, I rushed here straight from St. James’s to share it!” “Why, Charlotte was on St. James’s Street just this very hour,” Mrs. Pettifer said delightedly. “Darling girl!” Miss Gloughenbury stretched her smile to show fretfulness. “How could you? I say, how ever could you do it?” “Um,” Charlotte said. “Surely everyone knows St. James’s Street is not the place for nice ladies after noon. Hm? Hm?” She looked about the company for agreement, although showed no actual interest in the results. “All those gentleman’s clubs corrupt the feminine soul.” “Nonsense,” Miss Plim interjected. In fact, she agreed about the unsuitability of St. James’s Street for lady pedestrians, but Miss Gloughenbury might have said Plims were equal to queens and she’d have declared it nonsense. The two ladies had been in dispute ever since attending a soiree in the same dress (that is, not together in the same dress, which would have represented a whole different kind of rivalry, but each in a copy of the other’s) and for the past several years had only refrained from maiming each other by instead using charities in a proxy war of spiteful generosity and benevolence. That it had inadvertently led to lives being saved, and each lady being awarded medals, was a consequence neither regarded, except to ensure their next donation was even more medal-worthy than the other’s had been. Miss Plim produced from a secret pocket a red-handled device from which she extracted a tiny broom and proceeded to sweep imaginary crumbs from the tea table. This both calmed her feelings and gave her an excuse not to look at Miss Gloughenbury. “I believe a modern, independent woman should go wherever she pleases,” she lied. “Including into the air?” Miss Gloughenbury asked. Miss Plim’s broom flicked a teaspoon from the table. “Well of course not that. One cannot condone piratic behavior.” “Exactly, darling. Which is why I came at once to tell you—” Suddenly Charlotte coughed. Miss Plim looked up in time to see a bronze statuette on the mantelpiece behind Miss Gloughenbury become liberated from its position and speed toward the lady’s head. Only a heroic dash by Woollery, who grabbed the statuette mid-flight, prevented the lady from being brained. “I do beg your pardon,” Charlotte said. “That’s all right, dear,” Mrs. Pettifer replied, smiling at her daughter. “Who amongst us hasn’t accidentally coughed the incantation?” “As I was saying,” Miss Gloughenbury continued, patting her dog peevishly. “I was on my way to the haberdashers to steal a new ribbon for Barker here when my passage was diverted by a terrible traffic accident on King Street. Pumpkins broken all over the road.” Mrs. Pettifer ejected from her chair in shock. “Egads, that is indeed terrible! Pumpkins? Are you certain?” “I’m sure even Miss Gloughenbury can identify pumpkins,” Miss Plim said, although the compliment was so tinged with doubt as to make it clearly, but deniably, an insult. Miss Gloughenbury deigned to ignore this. “I am afraid the news gets worse, Delphine. A rather formidable looking pirate chap could be seen nearby, talking to—” Again Charlotte coughed. Woollery rushed across the room and, thanks to a nimble leap, caught a large ornamental wreath that was wheeling from the wall toward Miss Gloughenbury’s back. “It seems you could do with a pastille, darling,” the lady murmured. “Forgive me, Miss Gloughenbury,” Charlotte replied. “Won’t you sit down and have some tea? Perhaps tell us where you bought that lovely hat?” “In a moment, dear, after I have finished sharing my news. Where was I?” “I cannot recall,” Miss Plim said, “but I have a suggestion as to where you might go.” Miss Gloughenbury’s smile tightened to such a degree there was some danger of her face snapping back in on itself. No doubt on the morrow several impoverished factory workers would have their rent paid for them and Miss Plim would be scrambling to devise an even more beneficent counterassault. “A pirate was talking to . . .” Mrs. Pettifer prompted. “Ah yes. Talking to a policeman, can you believe it? Apparently a bicycle had been stolen in the middle of the kerfuffle, and this pirate was being interviewed as a witness.” “Was he arrested?” Charlotte asked casually. “One can only hope, darling. But I have not yet told you the most shocking information of all! That bicycle took flight over the street, as seen by dozens of people, and being operated by none other than—” Charlotte cleared her throat, and immediately Woollery leaped onto a sofa behind Miss Gloughenbury, arms outstretched, to catch a plummeting lightshade before it connected forcibly with her head. “Really, Woollery,” Mrs. Pettifer murmured. “This is not the time to be doing housework. Please go at once to inform Cook about the ghastly pumpkin situation.” “Yes, madam,” Woollery said. Casting a stern glance at Charlotte, he departed the drawing room. “As I was saying,” the lady went on, “this aerobatic bicycle was ridden by none other than the notorious pirate Cecilia Bassingthwaite!” “Really?” Charlotte said with astonishment. “Why are you surprised?” Miss Plim asked. “I myself have not heard anything more believable lately. That woman is so scandalous, even the Wisteria Society fears her.” “I heard she stole one of their houses and crashed it,” Mrs. Pettifer said. “I heard she tried to kill the queen at the Jubilee Banquet,” Miss Gloughenbury added. “Well, even pirates have their good moments,” Miss Plim said, nudging her sandwich with a fork. “But she is still a reprehensible scoundrel. Charlotte, I hope you take Miss Bassingthwaite as an example of what never to be!” “Yes, Aunt Judith,” Charlotte said. Returning to the tea table, she sat down and smoothed the uncreased tablecloth. “I have never seen Miss Bassingthwaite before. What does she look like?” “I believe she is a redhead,” Miss Gloughenbury said. “That sounds typical for a pirate,” Miss Plim remarked. “No witch would possess such indecent hair.” “Charlotte has red hair,” Mrs. Pettifer pointed out. “Blonde,” Miss Plim corrected. “Strawberry blonde,” Mrs. Pettifer persisted. Miss Plim reached across the table to snatch the tumbled lock of Charlotte’s hair and hold it out, causing Charlotte to wince despite such a facial expression being uncouth. “Blonde. As the Prophesized One, Charlotte of course has entirely proper hair.” Mrs. Pettifer opened her mouth to argue further— “Ahem.” Everyone turned to see Woollery once again at the door. “Mrs. Chuke,” he announced. “Darlings!” A woman strode into the room, her orange silk bustle nearly knocking down Woollery in the process. “I have the most astonishing news!” Charlotte sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Listen to this!” Mrs. Chuke commanded so loudly, even the neighbors could have listened were they at home. “I was just in St. James’s and heard all about it!” A vase began to lift from the mantlepiece, its cargo of flowers trembling. “The British Museum has opened an exhibition on Beryl Black!” The vase dropped back down with a clink. The assembled ladies murmured excitedly amongst themselves. “But wait, there’s more! Dearlove!” Mrs. Chuke snapped her fingers, and her maid, a pallid young woman with plain brown hair and a plain brown dress, hurried through the doorway, trying to walk and curtsy at the same time. Mrs. Chuke snatched a brochure from her hand and she stepped back, blending in with the furniture. “ ‘For a limited time only!’ ” Mrs. Chuke read aloud from the brochure. “ ‘Visit now and see the mysterious amulet once belonging to Beryl Black!’ ” “Mysterious amulet?” Mrs. Pettifer echoed with gratifying excitement. “It was only recently discovered,” Mrs. Chuke explained. “Apparently it is etched with Strange Markings of an Accidental Nature.” Miss Dearlove hurried forward again and whispered in her mistress’s ear. “Occidental Nature,” Mrs. Chuke said. She waved the brochure at them, but when Miss Gloughenbury went to take it, whipped it away behind her back. “I do believe this may be the pendant Beryl made by melting down the bottle in which she found the incantation. It disappeared the night she left for her retirement in the countryside.” Miss Plim and Mrs. Pettifer exchanged a glance. They knew Andromeda Plim had stolen that pendant from Beryl, then promptly lost it by being so foolish as to put it in a safe place where no one could find it—including, as it turned out, her. “If it is,” Mrs. Chuke continued, “then this is a tremendous discovery. After all, the original bottle had the spell inside it and the great power of the sea surrounding it, was molten in fire, and then cooled in a setting of gold. I’ve heard it said the power of those forces combined was such that a person wielding the amulet could pull pirate houses out of the sky, uproot forests, even summon buildings from a distance.” “It’s just a myth,” Charlotte said. “It’s in the British Museum,” Mrs. Chuke countered, flapping the brochure. Never before had a moment of silence sounded so loud. “Imagine being able to weed one’s yard without effort,” Miss Gloughenbury said dreamily. “Or bring a bank to oneself,” Mrs. Pettifer said with a smile. “Grand larceny from the convenience of one’s own doorstep!” “Imagine being the downfall of those revolting Wisteria Society ladies—literally!” Miss Plim added through a mouthful of oyster savory. Everyone sighed. “The museum’s Grenville Library has been remodeled for the special purpose,” Mrs. Chuke reported, “and extraordinary security measures are in place.” The ladies laughed. Even Woollery smirked. “Well, now.” Miss Gloughenbury tucked her taxidermied dog under her arm so as to more easily straighten her gloves. “This has been lovely, darlings, but I must be on my way. I’ve suddenly recollected another engagement I have with my—er, my hat maker.” Miss Plim pushed back her chair and rose. “I too must go. Thank you for tea, Delphine, but I have an urgent dentist appointment that quite slipped my mind.” The two ladies raced each other to the door as fast as decorum and heavy dresses would allow. “Heavens, is that the time?” Mrs. Pettifer said, although there was no clock in the room for her to have consulted. She rose, shedding biscuit crumbs from her flounced skirt. “Excuse me, Mrs. Chuke, but I—er, I have to see a woman about a pumpkin.” “Not at all,” Mrs. Chuke replied, backing from the room even as she spoke. “I only called in to share the information, and now must hurry along myself before, before . . .” She blinked at the window as if seeking inspiration. “Yes, before night falls.” With a swish of skirts and a clatter of heels, the ladies departed, and a moment later could be seen hastening along the street behind Misses Gloughenbury and Plim toward Bloomsbury, where in addition to the British Museum there was no doubt a dentist, a pumpkin supplier, a hatter, and several more hours of daylight. Charlotte sat for a moment in thoughtful stillness, then leaned back in her chair, propped her feet up on another chair, and selected a custard tart from the tea table. “Will madam be staying at home this afternoon?” Woollery asked from the doorway. They exchanged a look. Neither smiled, although only at the cost of some effort. “I believe I might go out in a short while,” Charlotte said. “Can I bring you anything for your purpose?” “Yes, please. Tell Bagshot I need a new purse. And you might bring me my black embroidered boots, a parasol, three screwdrivers of assorted widths, and a gun.” “Pistol or rifle, madam?” “Pistol, please. I have a feeling things are going to become rather piratic.” “How exciting, madam,” Woollery said without intonation. “I hope so, Woollery, for I dearly love a laugh.” And taking a small bite of custard tart, Charlotte frowned pleasantly into the middle distance.
Chapter 5