December 1809 - October 1810
Childermass was in the library taking breakfast the next morning when Lucas came in with the post: two invitations and two letters for Norrell, and a letter each for Drawlight (who was very happy to have his "friends" believe him a permanent fixture at Hanover-square) and Strange, neither of whom had yet to appear so early in the day.
"And," Lucas said softly, almost nervously, "there is one for you, Childermass."
He frowned, looking up from his newspaper. "One what?"
As answer, Lucas held out a letter written on fine paper, the handwriting narrow and small and neat. It was uncommon, but not unheard-of for Childermass to receive letters directly in regard to Norrell's business; but his name was written there in what was quite clearly a woman's hand.
He frowned and took it from the young footman; the thing even smelled of rosewater.
He moved to open it, but Lucas was standing there still, watching him. "Was there something else?" he growled, as though he received perfumed letters every day; in truth, he could not think of a time such a thing had happened before, and the boy had some right to curiosity. But he was young and ambitious, and would never risk Childermass' ire without a very good reason—he practically scampered away.
He opened the letter, eyes skipping to the bottom—and then the back—of the page, to find that it was signed, "Yours, Georgiana Erquistoune."
He grunted in surprise, and took a bite of his toast. The letter itself was a bizarre enough occurrence; that it had come from a woman he had scarcely met the day before made no sense whatsoever.
And yet, that it had come from the bizarre Miss Ana Erquistoune made a strange sort of sense all its own.
He finished off his toast, poured a fresh cup of coffee, and settled in to read.
My dear Mr. Childermass, it began.
Meeting you was a unique pleasure; yet I fear I may have presented myself unfavourably to you. I have no desire to seem a threat to you nor any of the household. Indeed, you seem to be the sort of person whose loyalty and—dare I say—friendship would be invaluable.
In Edinburgh, it is rumored that Mr. Norrell's house is filled with wonderful, impossible things. I cannot begin to guess at the treasures buried within his books—indeed, I firmly believe he would have cursed me on the spot if I were to breathe too heavily in their direction—but of all I saw, the most remarkable was you.
I do wonder at your cards; they appeared handmade. Did you make them yourself? You clearly read them with a great deal of certainty (at least, as much as one can) if a single card was enough to tell you what to expect of me. That tells of a great deal of both practice and knowledge; and, if I were to have had any questions as to your cleverness, would have answered them quite succinctly.
I assure you, I had no such questions.
My cousin swears that he and Mr. Norrell are the only two practicing magicians in England, and when I pressed him, he swore it again. I made no mention of what I saw, but I know it for what it was. For all your dark clothing and demeanor, no man can pass into shadow so completely. That it had little effect on me was no fault of your own; it was a well-executed spell, and one, I imagine, you have utilized with great success before. But if there are naught but the two magicians, what does that make you?
I do hope you will forgive my impertinence. My mother always says women must not feel such curiosity as that which consumes me; but I fear I lack the ability to deny that of myself. Either way, you have your questions, and I have mine.
As such, I would like to propose a trade of information. There are things about myself I cannot tell you, but what I can I will, gladly, if my own curiosity might be satisfied in return. You are a person I should very much like to know.
Yours,
Georgiana Erquistoune.
Childermass read the letter a second time, finished off his coffee, and then folded the paper back up and tucked it away into his pocket. Then he sighed, and stood, and went about his duties.
The letters Norrell received needed replies; a notice from a bookstore in Bradfordshire about another copy of Lanchester (yes, of course they would take it), an inquiry from the ministers (no, but the beacons would be ready soon, one cannot rush good magic), and the two invitations to soirees (yes to Lady Deckebach, heartfelt regret to Lady Radcliffe). When those were finished, he'd had every intention of retiring upstairs, to the room he'd been given for the execution of his business; but by then, Lascelles and Drawlight had arrived, and he was loath to leave his employer alone in their company when he could avoid it. So he found things to do around the library, even did some of his own reading, until the gentlemen left that evening in Norrell's company, away to a dinner at some genteel man or woman's house.
Finally, he ascended the stairs to the second floor and entered his room and sat down at the desk. For all his attempts at making himself busy, he had not yet been able to get Miss Erquistoune nor her letter out of his mind. He took it from his pocket and laid it open upon his desk, then withdrew his full deck of cards.
The letter had certainly been in her possession for only a short amount of time, and as such would make a rather poor handsel. But, apart from having the woman herself sat before him, he could think of nothing better (and he rather doubted his ability to convince her to sit for such a reading). So he shuffled his deck, rested it atop the letter, and laid out nine cards all in a line.
The first three told him of her past, though why her life should lead with the nameless card, he could not fathom; how could a life begin with death? This was followed by Le Pendu, and then La Force: a sacrifice, which led to strength? What had she given up, in exchange for her strange magic?
Somehow the reading of her origins only supplied him with more questions, so he turned his attentions instead to her present. Here she led with La Papesse, a life lived in pursuit of knowledge and wisdom. But it also contained Tempérance reversed, followed by La Justice; she sought balance in her life, despite her own conflicting desires.
This much he could more or less have acquired from the letter, but he took comfort in the knowledge that there was nothing he had not expected; she was making no attempts to mislead him, or the cards would have let him know. So he turned his attention, instead, to her future: Le Bateleur, L'Amoureux, and L'Impératrice—the magician, the lovers, and the empress.
He stared down at the full spread of her cards, wondering at the story of Miss Erquistoune. How had she come to be? What was she going to become?
He sighed, shook his head, and shuffled the cards back into the deck. There wasn't enough of her in the letter. He would have to try again with something stronger; but until then, he would have to learn more of her the slow way.
He set out a blank sheet of paper, and began to write.
A part of her had not expected him to respond at all. To say that she was surprised to find a letter in his (unexpectedly neat) handwriting among the Strange's mail, a mere two days after she had sent hers—three days after they had met—was a severe understatement.
Mr. Childermass was, quite evidently, full of surprises.
She hid the paper in her skirts as she gave Jonathan and Arabella their mail, then excused herself to her room and tore it open.
Miss Erquistoune, it began.
Rest assured, whatever my current impression of you, it is not unfavourable. I have given thought to the answers you gave to my harsh questions that day in the library, and I must ask again for your forgiveness. You have made a great sacrifice, and in my ignorance I insulted and hurt you for it. I will endeavour not to do so again.
You have asked your questions, and I shall answer as best I can. My cards are copies of a set owned by a sailor I met in Whitby. He could not read them. I did the job tolerably, so he let me borrow them, that I might draw them out to the best of my ability. My deck has been with me for many years now, and as such I am nearly as familiar with them as they are with me. Whatever skill you think is mine, it is the cards themselves that possess magic, not I.
Equally so, what you saw that day was a spell of Norrell's, taught me long ago. It has certainly proven useful to me a time or two before, but it is not mine own. There are naught but the two magicians in England.
And yet, I have seen enough of magic to recognize its presence in you. You say your magic is not English—that is evident enough—and that you will not tell me what it is. Might I ask, at least, from where it comes? Your parents were African, or so I presume: is it theirs? Yet, if you were adopted and lived in Scotland, how could you have learned it? And what happened to your parents, that such an arrangement was necessary?
I have many more questions, but will restrict myself to these for now, with one addition: just how did you manage to see through my spell?
Because you expressed an interest, I will admit that I have few in my acquaintance whom I should consider to be friends. If you wish to count yourself among their number, I would hardly recommend it, but neither would I stop you.
Yours,
John Childermass
My dear Mr. Childermass,
I should like to be honest with you: I find it remarkable, how assured you Englishmen are that your lands and magic are superior to any others. There is far more to this world than the conjurings of your Mr. Norrell, and yet all declare him to be the 'Greatest Magician of the Age'.
No, sir; my magic is decidedly not English. Nor do I believe it could ever be ascribed to any one nationality. That is not how the world works—except, it seems, in England.
I suppose that is the influence of your John Uskglass—to have carved out the heart of this land, and moulded it into something distinct, something the world, in all its ways, had never seen before. Or, perhaps, the true secret to 'English magic' is simply to lay claim to that which already exists, and then to call it your own. I admit, I do not know for certain.
My magic is its own, distinct, but not at my doing. It has always been, and I am merely the latest to play host to it.
In regard to your own magic, and to the spell you cast, make no mistake, sir: I did not 'see through' it. Rather, I merely felt the influence of magic being cast, which was, apparently, coming from a suspiciously man-shaped shadow against the hedge. In short, the very action of concealing yourself told me that something was being concealed. And so, the question must be asked: how did you know that I was coming? You were certainly lying in wait for something; and the manner in which I was addressed confirmed my suspicion that that something was myself. Yet I know that I was casting no magic at the time. Is it your habit to lurk outside of your employer's house, keeping watch for any suspicious persons? And if not, how could you possibly have known I was coming, when even Jonathan did not?
My cousin does not know what I can do. Indeed, until his revelation, none of my family have known anything of magic, mine nor otherwise.
I shall warn you now, my story is not a happy one at first, though I am satisfied with how it has developed. My mother died in childbirth; the man I call father delivered me and, at the absence of any other family, took me home to his own.
I know nothing of the man that caused me to come into being, though the redness of my hair, I fear, does little to suggest that my parents' union was either an happy or consenting one.
Either way, Dr. Erquistoune has done the job quite admirably, though I have given him more than a little grief on many occasions. I fear Mrs. Erquistoune has suffered more, out of my sharp disinterest for all things she considers requirements to proper ladyhood.
I shudder to think what she would say to our continued correspondence, sir; but I admit, I was well glad to receive your reply. For all their soirées and dinners, the Stranges have been unable to put me in contact with any whom I should like to call friend in London. Certainly, no one with whom I should care to speak so openly.
Thus, now that I have insulted your land and culture, and revealed the sad truth of my origins, I think I should quit before I give you any additional reasons to cease responding to me. Let me pose my last questions, and then I shall let you be done with me.
You mentioned the sailor in Whitby, and I wonder: were you yourself a sailor? You certainly have the build and stance, I should think, though I have had few opportunities to meet such people in my lifetime.
I also am curious—now that you have made me homesick for Edinburgh and my parents and sisters—do you have any family yourself? I have heard that you came with Norrell from Yorkshire, and your accent certainly supports that claim. Were you made to leave many loved ones behind when you came to London?
I have never before been so far from mine. It is a wretched feeling, and I hope, for your sake, that it is not one we share.
Your friend,
Georgiana Erquistoune.
Miss Erquistoune,
I think you give your opinion upon the Raven King very decidedly, for a woman who claims to care so little for English magic.
I am not in the habit of spreading secrets, and by bird and by book I swear that yours are safe with me. Yet neither am I in the habit of sharing mine own, so if I seem hesitant to join you in your openness, it is merely because I lack the experience of doing so. For the sake of being your only apparent friend in London (a fate I would not wish upon anyone, and certainly not upon a clever, magically-talented, and unmarried young woman of good name), I shall try.
I may lurk, at times, if it is my desire. But no, I do not make it a habit. I felt you coming in much the same way, I should suspect, as you felt me. You say you were not actively doing magic, and I believe you; but do you truly not know that your very person emanates it? I felt you coming before your cab was on the street. If you had been casting, I fear you could have done me some harm.
I had several occupations before coming into Mr. Norrell's service. A very long time ago now, I joined the navy. The lifestyle agreed with me, though the sea did not. But I learned the ropes, and saw more of the world than I had opportunity to otherwise, and then moved on when it ceased to suit me.
I have nothing like what you would consider to be family. I have never known any siblings, though it is possible they exist. My mother, too, was black, though my skin is lighter than yours. I never knew my father. In York, all bastards are said to be the Raven King's, and Joan never told me any different, though I was never so naive as to believe her.
Still, I am not so alone as I must seem to you. The other servants, both here and at Hurtfew, could be called family to me. All of them were hired by myself, and my cards and I are a careful judge of character. My people are the best there are, and I am glad of them. I do not envy the distance that separates you from yours.
John Childermass
Mr. Childermass,
On the contrary, sir, I know even less of English magic than you appear to assume. But I am well versed in English men, or at least the wicked and cruel ways in which they exert their will upon the world. Perhaps Uskglass was enough Faerie to be different, but I am inclined to imagine him just as predictable as any other.
I did not realize that you could sense my magic so strongly. I assure you, no one else can. But I shall endeavour to restrain myself, for your sake.
Yours,
Georgiana
Miss Erquistoune,
And, as an Englishman, do you find me to be predictable, madam?
I would greatly appreciate such a kindness. You are most distracting, whenever I have cause to visit Soho-square.
John Childermass
Indeed, sir, I find you the furthest thing from it.
Georgiana
Against her expectations, Childermass continued to write her. By the tone of his letters, it surprised him, too. He did not share her promptness, of course; while her replies were posted within a day or two of receipt, she could usually anticipate hearing back from him in two or three weeks.
And yet, in July, she left the oppressive London heat to visit her parents and sisters in Edinburgh and was gone for more than a month. The day after she returned to the Stranges' house at Soho-square, two letters came from him, as though he'd been holding them while she was away.
She was grateful for that—there was nothing incriminating nor outrageous in any of their correspondence, but the very act of her staying in regular contact with a man and servant was well within the realm of scandal. She would prefer if the Stranges continued to know nothing of it—and so, it seemed, would he.
