Page 1 of Claiming the Tower
Chapter 1
April 7th, 1854 in London
Hereswith had expected the knock on her door. Marcus followed it immediately with an amiable “Nearly ready?” He was precisely on time, of course, or rather five minutes to the hour.
Mary, currently acting as her lady’s maid, had just finished with her hair. Only the finishing touches of the jewellery and a charm or two to keep everything in place remained. “Come in, Marcus, don’t hover.”
Though he was her partner in the particular diplomatic dance they were about to undertake, Marcus had no desire to see her in any state other than fully dressed. She had no desire to be seen that way either. “Thank you, Mary. Just the last few pieces, and you can go back home.”
Home was an entirely different house. Hereswith’s home was just outside Bath, thankfully with its own portal. Marcus had a flat in Trellech with his partner, William. Their relationship was not only illegal in non-magical England but also would have seen him shunned by everyone they needed to charm.
In contrast, Hereswith was obligated to be attached to some man to have any chance of engaging with people on a diplomatic level. To everyone outside of Albion— those with magic in Britain— Marcus was a confirmed bachelor. That much was true enough. Hereswith was his spinster cousin, who kept house for him and acted as hostess for various diplomatic teas, suppers, and social occasions.
They nominally resided at this townhouse a street away from Bedford Square. Certainly, they were both here enough to keep up the illusion of living in the house. But in reality, they spent their time either in their offices in Trellech’s Ministry Quarter or at their respective homes. The location of the home made it easy to go through a covered passage to the portal nearby.
Mary now bobbed as Marcus opened the door and came in. He smiled. “One thing I appreciate about you is that you’re always right on time.” His previous partner in this manner hadn’t been. A lovely woman, though she’d actually married about ten years ago. She’d given up the dual life required for this sort of task. “Remind me who Monsieur Durand is again?”
“There are two. Alcuin Durand is the older brother, by ten years. Nearer your age than mine.” Marcus had six years on her, at forty-three to her thirty-seven. “Bastien is the younger, two years younger than I am. Both have been visiting the French Embassy since the twenty-eighth.” She naturally fell into the French cadence for that. “Penworthy suspects they have ulterior motives, but it’s not clear what. It might just be the ordinary sort of desire to profit from war. The family business involves wine, but also other materials, unspecified.”
The supper tonight was all about war, not that that could show. On the surface, it was supper and a theatre production. They’d have a select group of attendees from the French embassy, or rather the men and their wives. That was about demonstrating the friendship between France and England, as they were now engaged in a war on the same side. With another Napoleon in the mix, to boot.
Hereswith was too young to remember anything of the Napoleonic wars or even the immediate aftermath. Waterloo had been two years before she was born, after all. But anyone a generation older than she was certainly had a number of opinions about the French that did not suit the needs of the current moment. It was one reason she and Marcus were taking the lead on this bit of diplomacy; they were better able to do it with the requisite smile and charm.
It was, in fact, their job to be charming, and with any luck convey or gather information useful for the larger diplomatic dance. Tonight would not likely be any spectacular moment, but the small actions added up to larger ones. Balancing it all was tricky, but it was a sort of trick that Hereswith found endlessly engaging.
Marcus grimaced. “I do prefer it when we can get adequate information in advance. That’s not in the briefing.” Marcus pulled up the bench beside the dressing table. He looked exceedingly well in his evening dress, and he knew it.
“No, it comes from the tea I was at yesterday. Abysmal actual tea, though the petits fours were excellent.” That was as expected for tea with one of the women from the French embassy side. They offered tea, to be friendly to their British hosts. “Madame Reneau was actually surprisingly informative.”
“So, she has ulterior motives as well. Any idea what?” Marcus had a gift for threading through different considerations and bringing together people in the right moment for new movement. He, mind, was entirely clear how much he relied on the range of information Hereswith could gather.
“In her case, she’d love to marry her middle daughter to Bastien.” Hereswith refrained from commenting on what she thought of the idea. Madeleine had blushed and demurred at the tea. Bastien Durand was handsome, but had a somewhat less than savoury reputation. Money did not make up for the fact that one would have to be married to him, in Hereswith’s view. There were a number of reasons she was a spinster, but that particular problem, the question of control, was the primary one.
“Well.” Marcus waited a moment while Mary fastened the talismanic necklace around Hereswith’s throat. It would help ensure she spoke well and clearly. “Shall we go down?”
Hereswith stood, feeling the layers of petticoats and the crinoline settle into place, the weight onto her hips. They went down with plenty of time before their guests arrived. Each was greeted, and since both she and Marcus were fluent in French, the conversation flowed comfortably. Over the years, they’d perfected this. Marcus would pour on the charm. Hereswith would be quieter, but make each guest feel like they were at the centre of something special. It loosened tongues just enough.
They hosted once or twice a month, in the ordinary way of things, and accepted two or three invitations elsewhere. Marcus put in an appearance several days a week in the Foreign Service, while Hereswith did a great deal of the behind the scenes paperwork in Albion’s Ministry. With other people, that might have felt frustrating, but Marcus made sure she got just as much credit as he did. He was effusive, in fact, about the reality that their gatherings would not go nearly as well with someone else.
The meal was excellent, of course. The Ministry Beyond the Borders kept several chefs on retainer for this sort of event, and tonight’s was at the top of his form. Their guests— all of them with refined palates and used to French food— commented pleasantly on the quality of the cooking. Hereswith accepted the comments with gratitude. She made a mental note of them, of course, to pass along. Credit where credit was due.
Once supper was done, they were off in a procession of carriages to the theatre. The current play at the Adelphi had opened on March twentieth, so the actors and actresses were settled into their roles. Hereswith thought the subject matter somewhat baffling to the French guests; “Two Loves and a Life” was a retelling of the Duke of Cumberland’s quelling of the Jacobite rebellion at Culloden.
Being of Albion, she had rather less in the way of personal opinions about British history after 1484, except as it applied to current diplomatic concerns. On the other hand, history, and other people’s feelings about it, was relevant to quite a lot. Here, there was no need to soothe egos about that.
Naturally, they’d not have chosen this play if the evening had been about the internal building of coalitions within Britain. One never quite knew when there was some Scottish ancestor lurking in someone’s background, at least not without the sort of extensive research too many in their role ignored. And of course, one had to choose from the plays currently being performed, a finite list.
However, the acting was quite good, and the scenes themselves were vigorously portrayed. The energy and quality of the acting carried the night. Not one of Tom Taylor’s best plays, but certainly a pleasant evening.
Once they had returned to the house— rather later than Hereswith had been hoping— Marcus handed her down from the carriage. They walked in together, because of course the neighbours would notice if they didn’t. However, Marcus immediately opened the door that led to the back conservatory and the illusion-shielded covered walkway that went along the garden wall. On the far end, a warded door led into the back garden shared by several magical homes that included access to the portal.
“You’re in Trellech Monday, yes? If anyone calls, what do you want me to say?” Marcus spoke quietly out of habit and trained caution.
“That I’m visiting cousin Alice, as usual, there through to Tuesday week. Send me a note, if there’s anything unusual in the way of calling cards? You were planning on going to church on Sunday, yes?” Hereswith knew the had to make a visible show of that. Not turning up at the local parish was exactly the sort of thing that drew the wrong sort of attention.
Hereswith did at least appreciate both the liturgy and protocol of a Church of England service, and the music was usually quite well done. On the other hand, it meant she could only have a leisurely Sunday at home when she made it visible she was away from London. This week, she’d set the groundwork both in a handful of calls in the previous days, and a bit of making sure the household maid and housekeeper gossiped appropriately. Fortunately, they both found that sort of thing enjoyable, helping keep up the show of things.
“I was. Flowery language at the ready about how good it is that you can get a little time in the fresh country air. Even if I’ve no idea how to manage without you. I expect several invitations to luncheon which I will politely decline.”
