Candlelight Wish Read online

  “Then we shall make a covenant.” Xanthe held out her hands and a flickering flame sprang to life between them.

  Phoebe gasped. “How—” then added under her breath in a voice of bemused comprehension, “A fairy godmother.”

  “You will become accustomed to the idea, my dearest child. Take the flame.”

  Phoebe reached out hesitant hands and the fire seemed to fly through the intervening air to settle between her fingers. No heat burned her but her palms tingled. Through it, haloed by the light, she could see Lady Xanthe’s smiling face.

  “Do you swear to make the most of the opportunity I offer? Do you undertake to accept an offer of marriage before the end of the Season?”

  Without giving herself time for further reflection, Phoebe took the plunge. “I swear,” she breathed.

  The ball of flame exploded in a soundless burst of glittering light. Phoebe watched the myriad particles settle toward the carpet but they vanished before reaching it. Uncertainly she reached down but her questing fingers encountered nothing.

  “There, it is settled,” Lady Xanthe told her. “You will accompany me to London for the Season.”

  “London,” Phoebe breathed. For a moment, her thoughts drifted from the magical flame she had just seen, flying to balls and ridottos, al fresco breakfasts and musical soirées, all the events about which her pupils dreamed but in which she’d always known she could never take part. And, like every other young lady, she hoped to meet someone she could esteem, perhaps even love… The prospect both thrilled and frightened her. Somewhere in London lay a secure and happy future for her—and for Thomas as well. She only had to find and claim it.

  So easy to say, so difficult to do…

  She squared her shoulders. “When do we leave?”

  “At once. We shall spend tonight at the York Hotel then the next on the road and arrive in Half Moon Street by the following evening.”

  “I must still finish my packing,” Phoebe warned.

  A reprehensible dimple appeared in Lady Xanthe’s left cheek. “I am afraid I have taken the liberty of finishing it for you. You will find your trunk corded and already strapped to the back of my carriage, and your furniture ready for the carter to collect.”

  Phoebe blinked. “Being a fairy godmother would seem to have a few advantages.”

  “Yes.” The mischievous smile flashed. “I have always thought so. It can make everything so very simple.”

  Simple. Magic is simple? Leaping from complete disaster to the chance of her lifetime was simple? Finding someone to marry—to love—was simple?

  Excitement bubbled within her which required a serious effort to keep in check. It didn’t seem possible. It couldn’t be possible. Only an hour or so ago she’d been regretting that fairy godmothers didn’t really exist. And now here before her sat a very real one, answering her wish. She became aware of a soft humming and realized the sweet melody came from Xanthe.

  The woman smiled at her, continued for a moment longer then abruptly broke off. “We might as well be off. Would you care for a quarter of an hour or so to say goodbye to those with whom you have grown close?” The dimple peeped out again. “And one or two of your pupils might be interested to know where you are bound. Oh and do you care for your pearls?”

  “My—” Phoebe’s hand groped at her throat and encountered a cool strand of smooth round beads that had not been there a moment before. With fumbling fingers she found the catch and held the creamy necklace before her, staring at it in disbelief.

  “They will vanish when your wish is complete, I fear. But you may enjoy them until then. And now run and make your farewells. I will await you in the carriage.” She rose.

  Hastily Phoebe came to her feet as well, still clutching the pearls. Words, all inadequate to the occasion, raced through her mind, utterly failing to find voice.

  Lady Xanthe leaned forward and planted a whispery kiss on her cheek. Then she stood back, humming softly, a different tune this time, as an iridescent glow surrounded her. It grew until it extended a good three feet from her then burst in a cascade of shimmering particles that evaporated before they hit the floor.

  Lady Xanthe had vanished.

  But the soft humming lingered for several moments longer, wrapping about Phoebe like an inexplicable joy.

  And something else remained, something that glinted on the carpet where Xanthe had staged her impressive exit, something shiny that caught and glittered in a ray of sunlight that filtered through the window. Phoebe stooped and picked up a round feather, about two inches in diameter, almost transparent except for a slight iridescence and a golden tip. She turned it between her fingers.

  A fairy godmother. Lady Xanthe really was a fairy godmother. And she would grant Phoebe’s dearest wish. Tomorrow she would really set forth for London, really experience the wonders of the social Season and—perhaps—receive the offer of marriage that would ensure both her security and happiness. With a mischievous smile of her own she set off to bid a fond goodbye to Annie and Henry and to inform Miss Georgeana Middleton—and possibly Lady Jane as well—of her destination.

  * * * * *

  After a night of surprisingly restful sleep at the York Hotel, they set forth at a comfortably advanced hour of the morning. To her delight, traveling with a fairy godmother proved unlike anything she had experienced before. For one thing, the drive never had a chance to become tedious. Xanthe would begin to hum and suddenly the grass on the verge might turn a bright scarlet or the cows in a pasture might sport chip straw bonnets or the branches of a tree might fill with marigolds or fans or whatever whimsy took the mischievous fairy’s fancy. Once a flock of blackbirds on the wing diverted their route to perform an amazing display of aerial acrobatics just beside their carriage. Another time a pair of doves, their feathers gleaming white, landed on the open window and appeared to carry on a conversation with Xanthe.

  And then there was Titus. The huge white cat spent most of the journey curled on a deep purple cushion placed just for his use on the facing seat. Xanthe addressed frequent comments to him to which the cat uttered a series of sounds or merely twitched the end of his tail. That they understood one another perfectly, Phoebe had not a single doubt. She watched their interchanges in fascination and deemed herself favored when, after a stop to change horses, the giant feline deigned to spread his considerable bulk in her lap.

  Xanthe watched with smiling approval. “He likes you,” she said.

  “I’m honored.” And Phoebe found she actually meant it.

  Titus looked up at her, the cool green of his eyes assessing, considering. He blinked in slow motion, yawned and went to sleep.

  Their nuncheon proved an event to remember. No stopping at coaching inns for Xanthe. As soon as Phoebe began to grow hungry, her godmother ordered the carriage to pull off the road at a place where a meadow with an imposing old oak stretched off to one side. Xanthe hummed a lively tune and a table, laid with linen, china and silver, appeared beneath the tree.

  Liveried footmen in powdered wigs opened the door and handed them to their places. Others presented them with delicate wines and a series of covered dishes that revealed new potatoes in a cream and herb sauce, minted peas and slivers of something that might have been a savory roast duckling, except that Xanthe shunned the eating of what she termed her “fellow creatures”. Fresh raspberries—still out of season but for Xanthe perfectly ripe—and chilled champagne made up the final course and Phoebe returned to the carriage feeling as content and sleepy as Titus.

  “You are spoiling me,” she told Xanthe as they settled once more on the velvet cushions of the well-sprung traveling coach.

  Her fairy godmother beamed at her. “I always feel one should be allowed to enjoy magic when one has the chance. It comes into most people’s lives so seldom.”

  And Phoebe could only be grateful it had come into hers at all.

  They broke their journey at an amazingly comfortable inn and rose at an hour that Phoebe, inured to the har
dships of an instructress, considered sinfully decadent. Fresh rolls hot from the oven, honey, sliced fruit and tea comprised their breakfast. As they emerged out of doors at last to resume their journey, lowering clouds met them and a chill drizzle threatened to make travel unpleasant. The innkeeper himself placed hot bricks at their feet—bricks, Phoebe realized about an hour later, that remained toasty hot.

  The drizzle all too soon turned to rain. At least it turned to rain everywhere except in the immediate vicinity of the moving carriage. There the drops turned to flowers, tiny snowdrops, bluebells, daisies and a score of other blossoms Phoebe couldn’t quite make out. She turned to peer out the window behind them only to see nothing but the muddy road.

  The weather—and the flowers—finally cleared and a flock of pigeons took their place, accompanying them for a number of miles, roosting on the carriage or flying intricate patterns in turn. At about one o’clock they partook of another al fresco nuncheon, every bit as sumptuous as the day’s before, then resumed their journey, the monotony broken frequently by Xanthe-inspired absurdities in the landscape.

  At last as the early darkness closed about them they reached the outskirts of London. Phoebe sat forward, peering at the unfamiliar buildings, the people who seemed to fill the streets. She couldn’t help but wonder if any of this would ever feel real.

  “We shall go shopping in the morning,” Xanthe said, breaking a long silence. “I have been considering the modistes and have decided the Madame Bernadette will be the most suitable to turn you out in the first style of elegance.”

  Phoebe turned from the carriage window. “You will not simply conjure me a wardrobe?”

  “I could.” Xanthe tilted her head to one side, laughter in her eyes. “But such gowns would only last for the duration of our stay in London. And since I know you have long wished to experience the sort of Season your pupils will face, we cannot possibly omit anything so fundamental as visiting the fashionable modistes and milliners.”

  Somehow that had more the sound of a threat than a rare treat but Phoebe refrained from comment. Her attention refocused on the innumerable carriages and wagons which filled the streets through which they maneuvered and the shop windows with their displays of luggage, silver, books, boots and clothing. Then they turned onto a quieter road lined with elegant town houses and the bustle and noise receded.

  After several more turns the carriage slowed then pulled to a stop. Even as the groom swung from his position beside the coachman, the door of one of the houses swung wide and a major-domo, flanked by two footmen wearing the same livery as the magical servants who had waited on them for their al fresco nuncheons, hurried down the stairs. One footman opened the carriage door for them while the other aided the groom in unstrapping Phoebe’s trunk.

  Phoebe stepped down to the cobblestones, looking about her with avid interest. The notes of a haunting melody seeped into her mind and she cast a quick glance at Xanthe, wondering what her godmother was about. But the woman conversed with the major-domo, not humming at all.

  The footmen started up the stairs with their burden and as Xanthe followed them inside the door to the neighboring house opened and a gentleman, resplendent in plain black evening dress, a black cloak and an elegant cane in his gloved hands, emerged onto the porch. He cast a casual glance in their direction then stopped, staring at Phoebe. After a moment he descended the steps and strolled in their direction. He had almost reached her before she recognized Sir Miles Saunderton.

  Of all people! Shock hit her. She could think of no one she would less like to encounter again. Then anger washed over her for what had passed between them at their last meeting, for what he must have said to the Misses Crippenham, for the undeniable fact that if it had not been for him catching her trying to break into the Academy, she would still be gainfully employed and able to help support her brother.

  Sir Miles halted before her and swept her an elegant bow. “I had not expected the pleasure of seeing you again so soon, Miss Caldicot.”

  “Pleasure?” She glared at him. “I would hardly call it that.”

  His eyebrows rose quizzically. “But common politeness demands that we say such things.”

  “Common politeness can—” She broke off, glaring at him. No gentleman so disagreeable had any right to have such compelling eyes, such ruggedly handsome features.

  A muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. “I beg your pardon. But what brings you to town? I had thought you still in Bath.”

  The mildness of his tone, the complete lack of constraint in his manner, proved too much for her. The trauma, the emotions of the last few days, the uncertainties, fears and excitement welled within her, demanding an outlet. Her temper exploded, catching him in its shrapnel.

  “How dare you?” she demanded. “How dare you stand there mouthing inanities as if it were not all your fault?”

  “My fault?” His brow snapped down. “May I ask what it is you think you are talking about?”

  “I lost my job because of you! Yes, at least you have the decency to stare at that. It might not seem important to you but it is to me. Excessively so. And all I had to console myself with was the certain knowledge I would never have to lay eyes upon you again! And now here you are, where you are least wanted, the very first person I encounter upon my arrival in London.”

  He had been watching her, his expression changing from surprised to intrigued. “That does seem rather unfair,” he said with a gravity that caused him a noticeable effort.

  “Unfair? Unfair? It is monstrous! Please tell me you were only visiting in that house next door to my godmother’s!” she implored.

  “I regret to be forced to disoblige you, Miss Caldicot. That is something I cannot do.”

  “You-you live there?”

  He inclined his head, his smile becoming more pronounced. “I fear I do.”

  A vexed exclamation escaped her. Her hands clenched and for a long moment she glared at him. Then she turned on her heel and stormed into the house. From behind her she could hear a deep, rumbling chuckle.

  And what was worse, he still had the most heart-melting smile she had ever encountered.

  Chapter Three

  A laugh of sheer joy welled in Phoebe as she drew in a deep, aching breath of the chill morning air. Freedom. A chance to work out the lingering anger from the evening before. A chance to rediscover some measure of peace, which she had not experienced for so very long. Here she might be riding across the countryside, riding to the wind, rather than following the circuit of Hyde Park. And it was vastly satisfying to know she had been correct in what she had told her pupils, that few people really did come here at the unconscionable hour of seven in the morning so early in the Season. So far she had passed three grooms exercising their employers’ cattle. No one else. Not one other single solitary soul. After five years in the cramped quarters of the Misses Crippenham’s Academy, her country-bred soul relished the solitude.

  And at the moment, solitude was just as well. She’d come to try out the paces of the mare provided for her by Lady Xanthe and a rare handful the animal proved to be. No dainty lady’s mount, this. Xanthe, as always, knew what suited her best. Phoebe had been practically raised in a saddle. The horse stood nearly seventeen hands at the withers with a fine sloping shoulder and powerful hindquarters. Her coat gleamed a satiny black. A devil mount, had warned Limmer, Lady Xanthe’s groom but Phoebe disagreed. Macha, Xanthe had named the mare, after an Irish goddess of war and that suited her to perfection. Not vile tempered in the least but strong-hearted and high spirited.

  Phoebe touched lightly on the reins, catching the arrogant head that tossed to have its own way. They would come to an understanding soon enough, she knew. At the moment though, after so many years of riding nothing but the staid, suitable mounts available at the Academy, she delighted in the subtle shifting of power between herself and the willful mare. Nothing, she reflected, could ruin this morning.

  The head dropped straight down and the back
arched as the animal bounded in a series of crow hops. Playful, Phoebe noted as she spurred the mare forward to put an end to these tricks. No intention to harm but more to test and challenge—and let off excess energy. They both fretted for exercise.

  Phoebe spared her attention from her fractious mount and glanced about. She could see no one except the stoic Limmer who rode several lengths behind, his calculating eye watching them with grudging respect. “I’m going to give Macha her head,” Phoebe called over her shoulder.

  The wiry little man frowned, an occupation that seemed to involve his entire weathered countenance. He too cast a rapid glance about then pursed his thin lips. “Just a short way, miss. You don’t want her to go thinking she can make a race of it every time she comes here. Wouldn’t do at all.”

  “Only when we’re alone,” Phoebe promised and eased her hold.

  At once the black muzzle thrust forward and through her touch on the reins Phoebe felt Macha grasp the bit between her teeth. The strides lengthened with fluid grace, and a thrill of pure joy rushed through Phoebe as the powerful muscles bunched beneath her. She leaned low, welcoming the air that whipped past, tangling the tendrils of hair that escaped from the modish riding hat provided by Xanthe that morning. Behind her she could hear the pounding hooves of Limmer’s mount falling back, unable to keep pace.

  Then another horseman, springing toward her from where the trees had half hidden him, joined the race. Admiration filled her for this gentleman’s mount, a red roan of passionate enthusiasm, determined not to be outdone. The rider veered to intercept her. For a few breathless moments they raced neck to neck then the roan pulled ahead as its rider flung himself forward to grasp Phoebe’s rein.

  Abruptly the roan broke pace, slowed to a trot then came to a halt. Macha spun about, throwing her head in protest, jerking off the man’s restraining hand. For a very long minute Phoebe had her hands full bringing the rebellious mare back under control.