Candlelight Wish (5 page)

“Because, as you said, that is where you shall have the greatest chance to make your wish come true. Because you would dearly love such a visit for its own sake. And because I love granting opportunities. It is what I do.”

“To-to be sure,” Phoebe said weakly. She stared at her visitor, this remarkable little woman who had burst into her world which had so recently fallen apart, offering her an escape, a haven for at least the next two months, the opportunity for which she secretly had longed. It was too good to be true.

A fairy godmother?

“What is the price?” she asked abruptly.

“Price?” Lady Xanthe’s brow creased. “Oh, you mean the conditions. There aren’t any really. Only something you must understand. You see, magic alone is not enough.”

“I see.” Disappointment, unexpected but very real, seeped through her. It
had
been too good to be true.

Lady Xanthe fixed her with a very serious look. “As I told you, magic can only provide opportunities, my dear. The use you make of those opportunities is entirely up to you.”

“I see.” Phoebe considered. “So you don’t really grant wishes at all.”

Xanthe shook her head, smiling. “Dear child,” she said softly, “no one has the power to do that but yourself. And you do have that power. What you lack—or at least what you lacked until now—is the opportunity. That is what I am able to grant you.”

“But what if I am not able to find a husband? I have neither fortune nor lofty connections to recommend me.”

“There is nothing amiss with your family,” Lady Xanthe pointed out.

“But it is not important enough to overcome my want of fortune. Or rather my debt, for I must help my brother finish at Cambridge.”

Lady Xanthe regarded her solemnly. “If you cannot find a husband, my dear, then you will find yourself as you are now except you will always know that you wasted your opportunity.”

Not very secure, this chance of hers for security. Yet it was the best offer she was likely to receive. She met Xanthe’s serious gaze. “I will do my best.”

“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 hardships 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.