"Yes, sir?" The butler stepped through the door, bearing an enormous, fully laden tea tray.
The cheerful rose-painted teapot that had served her earlier was retired in favor of imposing silver. Platters were piled high with fluffy scones and thick sandwiches and cakes and biscuits and so much food that it was clear Mr. Carteret's cook believed he'd been in jail for a week, starving, rather than most of the day, with sandwiches.
Pearl's mouth watered. Had she eaten lunch? She couldn't recall it, so she must not have. She seated herself, tucking her precious papers on her lap for safety, and began to pour. She'd learned how to play "mother" before . . . everything. She scarcely paid attention as Mr. Carteret began his inquisition of his butler concerning said butler's behavior. Apparently the stuffed-shirt had overstepped his bounds.
"That was not well done of you, McGregor," Mr. Carteret was saying.
"No, sir." The butler bowed again. "My utmost apologies, sir."
"It's not me you owe the apology, man. Miss Parkin is the injured party here. Apologize to her."
Both men looked at her, startling Pearl from her domestic duties. She was holding a plate filled with teatime treats, she realized, and thrust it toward Mr. Carteret. He took it and sat on the sofa beside her.
McGregor bowed, deeper this time. "Apologies, Miss Parkin. It will not happen again."
"I should say not," Mr. Carteret grumbled.
It was not the most gracious, nor the most specific apology, but it was at least the words. Pearl did not want to make the man any more of an enemy than he already was. The reprimand in her presence had to smart. "Apology accepted, Mr. McGregor," she said. "And I hope that you will accept my apology for . . . being such a difficult guest."
"Of course." Another bow. McGregor's back had to be aching from all the bowing.
Mr. Carteret waved a languid hand at McGregor, dismissing him, and took an overlarge bite of scone. Pearl handed him a cup of tea, which he set on the serving table beside his plate, then she filled a cup and plate for herself. The sandwiches looked heavenly, and they were.
They chewed in companionable contentment for a time. Then Mr. Carteret plucked the apprenticeship contract from her lap. "Let's have a look, shall we?"
5
PEARL WATCHED HIM read, trying to guess by his expression where he was on the page, and occasionally glancing at the words to remind herself what they said. He read silently, without much expression other than the occasional frown.
His frown deepened. "That doesn't seem right."
She stretched her neck a bit further to see what he was reading, but he stood in one of his lightning-flash moves and was across the room, using the pen she'd left out. Nervous, she followed.
He signed his name. She could tell because the pen scratched furiously across the page, like something he'd done thousands of times before. He turned then, and was brought up short when he almost stepped on her. Pearl scrambled back to a safe distance, but he beckoned her forward again.
"Come take a look." He spread the two sheets of the contract on the desk and urged her closer. Till her sleeve brushed against the open front of his coat.
"You forgot Victor." He pointed to where he'd added the name above the line with an arrow to indicate where it went. "And you forgot to pay yourself any wages."
"If you're providing room and board, I don't need wages."
"Blasphemy!" His exaggerated expression of horror made her laugh.
"The workman is worthy of his wages," Mr. Carteret intoned. "If you are paid nothing, people will assume you are worth nothing. As an apprentice magician, potentially an apprentice sorcerer, you, my dear, are worth a great deal. You will be able to work spells very few others can. You should be paid accordingly."
"Is that how you got so rich?"
"Absolutely." He winked at her, to devastating effect at such close range. "I am, after all, magister of the conjurer's guild." His expression lost its levity. "I can work spells many master conjurers are incapable of achieving, and I am paid quite well for the work that I do. Quite, quite well. Especially in matters of estate and entail."
Pearl had to look away. This much closeness became overwhelming in too short a time. She eased a step away, hoping for a more comfortable distance. He closed it.
"However," he said, "since I am after all supporting you, as well as paying your wages until such time as you complete your apprenticeship and begin to cast your journeyman spells, I am only going to pay two pounds a week."
She choked and coughed to clear her throat. She'd sometimes lived on less than a shilling a week, and supported her father on it.
"And the amount you've written in for support is entirely inadequate, even if you share rooms with Elinor. This is Mayfair, not Whitechapel. You'll need at least double that." He showed her where he'd scratched out her number and written in another.
"Sir, you are too generous," she stammered.
"No, I'm not. I'm selfish and dissolute and disreputable, and I'd be ruining your reputation if you had one."
"Thank goodness I don't." Pearl took a step back. He was her magic-master.
"Thank goodness," he echoed, and took his own step back.
The contract was sent to Mr. Tomlinson with a note requesting he sign as witness and send it on to be registered with the council.
Pearl remained to finish her tea with Mr. Carteret. They were both yawning by the time the teapot went cold, so he sent her to Elinor's rooms with a footman as escort, with instructions to report back in the morning by nine o'clock to begin her first day as a magician's apprentice.
ELINOR WASN'T IN the flat when Pearl arrived, but the maid had apparently been prepared for her appearance. She helped Pearl wash her scrapes, then helped her into a too-large nightgown and into the high, soft bed. Pearl didn't wake until morning, when Elinor stirred beside her.
"How was your first day as a conjurer's apprentice?" Elinor asked sleepily.
"That's today. Yesterday doesn't count." Pearl sat up to rub the sleep from her eyes.
"I suppose it wouldn't." Elinor curled deeper into the blankets.
"Thank you for sharing your bed. And your flat. And your maid." Pearl slid out of bed, landing with a thump on the floor. It was a very high bed. She would need a stepstool.
"Happy to share." Elinor rolled over to peer at her. "You're not one of those dreadful persons who is bright and cheery first thing in the morning, are you?"
"No. I'm one of those who must get out of bed straightaway-though I don't want to-or I'll be worthless the rest of the day. I'm not particularly cheery about it. Or bright."
Elinor pulled the covers over her head against the dim light seeping through the windows as the maid brought in hot water. Pearl washed gingerly around her scraped elbows and knees, then picked up the borrowed dress and grimaced.
It didn't fit, and now it was torn at the elbow and down near the hem. But she had nothing else to wear, so she put it on atop the borrowed feminine undergarments. She needed to obtain some clothing of her own. Would Mr. Carteret give her the time, and advance her the funds to do so?
McGregor ushered her into the breakfast room where Mr. Carteret himself served her breakfast, piling her plate high with a bit of everything. She blushed to realize he'd noticed her voracious appetite.
"I don't suppose you'll actually grow if I feed you up," he mused, lounging in his chair again, watching her eat. "But a little feeding up ought to at least keep you from blowing away in a stiff wind. I'd have to lead you about on a string. Reel you in like a kite."
"That would be interesting," she said. "Flying like a kite."
"We'll have to attempt it sometime." He propped his chin on a pair of steepled fingertips. "If you survive it, then perhaps I could try."
She managed not to roll her eyes.
"I have a list," Mr. Carteret said when her plate was empty, drawing a sheet of folded paper from his coat pocket. "Of everything a young lady needs to be properly clothed. It seems a bit excessive to me-and probably is, since I requested it of my sister, the one who still speaks to me. But I believe if we cut it back by, say, a third, it ought to suffice. So when you are finished with your breakfast, we will begin."
We? Pearl cut her eyes at her magic-master. Did he intend to participate in the shopping? Men didn't do that. At least, her father and brothers never had. But she already had ample evidence that Mr. Carteret was nothing like them. He was unlike any man she'd met in her entire not-so-very-long life. Which, now that she considered it, was likely the source of her difficulty in thinking of him as she would any other man. He wasn't.
MR. CARTERET DID ACCOMPANY Pearl to the shops. Ordinary, middle-class shops, she insisted. His sister might be the daughter of a duke, but Pearl was not. She suspected, however, that Mr. Carteret directed his coachman to the upper crust of the middle-class shops.
His presence had the shopkeepers bowing and scraping, erasing the sneers Pearl could feel under their obsequious surfaces. He introduced her as his apprentice, but Pearl could see the shop girls roll their eyes and snicker among themselves when they took her to the back to measure her. The owner of the dress shop stopped their whispering, at least while they were in the same room, and sent them off to collect the correct sizes of undergarments from Mr. Carteret's sister's list.