Madge leaned against a large elm, facing the blue ridge of the Shenandoahs. A flash of fiery red caught her eye and took her breath; a pair of cardinals fluttered at the edge of the forest, the male flickering like a candle in a draft. For a long moment, she almost forgot the weight on her heart, watching.
She hardly noticed she was crushing her bonnet until she felt her ribbons snag on bark.
“My dear, let me help you with that,” said an unfamiliar voice.
Before Madge could turn, a handsome middle-aged woman appeared beside her, and delicate fingers rescued her ribbons.
Madge blushed. “Oh, thank you.”
The woman only smiled and looked to the birds. This gave Madge a moment to observe her beautiful sprigged muslin (where on earth did one find such a milliner in Liberty Tree?), her high, intelligent forehead, and the unnatural emerald green of her eyes.
This latter point she found so arresting that she didn’t notice the other arrival until he was already upon them: a young man roughly her own age, extremely well dressed, almost well enough to imagine he’d followed her from Washington.
Madge willed her flush to subside and stood a little straighter. They ought to have introduced themselves, but she could make allowances for country folk. “I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m Mr. Frederick Lee’s niece—”
“Margaret Lee, we know. A new resident is always the talk.” The lady took her hand. The strange eyes seemed as though they looked right through her—and were perhaps more blue than green after all—but her smile was genuine, and her handshake warm. “I’m Clara Godfrey, and this is my son, Edgar.”
The young man removed his hat and bowed his head. He was not precisely good looking, but had a fresh complexion and dark hair brushed casually over his forehead.
“Isn’t he lovely?” Mrs. Godfrey asked.
Madge’s cheeks blazed again, and her heart dropped inexplicably. But then she noticed that Mrs. Godfrey’s gaze had returned to the birds. They chirped loudly, shrilling and diving. “Yes,” Madge finally replied, when she’d gathered her wits. “I’m afraid I’ve quite lost my party watching them.”
Clara Godfrey only smiled again, as if she knew it for a lie, but had no objection. “They have some of Audubon’s folios at the library, did you know?”
That was surprising indeed. “I didn’t.”
“They’re still quite the thing in London, I hear. But they’re our birds, aren’t they?” She projected her small, pointed chin in the direction of the cardinals, whose chirping had become violent. “Listen—they chatter like rebellious little Americans.”
Madge smiled. “I’d not thought of it.”
Mrs. Godfrey took her by the elbow and leaned nearer with more unexpected familiarity. She lowered her voice. “They say that if a man puts a cardinal feather under his pillow at night, it will turn his hair bright red.” She directed her attention again to the birds, a smile fluttering at the edges of her lips. When it reached her eyes, oddly charming crows’ feet appeared—and yes, they were a kind of aquamarine, she saw clearly, now. “For women, they say we only turn a dull brown, as the female of their species.”
“What a remedy.” Madge laughed. Perhaps it was simple relief at finding a woman of so obviously fine spirit after a week of enduring Aunt Rachel, but Madge could not help returning the strange and sudden affection; she lay a hand on the older woman’s arm. “Perhaps I should try it.”
“Don’t dream of it, my dear.” Mrs. Godfrey fingered one of Madge’s pale curls. “It’s lovely to make your acquaintance. I’ve meant to call on your aunt these long weeks; perhaps your presence will remind me.”
Madge barely suppressed an impertinent grin. “Aunt Rachel often slips one’s mind, if one isn’t absolutely vigilant.”
Mrs. Godfrey smiled with perfect understanding and took her leave. Her son made his bow and said only, “Miss Lee.”
She thought, watching his retreating back, that his manners were pleasant enough. But he really might have said more than two words to her.
Then she was left to her birds, wondering where Mrs. Godfrey must’ve heard such an absurd wives’ tale, and how one might acquire a cardinal feather—if one went in for that sort of thing.
Dear Papa,
I hope this letter finds you well and safely at home; I am well, but it has been a trying week since your return to Washington. I must be allowed to apologize for my harsh words at our parting: I do not hope that Adams (the Second Duke of Braintree, as the latest broadsides here call him) is re-elected after all. Gen. Jackson is the obvious choice for a patriot. It was a low thing to say, and I’ve already begun my support of the local Hickory Club to prove the sincerity of my attachment to the cause. You must allow that you’ve made rasher statements on the floor of the senate, and your fellow senators have replied in kind. But let’s speak no more of it except to talk of forgiveness, my dear father.
Though I think my poor uncle still wishes to leave it, your childhood home is quite as beautiful as you promised. I miss the buzz of the parlors and politicking more than I had anticipated, but I believe I’ll find society here comfortable. It’s not so unfashionable in Liberty Tree for a woman to be naïve, and though the conversation is not so well-informed, it’s amiable—outside my uncle’s house. Henrietta Bloom is a sweet, bookish thing, and I was much charmed with a certain Mrs. Godfrey in the park yesterday. As Uncle Frederick seems to disapprove of the latter entirely, I’m sure we shall be fast friends.
Today I mean to explore the library— it presents a smallish appearance from the outside, but I have it on authority that looks can be deceptive. But you will say this is a lesson I ought to have learned some time ago, I think.
Do write soon and say you’re not angry with me.
Your devoted,
Margaret Lee
May 12, 1828
Liberty Tree, Virginia
Upon her return from the post office, Madge heard Uncle Frederick attempting to whisper in the sitting room. She hung her bonnet—adorned today with a hickory sprig in honor of Gen. Jackson—and slipped into the room with every intention to eavesdrop.
Frederick Lee leaned toward Mr. Bloom, whose prodigious bulk was bestowed on the floral love seat. Uncle Frederick mopped at his forehead; his face was red enough that Madge almost imagined his cravat attempted to strangle him.
“Dr. Lynch says it was perfectly black,” Mr. Bloom said with unaccustomed gravity.
“There’s no such disease,” Uncle Frederick said.
“Old widow Simons died of the same thing not five years gone—and you know perfectly well there’s more to consider than mere disease. Mrs. Harper won’t allow an autopsy. She’s spent her last penny on one of those clever coffins with the metal lids, for fear of—of interference.”
“Nonsense! The University hasn’t any medical school—”
“For such an interesting malady, they might come from miles around.”
“Scoundrels and rogues!” Uncle Frederick slammed his hand down on the wooden arm of his chair, which gave a warning crack in response.
“Mind your temper, Fred, or you’ll find yourself in need of new furniture!” Mr. Bloom laughed and leaned backwards, causing the sofa to creak as if to suggest he mind his fork. He looked up and caught sight of Madge, and his face lit. “Margaret, dear child. You’ve been out of doors; your cheeks are a pretty pink.”
Madge came to take his hand. She ought to have smiled, curtsied, and enquired after Henrietta, but her head was too much in a whirl. “Mr. Bloom, sir. You’ve come with news?”
“A shocking item. Daniel Harper’s passed on, God rest his soul. We all thought it’d be some cardiac event during one of his rages that did him in, but his wife found him dead as a stone in the morning, with his tongue gone all black—”
But it was too much for Uncle Frederick. His perpetual disapproving glances at Madge having no effect, he said, “Come, Bloom, this is no talk for a young lady.”
Madge barely refrained from rolling her eyes.
Mr. Bloom smiled like a naughty child. “I think our girls are of a better stamp than that, my friend. They’re literate!”
Madge favored him with a squeeze of the hand, and Uncle Frederick began muttering to himself, of course ignoring Mr. Bloom’s part in the business. “Defiant little creature, just like your puffed-up father…”
As her father had bid her, she bit her tongue. Envy was a grave sin, and Frederick Lee would be held accountable for his, some day. But she couldn’t help thinking him strangely ill-bred to vent his spleen on those who were not responsible for his personal frustrations.
It was a wonder he could be related to her father at all, really.
Madge flipped through the large folio in silence, marveling at each perfect rendering a little longer than the last. It was enough to make her wish she’d paid more attention to her drawing lessons as a child.
Very nearly, anyhow.
She was just having her first breathless glimpse of a yellow finch when she sensed someone behind her. She turned slowly, refusing to appear flustered.
Edgar Godfrey bowed. His hair looked particularly wild, as if he’d been outside the whole day without a hat, and she couldn’t decide if his striped waistcoat was at the vanguard of fashion, or mocking it altogether—but it became him all the same.
“Good day, Miss Lee.”
She made a curtsey. “Mr. Godfrey. It’s too bad of you to come up on me so suddenly.”
“You’re right; allow me to apologize for my shocking country manners, then.”
She smiled in spite of herself. If he and his mother had odd habits, they were at least well-spoken on the subject. “I rather prefer country manners.” Any supporter of the Republican Cause would.
“Perhaps your heart does, but your head argues,” he said, with no change of expression. He presented her with a leather-bound volume, which she had not noticed him carrying until that very moment. “I wonder, have you seen this?”
Birds of the Indian Subcontinent, it read. She accepted and leafed through the text until she came to the first full color plate illustration: a russet-colored bird, spotted delicately with a black-and-white spray pattern. Painted Spurfowl.
“No, I haven’t,” she said. “They’re so—”
“Exotic, yes. It’s quite beautiful. I think you’ll like it.”
She pursed her lips, looked up at him, and let her tongue run off with her. “How can you know? You’ve barely spoken two words to me.”
“Oh, one hardly ever gets a word in edgewise with Mother in the vicinity. It’s part of her indefinable charm.” Then his eyebrows disappeared under his hair. “I hope you weren’t slighted, Miss Lee.”
“Not at all.” More than satisfied with his grace under pressure, Madge closed the book in her hands to punctuate the sentiment.
Mr. Godfrey smiled. She still couldn’t think him a handsome man—his ears were too large under all that fine hair—but he was not difficult to look at when he smiled. “I was raised by my mother alone, Miss Lee; women are not so mysterious to me in some ways. I can see perfectly that you’re too well brought up to make me feel a cad, even if I deserve it.”
Though she tried not to, she couldn’t help but laugh. “I almost wish all men were raised by their mothers alone, then.”
“There are worse ways.”
She flushed. “Oh dear, I didn’t—I mean to say, I hope your father—”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I have no memory of him. I was very young.”
Now she was truly impressed; she might not have exhibited such poise, had the situation been reversed. She presented him with a peace offering: “I was raised by my father alone.”
“And do you wish that for all girls, Miss Lee?”
Ignoring the voice of prudence once more, she said, “Not even the girls I dislike, Mr. Godfrey.”
“Perhaps some day I might have the pleasure of hearing you explain why.”
Madge didn’t attempt to suppress her satisfied smile, this time.
He continued, “I hope I’ll have the good fortune to happen upon you here again. I daresay you’ll return the book soon.”
She thought to protest, for she wasn’t intending to borrow it. But when she looked down at the well-worn cover, she reconsidered. If nothing else, it would keep her from having to listen to Uncle Frederick read a sermon from that intolerable book of his after supper. She was sure he meant them to correct her faulty moral compass, but he was more likely to bore her into jumping headlong into trouble again. “I will, in a day or two.”
It was only after Edgar Godfrey took his leave that Madge thought to wonder what he’d meant by hoping to see her again.
She rather hoped it was nothing. If it happened all over again, her only option might be to become an adventuress. And though the idea seemed Romantic enough, she had no doubt she would make quite the worst adventuress in history.
Madge sat enchanted by the plate depicting the peacock in all his majesty. She traced the feathers with her index finger while Uncle Frederick sermonized. Aunt Rachel sat beside her, the ever-present workbasket at her side, needle and woolen stocking in delicate hands.
Madge was too taken with Birds of the Indian Subcontinent to mind either of them. She barely noticed her uncle had stopped reading and had come to stand over her shoulder, even, until he said, “Indecent!”
She held back a long-suffering sigh. “What can you mean?”
“That book makes me quite ill.” He dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief as if to illustrate how very near the sight brought him to disgorging his supper. “Did you know that’s the male of the species?”
“Yes—he’s beautiful.”
Uncle Frederick stiffened and looked down his nose. By picturing him in a periwig, Madge thought this must be precisely what he looked like at his country court, condemning small criminals with large gravity. “Put it down,” he huffed. “I won’t have you reading such—”
“It’s only natural—”
A surprised look from Aunt Rachel cut her off.
Uncle Frederick drew himself up again. “There’s nothing natural about it. If your father were here—”
Madge looked up into his face pointedly. Unless he intended to prevaricate, only one ending to that sentence would do: if her father were here, he would think the book a wonder. Though she couldn’t ignore the awkward sensation of her heart beating double-time, she would not look away.
After a moment’s attempt to stare her into submission, Uncle Frederick stormed out of the room, muttering under his breath about immodesty and defiance. A large crack issued from the kitchen door, signifying that he’d slammed it so hard as to send it off the hinges. Yet again.
Madge sighed and looked back to the peacock, unable to imagine what on Earth was so indecent about it. “I don’t understand him.”
Aunt Rachel moved nearer and put a cold, bony hand on Madge’s arm. “Margaret, he only means to protect you from yourself. Perhaps, considering why your father sent you to us, you’d do well to mind him.”
Her cheeks blazed at the intimation, however gently uttered.
“Your uncle hates these effeminate boys at the University, how they dress up and parade for the girls. He thinks it deplorable that women should have such things thrust upon them. That anyone should imply a woman can—can have such low feelings as to be attracted.”
“I rather like a fine coat,” Madge said. “I spoke to a young man today with the nicest brass buttons, smart as a continental officer.”
Aunt Rachel, an elegantly formed woman prematurely washed out, went a little paler under her freckles. But there was a spark in her eye as she returned to her mending, and Madge thought for a moment that her placid aunt might break into laughter. She dared to hope she might find an ally.
But Aunt Rachel did not laugh, and the spark died, so Madge went back to her book feeling not a little let down. She turned the page—
And found a bright feather pressed between the next two. It slipped into her lap, glistening green, then bright blue, then brown in the candlelight. A large dark blue spot like an eye adorned its top.
A peacock feather.
It tingled against her fingers, and sent all the little hairs on her arms standing upright.
That night, when she lay her head on her pillow to sleep, trying not to wish she would wake in Washington, she had a most ridiculous idea for a silent act of rebellion: she would keep the feather with her always, a constant reminder of her commitment to independent thought and action. She went to her shelf, retrieved the pretty thing, and put it under her pillow.
She had forgotten the feather until she was in the tiny milliner’s holding emerald green ribbons, the better to match her hickory sprig, up to her bonnet in the mirror. Only then did she have occasion to notice that her eyes matched the ribbons; a circumstance that would’ve been less remarkable, had not her eyes been a pale blue every other day of her life.
Madge slipped out of the shop and onto the street, wondering if it was the dress she was wearing (which made little sense, as she wore the white calico with the black flower print), so involved in her own thoughts that she nearly ran directly into Mr. Edgar Godfrey.
He steadied her with a hand at her elbow, and gestured for his companions to go on without him. For this, she was extremely grateful. It was bad enough with him looking at her in such an unsettled state—she couldn’t bear scrutiny from more of what passed for the modish set in town.
He said, once she had made her apologies and thank-yous, “Your humble servant, Miss Lee.”
“Mr. Godfrey, good day.”
“How did you find your book?”
Still smoothing the front of her dress, she said, “It was a marvel. I ought to have returned it to the library for you.”
“I’d no intention of taking it home myself; I was only admiring. Did you see the peacock, Miss Lee?”
With that, he had her undivided attention. Her eyes went wide, the most absurd theory beginning to take root behind them. “Oh—oh yes. I did, as a matter of fact.” Her heart thundered in her ears, remembering Clara Godfrey’s eyes. It was the most remarkable thing—
Surely it couldn’t be, but what was the harm in asking? She could feel the thing, curled into a safe place in her reticule, just at her side. “I— well, there was the most splendid peacock feather inside. I wondered if it might’ve been yours?”
“Mine? Surely, it’s yours.”
“I think I should know if it was. Are you quite certain?”
He pressed his mouth into a line. “Perhaps you think I could do with some finer plumage.”
She might’ve flushed again, remembering last night’s altercation with her uncle, if she hadn’t been so very put out by his—well, by him. “You play some game, Mr. Godfrey.”
With galling unflappability, he said, “You mistake me, Miss Lee. That’s not my idea of sport. Still, did you like the feather?”
Madge considered giving him a piece of her mind, but she realized she wasn’t quite sure what for. In a series of seconds that seemed to pass like hours, she forced her thoughts to become more sensible. It wouldn’t do to shout at Mr. Edgar Godfrey that she hoped Andrew Jackson was never elected president just to spite him, after all.
“Yes,” she said eventually. “I’m surprised ostrich is the fashion when such things exist.”
If he noticed the pause, Mr. Godfrey gave no indication. He gave his hat a tap to set it straighter. “My mother has quite the collection of odd feathers, you know.”
Madge decided there and then that Edgar Godfrey was as provoking a man as she’d ever met—which was saying quite a lot. “Does she indeed?”
“I daresay if you were to call this week, she’d very much like to show you.”
This nearly demolished Madge’s newly restored equilibrium. “I—well, that’s very—”
“Business keeps me from the house all day. She would be grateful for your conversation.”
She couldn’t say if that had been his meaning all along, or if he’d meant something more and was deft enough to expunge the awkwardness before it began. Curiosity burned away any lingering mortification quickly—she could not mind, either way. “I’d like that very much.”
The corners of his lips tugged upward, and he took a step nearer. He looked over his shoulder once as if to check for his former companions. And then he said, “Miss Lee, I hope you won’t think it too forward, but I can’t help noticing your eyes.”
Madge’s breath caught.
“I do believe they’ve changed color since our conversation began.”
She told herself he couldn’t possibly see the fluctuations of temper occurring in her at that moment. She was taken all over with heat, then cold, and couldn’t decide if it was a product of anger, surprise, or, most unaccountably, a certain guilty feeling she last remembered from when she’d been caught trying on some of her mother’s old jewelry at the age of ten. “Yes—I—well, sometimes when I wear a given color, you see—”
Edgar Godfrey took a step back. “It is the color for you, then. The effect is quite bewitching.”
Madge stuck her chin out and refused to allow herself to flush like a schoolgirl. She hoped. “Thank you, Mr. Godfrey.”
He left her soon after, and doffed his hat to the widow Harper, seemingly offering his condolences.
Madge turned on her heel and went the opposite direction, though she wasn’t sure where it would take her. At first she could only think that Edgar Godfrey, for all his seeming politeness, must be an absolute rogue to speak to her that way.
Only he hadn’t said anything so terrible at all. Just that he hadn’t been talking about what he’d pretended to talk about, and Madge knew it very well. If she’d been confused by his intentions in the library, the affair of the peacock feather had covered them in impenetrable fog.
And he really had the most ridiculous set of ears, no matter how he tried to hide them.
Her path took her to the outskirts of Liberty Tree—perhaps not the best choice alone, but she did so enjoy the small freedoms living in a little town afforded. Eventually, she happened upon a pond populated by a family of swans. With hardly a second thought, she swept down, making only the most half-hearted effort to keep her hem out of the grass, and plucked a single, perfect feather from the ground. This she twirled thoughtfully between her fingers as she found her way back to her uncle’s house.
Although Madge examined herself with extra care in the morning, she could find no discernable effect from the white feather she’d placed under her pillow. In fact, her eyes, which had been nearly violet when she’d come in from her walk and a sapphire blue when she’d gone to bed, had returned to their usual color.
She nearly laughed at her reflection, yesterday’s theories seemed so ridiculous in the new morning’s light. But she couldn’t keep herself from tucking the feathers—both of them—into her little bag, and making for Mrs. Clara Godfrey’s after breakfast, all the same.
When the serving-girl ushered her into a well-appointed, if smallish drawing room, Mrs. Godfrey waited with arms outstretched. “I so hoped you’d come.”
Only somewhat baffled by this warm greeting, Madge took her hands. “Mr. Godfrey said you might like some company.”
“Such a thoughtful boy.” Mrs. Godfrey squeezed her fingers. “He said you discovered how to use my little present easily—and that the effect was quite remarkable.” And, uttering these incomprehensible words, she looked deeply into Madge’s eyes. Her own were an alarmingly common shade of brown. “I wish I’d seen it.”
The room seemed to whirl, and Madge let her hands fall out of Mrs. Godfrey’s. “I’m—I’m sorry to be so dull, but—your gift?”
She must’ve grown pale, because Mrs. Godfrey helped her to an acanthus-leaved Empire chair. “The feather, of course. Oh, he couldn’t tell you—not right there on the street. I knew you’d feel the magic in it, though. Talent like yours is instantly evident to a trained eye.”
Madge put a hand to her forehead and felt the cold sweat there. Unable to think anything more rational, she only hoped it would not dampen her curls too much.
“Edgar ought to have pulled you to a better place for conversation, but I daresay that would smack of impropriety. His manners are so much more cultivated than mine.” As she spoke, Mrs. Godfrey stepped to the sideboard and poured from a decanter, rather proving her point. She offered a small glass of red something-or-other to Madge.
Madge threw the inappropriate morning drink down her throat quickly, felt it burn, and began to come to her senses. This was not some impossible dream. This woman, Mrs. Clara Godfrey, was truly saying these strange things to her.
“Come, darling, we won’t stand on ceremony; let me call you Margaret.”
Once she swallowed a lump in her throat, she replied with, “My friends call me Madge.”
“Madge, then. Do call me Clara.” She finished her own little drink and held out one hand. “Are you feeling at all better?”
“Very much, I thank you.”
“Let me show you my collection, then. I know Edgar mentioned it. You must be mad with curiosity.”
Mad, perhaps.
Or one of them must be, at least.
The spacious attic smelled of dried lavender and rosewater; a breeze brushed Madge’s cheeks, dissolving the faint lingering sweat. One of the gable windows was open and sunlight rushed through the other three. No other light was necessary to illuminate the strange and wondrous implements scattered across the floor, tables, and walls, not to mention the great cast iron stove and large silver pot in the center of the room. (An arrangement that was surely too large to come up through the cramped stairs just behind her, and surely too heavy for the rough attic floorboards.)
Mrs. Godfrey—Clara—pulled the attic door shut and followed Madge up into her own sanctum. With that same startling familiarity, she slipped an arm around Madge’s waist and turned her to face the east wall. The thing seemed alive with jewel colors, almost to undulate and sparkle like the peacock’s feather in her lap. Then, with painful slowness, Madge realized what it was: a wall covered in magnificent, iridescent feathers of all shapes, sizes, and colors.
The small hairs on Madge’s arms and the back of her neck stood up all at once. Her mouth formed a small “o”, but she could think of no words with which she might articulate the sensation, the sight of this treasure.
“It’s not so precise as other branches of science, perhaps,” Clara said into her ear. “But with a little industry, one can find what one needs, and what one’s clients need. Some of my brothers and sisters prefer entrails and bones, but I think feathers are so much more civilized, don’t you?”
Still incapable of speech, Madge nodded.
Clara slipped away and gestured for her to follow to the glistening wall. Madge obeyed, still glancing about the room. Silver vessels filled with various colors of liquid sparkled in pools of window-light. A long, silver-chased chest spilled over with parchment, books, and that particular, pleasant scent of old paper and tatty leather. A beautiful whitework apron hung from a coat rack, obviously meant to be worn as an ornament, but spattered with something like shining dust and a patch of bright green dye.
“It’s quite useful for a woman on her own to be able to make a living respectably, you know. Oh, now Edgar could support me through some mundane work or other, but it would be a shame to waste our talents.”
Finally, Madge felt her breath returned to her. The faint, pleasant odors of the attic mingled with the fresh air from the window high above Liberty Tree had a restorative effect. She said, “You’re a witch.”
“Yes, dear.”
“And Mr. Godfrey—?”
“Do call him Edgar, I know he’d prefer it. Yes, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree; he’s rather a prodigy.”
For some reason, this was not quite as preposterous a concept as Madge knew it ought to be. Her questions, though many, seemed oddly directed. This woman lacked the markings of the witches in childish stories—the Godfreys even had the pew next to the Lees at church—yet there could be no other explanation. “But your manners, your house, your clothes—”
“Edgar insists, and he’s quite right. It was simpler for our ancestors, but we go on very well in our way. If we look and behave as the most respectable residents, people are happy to convince themselves that we are. Particularly since they may require our services themselves at some later date.”
Madge could not fault this logic, and instead found herself smiling. She reached into her dress and plucked out the swan feather, holding it aloft so it caught the sun streaming through the lead glass windows.
Clara Godfrey, in her gray and drab blue Parisian muslin, stood out in stark contrast to the glittering wall of magical accoutrement behind her. She folded her hands over her stomach and admired the feather. “A perfect specimen. You may have an eye to rival Edgar’s. He’ll be so delightfully vexed.”
“But it didn’t work,” Madge said.
“Oh my dear, you don’t know how to prepare it. What would you like for it to do?”
“Can it do anything?”
“No. But it can do several things. It’s quite good for ridding the skin of freckles, on a most elementary level.”
Madge twirled the thing between her thumb and forefinger, and felt them tingling as she did so.
She might be mad. Or the world might be. But she meant to find out, either way.
“Aunt Rachel hates her freckles,” she said.
Clara made a face. “We can do better than that. Poor Rachel Lee never had much imagination, but she was at least a renowned beauty in her day. Think how it would plague your uncle for everyone in town to see her natural grace restored.”
Just as Madge began to smile, the attic door opened, and the unmistakable tread of heavy Hessian boots began on the stairs.
“Here he is,” Clara murmured as Edgar emerged.
He seemed unsurprised to find Madge in his mother’s attic workshop, but he rarely seemed surprised about anything, preposterous man. He made his bow, then went to his mother and kissed her cheek. This accomplished, he produced a long, black feather from his jacket pocket and held it out to her as if it were a great prize.
Madge’s blood turned to ice in her veins.
But Clara Godfrey smiled and kissed her son again. “Good boy. I do so dislike the necessity of them, but one doesn’t like to be without.”
“No, Mother. The world is full of wicked people, after all.”
“And Liberty Tree, too. Come, Madge—Edgar darling, do call her Madge, will you? She’ll be one of the family, now—let’s see about that swan’s feather for your aunt.”
Dear Papa,
Your letter amused me so much so that Uncle Frederick thought I was reading something undignified. I think his reading material rather more objectionable than my own, though.
I think Uncle’s mind grows disordered, frankly, since Aunt Rachel has begun dressing rather better and looking altogether well. He blames my bad influence. He may be right, but it’s generally held about town that it’s merely an ugly duckling (proverbially speaking, of course—lovely Aunt Rachel!) becoming a swan at long last. Uncle Frederick, however, has become quite the local menace, as he no longer feels it necessary to limit his tantrums to private display. Who can blame him though, when he’s lost control of the one creature who still obeyed him unquestioningly?
I need not tell you that you mustn’t listen to what he says about Edgar Godfrey, then. Mr. Godfrey is quite the most respectable young man in town. (I know I was wrong about George Lewis, but I flatter myself that I’ve learned from my mistakes. I am not sorry for it, however, as that near-scandal had the happy effect of removing me to Liberty Tree.) I also hope you’ll meet Mr. Godfrey and his mother soon, as they are my chief friends in town. I mean to convince him of the advantages of a political career. He’s wasted here in Liberty Tree, I’m sure you will agree.
Just the other day we found and destroyed some of those terrible broadsides casting the General as Richard III. What appalling lies! Still, we have reason to hope. I almost wish I could attend some of Mrs. Smith’s hated salons, just to know what the women are about to get him elected. I miss the scene more and more daily.
Your loving,
Margaret Lee
June 22, 1828
Liberty Tree, Virginia
Aunt Rachel stretched, elegantly listless on the wicker couch, lemonade in hand. Her workbasket was nowhere to be found, and her arms, neck, and shining hair were bare to the sunlight. If not for the large bruise across her ivory cheek, no one could’ve guessed what drama had unfolded in her life the evening previous—not even Madge, who’d borne it silent, furious witness.
She longed to rescue the woman. “Aunt,” she said.
“Yes, dearest?”
“Will you come to Washington for Independence Day? A society gala might do you some good. Mrs. Adams threw one in the last election year that’s still the talk.”
“Oh, I hardly think your uncle would countenance it.” The reply was laced with a hint of dry humor to which Madge was not yet accustomed.
“Yes.” Madge swallowed her gall and waved to Mr. Bloom and Henrietta as they passed on their way into town. The plump, happy little family dutifully ignored the damage to Rachel Lee and waved in reply.
And then Edgar appeared at the edge of their fence, and for the first time all day, Madge felt the warmth of the sun. He passed the gate and took the porch steps in one long stride, then made his bows.
Ridiculous ears counted for very little next to the cleverness and ambition to be found in one such as Edgar Godfrey, after all. Women of intelligence never traded on such shallow things as looks.
She was also gratified to see that his own hickory sprig remained where she’d affixed it to his hat a week ago. Madge stood to shake hands and found a dark, slick feather pressed to her palm when he finally let go.
Her skin tingled. Her blood slowed and grew colder, but did not freeze entirely. The current in the object pulled at her, as a fast-running stream.
“Mother said you were in low spirits this morning. She thought this might cheer you.”
Madge considered his gift. “How kind of you to bring it, Edgar.”
“Any little thing I can do. You,” he hesitated, casting a quick glance at Rachel’s statuesque figure across the porch before returning it to Madge, “still wish to travel to Washington next week?”
Aunt Rachel stirred. “You’re to join the party, Mr. Godfrey?”
“Yes, my mother and I. We didn’t want Miss Lee to travel alone. And I grow more convinced daily that I might apply my own meager talents to politics.”
Aunt Rachel’s eyes flicked to his hat. She smiled and barely winced at the pain it must’ve caused her. “I think our Madge is quite an influence on us all.”
Madge ran her fingers along the edges of the feather. Her mind barely followed their conversation—she was thinking of tonight. Or, more accurately, of tomorrow morning. She hated to put Aunt Rachel through the horror of it— but it would be well worth it, in the end. A necessary evil.
“I’m bound to admit she is,” Edgar said.
She felt their eyes upon her. Madge tucked the feather away, looked up, and forced a smile. “I think Mr. Jackson’s campaign would benefit immensely from an influx of new blood. Edgar has a certain magic about him that was meant for political greatness, father would say.”
Aunt Rachel smiled, this time an expression two parts sweetness, and one part amusement. “Oh, I think that’s just the word, Margaret, yes. Magic.”
“It’s quite the responsibility,” Edgar said, as if he were joking.
But Madge heard his message all the same. “It is. But I don’t mind.”
“I daresay there’s nothing of yours Madge minds too much.” Aunt Rachel laughed. It sounded so much more carefree than it had a right to.
It only tripled Madge’s resolve.
“I should hope not,” Edgar said.
“Certainly not, Edgar” she assured him.
“You two haven’t come to a secret understanding, have you?” Aunt Rachel asked, one hand at her pale throat in mock-surprise.
Edgar Godfrey fixed Madge with dark eyes for a long moment before saying, “I believe we have.”
Madge only smiled, patting her pocket, and the raven feather within, gently. “Quite, my dear Edgar. A perfect understanding.”
“Well, then. Welcome to the family.”