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On a fine spring day in 1810, it came to pass that Mr Strange arrived at Hanover Square to find Mr Norrell called away on urgent business to the Admiralty. This in itself was not an unusual turn of events; the Admiralty had a great deal of business in need of redress, and Mr Norrell was their chief tool against their most wicked and villainous enemy of the French. Mr Norrell’s absence was truthfully only noteworthy because, as Mr Strange had ascertained in his marching passage from Soho-square, it was such a glorious morning.
It was the sort of morning which made one forget all about the nastiness of winter, of heavy snow-damp boots and pinching winds, gloomy grey afternoons and sombre darkness by tea-time; the sky was a brilliant, clear, crisp blue, and the sunlight had enough warmth in it to fluff up the pigeons nestling in pockets of it upon their windowsills. It was, in brief, exactly the sort of morning where the idea of being sat indoors waiting for one’s tutor to return seemed to Mr Strange to be the very thing dear Henry would preach against from the pulpit. Perched in the window-seat of the library with his chin in his hand, casting his eye about the perambulants of Hanover Square (all of whom, to him, seemed veritably filled with merriment and joie de vivre), Strange glumly reflected that whilst at one time he’d have done anything at all to be situated in this room unsupervised, he would now do anything in his power to quit it that instant.
Not, of course, that Strange was indeed wholly unsupervised. As well as his tutorship under Norrell was progressing, he was not quite entreated to that level of confidence yet. No, nestled at a desk in a corner between two towering bookshelves was Childermass, and the only noise above the crackle of the grate and the hoofbeats of passing carriages was the quiet hush as he turned the pages of a book. As with many of the gentlemen of Mr Norrell’s acquaintance, the great liberties afforded to Childermass had not gone unnoticed by Strange, though he held better manners than to inquire about them directly. Arabella had heard a great deal of extraordinary and fanciful imaginings from her own friends, as Childermass’ brooding air of mystery had rendered him a sufficient enough curiosity to conjure up extraordinary and fanciful imaginings amongst young ladies; indeed the young Miss Araminta Watkins remained quite convinced of the notion that he was some great captured prince of Faerie, bidden by Norrell through a clever twist of magic to do his service. Strange could not help but think that a captured prince of Faerie would take greater care over the mud on his boots.
Still, even as a man with greater comprehension of the goings-on in Norrell’s household than most, Childermass remained to Strange as abstract and intriguing a conundrum as to any other soul in England. Strange cast an eye over the gloomy pile of tomes Norrell had instructed him to read in his absence and decided, with some certainty, that an endeavour of the morning with greater promise might be to vouchsafe some new knowledge about John Childermass.
“I have heard,” said Strange into the silent room, “That you are in the business of learning secrets, Mr Childermass.”
Behind his little writing-desk, Childermass smiled his sideways smile. “You need have no concerns, sir,” he replied. “There are no secrets of yours which Norrell wants to discover, and if he were to ask me to be underhand in my treatment of you, I would refuse him.”
Such anxieties had not been the cause of Strange’s inquiry, but the response surprized him all the same. “Perhaps you will humour me regardless,” Strange continued. “How would you do the magic, if Norrell were to ask?”
“I would have no need of magic,” said Childermass idly; his attention still remained upon his book. “You will know already that a gentleman’s greatest enemies are his servants.”
“Indeed,” Strange answered slowly. He found himself ruminating upon the soul of Jeremy Johns, and as of such became not a little worried.
Childermass seemed to know which way his thoughts had turned; he placed down his book, and gave Strange his full attention. “In that,” Childermass added, “You may also be comforted to know that you have no reason to fear. They are exceedingly loyal.”
So he has tried, then, Strange thought. “But if you were to use magical means. What then?”
A great stillness fell upon Childermass. He seemed, in that moment, more conflicted than Strange had ever seen him. At length he spoke, and it almost seemed to pain him. “Norrell would not like it.”
Strange raised one eyebrow. “Norrell is not here,” he replied.
For a long time Childermass did not answer. Then, with a burst of rapid movement, as if concerned any hesitation might bring Norrell scuttling out from some untoward hiding-place, Childermass pulled something from the breast of his jacket and set it down upon the desk before him. It was, Strange saw upon approach, a deck of cards, but of a most peculiar kind; each one unique, foxed and torn, scribbled and sketched upon by Childermass’ hand. Strange took them up from upon the desk, and found himself doubly surprized, firstly by the softness of the paper and then by the skill of Childermass’ penmanship.
“You have seen their like before,” Childermass observed.
“A friend of Bell’s,” Strange replied. “It is her fancy to do at parties. I had never thought there to be any actual magic in them.”
“Not always,” said Childermass. “Not often.”
“Would you honour me with a demonstration?”
Childermass smiled his sideways smile once more. “In the square there is a holly-bush,” he said. “Fetch me a leaf from the second-lowest bough.”
Unlike the quiet of the library, Hanover Square was full of the bustle and noise of life, and the clear bright air immediately reminded Strange once more of his prior compulsion to flee into the morning’s cheering embrace. A chirruping, proud-breasted robin sat nestled within the holly-bush, defiant in the face of Strange’s approach, her red chest stuck out in a manner which seemed to Strange strangely patriotic, reminiscent of bonny soldiers on parade; she observed Strange calmly with her beady black eye as he knelt in the dirt not a handspan away, as if it came as no great surprize to her for a human to be undertaking some odd pursuit. With his task complete, it brought Strange a little sadness to withdraw from this pleasant scene and retreat back into the gloom of the house; but great also remained the mystery of the cards, and of Childermass.
“Forgive me a little deceit, sir,” said Childermass, once Strange had returned, his sprig of holly now clutched gently in Childermass’ hand. “There is truthfully no need for this. I used your leaving to conceal something within this room.” Childermass gestured towards the cards. “I thought perhaps you might endeavour to discover it.”
Strange regarded him in wry amusement. “So, with Norrell gone, you are to be my tutor?”
Childermass smiled. “Not a lesson, sir. I grant a skill to you in the manner in which it was granted to me.”
Strange considered the deck of cards with intrigue. “Can Norrell do it?”
Childermass scowled. “Norrell does not care to try,” he replied.
Well, thought Strange. A rare opportunity indeed, to gain mastery of a magic not held by Norrell. He took up the cards and settled down at Childermass’ desk, perched upon a stool across from him. Instinct, as much as knowledge, guided them through his fingers and then out onto the wood before him; for he could feel the play of something at the edge of every gesture, some wild thing twining its intention through the motion of his fingertips. In time, nine cards lay spread upon the table, their faces still concealed until, one by one, Strange began to turn them.
Sour disappointment grew gradually within Strange’s breast. He ran his fingers over each image, knowing their names but not quite perceiving their intent: Le Bateleur, The Seven of Swords, Justice, Le Jugement, Le Diable reversed, Valet de Baton, L’Ermite, The Eight of Cups; and, in the centre, La Papesse reversed.
“I confess myself entirely perplexed,” said Strange, in time. “I can see it here quite plainly – the hiding of the thing. But I cannot see at all what it is, or where you have hidden it.”
Childermass smiled, and gathered back up the cards. He remarked with certainty that Strange had the skill for it, but that perhaps his perceptiveness might benefit from a little attention and practice; Strange replied ruefully that in the span of a single hour, Childermass had thus already uncovered his greatest weakness as a student.
Childermass was handing the deck back to Strange for a second attempt when a great cry from Lucas announced Mr Norrell’s return. The cards were slipped back into Childermass’ jacket without delay, for he knew full well that the mere sight of them would make his master unspeakably vexed. Norrell had been despatched from the Admiralty with the firm purpose of divining a method of desalinating water, a vital endeavour to which Norrell and Strange became immediately employed; and Childermass, unneeded and unobserved, slunk slowly from the room, a bent silver shilling still cupped in the palm of his hand.
March 1816
Childermass had indeed endeavoured to arrive at Soho-square not long after four, but poor Mr Norrell had been rendered quite disconsolate by his report of the engravings. It had thus fallen to Childermass that day to resolutely obey every one of Norrell’s whims, to soothe each tiny impulse and irritation, and to be wholly steadfast in his execution of his duties; for whilst Davey or Lucas or even poor Hannah could not make Norrell easy, Childermass still had some skill in achieving that ambition. The day was thus much passed by the time Childermass was at liberty to leave his master, so much so that a distant church chimed ten as he turned south into the square.
The timing, as he learnt upon knocking on the door, was most unfortunate, for Mr Strange had been in such a state of rapt attention in his studies as to have neglected both his luncheon and his dinner, and was thus only just at table. The privacy of his supper was now fiercely guarded by Jeremy Johns, a man whom Childermass did not wish to make his enemy. Childermass thus consented to leave the money in his possession, and indeed was in the process of departing when Strange caught wind of his presence in the entrance-way and insisted he be brought forth into the dining-room. The table before him was covered with books, strewn about in haphazard manner, and only the smallest space remained for Strange’s plate; even his glass of claret sat balanced upon a copy of A Faire Wood Withering, a sight which would have made Norrell quite speechless and distraught.
“How now, Magician!” said Strange. “Is that my money? I had thought myself forgotten again.”
Childermass bowed his head, and delivered his apologies. He alluded in a courteous, abstract way to Norrell’s anxiousness, and Strange gifted him a knowing smile. He placed the money carefully upon a pile of Strange’s papers; but then, his purpose seemingly fulfilled, he did not at once depart. It was rare indeed to see Childermass not certain in his purpose, and it did not go unremarked.
“Have you some other business?” asked Strange. “You cannot have changed your mind to join me, though I would be delighted if you have.”
Childermass shook his head. From within his jacket he brought forth a deck of cards – but these were not his own. These were new, sharp-edged, their images cleanly printed; they were, it transpired, intended as a gift for Strange, without proper ceremony or occasion.
“I wondered if you might care to try again,” said Childermass, and reached out his hand.