Bewitching Season (10 page)

Papa drew up and consulted his watch. “We are expected home shortly, as I know your mother has

another full day planned. Can we count on you stopping in for a visit, Seton?”

Lochinvar bowed in his saddle. “I would be delighted, sir. Chesterfield and I will call tomorrow,

if we may.” He touched his hat to them and trotted away.

“Handsome beast,” commented Papa.

“Oh, yes,” Pen said wistfully. “Isn’t he?”

Persy sighed in agreement. But she wasn’t thinking about the horse. Was Pen? She put aside that

thought and tried to concentrate on the day’s coming shopping. Even the prospect of delicately tinted

kid slippers and French lace scarves couldn’t dispel the gloom she suddenly felt. What good would

beautiful clothes be to a tongue-tied bookworm like her?

Her father’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Young Lochinvar’s turned out well, despite

everything,” he said, almost to himself.

“Despite what?” Pen demanded. “Why shouldn’t he turn out well?”

Lord Atherston shifted nervously in the saddle, making his horse shy. He patted its neck, and took

rather longer than was necessary to soothe it before he continued. “Well, losing his mother at such a

young age. I remember how very close he was to her, and how devastated he was when she died

under such strange circumstances—”

“Strange how? I thought she died in childbi—I mean, after being confined?” Persy interrupted him.

Fortunately, Papa was less strict than Mama about proper gentility of phrasing. But he looked

uncomfortable as he turned to her. “Er, well … I don’t think I really ought to say—”

“Oh, Papa, you have to tell us now. You can’t just leave us hanging,” Pen wheedled. “What

circumstances?”

Their father sighed and looked about them for potential eavesdroppers before he spoke. “Please

don’t tell your mother I told you this. But if you’re to be seeing more of Lochinvar, you probably

ought to know about it. Some people say—not I, or any rational person—but some people say that

Lady Northgalis was killed by”—he glanced around them again—“by a witch’s curse.”

Persy felt her jaw drop. She closed her mouth and glanced over at Pen, who drew her horse

alongside. “A witch?” she said, with a weak little laugh. “But that’s ridiculous. There’s no such thing

as witches and magic.”

“As I said, no rational person lends any credence to such nonsense. But the story went around that

she dismissed a new housekeeper because she caught her performing some type of heathen ritual, and

the woman cursed her with death within the year. When she died in childbed just a few months later

along with her infant, the story spread like wildfire.”

Persy was silent as they trotted back toward the park gate. Death curses were not only extremely

difficult and time-consuming to do, but also required enormous amounts of power and training. It was

most unlikely that a humble housekeeper would have had either. And childbirth was such a hazardous

event for women. Poor Lady Northgalis hadn’t needed a curse to kill her.

But a six-year-old Lochinvar wouldn’t have understood that. He would have heard the breathless

gossip of the maids and the other staff around him, and heard that his beloved mama had been killed

by a witch. He must find the very mention of magic and witches abhorrent.

And if he held the idea of magic in such horror because of his mother’s death … then he must

never, never learn about her and Pen’s abilities. Not that it made any difference for her. Lochinvar

still saw her as the girl with her nose in a book. That was clear from the Lord Chesterfield

discussion. But for Pen’s sake … he would surely be interested in Pen, once they started attending

social events—

“Persy, why are you squirming in your saddle like that? You nearly spooked my horse,”

complained Pen.

6

L
ochinvar called promptly at four the next afternoon.

Persy and Pen were helping Charles with his geography lesson, working with the globe and a folio

of maps at a table set by his bedroom window, which provided excellent light and which just

happened to overlook the front door. Persy blessed the inattentiveness of eleven-year-old boys to the

nuances of female dress, so that he didn’t notice their best day dresses and new lace berthas under

their everyday aprons.

Persy was just going over the principal exports of the islands of the Caribbean Sea with him when

Pen, lounging on the windowsill, sat up and cleared her throat. Persy looked at her, and she nodded.

“All right, Chuckles. I think that’s enough. Shall we continue tomorrow?” she asked brightly,

closing the folio and gathering pencils. Pen was already at the door, untying her apron.

However, Charles was more observant than she’d given him credit for. “Why?” he demanded.

“You kept me at it till half-past yesterday. What are you two going to do now?” He squinted at Pen.

“Why’s she taking her apron off?”

Pen flushed. “Never you mind, Chu—”

The front door knocker sounded. Charles grinned.

“I know!” he crowed. “Someone’s come to call for you, then. You were watching out the window,

Pen, weren’t you? Is it your beau? Does Mama know? Pen has a beau, Pen has a—”

“Stop it, Charles!” Persy snapped. “She has no such thing. You’re being rude and unkind, and if

you like you shall stay up here and write me out today’s lesson while we have tea with Lochinvar.”

“Is that who your beau is?” he asked, eyes innocently wide.

“Charles!” gasped Pen.

Without thinking, Persy reached over and yanked Charles by the earlobe. He howled in protest.

“How dare you!” she said through gritted teeth. “Pen and I are about to enter society as grown

women. I think it is about time you started treating us with the respect due to your elders, even if we

are only sisters. Now, apologize.” She stood over him, feeling tall and intimidating.

The teasing light in Charles’s eyes faded. He looked down at his shoes for a moment, then back up

at her. “You’re right,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t speak like that to you. I’m sorry.”

Persy stared at him and felt a sense of shame creep over her. Yes, she had been angry at Charles’s

childish chanting, and it was time for him to treat them with more respect. But what had made her

angriest of all was his joking insinuation that Lochinvar was calling just to see Pen.

Well, why shouldn’t he? Pen could actually talk to him like a sane and pleasant human being and

not get tongue-tied and abrupt like she did. She cringed slightly as she thought about their

conversation while riding yesterday. Pen had tried to assure her that she hadn’t been rude when she

vetoed his name choices—well, at least not very rude. But Pen was too loyal to ever say otherwise.

Persy sighed and looked at her brother.

“Apology accepted. And I’m sorry, too. I should not have snapped at you like that,” she said,

holding out her hand to him. “Will you come down and have tea with us, if Mama allows it?”

“Could I? Thanks! Do you think Loch—Lord Seton will show me his horse? He sounds a right

stunner,” said Charles, almost dancing toward the door. Then he stopped and turned back to Persy.

“You don’t need to do anything, Perse. You look very nice just the way you are.”

Persy followed him and Pen down the stairs, surreptitiously blinking back tears. Brothers. Just

when you were ready to drown them, they said things like that to you.

Lord Northgalis had come with Lochinvar, and was already ensconced next to Mama on one sofa.

Charles planted himself on the other sofa, next to Lochinvar. “Tell me about your horse,” he

demanded.

“Charles?” said Pen sweetly.

Charles thought hard for a moment. “Please?” he added, with an ingratiating smile.

Lochinvar smiled back. “Lord Chesterfield—or his equine namesake, rather—and Father both

approved of your choice of name, by the way. They thought it perfect.”

Persy sat down next to Charles and murmured “Thank you” at her lap.

“Anyway, Father bred him on the estate the year I left for Cambridge, intending him for me. If he

had known he’d turn out so well, he probably would have kept him.” He grinned at his father.

“Hah. If your riding hadn’t improved so much of late, I might have.” Lord Northgalis caught his

words and laughed back at him. “Capital name for him, Persephone. Couldn’t have thought of one

better. You’ll have to come round next year and name all the spring crop of foals for us.”

“Father’s interested in raising horses,” Lochinvar told them. “He’s brought some over from France

and Hanover, and hired a man from Newmarket to oversee their training. He wants to have a winner

at Epsom by forty-two.”

Charles looked ecstatic. “Why can’t Papa do that too? I’d help train ’em. Horses like me.”

“Is that why Pegasus the Magnificent took a bite out of your ear that time?” Pen murmured.

“I was only six. And he was shockingly underbred,” Charles informed her, tossing his curls

impatiently. “Not like Lochinvar—er, Lord Seton’s horses.”

“I don’t like to disappoint you, Charles, but I don’t have anything to do with the horses. Right now

I’m more interested in schools.”

Charles looked disgusted.

“Schools?” said Persy, sitting a little straighter.

Lochinvar leaned around Charles to look at her. “The schoolhouse on the estate lost its roof over

the winter—all the thatch was just picked up and blown away in one of the storms, Father said. I went

to watch it being reroofed when I got back, and met the schoolmaster. He’s got some unusual ideas on

education, and I told him about a school I had seen on my tour in Germany, called a
Kindergarten
. He

lent me a book by a Swiss teacher named Pestalozzi, and he wants to order the school along the

precepts set out by him. I said I’d send along whatever supplies he needed from London. Oh, and I

must find a bookshop—there’s a book by an Englishman about Pestalozzian schools he suggested I

read.”

“A bookshop?” Pen looked at Persy and raised her eyebrows. “As a matter of fact,” she continued

slowly, “we do know of a bookshop that comes highly recommended. Allardyce’s, on Oxford Street.”

Schools? He was interested in schools? Persy gave herself a mental shake. Had she heard him

correctly?

Lochinvar felt in his pocket and pulled out a memorandum book. “Allardyce’s?” he said, staring at

the name after he had written it in his book. “As in your governess? Does it belong to her family?”

“Yes. We’re rather interested in visiting it ourselves,” Pen continued nonchalantly.

“Then couldn’t she bring you there? Could I accompany you when you go?” Lochinvar looked

pleased.

“Well, er—” Persy started.

“She can’t,” Pen said boldly, with another glance at Persy. “She’s gone.”

Lochinvar frowned. “Gone?”

“Yes. She left a note for us when we arrived that she’d been called away on family business. But

we’re not sure we believe it,” she added in a rush.

“The note was scary,” Charles declaimed. “You could feel it—she was completely
horripilated

when she wrote it—”

“Charles,” Persy warned as she glanced at Mama and Lord Northgalis, but they were deep in their

own conversation.

“And we’re not sure if we should be worried or not, and we thought that if we could only go visit

her father’s shop, maybe we could find out if she’s really all right or not … ,” Pen continued, all in

one breath.

“What if she’s been kidnapped by Turks?” Charles whispered, looking around the room as if he

expected a turbaned figure waving a scimitar to appear from behind his mother’s sofa.

“What?” Lochinvar held up one hand and turned to Persy. “Turks? Could we start this again,

please? What has Miss Allardyce got to do with the Turks?”

“Hush, Charles! Let me tell it,” Persy commanded, but gently. Was it wise to take Lochinvar into

their confidence, when they didn’t even know if there was truly anything wrong? But it was too late

now. She turned to Lochinvar, took a deep breath, and hoped she wouldn’t sound too silly. If there

were some way he could help … “Maybe we’re just being foolish. But as Pen said, we were quite

surprised that Ally wasn’t here when we arrived in town. She left a note of explanation, but it—it

somehow didn’t sound right. Something quite dreadful had to have happened in order to make her just

—disappear like she did. She’s never been in the least irresponsible or flighty. The three of us

wonder if she isn’t in some difficulty.”

“With the Turks? In London?” Lochinvar’s mouth twitched.

“No, that’s just Charles being dramatic,” Pen put in. “It’s a little hard to explain. But we would

dearly like to visit her family’s shop and make sure that she really is taking care of a sick relative.”

“And if she isn’t?”

Persy took a deep breath. “Then we must find her.”

“We’ve been trying to think of a way to convince Mama to let us go to the shop without telling her