Bewitching Season (14 page)

coup.” She took a quick look around her, then leaned forward and confided, “D’you know, she’s as

English as you or me? Don’t know where the fancy Italian name comes from.”

Lord Gilley shrugged. “She can sing as well as any of those foreigners can, m’dear, so it’s none of

our affair if she takes one of their names to make herself sound grander.”

“But ‘Mrs. Smith’ would be a sight easier to pronounce,” Lady Gilley retorted. “Hope you enjoy

her, girls,” she added affably, drawing back and turning to the next arrival.

Persy and Pen followed Mama up the stairs. Behind her, Persy could hear her father saying, “I say,

Gilley. Wanted to ask how you like the gaslights. Good, are they? Can you manage reading the papers

by them?” She smiled. Dear Papa. If they installed gaslights he would probably read the night through

and never sleep. Not that she would blame him …

“Perse, look up there,” said Pen beside her.

“Hmm?” Still smiling, Persy looked up to the top of the stairs. Lochinvar Seton stood there,

watching them ascend. Beside him another young man leaned over the balcony rail, as fair as

Lochinvar but much shorter and very plump. He looked rather like a well-dressed sausage in his snug

coat and high cravat. When he saw her smile he grinned back, then said something to Lochinvar,

whose serious expression did not alter.

“Why didn’t you warn me?” she muttered to Pen. And more important, why hadn’t Lochinvar

smiled back at her?

“Warn you about what?” Pen muttered back.

“Why, good evening, Lochinvar,” Mama said, gaining the top step. “And Mr. Gilley. How pleasant

to see you. Persephone, Penelope, this is the Honorable Frederick Gilley. Mr. Gilley, my daughters.”

“How do you do?” said Pen. Persy echoed her. Her face tingled with warmth. Merciful heavens,

couldn’t she manage four words without turning red?

“We-e-ell, am I seeing double? There’s far worse things to come in pairs, I daresay. Seton and I

were just waiting to make ourselves useful. Might we take you into the drawing room after you’ve left

your wraps off?” Mr. Gilley drawled. Persy looked up and saw that his eyes were on her. He was

perspiring heavily in his tight coat and yellow brocaded velvet waistcoat. Lochinvar’s waistcoat was

of deep blue silk with fine stripes of gold thread. Persy knew which she preferred. She peeked at Pen

and saw her shoot their mother a quick glance for guidance.

“You may go right now. I’ll be along with Papa in a moment,” Mama said with a smile, holding out

her hands for their mantelets.

There would be no escape, then. Persy untied the bow at her throat and surrendered her short cloak,

wishing she could throw it over her head instead and sit facing a corner for the rest of the evening.

“Do you care for music, Miss Leland?” asked Mr. Gilley, holding his arm out to her. His eyes,

though twinkling and blue, were nearly swallowed in the creases of his plump face.

Persy tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. “Oh, quite,” was all she could manage. Then

she realized that he was still looking at her expectantly, his arm crooked. Drat, drat,
drat
. She gulped

and laid her hand on it, and let him lead her into the drawing room, which was scattered with dozens

of small gilt chairs. Freddy Gilley steered her to a pair near the window.

“Beastly hot in here. Need some air,” he muttered, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief then

fussing with the window latch. “You and your sister are very like, you know.”

“We’re twins, Mr. Gilley,” Persy managed to reply. A draft from the window wafted an odor of

perspiration from her companion. Oh, when would the music start and put an end to the need to make

conversation? And where had Pen and Lochinvar gotten off to?

“You’re the elder, then?”

“Uh, yes, I am.”

“Thought so. I can always tell with twins. Had two sets of ’em in my year at Eton, you know.

Awfully funny thing. Of course, with the Ridleys we always knew because of the scar on John’s

forehead, poor bast—er—poor boy. But the Martins were impossible to tell apart, at least when they

had their clothes on.”

He rattled on at high speed, using slang that she’d learned from Charles and sometimes words

she’d never heard before. It really didn’t matter if she understood or not, for he never paused for a

reply. To her relief, an occasional “Mmm?” or “Oh?” delivered alternately when he paused for

breath seemed to satisfy him. But she couldn’t very well look around for Pen and Lochinvar while

Freddy was talking to—or
at
—her.

After what seemed hours Lord Gilley entered the room with a slight, dark-haired woman on his

arm, followed by an elderly man clutching a sheaf of music. Lord Gilley led the woman to the piano,

then waited for the last coughs and shuffles to subside before he introduced her as the signora.

“Oh, I say, that’s too jolly bad,” Freddy whispered loudly as the man settled himself on the piano

bench. “I was just going to tell you about what Snarky Heddleston and I did to our tutor our last term.

Nearly got us sent down, but it was a beauty of a—” He broke off as he perceived Signora Albertazzi

glaring at him over the piano. Persy stared down at her lap in an agony of embarrassment until the

first notes from the piano filled the room.

Was this what life was going to be like until the end of the season? Pretending to be enthralled by

the incomprehensible and downright silly stories of young men she’d never met before, in hope that

one of them would fall in love with her and propose? And if one of them didn’t find her face and

dowry attractive enough, doing it all over again next year … and for years after that, until she either

found a husband or became an old maid?

It was a horrifying thought. Why couldn’t she have stayed home with Ally, sitting by the fire and

reading Miss Austen while toasting her icy feet? But home was miles away, and Ally mysteriously

disappeared. Persy groped for the lace handkerchief at her waist and dabbed at her eyes.

Just then, the signora ended her song on a low, quavering note. Freddy Gilley leaned closer to

Persy and murmured to her under cover of the applause.

“Smashing voice, hasn’t she? You’re looking a little leaky about the eyes there. Nice to meet a girl

with artistic sensibilities. Felt a lump in my own throat too, at the end. Hanky?” He pulled out the one

he’d used to mop his brow earlier and held it out.

“Ew … ah, no thank you, Mr. Gilley, I’m fine,” Persy floundered, trying not to look too repelled by

the moist square of linen he flourished at her.

Fortunately Signora Albertazzi launched into her next piece just then. Persy tried to concentrate on

the music. At least while it went on, she didn’t have to make conversation. The singer’s lush voice

washed over her like the incoming tide, somewhat smoothing the turmoil of her emotions. This time

she was able to manage a small smile as she applauded at the end of the song. Ally had often hummed

that particular tune over her needlework. Had Pen noticed too? Drat it, where
was
Pen? As the

signora paused to consult with her accompanist, Persy did a discreet squirm and looked around the

room.

At first she couldn’t find her. Then she spotted the ivy-and-violet wreath, behind and to her right,

with a gold head close beside it. Lochinvar was sitting beside Pen, leaning over to murmur in her ear.

Lucky Pen, to have been able to sit with an acquaintance on her first foray into society, while she’d

had to sit with the Giant Yellow Brocaded Sausage. Was Lochinvar counting himself lucky for having

avoided the Stiff and Tedious Leland Twin? Watching them, Persy felt light-headed as a dreadful

thought formed itself in her mind.

Was Pen starting to notice Lochinvar too?

No. Oh, no. A lump of misery rose in her throat. She swallowed hard and looked down at her

slippers to try and regain her composure. Pen had always been outspoken in her disapproval of

Lochinvar when they were children. But he was certainly a different person now—a handsome, well-

spoken young man with excellent manners, heir to a solvent earldom and a close neighbor to boot.

Compared to Freddy Gilley, he was a veritable deity. How could Pen not see that?

What did it matter that Pen’s tongue-tied, maladroit sister had already fallen for the young man in

question?

The signora sang another song, then rested while the pianist played a short piece by Mendelssohn.

Persy struggled to look engrossed in the music, but a dull, throbbing ache had settled into her heart,

and the image of Lochinvar’s bright head by Pen’s kept dancing before her mind’s eye. After several

songs and a few more piano solos, Signora Albertazzi took her last bow and left the room on Lord

Gilley’s arm, looking triumphant but tired amidst the enthusiastic applause.

“Bra-vo!” Freddy Gilley called, clapping hard. “That was something, wasn’t it, Miss Leland? I

say, Mother’s got up a nice supper downstairs. Won’t you let me get you some fodder? The butler’s

made a spiffing punch—tried it myself while he was mixing it.” He winked as he rose and offered her

his arm.

Persy looked around, hoping for an excuse to refuse. Pen was smiling up at Lochinvar as she took

his arm. Beyond them she saw Mama smile again and nod to her as she walked out on the arm of a

little old man in knee breeches and long coat. There would be no escape. She murmured her thanks

and, with a heavy heart, took Freddy’s arm again and let him take her down to the dining room.

Freddy brought her a plate laden with tiny cakes and slivered ham and strawberries and cream that

looked delicious. But it all tasted like cotton wadding to her. Only the punch, cool and sparkling,

reached her notice by bubbling up her nose and making her sneeze three times in rapid succession. To

her dismay, Freddy offered her his handkerchief again. But he also brought her several more cups of

the punch, which went down quite easily after her initial sneezing fit.

Between enormous mouthfuls—and sometimes even through them—Freddy told her the interrupted

story of his and Snarky Heddleston’s misdeeds in their last term, which led to the story of Snarky’s

elder brother’s run-in with the cricket captain and the sheep, who’d had the same tutor—not the

sheep, of course—which in turn reminded him of that tutor’s favorite edition of Aristotle, bound in

kid, that had somehow made its way into the vice-chancellor’s privy … .

Aided by the curiously mellow feeling the punch seemed to give her, Persy let his words flow over

her like a river in flood, murmuring small affirmative noises at appropriate intervals. Across the

dining room she saw Lochinvar talking earnestly to Pen and looked hastily away.

Freddy brought her yet more punch, ate all the strawberries off her plate, and kept on talking.

Numbness crept over Persy, starting at her ears but quickly spreading over the rest of her. At long last

she heard a clock strike eleven. At the same time Mama swept up to them.

“Mr. Gilley, do forgive me, but it is time for us to bring Persy home. She’s not officially out yet,

you know,” she said with an arch smile.

Before he could say anything else, Persy muttered a hasty “Good evening” and hurried a trifle

unsteadily up the stairs to retrieve her wrap. Pen joined her, and in silence—blessed silence!—they

found their cloaks and departed.

In the carriage Mama looked exultant. “Persy, you surprised me! In a pleasant way, of course, dear.

Don’t look so alarmed.”

“What did I do?” Persy asked. A rosebud fell off her wreath and into her lap. Mama beamed at it.

“Oh, nothing much. Just made Freddy Gilley gush about what a fascinating creature you were and

how much he’d enjoyed your conversation. I must say, I didn’t expect you to make such a success of

your first venture into London society. Gilley’s not the brightest star in the firmament, but he’s a start.

He’ll tell everyone what a charming girl you are so that when you’re really out, it will be much easier

for you at balls and such.”

“What conversation?” Persy asked, baffled. “I never opened my mouth to say more than one word.”

“There you have it. Well done.” Mama leaned forward to pat her hand, then sat back and blinked.

“Goodness, Persy, how much punch did you have? I can smell it on you. Do be careful next time. And

what about you, Pen dear? What were you and Lochinvar talking about for so long?”

“Nothing much.” Pen yawned, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. “His school, part of the

time. It’s late, isn’t it?”

“Gilley says putting in the gas was the best thing he’s ever done,” Lord Atherston told them. “Said

he can read the smallest print by it at any hour of the day or night, though the installation was a bit of a

mess. Still, no more fussing with candles and scraping wax off everything would be a boon, wouldn’t

it?”

“Why don’t we see how he likes it this time next year? We certainly can’t think about tearing the

house up now, just as the season’s getting underway,” Mama protested.