Bewitching Season (31 page)

Persy had been afraid of this question, but she couldn’t evade it now. “Because I was … ashamed.

I just couldn’t admit to anyone that I’d done something so … so completely stupid. I’ve always been

the good girl who studied hard and practiced her magic and was so proud of being good at it, better at

it than—”

“Better at it than me,” Pen finished. “Persy, I think you’re overestimating this spell of yours. That

night at the Gilleys’ concert he was already talking nonstop about you.”

“There’s a big difference between talking about someone and proposing to them. Forget it, Pen, this

is all my fault. And besides, what about his mother?”

“Huh?”

Persy grabbed her hand. “You heard Papa that time. Lochinvar thinks his mother was killed by a

witch. He hates witches. What would he think if one day after we were married he walked in and

found me starting a fire by magic or levitating to get a book off a shelf? He would hate me, and I

would die if that happened. And what about if the spell wears off, and he realizes I’d trapped him into

loving me?”

Pen shook her head. “You don’t know that any of that will happen.”

“No, but I can guess it will. When I cast that spell I was ready to give up magic if I could only have

him. Lochinvar is who I love. But being a witch is what I am. I can either live a lie and give up my

magic, or do without Lochinvar. If I marry him, we’ll both be living a lie even though he won’t know

it.”

“But—”

“But what, Pen?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to figure out some way to prove you’re wrong.”

Persy squeezed her hand. “Thank you. You’re the best sister anyone could have. But you’re not

going to find a way for me to get out of this.”

“There’s got to be a solution. I just know there is. You don’t understand—Lochinvar thinks the sun

rises and sets on you. Please don’t do or say anything final to him until we’ve had a chance to think

about this.”

“Nothing’s going to change just because we think about it. It’s … it’s no use, Pen. Lochinvar and I

—it will never happen.” The enormity of what she was saying struck her, and she bowed her head. A

tremor ran through her, and another.

Pen put her arms around her. “It’s all right, Perse. Go ahead and cry.”

“I t-t-told you th-that I wished w-we could stay thirteen,” she sobbed into Pen’s shoulder.

16

T
wo mornings later, just as they were finishing breakfast, Lord Atherston paused at the dining room

door. “Persy, might I have a word with you?”

Mama smiled and patted her lips with her napkin. Charles stared. Pen looked sympathetic. Persy

felt herself flush with irritation and embarrassment, but she replied, “Yes, Papa,” as meekly as she

could, and followed him up the stairs to his study as if she were walking to her own execution.

Which, she thought bitterly, in a way she was. She had a fairly good idea what Papa wanted to talk

to her about. Lord Carharrick must have made that appointment to speak with Papa at his club.

Bright May sunshine flooded Papa’s study, brightening the deep crimson and green carpet and

curtains. It was incongruous in this dark, masculine room, and Persy found herself wishing it were a

dull cloudy day, to better match her mood.

Papa sat down on the small settee by the fireplace and patted the cushion next to him. “Hmm.

Should I understand that perhaps you know why I asked to speak with you?” he asked, peering at her.

This was agony. “Papa—” Persy began.

“I’m sorry, dear. I should not engage in cryptic conversations about such a topic. Viscount

Carharrick called on me yesterday to ask if I would approve his paying suit to you.”

Her face felt as though it were carved from wood, and it was difficult to get her lips to move and

form a reply. “I see” was the best she could do.

“He seemed quite sincere. Eager, even. I must confess I was a little taken aback. After all, you girls

have only been out a few weeks. I suppose I’ve not had time to really consider what your being out in

society implied.” He gave her a shy smile and took her hand. “Carharrick’s from a good family. Not

as old as ours—his father’s only the second earl—but still good. I’ve heard the estate in east

Cornwall is quite a good one, and he seems to have some ambitions toward a political career. You

could do worse.”

He seemed to be waiting for a response. “Yes, Papa,” she whispered.

“I wanted you to know that I gave him my permission to go on and do his best to convince you to

accept him. If you think you would—Oh, I say, child, are those tears?”

“I’m s-s-sorry.” Persy took his proffered handkerchief and buried her face in it.

“Should I have said otherwise? It seemed to be an honorable proposal and a suitable …” Poor

Papa sounded utterly bewildered, but he put his arms around her and drew her to him. She leaned

against him, just as she had always done as a little girl.

“That’s n-not it. It’s just …” Oh, what could she say to him? Papa stroked her hair. “It is sudden,

isn’t it? That’s what stopped me at first. But he seems very fond of you already, Persephone.”

No, not Carharrick, not now, not ever
ran over and over again through her mind in a mad little

singsong. How could she tell Papa that?

“I can see you’re more than a little overset by this,” he said quietly. “Your mother and I would

never force you to accept a husband that you didn’t love, of course. But sometimes like is a

reasonable basis for a marriage. Love often follows close on its heels.”

“Papa, I don’t think … well, I
don’t
much like him. I can’t really see that blossoming into love,”

she whispered.

Papa was quiet for a moment. “Well, he hasn’t proposed yet, has he? But I wanted you to know

what was in the wind, so that you could consider your answer when the time comes.” He gave her

shoulders a squeeze. “Why don’t you stay here for a while and think about matters?”

“Thank you, sir,” Persy responded, rising politely as he stood up. He kissed her forehead, gave her

his usual slightly lopsided smile, and left the room, carefully closing the door behind him.

As soon as he had left, Persy cast herself down on the sofa. She was tempted to throw herself on

the floor instead and shriek and cry and kick the legs of the furniture, but Ally’s training won out.

So Lord Carharrick was going to propose to her. Maybe not tomorrow, or even next week. But

soon—Papa had made that clear. The thought made her throat feel tight, as if an inexorable hand had

closed on it. She would have to face that as well as Lochinvar. The imaginary grip on her throat

tightened and turned icy cold.

She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ornate swags and interlocking shapes on the molded

plaster ceiling. What was worse—dealing with Lord Carharrick, whom she didn’t love and didn’t

want, or Lochinvar, whom she loved and couldn’t have?

She jumped up and began to pace around Papa’s study, avoiding the copies of famous Greek and

Roman statuary that stood sentinel in every unoccupied nook. This was all her fault. She’d flirted

dreadfully with Lord Carharrick, and he’d believed her. But she couldn’t marry him. She would never

consider marrying anyone but Lochinvar, and she couldn’t marry him, either. What would Mama and

Papa say after she’d refused Lord Carharrick and any other proposals that came her way? There was

no way she could explain that since she’d refused her one real love, no one else would do. Pen and

Charles would marry, but she’d be left at home.

Eventually, Lochinvar would marry too.

That thought was like a blow to her gut. How could she live at home and participate in the social

life of the county, as she would have to, and see Lochinvar and whatever girl he chose to marry living

their lives? There was no doubt he’d find someone else eventually; heirs to ancient earldoms married

and begot heirs, and that was it. She would have to watch them dance at balls, and smile at each other

across the table at dinner parties, and … She shuddered. There was no way she could watch that and

stay sane.

So why not accept Lord Carharrick? She tried to imagine him sitting on the edge of his chair, eyes

shining with enthusiasm as he described one of the new village schools on his family’s estates or

discussed new theories of education for farm laborers’ children. She tried to picture reading books

with him, arguing companionably about characters and motivations and the relative merits of Mrs.

Gaskell and Mr. Dickens. But all she could see in her mind’s eye was the avid interest in his eyes as

he discussed her family’s tradition of service at court.

Her skirts flared as she turned on her heel, knocking a small statue of the goddess Athena off its

slender stand. She automatically pointed at it, halting its imminent fall, and waved it back onto its

base.

Oh, why did she have to marry? For all Persy’s privilege as a nobleman’s daughter, it was women

like Ally, who had to work, who had the freedom. Right now she would far rather be someone’s

governess than a marriageable young lady in society.

Someone’s governess
…

No. She couldn’t run away and become a governess. It was impossible.

Or was it?

Charles had said more than once that she knew just as much about some subjects as his tutors at

Eton. And her French and German were more than passable. Perhaps she could find a family going to

the continent that needed an English governess.

“No,” she said aloud. “I couldn’t.”

But Lochinvar was lost to her. All that was left was her learning and her magic. If not on the

continent, could she go out and find magically talented pupils to tutor, the way Ally had? Maybe if she

asked her, Ally’s mother would be willing to help her find employment—hadn’ t she made a study of

magical families?

Persy paced once more, feverishly thinking. Would the Allardyces help her if she told them about

her plan to run away? Perhaps even let her stay with them for a week or two until she found a

position?

She would need some days to pack up the appropriate clothes and other things—her books, or as

many of them as she could manage. And she would have to sell her jewelry to have money to live on

until she found work. The thought of selling Uncle Charles’s beautiful pearls made her sad. She

remembered little Sally Louder admiring them the day they’d been presented. Lucky Sally—for all

her giddy simplemindedness, she’d found a man she could love and be loved by, even if he was

Freddy Gilley. They would probably be perfectly happy together for the rest of their days, while

Persy … well, at least she would have her self-respect.

The tall clock in the corner whirred softly, then chimed. Persy was shocked when the eleventh

bong
faded into silence. Papa had been true to his word and kept everyone away so that she could

think in peace. He’d be aghast if he knew in what direction her thoughts had led her.

That made her pause. Papa and Mama would be horribly hurt if she ran away. But they’d be

equally hurt when she refused Lord Carharrick and any other young man who proposed to her, no

matter what Papa said about it being her choice. Far better they be hurt once, now, than hurt

continually as she grew into an old maid. They would mourn her, spend a few frantic months looking

for her, but in time they would get over her loss. They’d still have Pen and Charles.

Straightening her back, she went to the door. Kenney would be frantic to have the maid tidy up and

the fire seen to, if it really was after eleven. She turned the key and stepped into the hall.

“I thought maybe you’d died or something,” said a voice near the floor. “But then I heard you

mumble to yourself and bang into something, so I assumed you were probably all right.”

Persy stifled an exclamation as Charles unbent himself and rose from the hall carpet. “What are you

doing there, Chucklehead?”

“Making sure no one bothered you. Pen said I should, if I had nothing else to do, and I didn’t

because you weren’t there to work on my lessons with me. She wouldn’t say why you shouldn’t be

bothered, though.” He looked at her with bright, expectant eyes.

“Oh, didn’t she? Thank you for standing—er, lying guard for me, but I’ve got a lot to do right now

… .” Persy tried to push past him, but he held up his hand. The inquisitive expression on his face

faded.

“Something happened,” he said.

“No it didn’t, Charles. I’m quite—”

“No! I mean, something happened to me.”

An odd note in his voice stopped her. This wasn’t one of Charles’s jokes or exaggerations. “What

was it?” she asked, more gently.

“I don’t know After you and Papa left, I went to sit in the window in the dining room, to—you

know, watch the people drive by and look at their horses, maybe see if Lochinvar happened to go by