Bewitching Season (32 page)

with Lord Chesterfield …”

Persy’s throat tightened. “And?”

“And I got this funny feeling, and when I looked outside, I saw someone coming up the steps with a

note in his hand—just a boy, like someone would hire to deliver a letter if they didn’t have a footman

—”

“So?”

“So I ran to the front door and waited for him to knock. But he didn’t. I opened the door, and he

wasn’t there.”

“Charles—”

“But I saw him! He was really there. I didn’t imagine him. I could see a place on the elbow of his

jacket that had been patched with a piece of scarlet cloth, and that he was missing a front tooth … .”

He trailed into silence, then gulped. “Could it have been a ghost?”

Persy put her arm around his shoulders. “I don’t know, Charles. It might have been. But ghosts

aren’t anything to be frightened of most of the time—”

The knocker on the front door gave a brisk
rat-a-tat.
Charles started, then bolted for the stairs.

Persy hurried after him, more concerned about his tripping and falling down than about the identity of

the unknown caller. They reached the head of the stairs just as one of the footmen opened the door. A

small, slight ragged boy stood there. When he saw the tall footman, he grinned. A gap in his front teeth

was clearly visible.

“Miz Allardyce arsked that I bring this here note round,” he said, holding it out. “It’s fer Miz … uh,

Miz Lee-land.”

Persy launched herself down the stairs. “Thank you,” she called. The footman took the note and,

after a second’s hesitation, fumbled in his pocket and handed the boy a coin. The gap-toothed grin

grew wider, and the boy bobbed his head and turned to leave. Just before the footman closed the

door, Persy saw a flash of scarlet. The boy’s jacket was patched on the elbow with a square of bright

red cloth.

She thanked the footman and took the note, which was addressed to the Misses Leland, and turned

back to the stairs. Charles stood there looking shocked.

“That was him,” he said, grabbing her arm. “That was the boy I saw. Was that magic? Did I see the

future?”

“I don’t know.” Persy was already reading the note. “It’s from Mrs. Allardyce. She wants us to

come see her as soon as possible.”

The next day, Persy, Pen, Charles, and Lord Atherston arrived at the Allardyces’ shop once again.

Persy had not wanted Pen to accompany them, but there really hadn’t been any way to prevent her.

She had hoped to be able to ask Mrs. Allardyce to help her with her plan to run away, and having Pen

about would make that almost impossible. It was bad enough having Charles along, but he would have

forgotten his age and thrown a full-fledged tantrum if she’d tried to go without him.

She’d thought about whether or not to tell Pen about her plans, and decided against it. Pen would

either try to dissuade her or try to run away with her. Neither was acceptable. Pen would probably be

even more upset than Mama and Papa after she’d left, but it would be for the best. She’d find a

husband and get over her hurt in time.

Mrs. Allardyce was waiting in the window. Persy saw her practically sag with relief when she

noticed them climbing from their carriage. She was holding the door open for them when they arrived

at the bookshop’s entrance.

“Milord Atherston—Miss Persy, Miss Pen—I’m so grateful you came!” She clutched at Persy’s

arm.

Merlin Allardyce stepped forward, shooting his mother an annoyed glance as he did. “Lord

Atherston! You honor us with your—”

“I wonder if you might help Papa,” Pen said loudly, taking their father’s arm and drawing him

aside. “He can’t find his copy of Marcus Aurelius at home and we thought you might find him a new

one.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, I did lose it, didn’t I?” Papa nodded vehemently. “Can’t think where it got to.”

Persy looked away. His old copy was tucked under a seat cushion in the drawing room, where

she’d hidden it and then asked if he’d seen it anywhere. It had been the only way she could think of to

get him to bring them here today. Just then she caught the eye of Lorrie Allardyce, who looked at her

and suddenly grinned.

Merlin looked only too happy. “We have several editions, milord. If you would be so kind as to

step up to the counter, I’ll bring them to you.” He scurried off. Mrs. Allardyce pounced and drew the

remaining Lelands into the office.

“I’m so glad you came,” she said again, showing them into chairs and seating herself between

Persy and Pen. “If you hadn’t, I don’t know what I would have done! You’re not needed here, miss,”

she snapped at Lorrie, who had sidled in behind them.

“Mm-hmm,” Lorrie said, and took a chair.

“What’s wrong, Mrs. Allardyce?” Persy asked, taking her hand. “Is it something about Ally?”

Mrs. Allardyce’s shoulders sagged. “Yes—at least, it partly is. But mostly it’s about you two

girls.”

“Us?” Pen exclaimed.

“The night before last, I had a dream. I’m a dreamer, you know—I often see things in dreams that

come to happen. But this one was different. It was about Melusine—no, it was Melusine.”

“You see things?” Charles breathed. “That’s almost like what happened to me with your note …

except I wasn’t dreaming … at least I don’t think I—”

Pen frowned him into silence. “You think she came to you in a dream?”

“I believe she did. But I couldn’t talk back to her—it was as if she were making a speech to an

empty room, not expecting an answer. She said—she said that you two were in great danger, and that

under no circumstances should you continue to try to look for her.”

“But that’s ridiculous! We can’t stop now!” Pen cried.

“Of course not!” Persy echoed. “Maybe it wasn’t really her. Or maybe someone forced her to send

the dream, and that’s why you couldn’t talk to her.”

“I’d thought of that.” Mrs. Allardyce sighed. “But there was no way for me to tell.”

Persy extracted Ally’s note of resignation from her reticule and handed it silently to Mrs.

Allardyce. The older woman read it swiftly and frowned.

“She wrote it … and yet …” She hesitated.

“It doesn’t feel like her. It doesn’t feel like anything,” Pen finished for her. “Just like your dream.”

“I—I’ve begun to think it time we went to the constables, but we fear that they’ll just presume she’s

run off with a lover. There’s no evidence, after all. And if we bring Kensington Palace into it, they’re

just as likely to press charges on us for slandering the royal family. Oh, Miss Persy, Miss Pen, I just

don’t know what to do!” To Persy’s dismay, the strong, practical Mrs. Allardyce burst into tears.

Charles produced his handkerchief and wordlessly handed it to her, then looked at Persy with

wide, worried eyes. “Do something!” he mouthed at her.

“We’re not giving up, Mrs. Allardyce,” Persy declared. “What danger can there be for us? We’ll

keep looking. I promise.”

Persy immediately cursed herself for promising. If she ran away now, she would be giving up the

search for Ally. Would the Allardyces be inclined to help her run away if it meant abandoning the

search for their daughter? Even if Pen and Charles hadn’t been standing here, it wouldn’t have been a

good time to ask if they would take her in. Bother, this was going to be harder than she’d thought.

Lorrie picked up Ally’s note. “Hmm,” she said, tapping the edge of the paper absentmindedly on

her hand. “You haven’t found a maid yet, have you?”

“No,” Persy said, startled at the irrelevancy of the question.

“What’s that to do with anything? And besides, it’s none of your business, miss. Go see if milord

Atherston will take some refreshment, and be quick about it,” said Mrs. Allardyce, blotting her tears.

The steel in her backbone had evidently reasserted itself. “Have you spoken to the Princess Sophia

yet?”

“Well, er, sort of,” Pen said. “But I’m not sure that she—”

But Mrs. Allardyce grasped both their hands and said, “Bless you, my dears! Do you think you will

be able to speak with her at the princess’s ball? If you do, you must come again, the very next day.”

Pen glanced at her. “We will, ma’am,” she said. “The very next day.”

Persy opened her mouth and closed it abruptly. Double bother! She’d hoped to leave that very

morning for her new life, if she could convince the Allardyces to help. Maybe instead she’d come by

herself that morning and ask their assistance.

Lorrie came back into the room. “His lordship said he’d be delighted, once I was able to drag them

out of a book. I’ll get … oh, my goodness.” She stopped and looked hard at Persy. “You can’t,” she

said. “It would ruin everything!”

“What are you babbling about? Come along, child! Glasses and the ginger spice brandy.” Mrs.

Allardyce shooed Lorrie up the stairs.

Just before they left, Lorrie pressed a tiny folded slip of paper into Persy’s hand, frowned

ferociously at her, then stared out the window at her as she and Pen and Papa and Charles got back

into the carriage. Persy waited until she was safely alone in her room before she unfolded it and read

the one word it contained:
Wait.

17

P
ersy didn’t have much time over the next few days to wonder what Lorrie Allardyce meant by that

cryptic message. There were trips to Madame Gendreau’s and a myriad of other shops to obtain the

perfect accessories for their toilettes for Princess Victoria’s ball, as well as the usual round of social

events.

Gerald Carharrick’s manner toward her grew alarmingly possessive. He had abandoned his former

reticence and now hovered near her at balls, scowling openly at anyone who asked her to dance until

even one of Freddy’s less perceptive friends (which was saying something) commented on it.

Lochinvar was harder to deal with. She could not entirely snub him and refuse to dance or speak

with him, but it was heart-wrenchingly impossible to dance with him and not see the hurt

bewilderment in his eyes. Persy found herself paying careful attention during each second of time

spent with him, storing up sensations and memories. Chances were, she reminded herself, that she’d

never see him again once she left for her new life.

Whenever he tried to speak with her, she cast down her eyes and refused to answer. He turned to

Pen, but he got little satisfaction there.

“He asks and asks what he did wrong,” Pen whispered to her at one ball as they lurked in the

retiring room set aside for the ladies. “He’s miserable, Persy. You’ve got to do something or—or I

don’t know what will happen.”

She looked carefully through her clothes press, making a list of what would be suitable to bring

with her. Nothing too elegant, of course. Governesses were not supposed to be too well dressed.

Madame Gendreau’s confections of silk and muslin and lace would certainly not qualify as

serviceable and sober, and she looked each one over carefully, saving their details in her mind to

recall at some future date when she would wear only dull, plain, governessy dresses.

Hardest of all to contemplate was the gown Madame Gendreau made for her to wear to the

princess’s ball. Persy had been speechless with delight when Mama herself had carried the just-

delivered bundle up to her and Pen’s room and unpacked their dresses with reverent murmurs at

Madame’s genius. Hers was of pale blue satin that shimmered like an April sky, with a gracefully

draped bodice and the new tight sleeves set with crystal-pleated poufs. Persy knew it would always

remain in her memory as the last elegant dress she would ever wear.

The night before Princess Victoria’s ball—and their birthday—was the Fothergill ball. Mama had

nearly decided to refuse their invitation, but Lady Fothergill was an old friend. She compromised by

deciding that they would attend but leave early, so that they could all rest up before the big event.

Late in the afternoon, a footman arrived at the house bearing a large bundle addressed to Persy.

Kenney brought it to her as she sat with Pen and Charles in the library.

“Ewww. It sti-i-i-nks,” Charles said, holding his nose and dragging out his words in a nasal whine.

“It does not.” Pen craned her neck to watch as Persy unwrapped the gold paper from an enormous

bouquet of roses and orange blossoms. A card was tucked among the flowers, but Persy didn’t have

to read it to know who’d sent them. Drat, drat, drat on Lord Carharrick!

Pen asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” Persy sat down and rubbed her eyes. Charles was right. The scent was

overpowering.

“It doesn’t look good, Persy.”

“It doesn’t smell good, either,” Charles muttered. “Can we get rid of those horripilatious things

before I bring my lunch back up?”

“Gladly.” Persy swept the flowers up and deposited them with Mrs. Huxworthy, who loved flower

arranging, then retired to her room. She would have to make it clear to Gerald Carharrick that future

floral offerings were unwelcome—and the sooner she did so, the better.