Bewitching Season (5 page)

that she had helped form their strong, upright characters. The good Lord knew that many people with

the talent were not always equally as moral.

She squelched the sadness that welled, like blood from a cut, when she thought of leaving them.

There would be time enough to grieve when she actually left. Professional governesses could not

afford the luxury of too much affection for the children they taught. But then a memory of Pen’s

stricken face when she mentioned leaving them last week melted her steely resolutions. Dear girls.

She patted her reticule, which held the letters from them that had arrived in the morning’s post. Pen’s

had been particularly amusing.

Dearest Ally,

Such alarums since you left here last week! Everyone and everything is in a state of

disruption as we pack for London
.
Charles mopes about now that the fun of being

cosseted has worn off and he realizes that coming to town and listening to us talk about

clothed and parties will be just as bad as listening to us talk about magic. And Persy is a

total dolt. Let me tell you why.

Lord Northgalis came for a visit this afternoon, and whom do you think he brought with

him? Lochinvar, back from his grand tour! he and Chuckles walked in on Persy and me

dancing in the schoolroom, much to his amusement and poor Persy’s mortification, as

her hair had come down in our exertions.

He is much improved by age and travel and had become a very personable young man,

nothing like the dreadful boy he used to be. I practiced my conversation on him quite

successfully, I think. Persy sat dumb until he started to describe his visits to some

Roman ruins in Italy, when she brightened considerably but would not open her mouth.

He saw her interest too and kept steering conversation around to similar topics, but she

still would not speak. I was quite out of patience as she would have been better able to

discuss the topic than I (don’t scold, but I admit I found his gossip of persons and

foreign customs more fascinating). As it was I would have liked to nap while he went on

about Latin graffiti and Etruscan tombs.

Only when they were about to leave was he able to get a peep out of Persy by asking

what she was reading. It seemed to strike some spark from her, for she finally looked up

at him with a hint of warmth in her expression, but just then Lord Northgalis fell upon us

and whisked a very disappointed-looking Lochinvar from our midst. The whole visit was

most provoking, and Persy even more so when I scolded her for being such a statue. She

only mumbled something about wishing she were thirteen again. What will we do with

her? I rather suspect Lochinvar has taken an interest in her, but how will we ever find

out if she won’t even look at him?

At least the Setons will be in London for the season as well. It will be good to have a few

familiar faces about when we start going out into society. They have promised to call as

soon as we are all settled in town. I hope that Persy will be better behaved when they do.

Oh, Persy. Miss Allardyce sighed to herself and shook her head in exasperated if gentle reproof,

causing a passerby to jump and give her a guilty look. If only there were some way to help the child

see herself as others did, to see the fine, intelligent expression of her soft blue eyes and the sweet

generosity and spice of humor in the quirk of her mouth.

“Melusine!”

She started and looked up. Her father stood on the pavement before her, looking at her in

amusement. He wore the old-fashioned soft canvas coat and gloves he always wore when arranging

merchandise, and she realized that she was home. How had she made it here so soon? She glanced up

at the familiar sign over his head, recently and brightly repainted.

For once Miss Allardyce let her exquisite correctness lapse and became again the girl who adored

her papa. She kissed his cheek right there in the middle of Oxford Street, with nary a blush or look

around.

He chuckled. “You were thinking some deep thoughts, it looks like. Come tell me what you think of

these new window dressings.”

He held out his hand and she took it with a gentle squeeze, then stood by his side to survey the shop

front.

Lengths of green velvet had been draped in the windows, and a scattering of botanical books, open

to their prettiest plates, completed the cheerful, springlike picture. A few silk flowers were scattered

among them.

“It’s lovely, Father! Did you think of it?”

“No, your sister did. Lorelei insists it will bring in more custom if we follow the season with our

displays. It looks more like a milliner’s window than a bookseller’s, but there have been more

browsers since yesterday.” His voice was grudging, but his eyes smiled. “At least she’s taking notice

of something other than her sewing and her potion brewing. You look well, daughter. Your mother

said you’d be home for tea tonight. She was quite put out about it because she had promised to visit

Aunt Parris today, but she baked you a cake. Your brother’s gone with her for the day.”

“I’m sorry to miss her and Merlin. You look well, too.” She smiled at the tall, stooped man. “I’m

afraid I can’t stay long. But I’ll be in town till early August. The girls will be here in a few days, and

have already asked to visit. Mother can do a big tea for them.”

“That should make her feel better.” He opened the shop door for her.

At the tinkle of the door’s brass bell, a petite girl seated behind the store’s counter looked up.

“Melly! You’re here!” she exclaimed and hurried across the room, bumping into a customer who

pored over a stack of books on the counter. “Pardon!” she called over her shoulder and launched

herself at Miss Allardyce.

“Lorrie!” The sisters clung together for a moment, and Miss Allardyce surprised herself with a

trace of mistiness in her eyes. Lorrie—the Lorelei who had decorated the windows so cleverly—was

the baby of the family and had been her pet growing up. She held her at arm’s length to have a good

look at her. “How are you? Are you still studying? Your window dressing for Father is lovely.”

“Thank you.” Lorrie let go of one of Miss Allardyce’s hands and waved it in a spiraling pattern. A

strong scent of violets and new-mown grass filled the shop. The customer at the counter looked up,

startled.

“How’s that?” she asked, grinning. “I’ve just had flowers on the brain lately. Spring, I guess.”

Miss Allardyce shook her head but smiled. “Discretion, Lorrie,” she murmured, with a glance at

the man by the counter. “You shouldn’t do that sort of thing in here.”

“Pooh,” Lorrie stage-whispered back. “I get bored when it’s my turn to mind the shop, and think

these spells up. I can do roses, eglantine, and lilac too. I tried to do lavender for you, but it’s not quite

right yet.”

“Melusine cannot stay long, Lorrie. Would you mind putting on the kettle so we can have some

tea?” said Mr. Allardyce. He turned to the customer, who was watching them keenly. “May I help

you, sir?”

“Oh, ah, not just now, thank you,” said the man, looking away. An Irish lilt tinged his speech though

his accent was cultured, and Miss Allardyce saw that his hair under his silk hat was a beautiful dark

auburn. “I’ll just browse, if I may.”

“If I can be of assistance in finding anything—”

“Indeed, sir, I’ll ask.” The man went back to his book.

Miss Allardyce untied her bonnet and hung her cloak on the rack behind the counter where her

father kept his working coats. She sat down in the chair her sister had vacated and looked around the

shop in satisfaction. The delightful chaos that had reigned in it all through her childhood, despite her

and Mother’s efforts to organize it, had vanished. Now all the books were off the floor and in cases,

and small, neatly lettered signs at the top of each tier of shelves indicated subject matter. Here and

there velvet-covered stands displayed particularly handsome or quaint volumes. “It looks very nice,

Father. I like how you have rearranged it all.”

Mr. Allardyce looked sheepish. “That’s Lorrie again. I could never have done this. She cannot be

troubled to open a book other than a novel, but she does enjoy arranging them. Your brother gets

irritated, but she keeps the shop so well dusted and swept as well as organized that he cannot fault

her. I don’t think a bookshop’s the place for her, but your mother and I don’t know what else to do

with her. Especially after that business with Mrs. Thibault.”

Miss Allardyce nodded gravely. Lorrie’s design talents had led her parents to apprentice her to a

nearby milliner, Mrs. Tibbs—or Thibault, as she had taken to calling herself in hopes of attracting a

more fashionable clientele.

All had gone well until the milliner had entered her workroom unusually early one morning to see

her new assistant standing before a row of hats, arms raised like an orchestra conductor’s, watching

them trim themselves under her airy guidance. Fortunately for Lorrie, Mrs. Thibault had had a tumbler

of gin along with her morning bread and egg, and it hadn’t been hard to convince her that a different

choice of breakfast beverage would be wise if she didn’t want to keep “seeing things.” But she had

never been comfortable with Lorrie after that day, and had released her without argument when she

cited family needs and came back to work at the bookshop.

“We’ve all rather spoiled her, haven’t we? You know that I will be leaving Lord Atherston’s

employ sometime this year. Maybe I can find a suitable situation for her when I start looking for

myself,” she said, patting his hand.

“How are Miss Persy and Miss Pen?” asked Mr. Allardyce, looking happy to change the subject.

“Very well. Excited about their coming out. At least, Penelope is. Oh—before I forget—” She

opened her reticule. “Here’s Grandmother’s grimoire that you sent me last winter.”

“Ah.” Mr. Allardyce took the little book and stroked it reverently. The pages rustled, like a

preening bird settling its feathers. “Thank you. You’ve treated it well. How did the girls like it?”

“Persy was quite fascinated by it. Her progress is most gratifying.”

The grimoire rustled again.

“It agrees with you,” said Mr. Allardyce. “Perhaps—”

A sudden thud made them both jump. The auburn-haired customer bent down to retrieve the book

he had dropped. “Your pardon,” he muttered, not looking at them. “No damage to it, sir.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Allardyce, nodding. He turned back to Miss Allardyce and the grimoire, then

clapped himself on the forehead. “Lucca’s beard, I nearly forgot! Lorrie!” he called. “Where is that

book for your sister?”

Miss Allardyce heard a muffled reply from the back office, ending in something like “counter.”

Mr. Allardyce frowned. “Are you sure?” he called back.

Lorrie appeared, wielding a knife with sticky dark cake crumbs stuck to it, and strode to the end of

the counter.

“Mother said Melly was coming, remember? I left it out here so we wouldn’t forget it. Hold this a

moment, please.” She handed the knife to the auburn-haired man, who still stood there. He jumped

and looked alarmed, but she ignored him as she riffled through the pile of books he had been

examining.

“Here!” she said, and pulled out a small one bound in faded blue kid. She handed it to Miss

Allardyce with a triumphant flourish, took the knife back with muttered thanks, and strode into the

office. A faint “tea in five minutes” drifted down the hallway in her wake.

Miss Allardyce turned the book over. The remains of gilt lettering could just be seen on the spine,

but it was impossible to tell now what the title was. Had been. She rubbed them with a finger and

they began to glimmer faintly, until she was able to read
Mary Dalzell Herr Booke
in old-fashioned,