Bewitching Season (7 page)

busy street.

Persy awoke, clutching her blankets and breathing hard, and stared from her high bed into the recesses

of her room. The setting moon cast a dim silver light on the half-filled boxes and trunks that stood

around, creating weird silhouettes that gave her the shivers despite the fact that she was drenched in

sweat. That was the third time tonight that she’d had that dreadful dream, and there was no way she’d

be able to get back to—

“Persy!” a voice hissed.

Persy nearly shrieked and dove under her covers. Then she realized who it was. “Pen! You all but

killed me,” she scolded, emerging from the blankets. “What are you doing in here?”

Pen hurried across the room, barking her shins on an open trunk. “Blast!” she muttered, kicking at it

irritably, then flung herself onto Persy’s bed. “I couldn’t sleep. I keep having this awful dream,” she

said, huddling under the blankets. Her voice sounded as if she were close to tears.

Persy felt another chill as she put an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “What was it?”

“I—I’m in an enormous house, all corridors, and hear Ally calling for me to come and help her

before it’s too late. I run up and down the passages and try the doors, but they’re all locked, and her

voice sounds more and more desperate as she calls for me. It’s horrible, Perse. There’s such an air of

menace, a feeling that if I don’t find her quickly something dreadful will happen.” She swallowed a

sob.

A feeling of unreality washed over Persy. “And you can’t tell which direction her voice is coming

from, either. And it’s night, and there aren’t any gaslights, only lamps here and there on little tables

—”

“Yes! How did you know?” Pen grabbed for her hand.

“Because I’ve had the same dream three times in a row tonight, and it is horrible. What could it

mean? You don’t think that …” Persy’s voice trailed into uneasy silence.

“That there’s something wrong with Ally? And she’s trying to let us know? That’s what I am afraid

of, if you’re having it too. What else could it mean?”

“That maybe we have both been reading too many of Mrs. Radcliffe’s gothic novels?” Persy

groped for rationality in the face of Pen’s dramatic words. “Surely if there was something wrong we

would hear from her or somebody at the town house … .”

Pen snorted in disgust. “Do you think we’re both imagining things, Persy? Is that why we both

dreamed the same thing? What if nobody knows there’s something wrong, apart from us? All I can say

is that I won’t be happy until we get to London and see for ourselves that Ally is all right.”

4

S
everal days later Persy and Pen, noses flattened against the windows of the coach, gazed out at the

streets of London. For once Lady Parthenope did not scold them to resume their seats and comport

themselves like the adults they nearly were. Instead she smiled at their exclamations and answered

their breathless questions with indulgent patience.

“After all, they haven’t been in town for years,” she said to Papa. “I can still remember arriving in

London at the start of my first season.”

“And last,” he replied, patting her hand and smiling. “You were far too pretty to have had a second

season. I was lucky to have got in to speak to your father before anyone else did.”

“Piffle. I didn’t want anyone else, my dear. I knew at my second assembly at Almack’s that you

were the catch of the season as far as I was concerned … .”

Persy continued to look out at the sights, but her parents’ conversation somehow took the zest out of

the moment for her. Mama and Papa had married for love, though of course their match had been quite

suitable and approved by their families. Somehow she couldn’t see herself being so lucky. Not that

she’d even have the chance to meet anyone of whom her parents wouldn’t approve—that was the

whole point of the season. But it seemed impossible that anyone would fall in love with a girl as shy

as she was.

Well, Pen would surely find someone perfect within minutes of their first ball and be engaged by

June. That would keep Mama occupied until next season, and camouflage the fact that Persy was a

complete failure. A picture of a radiant Pen in a beautiful dress and veil, walking down the aisle of a

grand London church on the arm of a tall man with hazel eyes and bright gold hair, flashed across

Persy’s mind. She winced and quickly thought of something else. Fortunately at that moment, the

carriage slowed and halted.

“It’s not as big as I remember,” Charles said, staring out the window next to her. Persy looked over

and saw the gray stone façade of their family’s London house.

“Of course it isn’t. Pen and I were—what, ten, last time we came to town? When we came to see

the last king’s funeral procession? Which means you were just four,” she said.

“I suppose,” he agreed gloomily.

Pen laughed at him. “Try not to die of excitement, Chuckles.” Then she turned and grinned. “Oh,

isn’t it exciting, Persy? London!”

But Persy still looked at her brother. His face was white and tired. The coach, though relatively

new and well sprung, had still traveled rough on the roads damaged by an unusually severe winter.

Charles had not complained much, but Persy could see that the constant jolting had been hard on his

injured arm. She and Pen had tried to sit as close as possible to him to help absorb the worst of the

ride, but an eleven-year-old boy could take only so much snuggling from his elder sisters. Persy

hoped Ally would be able to do something to ease his discomfort.

The footman came round and opened the door for them. As Persy alighted on the brick pavement

outside the house, trying to ignore the small crowd of passersby that had gathered to see what new

grand family had arrived for the season, the front door of the house opened. Kenney, the town house

butler, smiled out at them in as warm and welcoming a manner as his dignity would permit. Persy

caught her sister’s expression.
Where was Ally?
it asked.

Persy shook her head. “Wait,” she silently mouthed.

In the chilly and highly polished front hall, Mama accepted the town staff’s greetings calmly as

Kenney took their wraps. “The journey was pleasant, thank you, though I think Charles is fatigued. If

you could have some tea brought up to the morning room—then I think a little rest for all of us before

dinner. Tomorrow will be a busy day, I’m sure. Please ask Miss Allardyce to attend us for tea.”

Kenney was already halfway across the room to the bell, but he stopped at Mama’s last words.

“Oh, my lady. Miss Allardyce is not here.”

“Not here?” Persy echoed, with a sinking feeling in her chest. Pen made a hissing sound and seized

her arm.

Lady Parthenope glanced at them but did not scold. “Where did she go?”

“I believe she went to visit her family the other day after doing her errands—she told me she’d be

stopping to see them. Then at the time I was expecting her back for supper, a boy stopped in with a

note, saying it was from her. It wasn’t addressed, and I’m afraid I took the liberty of reading it, not

knowing what it might contain.” He felt in a pocket and produced a piece of paper, which he held out.

Persy and Pen hurried to read over their mother’s shoulder.

‘My dear Lady Parthenope,

I must beg your forgiveness and indulgence, but an illness in my family has necessitated

that I take a temporary leave from your service. Only the gravest and most sensitive of

situations would persuade me to pursue such an action. I do humbly ask your

forbearance, and promise to communicate with you as soon as circumstances permit.

Your obedient servant,

Melusine Allardyce

“Well!” said Mama, and handed Lord Atherston the note.

“Where’s Ally?” said Charles, his voice plaintive. “My arm hurts.”

“There, lamb.” Mrs. Huxworthy, the cook, stepped forward and patted his good hand. “Shall I take

Mr. Charles down to the kitchen and see if I can’t find him something to make his poor arm feel

better?” Charles was rather her pet, and she clearly relished the thought of having him to herself

without Miss Allardyce’s admonishments concerning too-rich treats with his tea.

“May we come too?” asked Pen.

Persy looked at her. Clearly she hoped to question Mrs. Huxworthy. But Lady Parthenope frowned.

“Certainly not, dear. You’re too old to take tea in the kitchen. Yes, Mrs. Huxworthy, you may take

Charles down. Kenney, was there any other message with this? When did it arrive?”

“No message, my lady. The boy gave the note to the parlormaid and left without even waiting for a

tip. It arrived about six on Monday. I had a look down the street for the boy, but he was long gone.”

“I see. Tea, then, if you please, and hot water in our rooms after that.”

Footmen began to appear with trunks and bundles from the baggage carts, so Mama swept them up

the stairs to the morning room, looking vexed.

“I want to see that note,” Pen whispered, taking Persy’s arm as they followed behind. Persy

nodded, too disturbed to reply.

What should they make of this? It was one thing if Ally had left to help take care of her family. But

her mother and father were there to handle any family emergency that might arise. And besides, Ally’s

brother and younger sister were still at home. Why would they need to call Ally away?

In the blue and gold morning room Mama busied herself with taking off her bonnet and slowly

removing her gloves, but it was plain to see that she simmered under her deliberate demeanor. She

managed to restrain herself until the footman had brought up the tea tray and lit the fire. As soon as he

had shut the door behind him, the girls could see her count to ten, to give him time to make it down the

corridor to the stairs. Then she exploded.

“Why
now
? Why did whatever relation of hers have to choose this week to go into a decline?

Could it be that the influenza epidemic is still about? I
need
Miss Allardyce here. I’m sure the note

from the Lord Chamberlain will arrive any moment giving notice of the date for your presentations,

and we don’t have a stitch of clothing ready for you! I had thought that she would have all the

groundwork laid so that we could just go have you measured tomorrow and—”

“Ally measured us before she left, so that Madame Gendreau could get started on our dresses,” Pen

assured her.

“And what are we supposed to do with Charles? I had assumed she would be able to give him his

lessons and help keep him occupied while we were out!” Mama paced around the sofa in agitation.

“Now, dear, I can take him along to the visitors’ gallery at Parliament sometimes with Harry or one

of the other footmen to keep an eye on him,” added Papa. He nodded to Pen to pour tea for her

mother. “Miss Allardyce has been the soul of dependability for years. I’m sure she would not do this

unless there was some very good reason.”

“Pen and I can help with his lessons when we’re not busy,” Persy said. “And Mrs. Huxworthy in

the kitchen can help watch him too.”

But Mama did not want to be calmed down just yet. “Mrs. Huxworthy and Harry have enough

duties of their own without having to looking after a fractious boy. It’s the principle of the thing!”

“Have some tea, my dear,” Papa said firmly, catching her in midstride and steering her to the sofa.

He handed her the cup Pen had poured. “We’re all tired, and perhaps matters won’t seem so bad after

we’ve rested. I myself am concerned for Miss Allardyce’s family. I trust that her parents have not

been taken ill.”

“May we see her note, Papa?” asked Pen.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Here you are.” He pulled it from his pocket and handed it to her across the tea

table. Persy huddled next to her to read it again.

“It looks like her writing,” Pen said under her breath. “See the L and the P? But messy, as if she

had written it in a hurry, or on an uneven surface.”

“Or in a moving carriage,” Persy added, rubbing the shoulder she had used to brace herself all

morning.

Pen stared intently at the piece of paper, as if willing it to speak. “Look!” she said suddenly. “It’s

been torn across the top. As if someone had torn off a monogram or an engraved name to keep it from

giving a clue.”

“Or just tore it off the end of her shopping list, if she were in a hurry. What did I say about reading

too many gothic novels?” Persy whispered back.

Pen snorted. Her lips moved soundlessly for a moment. Then she sighed. “No secret codes. I tried

reading the first letter of each word to see if it spelled something, but it doesn’t.”

“Oh, Pen. Here, let me see it for a moment.” Persy took the note in her hands and closed her eyes.

Feel
, she told herself.
Listen
.

All at once a sensation of panic flooded her, and she gasped out loud. She could feel falsehood and

fear emanating from the slip of paper, fear of injury and fear of—of—