Bewitching Season (8 page)

“What is it?” Pen hissed in her ear.

“Are you all right, child?” asked Lady Parthenope.

Persy looked up and saw her sister and parents were staring at her.

“You made an odd noise,” said her father, looking concerned.

“I’m s-sorry,” Persy said, floundering. “This note, it—just gave me a—a paper cut, on the tip of my

finger. It startled me.”

“Gracious, child. If there is a way to have a mishap, you find it, don’t you? Wrap your finger in

your handkerchief. Don’t bleed on your dress,” Mama admonished, and went back to venting her

indignation to Papa.

Pen still frowned at her. “What was it, really?” she murmured.

“Take the note. Listen to it.” Persy shoved it back at her sister with shaking hands and reached for

her teacup.

Pen held it and closed her eyes too. After a few seconds she inhaled sharply, though not loudly

enough to disturb her parents. “I feel what you mean. Too many gothic novels, hmm?”

“All right, I apologize. I was just playing devil’s advocate when I said that, to keep us from seeing

things that weren’t real.”

“Ally’s unhappiness when she wrote that was real enough. She knew she was writing lies, and she

was terrified while she did it. So why?” Pen whispered, her voice fierce.

“May we be excused, Mama?” said Persy loudly, taking Pen’s arm as she rose. “I should like to go

wash off my finger, if I may.”

“Of course, dear. You remember where your room is?”

“Yes, Mama. Thank you.” Persy nodded, pulling Pen behind her.

They found Charles seated on the stairs up to the third floor, less white but still tired-looking. “The

Hoaxer sent me up for a rest, but I don’t know where my room is,” he muttered at their feet.

“Come on. We’ll show you. And don’t call Mrs. Huxworthy the Hoaxer, Chuckles. It isn’t polite,”

said Persy as she stepped past him.

“But calling Miss Allardyce Ally is?” he challenged.

“It’s like us calling you Chuckles. It’s a term of endearment.”

“Where is Ally? I like the Hoaxer well enough but she gets up my nose after a while. She was all

right when I was little.” Charles stood up.

Persy hesitated, but Pen said, “We don’t know where she is. And we don’t like it.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, sounding less peevish.

“Pen,” Persy said in a low, warning voice.

“Why not tell him? It will keep his mind off himself for a bit,” she whispered back.

“What? Tell me what?” Charles said anxiously from behind them as they climbed the stairs.

“All right, Chucklehead. But you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone. Not even Mama and Papa,

unless we say you may,” said Pen in a mysterious tone.

“I promise!”

“Anyone,” echoed Persy.

“I swear on my—on my honor as a gentleman!” Charles said dramatically. He stopped on the stair

and placed his uninjured right hand on his heart.

Pen’s mouth curved in a grin, but she held her peace. “Good thing it’s your left arm that’s useless. I

suppose we’ll have to accept that, Persy?”

“So it seems. Come on.” She led them up the rest of the stairs and down the short corridor. “That’s

your door, there, Charles. We’re in here. London houses never have enough bedchambers, so we’re

sharing.”

The fire had already been lit, taking the chill of disuse from the room. Pen motioned her brother

into the low slipper chair by the grate and seated herself on the edge of the large curtain-hung bed.

Persy sat on a nearby trunk. “We’ll have to do the unpacking ourselves, without Ally,” she observed.

Pen groaned. “I begin to understand Mama’s dismay. What’ll we do without her to help us dress

for balls? I guess Andrews could help, but she’ll be busy getting Mama ready. Mama will have to

hire us a maid.” She took off her bonnet, unpinned her coiled braids of honey brown hair, and began

to brush her cheek absentmindedly with the soft end of one. Persy wanted to chide her for reverting to

this childhood habit but didn’t have the heart.

“What about Ally?” Charles nearly shouted.

“Quiet, Charlie-boy.” Persy nodded at her sister. “You tell.”

Pen quickly summarized the contents of Ally’s note and their reactions to it. “That just doesn’t

sound like her, does it?” she concluded.

Charles looked dubious. “No, not much. Can I see it?”

Pen slipped the note from inside her sleeve. “Glad I thought of sneaking this out,” she said, pulling

a face at Persy. “Reading gothic novels can have its uses.” She handed it to Charles.

He read the note, then flattened it between his hands. A look of wonder filled his face. “You’re

right! I can feel it too!” he said, eyes enormous.

“Don’t be silly, Chuckles. You cannot.” Pen shook her head and took the note back from him. “Only

witches can. So the question is, where is Ally? And why did she go? Did she go on her own, or was

she forced?”

“Who could—or
would
force Ally to do anything? She’s—she’s a governess. It’s not like she’s a

rich heiress who could be kidnapped and held for ransom or anything,” objected Persy.

“Did too feel it,” Charles muttered.

“Hush. So what do we do? Mama and Papa don’t have any reason to question the note. Do we tell

them what we know?”

“We don’t know anything. Besides, if we do that, we’ll have to tell them everything else,” said

Persy slowly. “About the magic tutoring and all. I don’t know how they’ll feel about that. What if they

think magic is evil, and think it good riddance Ally is gone, and forbid us to have anything further to

do with her or with magic? Or if they think we’re lying? Then there’ll be no one to help her.”

“Then you do think she needs helping!” crowed Pen.

“I don’t know. I had hoped we were being overimaginative until I felt that note. Oh, why couldn’t

she have put a message spell on it and told us what was really going on?” Persy leaned her chin on

her fist and frowned.

“I don’t think she had time. You saw how rushed and untidy her writing was. And she didn’t put

that fear and worry intentionally on the note—it just absorbed what she was feeling. What do we do?”

Pen swished furiously with her braid.

“Why don’t we go to her family’s shop and ask if they know where she is?” asked Charles.

Both sisters stared at him.

“Why not?” he said reasonably. “It would seem to be the first thing to do.”

Pen looked at Persy. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

“Because you’re too busy worrying.” Charles had shaken off his earlier peevishness and looked

alert and happy. “It’s obvious you need a male brain to direct matters here.”

“Spare me, Charles, or I might be ill,” said Persy sourly. “And it’s not that easy, milord Brain. We

can’t just traipse down for a visit there like it was one of the shops back home in the village. This is

London, remember? Pen and I can’t go out alone, and pardon me, but you’re not quite old enough to

be our chaperone despite your vastly superior intelligence.”

Charles looked sullen again. “Tease me all you like. But I’ll bet I’m the one who figures it all out

in the end.”

“And we’ll be suitably grateful if you are,” said Pen. “In the meanwhile, run along before Mama

comes up and explodes again.”

5

A
t breakfast the next morning Lady Parthenope had regained her equanimity and had gone into full

Wellington mode, planning the morning’s shopping like a battle campaign. “We’ll go to Madame

Gendreau’s first, and see what Miss Allardyce was able to accomplish before her defection,” she

announced to the girls when they came down. “We’ll concentrate on your presentation dresses, since

that comes soonest. And perhaps a simple, appropriate dress or two for small evening parties before

then. Your presentation dresses will do for the first few balls, but she must have your other ball

dresses ready soon after.”

“The soonest?” asked Pen.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? No, I suppose I haven’t had a chance. I received a note from the Lord

Chamberlain this morning. You two will be presented to Her Majesty at a drawing room this Tuesday

week.”

Persy did some calculating and gulped. “In ten days?” she murmured.

“Indeed,” said their mother briskly. “Which means we have a great deal to get accomplished. Eat

quickly, girls, so we can arrive at Madame Gendreau’s as soon as possible. I’ve already rung for the

carriage. Ah, Charles, my dear. How are you feeling this morning?”

“Good morning, Mama. Good morning, Papa.” Charles sidled into the room, the morning sun

shining in the window creating a halo of his untidy curls and making him look like a disreputable

cherub. His braces flapped behind him.

“Do you not greet your sisters as well?” said Lady Parthenope, motioning him over and buttoning

his suspenders in back. “What shall we do without Ally?” she sighed as she patted his good arm.

Charles circled around the table to where Persy sat. She stared as he took her hand and bowed

over it.

“Good morning, sister,” he intoned solemnly. Persy started to giggle until she felt a damp piece of

paper pressed into her palm.

“Good morning, Chuck,” she replied, sliding her hand under her napkin and glancing down at it. A

note?

Charles made the same greeting to Pen. While her parents stared at him in bemusement, Persy

unfolded his note and read:
Asked the Hoaxer about Ally. Will continue interragashuns.

Persy managed to maintain a sober expression despite Charles’s misspelled and overwrought

choice of words. Wait till Pen saw this.

Fortunately for Madame Gendreau, she knew her client well and was prepared when Lady

Parthenope swept into her shop like a general entering a subjugated city.

She led them into a fitting room papered in a pale pink moire that reflected a flattering light onto its

occupants. Mama took the small gilded chair offered her, accepted a cup of tea from an assistant, and

fixed Madame with a steely eye.

“Ten days, Madame, until their presentations,” she announced without preamble.

Madame did not bat an eyelash. “It will not be a difficulty. I think you will be pleased with what

your Mademoiselle Allardyce chose for the young misses.” She picked up a bell and rang it

vigorously. “Now, which of you is ’oo? ’Ow do you tell them apart, my ladee?”

Pen rolled her eyes at Madame’s accent. “We’ll see how long she keeps it up,” she whispered to

Persy. “How much do you want to wager she’s bellowing at her seamstresses in cockney when no

customers are around?”

Persy barely nodded back. She had been silent during the carriage ride, gloved hands clutched

together, thinking. Ten days until they made their curtsies to the queen. Ten days while she thought of

everything that could possibly go wrong. She could trip over her train in front of the entire court. Or

the required three white feathers in her hair could get lost. Or—

“What?” Pen prodded. “You haven’t said a word since breakfast. You look like you’re marching to

your own execution.” At a polite gesture from Madame, she took off her shawl and bonnet, and an

assistant came around to unhook her bodice at the back. Persy did the same, trying not to let anyone

see how her hands shook.

“I am,” she murmured at last. “Pen, it’s really happening. In ten days’ time, I will die either of

fright or embarrassment.” Her eyes were hot and itchy with unshed tears.

“No you won’t.” Pen answered so fiercely that their mother paused in her conversation with

Madame and looked at them. “You’ll be fine. I know it.”

“No. You’ll have to keep away from me when we start going to parties,” Persy whispered back. “I

don’t want to drag you down and give everyone the impression that both the Misses Leland are dull

and awkward.”

Pen started to reply, but just then three assistants laden with armfuls of white silk and pastel muslin

and multiple fluffy petticoats marched in. Madame Gendreau turned to Pen and Persy. “If we could

start with the court dresses,
s’il vous plait,
” she said. It was not a request.

Pen kept up a flow of excited chatter and exclamations to cover her sister’s silence during their

fitting, for which Persy was extremely grateful: Not even the excitement of their first silk dresses

could rouse her from her despondency. The dresses were identical except for differing ribbon colors,

with the requisite short sleeves and deep décolletage of presentation dresses, though less deep now at

Queen Adelaide’s more straitlaced court than would have been decreed at the previous king’s.

Persy stared at the fine French carpet on the floor as the assistants mercilessly tightened her and

Pen’s corsets into the required slenderness. If they tugged any harder, she would surely pop and make

a dreadful mess all over Madame Gendreau’s pink walls. Either that or faint from lack of breath.

To her relief, neither happened. The assistant slid what seemed like acres of white silk over her

head and arranged it around her. Only when Pen gasped “Persy!” did she look up into the mirror.

Her waist looked tiny above the bell of her skirt. The short sleeves were snug in the latest style,