Courtship and Curses (2 page)

Then, just two weeks ago, another letter arrived from Portsmouth bearing sad news. It was from Mrs. Carswell, reporting that Mr. Carswell had died from a bleeding ulcer shortly after setting sail from India. It enclosed a brief, shakily penned note from Mr. Carswell himself, saying that he knew death was imminent and asking Papa to help his widow on her arrival in England. Papa had at once sent his secretary to find Mrs. Carswell at Portsmouth and to accompany her to her husband’s ancestral home to bury his heart there, as he had wished. That sad task accomplished, Mrs. Carswell had come to London to thank Papa. They’d all been charmed by the small, plump, bright-eyed woman in her soft gray pelisse and black gloves and hat, who was devastated by the loss of her beloved “Jean” but obviously interested in London and in them. It hadn’t been hard to convince her to stay with them for a few weeks while she decided what to do.

“Well, I’m glad you are here,” Sophie said staunchly. “If it weren’t for you, I’d—” She glanced at the aunts.

“You need not explain, Sophie. Lady Isabel has no daughters, no? So she cannot resist busying herself with her only niece’s
entrée
to society … but she is not sure how to present a niece who is out of the ordinary. And Lady Mary—or should I say Molly, as you do? She is a dear, but if you have not leaves or roots or stems, she doesn’t quite see you, I think. And as for you”—Amélie tilted her head to one side—“you are excited for the season yet fearful because of your legs that do not walk gracefully.”

“How do you know all that?” Sophie blinked back sudden tears.

“It is not hard to know things if your eyes are open and you use them. Remember that, Sophie. Your eyes are your best tool.” She made a small humming sound under her breath as she fingered the ribbons. “How old are you,
ma petite
?”

“Eighteen. I might have come out last year, but I was not strong enough. And we—we did not have the heart for it.” Not that she was sure Papa did, even now. After Mama had died, he had withdrawn into his work on the war like a hermit crab crawling inside a discarded shell. With Emperor Napoléon Bonaparte back in power, would he ever emerge?

“Eh, not a child at all. Then
les tantes
should not treat you as one. Come, let us choose the dresses you would like. No, do not look back. They are quite happy as they are, so we shall not disturb them.” Amélie took her arm and led her across the shop, beckoning to Mrs. James, who hovered behind the aunts, looking anxious. “I shall give you my sari length. That would be lovely for a dinner dress, no? Ah, Madame James, as you see, the other ladies are busy, so we shall choose some pretty dresses for my friend here. What will the
jeunes filles
be wearing at your Almack’s this spring?”

The dressmaker looked relieved that a sale seemed much more imminent. “Yes, madam.” She studied Sophie a moment, then nodded. “Clear, true colors. White rather than ivory, too, for collars—high ruffs at the neck will be much seen again this year. Let me see.…”

In a few moments, the counter was piled with lengths of muslin and poplin and crepe. Amélie regarded them with satisfaction. “Now we are getting somewhere. If you will be so kind as to bring a chair for my friend here … yes, that will do.” She unrolled a bolt of apple green sarcenet to hold up next to Sophie’s face. “A walking dress in this, I think, with the skirt white and a spencer to match, and a snip of fabric we may take to the milliner.” She handed the bolt to Mrs. James and selected another.

“You are so kind,” Sophie said to her when a happy Mrs. James scuttled back into her storeroom for more fabric.

Amélie’s cupid-bow mouth curved into a smile. “But it is not all kindness. By helping you, I help myself. We take each other’s minds off our sadnesses for a little while, yes?”

“Oh, not a little while!” Sophie made up her mind to broach the idea that had been simmering in the back of her mind. “Won’t you stay with us for at least part of the season? If you’re going to direct my wardrobe, you must stay and see me wear it.”

“But your family—your papa—he will not wish to keep a stranger at his table so long—”

“You are not a stranger,” Sophie interrupted her. “You’re his dear friend’s wife … and you’re my friend. If … if it would not be too disagreeable, I would very much like you to stay with me.”

Amélie smiled again. Some of the melancholy had faded from her eyes. “Thank you,
chère
Sophie. When you say it thus, then I must say yes, if your good papa agrees.”

The bell on the door jangled, announcing the arrival of another customer. Aunt Isabel and Molly ceased quarreling as the newcomer paused on the threshold to survey the room, then swooped toward them like a large predatory bird oddly attired in tropical plumage. “Lady Isabel! Lady Mary! What a delightful surprise!” The woman nearly skidded to a halt beside the aunts and rested a gloved hand on her ample breast, as if transported by joy.

Aunt Molly squinted at the woman in her shortsighted way and looked dubious. Aunt Isabel did too, but nodded pleasantly enough. “Umm … oh, yes. Lady Lumley—it
is
still Lady Lumley, isn’t it? How do you do?”

The woman curtsied. She looked about the aunts’ age, but her bonnet was in a much more youthful style than theirs. “Very well, thank you, and yes, still Lady Lumley. I’ve yet to meet anyone who might make me forget my dear Sir William, rest his soul. Is it not wonderful that spring is finally here? I have been quite pining to see old friends again. Are you here for the season?” Lady Lumley’s tone remained effusive, but there was a questioning gleam in her eye.

Aunt Isabel bowed slightly in her chair. “We are. My niece Sophronia is making her come-out this year, and—”

Sophie winced, just as she always did when anyone used her full name.

“Your niece? Not”—Lady Lumley blinked rapidly—“not dear Lord Lansell’s daughter? But I thought…” She leaned toward Aunt Isabel and muttered behind her hand—not that it muffled her words any. “Well, I had heard that she was feeble-minded and a hunchback. In fact, just the other day someone mentioned—”

Aunt Isabel drew herself up. “You heard wrong,” she said coldly, and beckoned to Sophie. “Lady Lumley, my niece Lady Sophronia Rosier. Sophie, Lady Lumley.”

“Good day, Lady Lumley.” Sophie rose as gracefully as she could and curtsied. To her surprise, her voice was calm, unshaken by the anger that this woman’s thoughtless babbling had roused. How had such a rumor started? And would she hear it at every event she attended this season?
How pleasant to meet you, Lady Sophie! Why, you hardly look half-witted at all!

Lady Lumley examined her closely. “Oh … er … you’re very like your mother, though I’m sure I can see your dear papa in you as well. Such a handsome man.… It will be a pleasure to see him—er, see you in society this year.” Lady Lumley looked past Sophie to Amélie, who still stood at the counter piled with their chosen fabrics. “Another relation? How charming that all your aunts—”

“Oh, Madame Carswell is not a relation,” Sophie corrected her.

Lady Lumley’s smile dimmed. “Isn’t she?”

“She is a dear friend of the family. In fact, she will be staying with Papa—er, my father and me for some weeks as the season begins. May I present her?”

Lady Lumley now looked distinctly dismayed. “Oh … ah, how-de-do.” She barely bobbed her head in Amélie’s direction, then turned back to Aunt Isabel, her smile widening. “I shall call soon. It will be delightful to resume our acquaintance. Are you both staying at Lansell House?”

“I am at my own home, thank you,” Aunt Isabel replied, slightly testily. “Mary and Sophie are, of course, with my brother.”

“Charming! He is quite the hero, is he not, with all the work he has done in the War Office defeating the wicked French? I must come and lay a laurel at his feet.” Lady Lumley positively simpered—Sophie had read the word in a novel once without quite being able to picture the action, but now she could. Clearly. She curtsied again and went back to the counter and Amélie.

“That vulture,” she whispered. “Not all the French are wicked just because of Napoléon! And the only reason she wants to call is so she can make eyes at Papa.”

“Not everyone has the understanding to make the distinction between the emperor and his empire,” Amélie said mildly. “And yes, I expect that is the reason for her wish to call. It is not surprising that the unmarried ladies will cluster round him like bees to the flower, hoping that they may catch him.”

“Catch him! But…” Sophie fell silent. Amélie was right. Mama was gone, and Papa was a widower. What else should she expect?

“Sophie.” Amélie patted her hand. “Your papa is a grown man and can take care of himself. You should be thinking instead about the young men who will be clustering around you after they see you in these dresses we have chosen.”

What young men? Hadn’t Amélie heard what the loathsome Lumley woman had just said? Hunchbacked … feeble-minded.… The hunchbacked part would be easily disproved; hopefully the feeble-minded part would as well. But there was no denying that she limped and resorted to using a cane when tired or forced to remain on her feet for long. Why would any young man want to woo such a young woman, apart from those drawn by the fact that she was a marquis’s daughter with £35,000 to bring to her prospective husband?

And why would
she
want anyone who wanted her for those reasons?

“Well,
ma chère
.” Amélie was putting her gloves back on. “Your
tantes
seem to be at loose ends, and we should—how does the expression go?—we should poke while the iron is hot. Go to them and suggest they order the carriage, and I shall speak with good Madame James here about these dresses.”

“
Strike
while it’s hot, I think you mean, but…” Sophie swallowed and watched Lady Lumley finally relinquish Aunt Isabel and turn to the shop assistant waiting patiently by her side. “But I’m not sure it’s worth the trouble.”

Amélie stopped tugging her glove over her wrist and looked at her. “It is worth the trouble because I say it is. And you will see that I am right.”

Sophie opened her mouth to disagree, then instead bent—Amélie was shorter than she—and kissed her cheek. “Yes, Amélie. Thank you.”

“Ah.” Amélie’s eyes got that misty look again. “Go, and I shall strike that iron.”

Sophie did her best to keep the aunts distracted as they collected gloves and made sure their pelisses were properly fastened, and she watched Lady Lumley glower at Amélie during the consultation with Mrs. James. As their footman opened the shop’s door and Mrs. James came to bow them out to their carriage, Amélie took Sophie’s arm. “We have stricken the iron. Your first fitting is tomorrow,” she murmured.

“But how will we get away?”

Amélie pursed her lips. “Leave that to me,
ma chère
.”

“Oh, are you leaving?” Lady Lumley’s penetrating voice followed after them. “Why, I am as well. Dear Lady Isabel, I hope I can prevail upon you to give me a place in your carriage as I fear it is coming on rain, which always gives me the headache. Surely your friend won’t mind riding with the coachman just this once—”

Sophie turned. Lady Lumley was hurrying toward them past the shop’s counter, her skirt fluttering in the breeze of her haste, her eyes narrow with determination above her wide smile. Loathsome indeed—and how
dare
she insult Amélie like that?

Before she could stop herself or even think, she inhaled deeply, drawing in her concentration with her breath, and focused on the edge of the wooden counter. The polished oak split into splintery fingers and caught at the back of Lady Lumley’s dress. A thin but satisfying ripping sound was heard, followed by an even more satisfying shriek from Lady Lumley.

Good heavens, she’d
done
it! She’d actually done it!

Aunt Isabel was already through the door, but Aunt Molly paused and looked over her shoulder. “Did you say something, Lady Lumley?”

The Loathsome Lumley had come to a halt, both hands behind her back. “Uhh-h-hhh … no … that is, yes, I … g-good day to you, Lady Mary. It was m-most pleasant to see you.”

“Oh. Good day.” For a moment, Aunt Molly looked as if she were going to return to shake hands. Sophie pressed her lips together, trying not to giggle: If Aunt Molly did, Lady Lumley would have to let go of her skirt, now torn down her backside. But Aunt Molly just bobbed her head and hurried after Aunt Isabel. Sophie nodded graciously at Lady Lumley and, still holding Amélie’s arm, followed Aunt Molly through the door.

“Most singular, that Lumley woman,” Aunt Molly said when they were safely ensconced in Papa’s carriage. “Where do we know her from?”

“We were at Mrs. Harmon’s school with her that year—I think it was ’87. Mousy little thing then, always watching. Her father was a solicitor who did well with his investments, else she never would have gotten in. Mrs. Harmon was usually most particular about the social station of her students, but money often made up for breeding.” Aunt Isabel sat ramrod straight as usual.

“She appeared more like the cat now than the mouse,” Amélie observed, looking at Sophie.

“Except for her squeak,” Sophie said under her breath. But her glee had faded. Why had she done that, right in front of the entire shop?

Maybe because she hadn’t expected it would work.

Two years ago, she’d lost something besides Mama and the ability to walk freely. She’d also lost her magic.

She’d been very small when the magic lessons started. Between four and half-past five every afternoon, Mama had locked her sitting room door lest a footman wander in with more coal for the fire, and they had practiced together—the easier things like moving spells (her collection of Chinese snuffboxes dancing a precise minuet in midair) to more complicated changing spells (turning Mama’s dozing Abyssinian cat from golden brown to purple to green) and spells harder still, like the windows Mama could cut in the air that let them look onto Polynesian islands and Icelandic volcanoes and herds of American bison on endless grassy plains.

Mama had told Sophie that she had been so thankful to have at least one daughter who also possessed her powers. Not that boys could not as well, but it was much less common; Sophie’s younger brothers, Francis and Wrenford, had never shown the least magical aptitude. Then Harriet—Harry—had been born, the little sister she’d always wanted. She and Mama had been so happy when Harry had frightened her nursemaid into a faint by making the animals in her wooden Noah’s ark march up the gangplank two by two—well, not happy about frightening the poor girl—and had planned how they would teach her together.