It was novel to suddenly have a best friend, but Parthenope seemed determined that they would be bosom companions. Sophie could not help wondering why: It couldn’t be her social position, because as a duke’s daughter Parthenope held the higher rank, and her family was at least as wealthy as Sophie’s. Perhaps it was their both being eldest daughters without sisters, or sharing a love of riding, or … or maybe it wasn’t worth trying to understand why. Maybe it was just better to accept that Parthenope was her friend, and be grateful.
She wasn’t the only member of the family with a new friend, though it didn’t seem quite correct to call the Comte de Carmouche-Ponthieux a “new” friend. He called the day after the Sir Walter incident to report that the surgeon who had seen to him was sure that after a day or two of rest, he would be quite well again.
“Well, that is good news,” Aunt Molly said. “Though I had thought about sending him a posset. Do you think I ought to, Augus—I mean, Comte?”
Sophie smiled to herself to hear her slip of the tongue, but Aunt Isabel, who was also there, scowled. Poor Aunt Molly would be in for a scolding after he left, if Sophie knew anything about it.
“I am sure he would receive it most gratefully, Lady Mary,” he replied. “Your kindness … ah, but you have not changed.”
Sophie was gratified to see Aunt Molly’s usually pale cheeks grow pink. They suited her very well. “How long do you stay in London, Comte?” she asked.
He turned to her. “As long as my king needs me here, Lady Sophie. Until he is secure on his throne again.”
“In that case, I hope he won’t be for at least a little longer,” Aunt Molly said, rather shyly.
Aunt Isabel made a disgusted sound, but the comte beamed at Aunt Molly. “I may not say that, of course, but my thoughts are my own, yes? In any event, when His Majesty King Louis is returned and all is at peace again in France, I will have leisure to do as I please—and spend time where I please,” he added, looking meaningfully at Aunt Molly.
“Will His Majesty be returning to England?” Aunt Isabel deigned to ask.
The comte spread his fingers. “Who can say? It is hoped that the Allies will defeat the emperor quickly, and in that case, I expect not. At present he is safe in Ghent, so we watch and we wait.”
Belton came to the door. “Lady Parthenope Hardcastle is waiting for you in her carriage, my lady,” he said to Sophie. “Madame Carswell is ready as well.”
Sophie rose. It was too bad Parthenope had arrived now—surely the comte would be leaving in a moment, and that would leave poor Aunt Molly subject to Aunt Isabel’s tongue. She curtsied and limped down to the hall where Amélie waited.
“We’ve got to do something about Aunt Isabel,” she said to her. “She’s going to be horrid to poor Aunt Molly about the comte coming to call and taking her out in his carriage and everything.”
Amélie pursed her lips. “What do you think can be done, ma chère?”
“I wish I knew!” She had thought about a few possibilities, namely making sure some minor accident happened to Aunt Isabel every time she came over—a spilled cup of tea on her skirt, a ripped hem, a broken shoe—so that she would have to leave almost as soon as she arrived. It might have been quite easy to manage—look how a tiny spell had routed the loathsome Lady Lumley in Mrs. James’s shop … except that her magic could not be relied on.
But somehow she didn’t want to do anything like that again. It might help chase Aunt Isabel away, but it was … well, it was a small-minded and petty way to do it. And even though Aunt Isabel was being small-minded and petty, it didn’t mean that she had to be so. Wasn’t she supposed to be an adult now? And Mama would most certainly have not approved of using their gift for such a purpose. She would have found another way.
“Well, there is one thing you might do,” Amélie said slowly as they descended the stairs and crossed the pavement to the Revesby carriage, where Parthenope was bouncing on the seat in impatience. “But I do not think that you would care for it.”
“What?” Sophie asked. “I’m willing to try anything. Don’t you think it would be lovely if Aunt Molly and the comte—well, you do know that once, a long time ago…”
Amélie smiled. “So I have heard. You wish to play the matchmaker, then, and keep Tante Isabel from the lovers, yes? Then you must occupy her yourself.”
“What?” Sophie paused halfway into the carriage.
Parthenope made an impatient noise. “What are you doing?”
“If you pay calls with her or ask her to go shopping with you, then she won’t be able to pay as much attention to her sister, non?” Amélie said calmly.
Sophie plopped heavily onto the seat. “Yes, but…”
Amélie climbed in after her. “It was a suggestion, petite. You do not have to take it.”
“What are you two talking about?” Parthenope squinted at her. “You don’t look happy.”
“Oh, nothing.” Sophie sat back against the seat next to her friend. Drat it, Amélie was right—it would keep Aunt Isabel away from Aunt Molly. If she could bring herself to do it.
“Hmmph,” Parthenope said, but did not question her further. “What are you shopping for? I need gloves.”
“So do I.” Sophie seized on the new topic eagerly. “I need gloves for my new evening dress to wear to the Hallidays’ ball on Thursday. You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Perry’s going to be there as well. He’s coming to dine with us first.” Parthenope paused, taking great care in arranging her pelisse over her knees. “I do hope you’ll find him a little more agreeable that evening.”
“That will be entirely up to him.” Sophie regarded her friend more closely. “Why do you say so? You didn’t say anything to him, did you? About me, I mean?”
“Of course not. But I know he’s clever enough to realize he’s been an utter clunch … and I don’t care to be known to have clunches in the family, so I trust he’ll reform.” She paused. “Do you dislike him that much?”
“N-no, not at all … that is, not at first.” Sophie hesitated. Should she tell Parthenope her first impressions of Lord Woodbridge?
“Well, that’s good,” Parthenope said before Sophie could think of what else to say, but why did she sound relieved?
At their first stop Sophie found a shawl of silk gauze so delicate that it looked like woven moonlight, which Parthenope made her buy. At the glover’s shop, Sophie returned the favor by convincing Parthenope to purchase two pairs of coquettish pink kid gloves to wear with her riding habit, and found the perfect gloves to match her new dress, adorned with a daintily embroidered edge of ivy leaves.
As they were examining the trays of gloves, Sophie watched Amélie sort through the selection of black gloves with an absent, melancholy expression in her eyes. “Amélie, when exactly did Mr. Carswell—when did you lose him?” she asked.
Amélie sighed. “It was only a few days after we left Madras. That was in the beginning of October, ma chère.”
Sophie did some quick counting. “More than seven months ago, then.”
Amélie looked momentarily startled. “Vraiment?” She knit her brows for a moment, then nodded. “You are right. I did not think it had been so long,” she said slowly. “The time has gone faster than I thought.”
“So…” Sophie felt her way carefully, looking for the right words. “So I know you wear black ones now, but will you always?”
Amélie was silent, gazing down at the tray. “It is not something I can forget … ever,” she finally said.
“I know that.”
Amélie looked up swiftly then. “Of a certainty you do! I did not mean that I am the only one who knows what it is to mourn.” She paused, and her expression softened. “When you lose someone that you love so much, you feel as if you will not ever again laugh or enjoy anything … and then when you do, you feel as if you must scold yourself for it. But I do not need to be telling you this, I am sure.”
Sophie swallowed hard. “I thought it
was just me,” she said. “Sometimes I feel horrid for wanting to be here in London for the season, even though Mama is dead. She was supposed to be here too. We had it all planned, the fun we would have.… Then sometimes when I’m at a party or a concert, I wish I weren’t, especially with this stupid, stupid leg, and I just want to go home and hide. And then I can’t wait until the next one. It’s as if I don’t know what I want.”
“You don’t have to, Sophie,” Amélie said kindly, and put her hand over Sophie’s. “Some days you will want one thing, and some days another. That is just how things are when one is young, even when one does not have the burdens that you have, and for you, I am sure it is encore plus difficile. I promise, the day will come when—voilà!—you’ll begin to understand what it is that you want.”
“Did you?”
“Oh, yes. I did.” For a moment her face had a faraway look; then she sighed and smiled. “And so for now, I will continue to wear my black gloves. But it will not be forever. And though your gloves are not black, at least to other people”—she squeezed Sophie’s hand—“someday, sooner or later, you will know that they aren’t, and it will be acceptable to you that they aren’t. You know that your maman would not want you unhappy.”
“No, she wouldn’t. But sometimes … sometimes I don’t know how to be anything else.”
“Do you like to cling to unhappiness just because it is what you know?” Amélie asked gently.
That felt almost like a little slap, but as much as she didn’t like to admit it, Sophie knew it was a fair question. “Maybe,” she said.
“It is a bit like your cane, I am thinking,” Amélie said slowly, gesturing at Sophie’s brown cane resting against the counter. “It is ugly, but it is all you have. Perhaps we must change that. Madame!” she called. “We are ready, s’il vous plaît!”
On their way home, Amélie requested that they stop at Mrs. James’s shop so that she could pick up an order. But rather than sending the footman to get it for her, she herself went in. She emerged some time later, bearing a small parcel and a mysterious smile.
“What did you get?” Parthenope eyed the parcel with interest.
Amélie’s smile deepened. “You will see!”
Chapter
7
Sophie did not repeat the mistake she’d made at her first party of the season; though she hated to, she brought her cane with her to Mrs. Halliday’s ball. Nor did Aunt Molly’s Bunty do her hair; Amélie sent her little maid, Nalini, as soon as she had done her mistress’s hair. Nalini twisted Sophie’s hair into a loose knot on the back of her head, leaving wisps of hair above her forehead and ears, then deftly curled them with a tiny curling iron and finished the whole with a fillet of pearls. Sophie smiled when the curls bounced against her cheek as she climbed the stairs to the Hallidays’ ballroom on Amélie’s arm.
“I hope there will be no falling statues tonight,” she murmured. Should she try patrolling the ballroom, just in case—at least feel if there was magic in the air, even if she couldn’t do anything about it?
Amélie smiled but shivered. “I hope so too, ma chère.”
The Hallidays’ ballroom was indeed free of statuary, featuring instead dozens of tall potted palms and trees spaced across the herringbone-patterned parquet floor to screen the musicians. Aunt Molly’s eyes lit up when she saw the greenery, and she led them to seats by a large planter with odd, knobbed stems supporting long silvery leaves growing from it. “Bamboo!” she exclaimed. “I’ve always wanted to meet one!”
“My dear Amazon!” Norris Underwood, resplendent in an elaborately tied cravat and flower-embroidered stockings with his satin knee breeches, swooped down on them before Sophie had even sat. “How delightful to see you here this beautiful evening!” He made her an elegant bow, beamed at Amélie and Aunt Molly, then gave Papa a slightly more restrained greeting.
Papa caught her eye and ever so slightly raised an eyebrow at her. Drat! He couldn’t possibly think she had any interest in this … this rattle, could he? “Mr. Underwood,” she acknowledged as coolly as she could.
It didn’t seem to daunt him. Indeed, he looked almost amused. “On second thought, perhaps I should say that the evening is a trifle chilly, but the weather is always changeable in April, isn’t it? And where, may I ask, is your charming Amazonian comrade-in-arms? Is she not here?”
Sophie regarded him with slightly narrowed eyes. “I would assume she will be coming with her own family. And as you can see, we have just arrived, so I have not had time to see if Lady Parthenope is already here.”
“But she is coming, is she not?”
“I am under the impression that she is, sir.”
He laid one well-manicured hand over his heart. “Ah! Then my evening will be complete. Pray tell her that I shall be devastated if she does not save me a dance. She promised me she would, when I spoke with her in Hatchard’s this morning.”
“Hatchard’s Bookshop? I would not have guessed you were a reader, Mr. Underwood.” Sophie kept her voice light and pleasant.
“You cut me to the quick! Do I appear such an empty-headed fellow to you? I adore Hatchard’s; one may learn so much there—and not just from the books. Ah, I see Lord Woodbridge looking this way. I shall leave you to his skillful pleasantries. Those diplomatic hopefuls do love to practice their charming chitchat—especially on hard-hearted types.” He gave her an impudent grin, bowed again, and sauntered away.
Sophie watched him go, wishing she could unravel his stockings with a dissolution spell. This interest of his in Parthenope was disturbing, if he really was the fortune hunter Lord Woodbridge said he was. Whether he was or not, she found his ingratiating-to-the-point-of-slimy manners tedious, and she couldn’t imagine the straightforward Parthenope could like them, either.
But Lord Woodbridge was indeed approaching, with Parthenope on his arm. She was talking to him—or perhaps at him—with great vehemence. Surprisingly, he seemed to be listening without protest—nodding even. How odd, considering some of their past conversations she’d witnessed.
Papa looked much happier to see Lord Woodbridge than he had Mr. Underwood. “Good evening, Woodbridge,” he said cordially. “I was talking to Lord Castlereagh about you just yesterday—”
“Well, that’s the last we’ll see of Perry for a while. Oh, Sophie.” Parthenope had detached herself from her cousin and stepped back a pace to survey her. “Yet another dress I’ll have to figure out how to steal from you! Except green looks so much better on you than it does on me. And those gloves are perfect. If I didn’t like you so well, I’d be perfectly seething with jealousy. You must come show it to Mama—I think I like your dressmaker better than hers.”
Sophie sat down and smoothed the white satin skirt of her dress. The bodice, in moss green corded silk trimmed with lace and a frill of falling collar at the back, was flattering, she thought, but more important matters were at hand. “Never mind dressmakers now. You just missed Mr. Underwood. What a dreadful little toad-eater the man is! He asked me to tell you that his heart would be broken if you did not give him a dance tonight as you promised.”
“Did he?” Parthenope looked unconcerned. “Well, I suppose I must, then. Goodness, what is your aunt doing to that plant?”
“Talking to it, I expect. Parthenope, do be careful with Mr. Underwood. He is not at all a respectable person.”
“Isn’t he? That makes him much more interesting. What has he done?”
“I’m more concerned about what he might do. Your cousin tells me he is a known fortune hunter.”
“Then I shall be careful not to accept any proposals from him.” Sophie’s expression must have betrayed her, because Parthenope dropped her flippant tone and patted her hand. “Don’t worry, Sophie,” she murmured. “I have no interest in him, no matter how amusing he can be in conversation. Oh, look, here he comes. Good evening, Mr. Underwood. Was the book of sermons my Macky recommended to your taste?”
Mr. Underwood bowed. “Since that good lady is no
t here to be offended by my telling you, I must confess that it was not.”
“And if she were here?” Sophie could not resist asking.
“Then I should say it was exactly the thing, of course.” Mr. Underwood did not appear in the least fazed by her question. “Dear Lady Parthenope, if you will recall our conversation this morning, you promised me a dance. I see sets are forming for a country dance—might I claim it now?”
Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Goodness me, not waiting for a waltz? You are being circumspect this evening, Mr. Underwood.”
“You underestimate me, Lady Sophie. I rarely overplay my hand. Lady Parthenope? Will your duenna here permit you to dance?”
Parthenope laughed. “You’re a complete humbugger, Mr. Underwood, and though I should really make you ask my mother first, a country dance will do no harm. I say, Sophie, don’t let Perry leave till I’m back—there’s something I particularly wish to ask him.”
Sophie watched them join the dancers, feeling discontented. She’d looked forward to a jolly evening with Parthenope, examining the dresses and coiffures of the passing ladies. What she’d forgotten was that Parthenope was not crippled as well. She could scarcely expect her to spend the entire evening at her side, not dancing with eligible young men … except that Norris Underwood was anything but eligible—
“Is my cousin not here?”
Startled, Sophie looked up at Lord Woodbridge. “N-no. She was asked to dance by Mr. Underwood.”
“Oh.” Lord Woodbridge frowned down at his feet for a moment. Unlike Mr. Underwood, he was dressed almost severely, in a dark blue coat and plain stockings with the knee breeches that were the expected evening wear for gentlemen, and yet Sophie was sure she knew which man eyes would follow if the two were to walk across the room together. At least, she knew whom her eyes would linger on.…
“It’s not fair,” she said, more loudly than she’d intended.
He looked up quizzically. “What is not fair? Did you wish to dance with Mr. Underwood?”
“Of course not!” Sophie nearly sputtered in indignation. “Do you take me for an utter peagoose?”
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