Courtship and Curses

by Marissa Doyle

  “Oh.” Parthenope looked crestfallen, then brightened. “But he doesn’t know that Hester is a girl’s name, does it, my precious little angel?” She screwed her face into a coaxing grimace.

  “Turnip!” Hester announced again.

  “Is that all it can say?” Sophie brought the parakeet closer to examine its handsome plumage.

  Parthenope looked nettled. “No, of course not!”

  “It also says ‘cabbage,’” her mother added helpfully.

  “I suppose it could be worse,” Aunt Isabel said, faintly.

  Parthenope’s eyes suddenly gleamed. “It could, couldn’t it?”

  “Don’t get any clever ideas about new words to teach it, dear.” The duchess turned back to the aunts and Amélie.

  Sophie brought her attention back to Hester and found that he seemed to be examining her in turn, tilting his head thoughtfully from side to side—or at least he looked thoughtful. Did birds have thoughts? “Don’t call me a turnip again,” she warned him.

  He didn’t. Instead, he opened his mouth, bobbed his head as if in greeting, and said, “Good day, Mistress Witch.”

  Sophie nearly dropped him, but Parthenope guffawed. “Ha! I think I’d prefer being called a turnip! What a beastly name to call my friend, you bad-mannered thing.”

  Sophie held him out to Parthenope, her hand trembling. Had that been a coincidence, or had the bird actually meant what he said? And if so, how could he know? Birds were said to be particularly sensitive to magic, but she’d done so little of that lately that she wasn’t even sure she could call herself a witch. “He’s … um, charming. Where did you get him?”

  Parthenope put the bird on her shoulder. Hester leaned over and began to nibble at her ear. “Wretched bird. You know that tickles. See? I told you he knows more than ‘turnip.’”

  “Turnip,” Hester agreed, sidling down her arm onto her hand.

  “Enough turnips,” Parthenope said firmly. “And I don’t know where he came from, at least, not officially. The butler found his cage on our steps this morning, with a tag addressed to me that said, ‘To the fair Amazon, whose beauteous head oft wears feathers of a similar hue.’ There was no signature.”

  Sophie wrinkled her nose. “I think I’d rather secret admirers left me flowers.”

  “Oh, you’ve no poetry in your soul!”

  “And you do?”

  Parthenope grinned. “No, not a particle. My guess is that it was Norris Underwood. Who else calls us Amazons? And my riding habit is the same color as Hester’s head, don’t you see?”

  Sophie did see, and frowned. “And you’re keeping it—er, him?”

  “Why should I not? I like him.”

  “Whom? Hester or Mr. Underwood?”

  “Well, really! Hester, of course, though Mr. Underwood can be an amusing companion.”

  Sophie glanced over at the adults and pitched her voice low. “You do remember what Mr. Underwood is, don’t you?”

  Parthenope rolled her eyes. “Do you take me for an utter flat? No, leave my ear alone, Hester! How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Then accepting his gifts hardly seems like the proper course—”

  “But I don’t know it’s from him, do I?” Sophie’s expression must have affected her, for she leaned forward and patted her arm. “Believe me, Sophie, I have Mr. Underwood quite in hand. Nothing bad, or even terribly interesting, will happen. I promise.”

  “Hmmph. Has your cousin made Hester’s acquaintance yet?”

  Parthenope looked annoyed. “Since Hester just arrived, no. And he doesn’t need to, either.”

  “Meaning you don’t want him to know about Mr. Underwood’s gift.”

  “Turnip,” Hester commented.

  “My thought precisely,” Parthenope declared. “So, shall we ride tomorrow afternoon?”

  Sophie let her get away with changing the subject. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

  “Why?”

  Sophie looked at Aunt Isabel talking with great animation to the duchess. “Because I’ve decided the best way to let Aunt Molly have a chance to see her comte is to keep Aunt Isabel busy myself. I’ve asked her to take me out to make calls tomorrow, and I can’t promise we’ll be back in time to go riding.”

  “You,” said Parthenope, shaking her head, “are a saint. Or maybe just addled. I’m not quite sure which.”

  “Well, it was all I could think of,” Sophie answered irritably. “If you have any better ideas, do let me know them.”

  “Tur—” Hester began, but Parthenope stood up quickly and drew her cloak back over him.

  “Quite enough of that, young man,” she said. “Or my friend may wring your little purple neck.”

  * * *

  Aunt Isabel was in a rare good mood when she picked up Sophie the next afternoon for their first round of calls—in such a good mood, in fact, that she didn’t even ask what Aunt Molly was doing. Which was just as well, as at that moment Aunt Molly was happily on her way to Richmond with the comte for the afternoon. The look of utter satisfaction on her face below her modish new parasol as they’d clattered down the street had been of some consolation to Sophie.

  “I am very glad you’re taking a proper interest in society,” Aunt Isabel said as they in turn drove down the street. “It is just what one does in our position, and I think it particularly important for you, my dear, to show the world that you really are quite an ordinary young lady, despite your affliction.”

  Why, thank you for that charming compliment, Aunt, she thought a little sourly. But to some degree, Sophie had to admit that Aunt Isabel was right. If it were more widely seen that she was prettily behaved, could speak intelligently on a range of topics, and did not drool or twitch, perhaps the gossip and stories that she was feeble-minded or simple would die out.

  Aunt Isabel was surveying her through her quizzing glass. “Your dress is … acceptable,” she said after a moment. “Did you choose it?”

  Sophie knew that ‘acceptable’ was Aunt Isabelish code for admiring something excessively but not wanting to admit it and kept her face straight as she replied, “Thank you, Aunt. Amélie did, with a word or two from Mrs. James.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “You look very nice too, Aunt,” she said, after a moment’s reflection. Aunt Isabel usually did dress very well and would in fact be a handsome woman, if only there weren’t that perpetual frown between her brows and downturn to the corners of her mouth.

  To Sophie’s relief, their first stops were just to leave cards and not go in. But after that, Aunt Isabel decreed that they must go into Lady West’s house. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad; at least Sophie had already made her acquaintance at the Whistons’ ball.

  There were already two carriages in front of the house. Aunt Isabel peered at the crests on their doors. “Lady Whitbury and the Countess of Parrington,” she said. “They came out more or less when I did. The countess has a son.…” She looked at Sophie speculatively, then shook her head.

  Lady West seemed pleased enough to see them. “London air would appear to agree with you,” she said to Sophie with a smile after she made introductions and waved her to a seat on a sofa with two older ladies—the Ladies Whitbury and Parrington whom Aunt Isabel had mentioned, though Sophie hadn’t quite caught which was which. They gave her a thorough examination—one (Sophie thought it might be Lady Parrington) peered through an enormous quizzing glass—then proceeded to ignore her and resumed conversing in low voices.

  Sophie began to count inside her head. Calls were supposed to last fifteen to twenty-five minutes, unless one was visiting a particular friend. She supposed she ought to try to make conversation with her sofa mates, but neither seemed inclined to acknowledge her continued presence, much less talk.

  And so it went for five more visits, with slight variations. All of the houses at which they called belonged to people Sophie knew at least slightly, so she began to conclude that Aunt Isabel was actually trying to be kind in an unobtrusive
way. This was unexpected and somehow disconcerting. When had Aunt Isabel ever been either kind or unobtrusive?

  While the hostesses they called on were always pleasant, the same couldn’t be said for fellow callers. Some, like Lady Whitbury and Lady Parrington, ignored her. Others stared; still others avoided meeting her eye while trying to surreptitiously examine her shape. For her supposed hunch, she assumed. She agreed several times that the weather had been pleasant this spring, that the entertainments of the season had so far been most amusing, if not as glittering as last year when the czar and the king of Prussia had been in town, and that it was a shame the Duke of Wellington had to be so taken up with that monster Napoléon that he would not be showing his face in London till God knew when.

  On the way home, Aunt Isabel actually looked at her with approval. “Your manners were very good, my dear … perhaps a little quiet, but one does not like to see a girl in your position being too lively or, heaven forbid, hoydenish.”

  “Heaven forbid,” Sophie murmured.

  “What was that?”

  “I was just agreeing with you, Aunt.” She leaned her head back against the cushion. How could spending the day sitting in either a carriage or in various drawing rooms be so exhausting?

  “I think it would be advisable for us to make another round of calls the day after tomorrow,” Aunt Isabel announced as they drew up to Papa’s house.

  “Oh—um…” But Sophie thought about Aunt Molly and said, “Yes, thank you.” As soon as the footman had opened the door, she was through it, anxious to leave before Aunt Isabel took it into her head to accompany her.

  Belton met her at the door. “Is my aunt in yet?” she asked him.

  He cleared his throat. “No, Lady Sophie. But Madame Carswell requests that you come up to her room when you are able to.”

  “Thank you, I will.” Aunt Molly must have been having a good time with her comte, if she hadn’t returned home yet. Sophie mounted the stairs and thought about stopping in her room to take off her hat and pelisse, but as she passed Amélie’s room, the door opened to reveal Nalini, Amélie’s maid, in a soft violet sari. “You come, Lady!” she said, a wide smile on her small face.

  “Ah, Sophie! How were your calls with Tante Isabel?” Amélie stood by her bed, smiling also. A large, brightly patterned cashmere shawl was spread over the white counterpane next to her.

  “Er, tolerable,” Sophie answered, eyeing it. “Amélie—”

  “So? Nalini and I, we have been busy. Tell me, petite, what dress do you think you shall wear tomorrow for the opera?”

  Sophie blinked. “I don’t know. The pink one, perhaps, with the little lace cape and the deep flounce on the bottom. Why?”

  “Ah!” Amélie smiled and turned to the bed, bent over, and peered under the shawl. “Voici!” she exclaimed, pulling something long and thin out from beneath it, and holding it out to Sophie.

  It was a walking stick, thinner than her heavy brown cane, but still sturdy enough to lean on. Entirely wrapped in woven ribbons of alternating pink and white that would exactly match her pink opera dress, and finished with a starched lace bow, it looked like it belonged to an elegant shepherdess from a Meissen porcelain figurine. Sophie stared at it, speechless.

  “I think you shall not be ashamed to carry this!” Amélie said. “Will it not look well with your dress?”

  “Oh, Amélie!” Sophie took it from her. It was exactly the right length, and the smaller crook fit her hand better than her old cane. “It’s perfect!”

  Amélie’s smile lit up her face. “And these?” she asked, flipping the shawl aside.

  Sophie gasped as she came to stand next to Amélie. A dozen—no, more!—canes lay on the bed in a rainbow of colors, all made to match several of her new dresses. Some were cased in a sheath of plain fabric cut tight or gathered into ruches. Others were wrapped in ribbon like the pink one for her opera dress and finished with jaunty bows. A few were lacquered a deep, shiny black and decorated with hints of gold, blue, and red, rather like the Egyptian columns at the Whistons’ house or the Chinese decorations she’d seen in pictures of the Prince Regent’s home in Brighton. One very grand one was of gilded bamboo set with tiny seed pearls.

  “It was time to make a virtue out of necessity, I thought,” Amélie explained, head to one side. “If you must carry a cane, why not make it a thing of beauty? Parbleu, perhaps you will set a fashion!”

  Sophie thought of Susan Halliday sporting a cane at her mother’s next party and laughed. “I don’t quite see that.”

  “No, perhaps not. But you will set a fashion for yourself, and others will respect that and admire you for it. They will wait to see what kind of cane the Lady Sophie will be carrying at every ball and soirée, just the way they wait to see what fashion Monsieur Brummell will introduce next.” Amélie’s smile twinkled at her. “And Nalini and I, we had tellement de plaisir making them! Did we not, Nalini?”

  The maid stepped forward and bowed slightly, hands together before her. “C’est vrai, madame. C’était un plaisir de les faire pour Lady Sophie,” she said in her piping voice.

  Sophie looked again at the bright array on the bed, then threw her arms around Amélie. “I never thought … I hated my old cane, but I didn’t think there was anything to be done but try not to use it,” she whispered.

  “But the cane is your friend. It helps you walk straight and upright, which is good for your posture and keeps you from tiring too quickly … not to mention that it keeps you safe.” Amélie hugged her back. “So—you will promise me that you will use these, yes? And when you get new dresses, we will make new ones to go with them. And speaking of new dresses…” She paused and gave Sophie an impish smile. “Mrs. James delivered the carriage dress that had not been quite ready. Which is a thing very good, I am sure, as you will be needing it.”

  “Did she? Oh, good.” Sophie had bent to admire the canes again, but Amélie’s last sentence finally penetrated. She straightened and looked at Amélie. “Why shall I be needing it?”

  “A certain young lord stopped by this afternoon to ask if he might take you driving. As it happened that you were out, he left his card and asked if he might call again soon with the same intention.” She produced a small rectangle and handed it to Sophie.

  Sophie swallowed and looked down at it. The Earl of Woodbridge. “Oh, Amélie, should I go?”

  “Why should you not?”

  “Because … because I’m afraid!”

  Amélie raised both eyebrows. “Why? He is not … not une canaille like that Monsieur Underwood, is he?”

  Sophie laughed uncertainly. “Of course not, but…”

  “But?” Amélie looked at her, head tilted to one side.

  Sophie looked away to avoid her bright, curious gaze. What was she afraid of? Lord Woodbridge had asked, very graciously, if they might not try again to be friends. A ride in Hyde Park was an excellent way to start—it offered plenty of material for polite conversation, and being so obviously in public precluded the possibility of a quarrel or unpleasant scene.

  No, it wasn’t driving in the park with him that she feared. What she feared was the note in his voice when he’d said “please” to her that night at the Hallidays’ ball … and the feelings it had raised in her.

  “I’m afraid I’ll begin to like him too much,” she said to her shoes.

  “And what would be the wrong in that?”

  “Because…” Because she could not be sure that he didn’t still feel sorry for her, at some level, and it would be too humiliating to fall in love with someone who felt sorry for her. But she could not say that out loud.

  “Sophie.” Amélie tilted her chin up to look at her face. Her eyes were kind as she said, “Do not—how does the expression go?—do not go borrowing trouble. You do not have to think about liking him too much, or even at all. Go, and have a pleasant ride. That is all you must do for now. D’accord?”

  * * *

  “Brilliant!” Parthenope almost shrieked wh
en Sophie met her in the passage behind the balcony boxes at the King’s Theatre in Haymarket the following evening. “Where did you get it?”

  Sophie twirled her pink and white cane, eyeing it with satisfaction. “Isn’t it perfect? Amélie made it for me—in fact, she made one for practically every dress I own.”

  “I wish I’d thought of it. We shall have to promenade about the foyer so people can admire it.” Parthenope reached for it and examined it closely. “Well, that settles it. If I were you, I’d make your papa marry her immediately. She’d be a perfect stepmama for you, I think.”

  Sophie smiled but shook her head. “I don’t know that Papa will marry again. He’s barely taken notice of anything—or anyone—because he’s been so busy with the war—”

  “Oh, pish. Goodness, Sophie, it would be perfect! He’s a widower, and she’s the widow of his childhood friend. It would be terribly romantic, don’t you think? Most important, she’s fond of you. You don’t want him to go and marry someone who might not like you, do you? Only think how dreadful that would be! No, you’ll all deal monstrous well together, so you’d best get busy and make it happen. Surely you can get him to propose to her before the season’s over—”

  “Hush! They’re right behind me!” Sophie scolded, but couldn’t help laughing. She glanced back, but only Aunt Molly was there, chattering to the comte; far behind them, Papa and Amélie were talking to a man she didn’t know. She pulled Parthenope farther down the passage. “You wretch!” she whispered. “What if they’d heard!”

  “So what if they did?” Parthenope looked utterly unconcerned. “Your father was too far away, and your aunt likes Mrs. Carswell too, doesn’t she?”

  “I suppose so, but that’s not important!”

  “Isn’t it?” But Parthenope’s attention had been drawn by a box, the fourth over from Papa’s. She stepped inside in and squealed. “Goodness, look at this!”

  Sophie followed her through the opening left by the looped-aside curtain. Instead of the usual complement of chairs, the little room held only a broad, purple-velvet-covered divan heaped with cushions at one end, along with a tall gilt candelabrum. “So?” she asked.