“Probably not. I should not be surprised if—”
Sophie stopped walking. Had she just heard someone nearby say “Lord Lansell”?
“Lady Sophie?” Lord Woodbridge looked concerned.
“I thought I heard…” She looked quickly around. It had sounded like a woman’s voice. Eavesdropping was, of course, an unpardonable breach of manners, but if someone was talking about Papa, she needed to hear what was being said, just in case. She released Lord Woodbridge’s arm and took an awkward couple of steps backward, straining to sort through the competing conversations around them.
“—she acting as hostess for him since Frances Lansell died? That seems odd,” a female voice, not the first she’d heard, said.
“What is it?” Lord Woodbridge followed after her, reaching for her elbow. “Are you well? Can I—”
“No, I—please.…” Without thinking, she grasped his arm with a quelling gesture.
“Why should she?” said the first voice. “She has her own household, after all. No, Molly is doing the honors, from what I hear. You do remember the dreadful business over her, don’t you, and what happened with Isabel?”
They weren’t talking about Papa, then. But oh, why did someone have to bring up gossip about Aunt Molly’s past now, just when it seemed like she might attain the happy outcome she’d missed as a young woman? She glanced warily around, but there were at least five nearby pairs of chatting ladies. It could be any of them.
“Hmm … was that when—no, that was someone else.…” said the second voice, which obviously didn’t remember but would be quite happy to be reminded.
“Molly Rosier was the younger sister,” said the first voice patiently. “She ruined it all for Isabel, of course, when she tried to run off with a Frenchman during the Revolution. They tried to hush it up, of course—old Lord Lansell was such the stickler and would never have let her marry him.”
“So how did that ruin anything for Lady Isabel?”
“My dear!” The first voice tittered. “Don’t you know who was paying court to her at the very same time?”
“Who?”
“Why, the Duke of Mowbray! He’d just come into the title the year before and was very full of himself—not that that has changed! He’d been quite attentive to Isabel all season, and according to my brother, betting was even in the betting book at Brooks’s that he’d propose by June. But once the business with Molly came to light, he dropped her like a stone. Couldn’t allow any breath of scandal to touch his sacred name, you know.”
“My goodness! That must have been a shock for her,” the second voice said, not unsympathetically.
“Oh, I’m sure it was. She disappeared from view for the rest of the season, supposedly because of a sprained ankle, and by autumn was engaged to Dow. Do you know”—the voice dropped slightly, so that Sophie had to strain to catch its next words—“some said she actually cared for Mowbray and was nursing a broken heart, not an ankle. She was certainly out of looks when I happened to see her once that summer, so it just might be true—she had been quite pretty. Fancy falling in love with that windbag! But I suppose he was good-looking enough back in those days—”
“Lady Sophie.” Someone touched her arm, and she jumped. Lord Woodbridge still stood there, looking at her quizzically. “Is there anything wrong?”
What could she say? “Pardon me, there was a conversation I had to eavesdrop on”? Certainly not … perhaps pretending nothing had happened would be best.
“Er, not at all,” she said, taking his proffered arm. She thought she heard the second voice say something, but Lord Woodbridge was already leading her away, and anyway, what more was there for her to hear?
Good heavens! Had Aunt Isabel been in love with the suitor who’d abandoned her? She’d assumed Aunt Isabel’s disappointment at not becoming a duchess had been what soured her disposition and turned her into the unpleasant person she was today. But if she’d actually been in love with the duke, and he’d treated her so coldly, dropping her at the least sign of scandal in her family rather than standing by her—well, it might go some way toward explaining her bitterness toward poor Aunt Molly—and toward the world.
“They were talking about your aunt,” Lord Woodbridge said abruptly.
Sophie was startled. But he had been right there next to her—of course he would have heard. “I think, yes, they were.”
“Mowbray … his wife left him years ago, you know. They say she’s living in an Italian convent—not even with a lover. Your aunt may have had a lucky escape.”
Had she? Had turning into a bitter, discontented woman really been a lucky escape for Aunt Isabel? If she hadn’t fallen in love with the wrong person and then lost him, might her life have been different? Or was she doomed to be unhappy, just because that was who she was?
I won’t be like her, she thought fiercely. I won’t let anything turn me into an Aunt Isabel. Not losing Mama and Harry. Not even being crippled. Or falling in love with someone who might not love me as much as he thinks he does.
* * *
She spent most of the remainder of the evening watching the dancing, sitting with Amélie and Parthenope’s mother and Lord Woodbridge while Parthenope danced—twice with Mr. Leland, Sophie was happy to notice. Sophie could not help wondering if the duchess remained with them so that Lord Woodbridge, as her nephew, could sit with them without setting the gossips astir—at least not too astir. Sophie said as much to Amélie as they waited for their carriage when Aunt Isabel could finally be dragged away.
“I would not be surprised,” Amélie agreed. “I too am grateful for her presence. It was very kind of her to sit with me.”
“Kind of her to sit with you? Why?”
Amélie hesitated. “It is nothing, petite.”
“Amélie, please tell me.”
She took a moment to fuss with her pelisse before answering. “I am being a—a—what do you call it—a vaporish miss, I am sure. But some people here, they are not comfortable with a person whom they think is French.” She shrugged.
“Was someone rude to you?” Sophie asked, aghast.
“Not exactly rude … ah, I have upset you, ma chère. There is no need—”
“That’s why you stopped playing cards when I came in, isn’t it? Someone was rude to you there.”
Amélie sighed and nodded.
And the duchess must have seen, and by being openly friendly to Amélie was making it clear that she did not hold any silly views about being pleasant to a Frenchwoman. Just as Parthenope had had no qualms about befriending Sophie. The apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree, had it?
Sophie brooded about the matter on the carriage ride home and was still thinking about it as the footman opened the door for them and bowed them into the front hall. Perhaps she should talk to Papa about it … and maybe about her other concerns as well—
“You’re back early.” Aunt Molly appeared at the top of the stairs, squinting down at them in the light of the candelabrum left burning in the hall for their arrival. Even from here, Sophie could smell coffee. Evidently the aphid destruction program had occurred on schedule.
“It’s nearly one, Molly. Not all that early,” Papa said, pulling off his gloves. “You didn’t have to wait up for us. How is your head?”
“Oh … er, much better, thank you. And I didn’t wait up. Auguste happened to call and stayed to help me with my plants, and we’ve just finished. I was about to ring for tea. Auguste!” she called over her shoulder.
Sophie concealed a grin. So the comte had come to keep her company over her plants! Wouldn’t it set tongues wagging if Aunt Molly were to catch a husband this season … especially the husband she’d first wanted twenty years ago?
The comte appeared a moment later behind her, smiling a little sheepishly down at them. “Your pardon, Monsieur le Marquis. I did not intend to stay so late, but—”
“But we got all the plants taken care of, and you’ll never guess what we found! I must show you—in the
conservatory—and then we can have a nice cup of tea together and you can tell me all about your evening,” Aunt Molly said, all on one breath, and started down the stairs.
“Marie, wait—” the comte said, starting after her.
“I’ll be right back, Auguste,” she called over her shoulder. “I simply can’t wait to show—you’ll never guess, Sophie—oh!”
That gentle “oh!” was the only warning that something was amiss. In the next instant Aunt Molly pitched forward, arms thrown before her to break her fall. A ghastly cracking sound, not very loud but horribly clear, was followed by Aunt Molly crying out sharply.
“Molly!” Papa gasped, and the comte cried, “No!” But it was too late. She tumbled limply down the rest of the staircase, coming to rest in a pitiful huddle on the marble-tiled floor.
Chapter
12
Papa said afterward that he wasn’t sure how they would have managed without Amélie, and Sophie heartily agreed. It was Amélie who got to Aunt Molly first and gently suggested that the footman fetch a surgeon and that Papa summon Belton and the other servants. It was she who reassured the shaking comte and asked for his carriage to be brought, promising to send word first thing in the morning as to Aunt Molly’s condition, and she who comforted Aunt Molly’s maid, Bunty, who burst into loud hysterics when she saw Aunt Molly’s still, white face and motionless form.
“She’s dead!” Bunty wailed. “An’ the pineapple in the conservatory was just about ready—she was so happy, and now she’ll never—”
“She’s not dead,” Amélie said calmly. “Voyez? She is breathing—no, do not touch her until the surgeon comes—but if you could bring a blanket to cover her and some smelling salts.…”
The surgeon arrived quickly, thank heavens, and ascertained that Aunt Molly had escaped with a broken arm and a lot of bumps and bruises.
“Go to bed,” Amélie told Sophie as they watched the footmen and Papa carry a faintly moaning Aunt Molly upstairs on a hastily improvised stretcher, followed by the surgeon and a still-sniffling Bunty.
“But you’re doing everything. Isn’t there some way I can help?” Sophie protested.
“You can help by being rested in the morning. Your tante will need someone to sit with her, and Bunty and I will need you to do that so we can rest.” Amélie gave her a little hug. “I must hear what the surgeon says we should do to take care of her. Go. Your work will begin tomorrow.”
Sophie reluctantly did as she asked, following the little procession up to the third floor and watching as it disappeared into Aunt Molly’s room. What a dreadful end to the day! Had she caught her heel on a carpet rod or missed her footing in the dim light? The poor comte had looked positively devastated as he rushed down to her.… Oh, dear, she hoped this wouldn’t put a crimp in their romance, which had seemed to be coming along so well.
* * *
The next morning Sophie slipped into Aunt Molly’s room after knocking discreetly and hearing Amélie’s quiet “entrez!” She was shocked to see that Amélie still wore her black crepe evening dress and slippers.
“Haven’t you rested at all?” she demanded in a whisper.
Amélie shook her head. “I am going now, petite. I made Mademoiselle Bunty go to her bed just now, though she did not wish it. I promised her that you would call her immediately if Lady Molly needed her, but I also made her drink a cup of tea with a drop or two of the laudanum the surgeon left. She too needs her rest. If you feel you need help, I will be sending Nalini to sit out in the hall. She can get me.”
“How is she?” Sophie moved closer to Aunt Molly’s bed. The curtains were drawn over the window, but a fire in the grate and a shielded candle gave enough light to show that she lay straight and still under the blankets, like an effigy on a tomb, and totally unlike her usual cheerful if muddled self.
“The surgeon set her arm and left us laudanum to give her for the pain and an onguent of arnica to put on her bruises. She just had some and will probably sleep most of the morning. If she seems uncomfortable, you might bathe her forehead, but if she grows hot as if falling into a fever, you should call me immediatement,” Amélie said, and yawned.
“Now it’s my turn to tell you to go to bed,” Sophie said. “Go on. I’ll be all right.”
“I know you will.” Amélie squeezed her hand, took one more look at the still form under the blankets, and left, closing the door gently behind her.
Sophie sat down in the chair next to the bed and studied Aunt Molly. Her cropped hair stood up every which way, and she was very pale, but someone had managed to get her out of her dress and corset and into a soft flannel nightdress. At least she would be comfortable, the poor old dear. Had Amélie had a moment to send a note to the comte? Perhaps she ought to remind her before she retired—
Aunt Molly stirred slightly and sighed. Sophie bent over her to feel her forehead, and she opened her eyes, blinking as if they weren’t working quite right.
“Who is that? Oh, Sophie.” She twisted her mouth into a grimace that Sophie supposed was meant to be a smile.
“Hello, Aunt. How are you? May I get you anything?”
“Thirsty,” she whispered.
Sophie poured half a glass of water from the pitcher on her bedside table and managed to lift her head slightly without disturbing her arm so that she could drink. Aunt Molly took a few sips, then turned her head away. “Where’s Bunty?” she asked, trying to peer past Sophie.
“Sleeping. She was with you all night, and now I’m sitting with you while she rests.”
“Was she?” Her brow creased, as if she were trying to remember something. “I—fell.”
“Yes, you did. Last night, on the staircase.”
“Last … night? It’s morning now?”
“It’s a little after ten, yes.”
“The stairs…,” Aunt Molly said, frowning again. “I remember. They … they pushed me off. Down. I … it was … very rude of them.” Her voice squeaked and broke.
Sophie looked at her anxiously. She wasn’t getting agitated, was she? Surely that would be bad for her arm, splinted and bandaged though it was. Best to humor her. “I’m sure they didn’t mean it, Aunt,” she said, patting her good hand.
Aunt Molly shook her head fretfully. “Oh, they did … I felt them. They wanted me to fall. They’d been … told.” She closed her eyes.
A cold prickle started somewhere between Sophie’s shoulder blades and crept down her back. “Aunt Molly, what do you mean ‘they’d been told’?” she asked, leaning forward. But Aunt Molly’s eyes remained closed, and her chest had begun to rise and fall rhythmically with her breath. The laudanum Amélie had given her had done its work.
Sophie sat back in her chair and watched her sleep, then got up and hobbled to the window to flick the curtains open a crack. The morning was a fine one, but she didn’t see the washed-blue sky above the budding trees in the square below.
The stairs had made her fall. Someone had told them to.
Very well. Aunt Molly might be muddled from the laudanum and have dreamed or imagined that the stairs had intentionally thrown her. Or she might be saying precisely what had happened, that someone had told the stairs to make her fall. Which was entirely possible … with magic.
But that would mean someone had managed to sneak in somehow last evening while they were at Almack’s and Aunt Molly was happily ensconced with her comte in the conservatory. How he or she had managed it with Aunt or the servants liable to wander through the front hall at any time, it was difficult to say.
Or could it have been one of the servants themselves? Someone with a grudge against Aunt Molly? That seemed difficult to believe … unless the magical trap had been laid for someone else. Someone like … Sophie gripped the fabric of the curtains very tightly. Someone like Papa.
One thing was certain: She had to go examine those stairs, and soon. There might still be some residue of magic left on them, something that might give her a hint of who might have done such a thing. Or
why.
Opportunity to do so arrived sooner than she’d hoped. About a half hour later, Nalini, Amélie’s maid, tiptoed in. “I sit with mademoiselle la tante,” she whispered. “Ladee Sophie go—her friend is here.”
“My friend?” Sophie blinked at her, then remembered. Parthenope had said she would visit this morning, hadn’t she? “Thank you, Nalini. Aunt should stay asleep, but if she wakes, please call me—let your mistress rest.”
Nalini pressed her hands together and bowed, and Sophie grabbed her cane and hurried out.
Parthenope was still in the front hall, unbuttoning her pelisse. One of the footmen stood next to her, holding an arm stiffly in front of him. Hester perched on his outstretched hand, looking about him with interest.
“There you are!” Parthenope called up the stairs to her. “Stay there. I’ll be right up.” She finished unfastening her pelisse and looked expectantly at the footman, waiting for him to help her off with it. He looked from Hester to Parthenope, and a look of desperation crossed his face.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Parthenope wiggled out of her pelisse, took Hester from the now red-faced footman, and then handed him the garment.
Sophie waited until he disappeared into the cloakroom with it. “No, wait,” she said as Parthenope reached for the banister. “Don’t come up till I tell you.”
“What? Are you going to send me away just because I brought this miscreant?” Parthenope set Hester on her shoulder. “I promise he won’t engage in any behavior unbecoming a gentleman. Well, he probably won’t. I hope.”
“It’s not that.” Sophie tried to remember which stair Aunt Molly had fallen from. About a third of the way down? Maybe a little less? She went down a few steps, then clinging to the banister, sat down on the tread and slid herself over to the center of the stairs.
“What are you doing?” Parthenope demanded. “And I was worried about Hester behaving strangely.”
Courtship and Curses Page 15
