Courtship and Curses

by Marissa Doyle

  “Aunt Molly fell on the stairs last night,” Sophie said tersely, running her hands over the carpet.

  “My goodness, did she? I’m so sorry. Is she injured?”

  “Broken arm.” No, nothing on this step. She slid down to the next one and repeated her search.

  “And you’re … looking for a trip wire?” Parthenope asked, head to one side.

  “After a fashion.” Sophie moved down to the next step.

  “Really?”

  “Yes—ah!” There it was, very faint, just a prickle under her fingertips.

  “You found it?” Parthenope’s voice rose with excitement. “Where? May I come up?” She set a foot on the bottom stair.

  “Yes, but don’t touch anything, for heaven’s sake.” Sophie ran her hand over the spot again. It was hard to find the edges of the remains of the spell, hard to read the intent inside it.

  Parthenope sat two steps below. “I don’t see a wire,” she said, peering at the carpet under Sophie’s hand. “And anyway, who would want to do something so awful to poor Aunt Molly? She wouldn’t hurt a fly, unless it was eating one of her plants.”

  “It’s not an actual wire that tripped her. I think it was magic … and that it was meant for someone else.”

  “Ohh.” Parthenope’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward. “Like for your papa, perhaps? Where is it? What does it feel like?”

  Hester uttered a small, annoyed chirp and fluttered from her shoulder down to the step. He took a hop toward Sophie, then stopped. “By the pricking of my thumbs,” he said, scratching at the rug.

  “None of that, sir,” Parthenope admonished and reached for him, but Sophie stopped her.

  “Wait a moment,” she said. “He’s said that before.”

  “He’s said a lot of things before, the little wretch, many of which I heartily regret teaching him.”

  “No—he said that when I did the spell to take the stain out of your dress.”

  “Did he?” Parthenope was staring at the step as if she could discountenance the spell into showing itself. “I know it’s from Macbeth since Macky made me read that one because it’s about Scotland, and because there are a lot of deaths and people getting chopped into pieces with swords and stabbed and so on. She says I have a bloodthirsty streak.”

  “Have you?”

  “Of course I do,” Parthenope replied promptly. “Hadn’t you noticed?”

  “Hmm.” Sophie put her hand out for Hester to hop onto her finger. “I wonder…” She trailed into silence.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just a guess, but ‘by the pricking of my thumbs’ is something one of the witches in Macbeth says.”

  “So you’re saying that he’s read Macbeth too? My clever boy!”

  Sophie made a face at her. “I’m saying that I wonder if he isn’t sensitive to magic. Birds often are, for some reason. Someone must have taught it to him. I wonder where Norris Underwood got him?”

  “I’m not about to write the cad and find out,” Parthenope said firmly.

  “You don’t have to, silly. But if Hester is sensitive to magic, he might he useful.”

  Parthenope brightened. “That’s true. I’ve been wanting to do something a little different. Wearing Hester on my shoulder to balls and parties will let us keep an eye out for any more magic as well as set me apart—”

  “And your mother will have you sent to Bedlam if you do. Besides, Hester’s purple and green will clash with some of your dresses.” She handed him back to Parthenope, who looked crestfallen.

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Still, I expect having Hester about to sniff out magic will prove handy someday—”

  The metallic clunk of the door knocker interrupted her. The footman who’d taken Parthenope’s pelisse came scurrying from the cloakroom to open it.

  “I am here to inquire after Lady Mary’s health,” said a familiar voice from the stoop outside. “And to bring her a small trifle that I hope might cheer her.”

  The comte! Had anyone sent him word about Aunt Molly? Sophie sat up. “Peter, please let the comte come in.” The poor man must be frantic if he’d gone to the trouble of calling himself.

  The footman opened the door all the way, and the comte stepped in, bearing a large bouquet of hothouse lilies.

  “Good morning, monsieur,” Sophie called down to him. So what if she and Parthenope looked odd, perched on the stairs as they were? “It is very kind of you to call about Aunt Molly.”

  He glanced up, and his brown eyes, which Sophie had often thought resembled a sad spaniel’s, narrowed angrily. “What are you doing?”

  Parthenope rose and set Hester on her shoulder. “Why, looking to see which carpet rod is loose,” she said. “It would be terrible if someone else were to trip, don’t you think?”

  The anger seemed to leave him as quickly as it appeared. “If only she had not,” he replied softly, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his brow. His eyes were once more sad and slightly drooping at the corners. “To see you there—it reminded me again of that horrible moment … please, how is your aunt?”

  Sophie thought about trying to rise and decided against it. “Her arm is broken, and she’s rather buffeted and bruised. She’s asleep just now, but she’ll be so pleased to hear you called.” If only she could sneak him up to see her, but that would hardly be proper. Anyway, poor Aunt was so pale and fragile-looking that it would just make him worry more.

  He shook his head and looked even sadder. “You will give her these?” He held out the flowers to the footman. “Please … tell her—tell her I am very sorry that she was injured. And that I shall call again in a day or two to see how she is.” He turned back to the door.

  “Of course I will.” Poor man. Sophie almost wished she could hug him. “Good-bye, Comte.”

  He turned and looked back up at her, and a fleeting expression she could not quite decipher crossed his face, then was gone. “Au revoir, Lady Sophie.”

  * * *

  That evening Sophie took a deep breath before knocking on the door to Papa’s study. This was not going to be easy.

  After the comte had left that morning, she and Parthenope had retreated to her room to talk about Sophie’s discovery of the spell on the stairs.

  “What if whoever did it decides to come back and try again?” Parthenope asked. “Once he hears it was Aunt Molly and not your papa who fell, he might.”

  Sophie shivered but shook her head. “How could he get into the house without anyone noticing?”

  “He already did, didn’t he—no reason why he couldn’t again. He’s a spy. They’re supposed to be good at that sort of thing,” Parthenope said patiently, as if she were explaining something to a very young child. “Sophie, I think it’s time you talked to your father about this. After all, it’s not just he who’s in danger—it’s Lord Palmerston and heaven knows who else. What if someone tries to assassinate the Prince Regent? Or the king?”

  It was that last argument that persuaded Sophie to discuss their suspicions with Papa. The only problem was that, try as she might, she still hadn’t figured out how to tell him about their concerns without revealing the magical aspects of the situation. Mama had said that magic was a secret that had to be kept, even from one’s closest and dearest; she had never told Papa what she was, nor had she told him about Sophie or little Harry. If even Mama hadn’t been able to tell him, Sophie knew that she couldn’t. She took another breath, and knocked.

  “Ah, Sophie,” Papa said when she opened the door. He was sitting at his desk, looking through a stack of invitations. The curtains were drawn, and the lamplight on the gilt titles of the books in the bookcases and on the old mahogany furniture gave the room a cozy feel—perfect for confidences, she hoped.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Papa continued. “With your aunt laid up for the next few weeks, we have to decide who can chaperone you. Isabel, of course, and perhaps Madame Carswell would be willing, though—”

  “I’m sure
she would, Papa,” Sophie interrupted.

  He regarded her for a few seconds with one eyebrow slightly raised, then nodded at the chair before his desk. “You have something you want to talk about that’s more important than parties, I gather.”

  “I’m sorry I interrupted you, but yes, I do have something I want to discuss with you.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Go on.”

  Sophie hesitated. She’d rehearsed this in her head over and over, but now that it was time to actually do it, all her prepared words fled. “It’s just that … well, we’ve been thinking, and we thought you ought to know—”

  “We?” he interrupted.

  “Parthenope and I. Anyway, we … well … we wondered if you hadn’t thought it odd that so many of your friends in the War Office had had accidents recently.”

  “Runs of bad fortune generally are odd, mercifully. What—”

  “But what if it wasn’t just bad luck? What if it was intentional?”

  His smile slipped, just a little. Good; that meant she had his attention. “Are you saying that the accidents and near accidents weren’t accidents? That someone somehow engineered them?”

  Sophie drew a breath. “Yes.”

  “Who? And how? A falling statue in a ballroom, a spooked horse, and a rotted wood balustrade—I’m afraid I can’t see how any human agency could have effected those. Or why.”

  If only she could tell him! For now it would probably be prudent to sidestep the how and focus on the why and who. “The why is obvious. We’re back at war again, and the stakes are higher than ever. I’m sure the emperor would grasp at anything that would give him an advantage—and wouldn’t disabling the War Office of one of his chief enemies among the Allies give him an enormous advantage?” She ignored the growing incredulity in his eyes and pressed on. “Whoever has tried has already succeeded with poor Sir Walter.… What if he keeps on trying? What if Lord Palmerston or … or you—”

  “Sophie.” Papa leaned across his desk and held out his hand. She put hers in it and he squeezed gently. “Sophie, I think maybe you’re a little overwrought.”

  “But Parthenope—”

  “Must be a highly imaginative young lady in her own right. No, Sophie, there are no plots or spies or Bonapartist agents lurking in the shrubbery, trying to decimate the War Office. And even if someone were, which is very unlikely, it’s not a matter for a girl to concern herself with.”

  Sophie regarded him miserably. “But—”

  “No buts.” He patted her hand again and rose. “No one has attempted or will attempt to murder me or Palmerston or anyone.”

  “But I know it’s true that someone’s been trying to hurt you!” she persisted.

  His brows drew down, but his voice remained gentle. “How, Sophie? What makes you so sure?”

  What indeed? What if she told him about the spell she’d sensed at the site of every “accident” … and most recently on the stairs, right here in his own house? He would accuse her of concocting fairy tales, or worse. “I just am,” she muttered.

  “And I know it’s true that you have had a difficult few weeks dealing with being in London and are perhaps in need of some rest.” He looked down at her consideringly. “Perhaps we ought to find you some other young ladies to befriend besides Lady Parthenope. I do not think she has been a good influence on you.”

  “Papa! She’s my best friend!”

  He shook his head. “A ‘best friend’ is not a desirable commodity. One should hold all of one’s friends in equal esteem, if they are worthy to be called friend. I suppose that without your mother’s guidance, you—well, never mind that for now.” He felt for his watch in a gesture she knew well, opened it, and sighed. “Late again. They’ll be wondering what’s happened to me at White’s. Off with you, Sophie.”

  There was no gainsaying that tone of voice. Sophie rose obediently and left, leaning a little more heavily on her cane than she usually did just because she felt so … so deflated. That would be it, then. She and Parthenope could expect no assistance from Papa—or even expect to be listened to, by him or anyone else. They were on their own.

  * * *

  Sophie did not go to any social events for the next three days. Amélie felt that she should stay with Aunt Molly in the evenings so that Bunty could rest before sitting up all night with her mistress, which meant that Amélie could not go anywhere with Sophie. And while Sophie felt more in charity with Aunt Isabel since overhearing those two cats at Almack’s discuss her disappointments, it did not mean that she wanted to have to spend long swaths of evening sitting with her at a ball, watching others dance.

  On the surgeon’s advice, Aunt Molly remained mostly asleep for two of those days while the worst of her bruises and discomfort slowly subsided. Bunty single-mindedly concocted comfrey poultices for her arm and glowered at anyone who came near, including the surgeon, though she was less hostile to Sophie. On the third day, when Aunt Molly was more awake, Sophie managed to steal a few moments alone with her to ask her again what she’d felt before she’d fallen, but this time, she had no memory of it at all. Frustrated, Sophie left her to Bunty and a fresh poultice and went to ignore her embroidery in the drawing room. Only when Belton announced Parthenope did she brighten.

  “This is getting ridiculous!” Parthenope announced, pausing dramatically on the threshold before entering. “Do you know how bored I was at Lady Mansfield’s rout last night, not to mention the Killingsleys’ ball the night before? My dear Lady Sophie, pray tell me why did your aunt choose to injure herself at the height of the season?”

  Sophie laughed. Parthenope’s presence seemed to fill the room with much-needed fresh air. “One must rely on one’s inner resources at such times, of course. Hasn’t Miss MacTavish told you that?”

  “Several times, but it’s my firm opinion that inner resources are on the whole vastly overrated. Especially mine.” Parthenope dropped her reticule on the sofa and presented Sophie with a tight little bouquet of violets that she’d been hiding behind her back. “For your aunt. Aren’t they perfect? I’ve never seen such large ones as they have down here. The violets up by Revesby Castle always seem terrified, as if they suspect it might snow on them if they dare grow very large.”

  “She’ll love them.” Sophie set them on the table. But Parthenope wasn’t finished.

  “I’ve also got a very interesting article for her in the Lady’s Magazine about the rhododendrons of Asia Minor and the Black Sea, and one about the Orchidaceae of North America, whatever those are, and the agricultural report in the most recent number of Ackermann’s Repository. What is barley, anyway? Do you eat it, like wheat?”

  “No. I think you stuff it down the throats of people who behave nonsensically.”

  “Pooh.” She dropped the magazines next to the violets. “I’d thought about bringing Hester to distract her too, but I’m afraid he’s in disgrace.”

  “What did he do?”

  Parthenope grinned. “I brought him to Lady Mansfield’s last night, and while I was playing whist, he went for a little jaunt onto the old Countess of Exton’s shoulder, took a look at her cards, proclaimed, ‘Fancy that! Five kings!’ then made a mess on her new French silk shawl. I guess I’m in disgrace too, for bringing him, but not as much as the countess.”

  “Did she really have five kings in her hand?”

  “She certainly did.”

  Sophie laughed, but her laugh faded into a sigh. Parthenope frowned at her. “What? Don’t worry—they’ll forgive me eventually, but I shouldn’t probably expect her grandson to be asking me to dance anytime soon. Not that I’m devastated or anything.”

  “It’s not that. Come sit, and I’ll tell you.” She told Parthenope about her talk with Papa.

  “Ah,” Parthenope said when she’d finished. “Well, I suppose I can’t much blame him—it does sound rather far-fetched. And if you’d told him about the magic, it would have been even worse.”

  “I know. And now I don’t know what to do next. I
f no one will listen to us—”

  “Ahem.” Parthenope was regarding the toes of her slippers. After a pause, she looked up. “I had an interesting conversation myself last night.”

  Sophie waited and, when Parthenope didn’t continue, prodded her friend with the tip of her cane (today the green-painted one wrapped with lace, so that the color showed through the pattern). “And?”

  Parthenope eyed her. “You won’t be angry with me?”

  “How can I be, if you don’t tell me?”

  “That’s hardly inducement to talk. Very well, I told Peregrine about our suspicions. I was worried after your aunt’s accident, and I had to do something. Not that it helped.”

  Oh. That wasn’t so bad. “Did he say it was outrageous fudge?”

  “No. That’s what worries me. I was sure he would, because I … er, have been known to be economical with the truth with him in the past, but he said that you had spoken to him about something similar. I pretended not to know that. Anyway, he didn’t tell me not to be a codfish. He only looked very serious and thoughtful. Goodness, if Perry thinks there might be something to worry about … Sophie, you have to talk to him again. He might actually believe you.”

  Sophie sat back. Of course she had to, but life would be so much easier if she didn’t. She and Peregrine—er, Lord Woodbridge—had reached a—a place of balance. They had finally begun to trust each other after their spectacularly bad start, and she was afraid to do anything to jeopardize that delicate equilibrium lest their trust be destroyed a second time. But if he would actually listen to her.… “The last time we spoke about it, he suggested I speak to my father.”

  “And you did, and it didn’t help. You can tell him that when you talk to him.” Parthenope looked at her, all traces of laughter gone from her face. “Which I hope you’ll do soon. In the meanwhile, please be careful. I don’t want to have to bring you violets and articles about the progress of this year’s barley crop because you’ve gotten caught in a magical trap.”

  Chapter

  13

  Sophie’s chance to talk to Peregrine came a few days later, when Aunt Molly was deemed well enough that Bunty no longer had to sit up with her at night and Amélie could go out in the evening again. Indeed, Aunt Molly was feeling sufficiently improved to talk of getting out of bed in a day or two to check on her conservatory and see if the aphid mixture had done its job. Bunty sniffed dubiously at these signs of returning vigor, but Sophie was delighted. Perhaps in another day or two, she’d be ready for callers. Wouldn’t the poor comte be happy to see his Marie?