The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas

by Lauren Willig

  But, then, that was Miss Dempsey all over, wasn’t it? She pretended to be all shy and quiet, and then there she was, chasing down prowlers in the middle of the night.

  At the moment, she was holding a chair up in front of her like a lion-keeper at the Tower, prepared to hold the villain at bay should he make another rush for the window.

  She very slowly lowered the chair to the ground as she turned to face the headmistress. “Miss Climpson? I’m afraid we’ve had something of an, er, incident.”

  Lizzy Reid giggled.

  Sally flapped a hand to shush her.

  Miss Climpson blinked behind her thick spectacles, her candle making a slow arc as she took in the scene in front of her. “Is that my china cupid?” she asked first, and then, “Is that a man beneath Miss Reid?”

  “I am afraid so,” said Miss Dempsey.

  Miss Climpson shook her head. “Roaming around the school in the middle of the night, breaking objets d’art, sitting on strange men. Girls! What do you have to say for yourselves?”

  “The cupid was already broken when we got here?” suggested Agnes.

  “Please.” Miss Dempsey placed herself between her charges and the headmistress. “Let me explain.”

  Sally stepped forward in front of Miss Dempsey. “We heard noises, Miss Climpson. So we asked Miss Dempsey to investigate.”

  “Just to be safe,” chimed in Lizzy Reid from her position on top of the prowler. “One can’t be too careful in these dangerous times.”

  “True, true, true,” agreed Miss Climpson, her stiff ruffles rustling. “But there is still no call for sitting on him.”

  “It was only until we could find something with which to tie him.” Agnes Wooliston rushed to her friend’s defense.

  The intruder groaned.

  Miss Climpson released a short exhalation of air that might have been a sigh. “Miss Reid?”

  Lizzy looked at her with wide, innocent eyes. “Yes?”

  “We do not sit on people in this establishment. Settees are for sitting; chairs are for sitting; not—”

  “Hideous midnight intruders?” suggested Lizzy helpfully.

  “Even those, even those.” It was a sign of Miss Climpson’s agitation that she said it only twice, not three times. “Kindly remove yourself from that man’s person, Miss Reid. Not later, not soon, but right now.”

  Lizzy scrambled off the recumbent intruder, who seemed considerably flatter than when he had entered. He looked as though he were trying to become one with the carpet.

  Miss Climpson wagged a finger at Lizzy. “That sort of thing is dreadful for your posture. You know what I always say. A crooked back makes for a crooked mind!”

  “Yes, Miss Climpson,” chorused all three girls.

  “But Miss Climpson,” ventured Agnes. “What about the intruder?”

  Miss Climpson frowned down at the prone man. “I suppose we could ask the gardener to take him out. He doesn’t go at all with the rest of the drawing room. He would be very hard to explain to parents when they came to call.” Taking up the fireplace poker, which was lying, in the aftermath of the fray, between an overturned chair and the broken shepherdess, she prodded the man gently in the side. “Sir? Sir?”

  The man groaned again.

  “Now, now,” prodded Miss Climpson. “It isn’t at all healthy to lie on your stomach like that. It impedes both the digestion and the flow of air to the brain.”

  It might have been concern for his digestion that got the man moving, or it might have been the tip of the poker being applied to his side. With a little help from Miss Climpson’s poker, he levered himself slowly up onto his elbows, shaking his head from side to side as though to clear it.

  Beneath the tousled mess of hair, his lips moved. His voice was scratchy and just barely audible. “I can make-a dee explanation.”

  Everyone stared at him.

  “Oh, Lord,” gasped Lizzy. “It’s the music master.”

  And so it was. His hair was all about his face and one of his mustachios had come loose in the fray, but it was still, unmistakably, the same man who had been playing the lute at Farley Castle the week before.

  Turnip frowned at the music master. It wasn’t beyond the realm of comprehension that the music master might be their spy. He had a foreign name, a strange accent, and access to both the school and Farley Castle. But why sneak in at dead of night when he had perfectly legitimate access by day? No one had ever accused Turnip of being a master of common sense—quite the contrary, in fact—but even he could see that.

  Miss Climpson waved her candle at the recumbent music master. “Signor Marconi? What are you doing here?”

  “Errrrrr,” groaned Signor Marconi.

  Not much of an excuse, that, but to be fair, he had until quite recently had a well-fed sixteen-year-old perched on his back.

  “Miss Dempsey,” said Miss Climpson. “Help Signor Marconi to a chair. Proper posture is very important to the workings of the mind. It’s all about the flow of the blood.”

  Miss Dempsey obediently stepped forward as instructed. The music master clutched at the hand she extended, nearly sending them both reeling as he staggered clumsily to his feet. Miss Dempsey yanked him to his feet with less than complete solicitude.

  “What were you doing lurking about down here?” Miss Dempsey demanded, with some asperity. “Why didn’t you simply make yourself known when you saw me?”

  “I came-a for da music,” he said in wounded tones. “Den de girls, they jump on me and break-a my bones. It is dee insult to my art.” As he spoke, his right mustachio dropped off entirely.

  Miss Dempsey folded her arms across her chest. “No one would have jumped on anyone if you had identified yourself when I asked.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Miss Climpson distractedly, waving Miss Dempsey to silence. “You came for your music. Your music?”

  “I give-a dee lesson tomorrow morning. I need-a de music.” Signor Marconi seemed to have rediscovered his Italian accent.

  Even to Turnip’s ears, his excuse sounded as phony as his mustachios.

  “Where,” asked Miss Dempsey, “is this music?”

  Signor Marconi looked from left to right, as though hoping that it might materialize of its own accord. “In the music room?” he said hopefully. Belatedly remembering to look aggrieved, he drooped back in his chair. “All I wanted was to fetch-a de music and go, when de harpies, they, er, dey attack-a me, with de tooth and de claw.”

  “Tooth?” demanded Sally indignantly. “Claw? I never laid a hand on the man.”

  “I only sat on him,” said Lizzy beatifically. “No teeth or claws involved.”

  Agnes looked at her fingernails. “Mine are too short to be claws.”

  “Girls,” said Miss Dempsey, and they subsided.

  “How did you get in, Signor Marconi?” asked Miss Climpson. “The building is meant to be locked.”

  “Meant” being the operative word. As far as Turnip could tell, the structure was as porous as a hunk of cheap cheese. They could start charging a toll for all the people coming in and out at night and save on the tuition.

  Signor Marconi’s eyes darted around and caught on the flapping curtains. He flung out an arm, pointing at the window for all he was worth. “Through the—er, da window. I came in-a through da window.”

  Not this window, he hadn’t. Turnip could have vouched for that if he hadn’t been crouching beneath said window. Of course, if he hadn’t been crouching beneath the window, he wouldn’t have been in a position to vouch for anything of the kind. It was quite the tangle.

  “Why would you do a thing like that?” asked Miss Climpson, in what appeared to be genuine confusion.

  “Because da door, it was a-closed.”

  “I am glad to hear that,” said Miss Climpson with great decision. “It would be quite worry-making to think of the doors being accessible after hours. Nonetheless, the window should be locked.”

  Behind Signor Marconi, Miss Dempsey began gesturing wildly
with one hand, flapping at the air in a downward motion, mouthing something Turnip couldn’t quite catch. Turnip cocked his head in inquiry.

  Down, down, down, flapped Miss Dempsey.

  Uh-oh. If she could see him, so could Miss Climpson. And his sister. Turnip wasn’t sure which worried him more. He hastily ducked back down behind the curtain, trusting to his dark clothes to blend into the night.

  “Miss Dempsey?” said Miss Climpson. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Just, er, shaking out my wrist.” Miss Dempsey smiled weakly at the headmistress. “I believe I might have sprained it when Signor Marconi knocked my candle out of my hand.”

  “And your notebook, as well, it seems.” Bending down, Miss Climpson smoothed the pages of a notebook that was splayed open next to a fallen chair. “It does look somewhat the worse for the fall.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Oh, dear, you seem to be losing pages.” Miss Climpson handed her a piece of paper that had fallen from the notebook.

  Miss Dempsey stuffed the paper in her pocket and tucked the book up under her arm.

  Signor Marconi pressed a hand to his chest. “I offer to you dee most-a sincere apologies of my heart.” Struck by a sudden inspiration, he added, “I only a-tried to defend-a dee young-a ladies. I thought you were intrrrrrrrruder.”

  Miss Dempsey eyed him skeptically. “How very noble of you.”

  “Well, well,” said Miss Climpson vaguely. “I’m sure it was all an accident, and an unfortunate one at that. We’ll have stronger locks fitted on all the windows tomorrow. Shouldn’t the girls be in bed? And Signor Marconi, I would appreciate if you would confine your visits to daylight hours. Much less unsettling for everyone. Miss Dempsey, if you would latch the window?”

  “What? Oh, yes. Of course.” Miss Dempsey pulled herself together sufficiently to make her way to the window, blocking the aperture with her body as she reached up to pull down the sash.

  It was quite a nice view. Turnip took back all the unkind things he had thought about that gray dress. The simple lines molded themselves to her upper body as she reached up to pull down the window sash that he had pushed up some time before. Since he was taller than she, there was a fair amount of reaching involved. He might have jammed it up there just a little too hard, since the window appeared to be stuck. Miss Dempsey’s feminine attributes jiggled interestingly as she yanked at the sash.

  Turnip would have helped, of course. But he wasn’t meant to be there.

  Turnip shifted uncomfortably in the flower bed. Bloody good thing it was quite so cold outside. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking these sorts of things about his sister’s teacher. He was sure there was some sort of school rule about it. On the other hand, he had known her before she became a teacher—even if he hadn’t quite remembered her name—so oughtn’t there to be some special sort of dispensation for that?

  Catching Miss Dempsey’s eye, Turnip grinned up at her and gave a little wave.

  Miss Dempsey blinked at him, resting her hands against the sash.

  “The world has gone mad,” she said out loud. “And me with it.”

  “Miss Dempsey? Do you need help with that?” It was Sally’s voice, at her most butter-wouldn’t-melt.

  “No, no. Don’t! It’s just a bit . . . sticky.” The window finally gave, dragging Miss Dempsey along with it. The sash slammed into the sill with enough force to make the glass quiver. Miss Dempsey’s chest rose and fell as she let out a heartfelt sigh of relief.

  From somewhere just behind her, Turnip could hear his sister’s voice. “Are you all right, Miss Dempsey?”

  “Ask me again tomorrow.” He could hear the snick of the bolt sliding into place. “I haven’t decided yet whether this is all a very vivid dream.”

  “I could pinch you,” offered Sally. “I’m a champion pincher. Just ask Reggie.”

  Through the glass, he could see Miss Dempsey look down at him. He nodded emphatically. Sally could pinch for England. Miss Dempsey’s lips twitched and she hastily turned away, blocking the window with her back.

  “Thank you for the exceedingly generous offer,” she said politely, taking Sally’s arm, “but I believe I’ll just wait it out.”

  “Sometimes,” offered Lizzy, falling in on her other side, “I dream of being a Chinese philosopher pretending to be a butterfly.”

  “Dear, oh dear.” Miss Climpson turned around from the doorway. “Nurse has an excellent remedy for that. Extract of castor oil, bean curd, all mixed into barley water. It does wonders for the cerebral passageways. Remind me to tell her to dose you tomorrow.”

  Lifting himself cautiously on his haunches, Turnip watched as the ill-assorted procession made its way out of the drawing room. Miss Dempsey took up the rear, flanked by his sister and Lizzy Reid. She cast a last glance over her shoulder before disappearing around the doorway, but she was too far away and the glass too distorted with frost to determine whether she had been trying to tell him anything by it.

  Turnip tried the window, but it was well and truly locked. Nice to know that his sister and Miss Dempsey would be safe, but deuced irritating when one needed to get inside. The side doors were probably all locked right and tight and if they hadn’t been, they would be now.

  Bother it. He needed to speak to her, and not merely to gloat about having been right about there being something dodgy going on. Oh, all right. Maybe only to gloat a little bit.

  Turnip took a step back, scrutinizing the façade of the building. He could see the light move slowly from window to window. Miss Dempsey’s room was on the fourth floor. He knew because he’d had Gerkin ask. The school was made out of a rough stone, hung with ivy.

  Where there was ivy, there was generally a trellis.

  Chapter 12

  When Arabella peeked into Catherine Carruthers’s room, Catherine was tucked up in bed with the covers pulled over her head.

  She had, however, neglected to remove her shoes.

  Arabella stood in Catherine’s doorway, her candle casting a faint light over the blackened soles of a pair of brown leather boots. They were half-boots, the sort that laced on and couldn’t be kicked off easily. Not even when one was racing to bed in a hurry with several schoolmistresses in hot pursuit.

  As Arabella watched, the shoes slowly retreated beneath the blanket.

  Arabella contemplated drawing Catherine’s attention to the matter of the shoes and then decided against it. In less than a week, everyone would be packed off home to their families for Christmas and Catherine would be someone else’s problem. In the meantime, let her enjoy her small victory. She must have snuck back upstairs while everyone was tripping over furniture and bumping into one another in the drawing room. If the blankets had been just a little longer, or Catherine just a little shorter, she might even have gotten away with it.

  Arabella backed soundlessly out of Catherine’s room, closing the door gently behind her. Tomorrow morning, she would see that a strong bolt was placed on the outside of Catherine’s bedroom door, to prevent any such further nocturnal perambulations. It probably made Arabella a bad schoolmistress, but as long as Catherine was back in her bed, not on the road to Gretna Green, Arabella didn’t much care what she had been up to. All that mattered was that Catherine remain on school grounds for the next five days, after which she would be her betrothed’s problem, not Arabella’s.

  Poor Catherine. She so enjoyed flouting her schoolmistresses and shocking her friends. She would hate to know that she had been upstaged by a falling mustachio and a crouching Turnip. But really, compared to the rest of the evening’s activities, Catherine’s were positively mundane.

  Arabella wondered if Turnip Fitzhugh was still out there, keeping the school safe from puddings and their perpetrators. Arabella choked on a giggle. Little did Miss Climpson know that Turnip and his faithful groom were on patrol, like a latter-day Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. All that was missing was the donkey.

  Arabella paused in front of her own door. Did that
make her the donkey? Perhaps this wasn’t quite so perfect an analogy as she had originally thought.

  What was it Lizzy Reid had said? Maybe they were all just Chinese philosophers dreaming of being butterflies.

  Or maybe it was quite late and she should go to bed before she lost what was left of her mind.

  “I must have misplaced it in the drawing room,” muttered Arabella, and then looked guiltily around to make sure no one had heard her.

  Of course they hadn’t. Everyone else was asleep. Or at least doing a decent job pretending.

  Juggling her candle in one hand and the notebook Miss Climpson had given her in the other, Arabella shoved the notebook up under her armpit. With the notebook clamped against her side, she awkwardly turned the handle of her door, nudging it open with one foot.

  Only to nearly drop the notebook.

  There was someone in her room. Not just someone. There was a man in her room. A great big man dressed all in black.

  He was sitting on her desk—or, to be more accurate, he was sitting on Clarissa Hardcastle’s history composition, which was sitting on her desk. His knit cap had come off somewhere along the way, leaving his hair squashed flat on one side and sticking up at odd angles on the other.

  “Hullo,” said Turnip Fitzhugh, swinging his feet so his heels clunked against the legs of her desk.

  Normally, the sight of a man in one’s room would be cause for alarm. Consternation, even. It ought to be enough to send her sprinting down the hallway, screaming rape, murder, and everything in between. Not, however, when that man was Turnip Fitzhugh. Arabella found it hard to work up the proper level of maidenly alarm and indignation at finding Mr. Fitzhugh in her bedchamber. He was just . . . Turnip.

  Arabella closed the bedroom door behind her. “Are you a Chinese philosopher or a butterfly?”

  Mr. Fitzhugh considered the question. “Since I’m not Chinese, does that make me the butterfly?”