Courtship and Curses

by Marissa Doyle

  Aunt Molly squinted at the woman in her shortsighted way and looked dubious. Aunt Isabel did too, but nodded pleasantly enough. “Umm … oh, yes. Lady Lumley—it is still Lady Lumley, isn’t it? How do you do?”

  The woman curtsied. She looked about the aunts’ age, but her bonnet was in a much more youthful style than theirs. “Very well, thank you, and yes, still Lady Lumley. I’ve yet to meet anyone who might make me forget my dear Sir William, rest his soul. Is it not wonderful that spring is finally here? I have been quite pining to see old friends again. Are you here for the season?” Lady Lumley’s tone remained effusive, but there was a questioning gleam in her eye.

  Aunt Isabel bowed slightly in her chair. “We are. My niece Sophronia is making her come-out this year, and—”

  Sophie winced, just as she always did when anyone used her full name.

  “Your niece? Not”—Lady Lumley blinked rapidly—“not dear Lord Lansell’s daughter? But I thought…” She leaned toward Aunt Isabel and muttered behind her hand—not that it muffled her words any. “Well, I had heard that she was feeble-minded and a hunchback. In fact, just the other day someone mentioned—”

  Aunt Isabel drew herself up. “You heard wrong,” she said coldly, and beckoned to Sophie. “Lady Lumley, my niece Lady Sophronia Rosier. Sophie, Lady Lumley.”

  “Good day, Lady Lumley.” Sophie rose as gracefully as she could and curtsied. To her surprise, her voice was calm, unshaken by the anger that this woman’s thoughtless babbling had roused. How had such a rumor started? And would she hear it at every event she attended this season? How pleasant to meet you, Lady Sophie! Why, you hardly look half-witted at all!

  Lady Lumley examined her closely. “Oh … er … you’re very like your mother, though I’m sure I can see your dear papa in you as well. Such a handsome man.… It will be a pleasure to see him—er, see you in society this year.” Lady Lumley looked past Sophie to Amélie, who still stood at the counter piled with their chosen fabrics. “Another relation? How charming that all your aunts—”

  “Oh, Madame Carswell is not a relation,” Sophie corrected her.

  Lady Lumley’s smile dimmed. “Isn’t she?”

  “She is a dear friend of the family. In fact, she will be staying with Papa—er, my father and me for some weeks as the season begins. May I present her?”

  Lady Lumley now looked distinctly dismayed. “Oh … ah, how-de-do.” She barely bobbed her head in Amélie’s direction, then turned back to Aunt Isabel, her smile widening. “I shall call soon. It will be delightful to resume our acquaintance. Are you both staying at Lansell House?”

  “I am at my own home, thank you,” Aunt Isabel replied, slightly testily. “Mary and Sophie are, of course, with my brother.”

  “Charming! He is quite the hero, is he not, with all the work he has done in the War Office defeating the wicked French? I must come and lay a laurel at his feet.” Lady Lumley positively simpered—Sophie had read the word in a novel once without quite being able to picture the action, but now she could. Clearly. She curtsied again and went back to the counter and Amélie.

  “That vulture,” she whispered. “Not all the French are wicked just because of Napoléon! And the only reason she wants to call is so she can make eyes at Papa.”

  “Not everyone has the understanding to make the distinction between the emperor and his empire,” Amélie said mildly. “And yes, I expect that is the reason for her wish to call. It is not surprising that the unmarried ladies will cluster round him like bees to the flower, hoping that they may catch him.”

  “Catch him! But…” Sophie fell silent. Amélie was right. Mama was gone, and Papa was a widower. What else should she expect?

  “Sophie.” Amélie patted her hand. “Your papa is a grown man and can take care of himself. You should be thinking instead about the young men who will be clustering around you after they see you in these dresses we have chosen.”

  What young men? Hadn’t Amélie heard what the loathsome Lumley woman had just said? Hunchbacked … feeble-minded.… The hunchbacked part would be easily disproved; hopefully the feeble-minded part would as well. But there was no denying that she limped and resorted to using a cane when tired or forced to remain on her feet for long. Why would any young man want to woo such a young woman, apart from those drawn by the fact that she was a marquis’s daughter with £35,000 to bring to her prospective husband?

  And why would she want anyone who wanted her for those reasons?

  “Well, ma chère.” Amélie was putting her gloves back on. “Your tantes seem to be at loose ends, and we should—how does the expression go?—we should poke while the iron is hot. Go to them and suggest they order the carriage, and I shall speak with good Madame James here about these dresses.”

  “Strike while it’s hot, I think you mean, but…” Sophie swallowed and watched Lady Lumley finally relinquish Aunt Isabel and turn to the shop assistant waiting patiently by her side. “But I’m not sure it’s worth the trouble.”

  Amélie stopped tugging her glove over her wrist and looked at her. “It is worth the trouble because I say it is. And you will see that I am right.”

  Sophie opened her mouth to disagree, then instead bent—Amélie was shorter than she—and kissed her cheek. “Yes, Amélie. Thank you.”

  “Ah.” Amélie’s eyes got that misty look again. “Go, and I shall strike that iron.”

  Sophie did her best to keep the aunts distracted as they collected gloves and made sure their pelisses were properly fastened, and she watched Lady Lumley glower at Amélie during the consultation with Mrs. James. As their footman opened the shop’s door and Mrs. James came to bow them out to their carriage, Amélie took Sophie’s arm. “We have stricken the iron. Your first fitting is tomorrow,” she murmured.

  “But how will we get away?”

  Amélie pursed her lips. “Leave that to me, ma chère.”

  “Oh, are you leaving?” Lady Lumley’s penetrating voice followed after them. “Why, I am as well. Dear Lady Isabel, I hope I can prevail upon you to give me a place in your carriage as I fear it is coming on rain, which always gives me the headache. Surely your friend won’t mind riding with the coachman just this once—”

  Sophie turned. Lady Lumley was hurrying toward them past the shop’s counter, her skirt fluttering in the breeze of her haste, her eyes narrow with determination above her wide smile. Loathsome indeed—and how dare she insult Amélie like that?

  Before she could stop herself or even think, she inhaled deeply, drawing in her concentration with her breath, and focused on the edge of the wooden counter. The polished oak split into splintery fingers and caught at the back of Lady Lumley’s dress. A thin but satisfying ripping sound was heard, followed by an even more satisfying shriek from Lady Lumley.

  Good heavens, she’d done it! She’d actually done it!

  Aunt Isabel was already through the door, but Aunt Molly paused and looked over her shoulder. “Did you say something, Lady Lumley?”

  The Loathsome Lumley had come to a halt, both hands behind her back. “Uhh-h-hhh … no … that is, yes, I … g-good day to you, Lady Mary. It was m-most pleasant to see you.”

  “Oh. Good day.” For a moment, Aunt Molly looked as if she were going to return to shake hands. Sophie pressed her lips together, trying not to giggle: If Aunt Molly did, Lady Lumley would have to let go of her skirt, now torn down her backside. But Aunt Molly just bobbed her head and hurried after Aunt Isabel. Sophie nodded graciously at Lady Lumley and, still holding Amélie’s arm, followed Aunt Molly through the door.

  “Most singular, that Lumley woman,” Aunt Molly said when they were safely ensconced in Papa’s carriage. “Where do we know her from?”

  “We were at Mrs. Harmon’s school with her that year—I think it was ’87. Mousy little thing then, always watching. Her father was a solicitor who did well with his investments, else she never would have gotten in. Mrs. Harmon was usually most particular about the social station of her students, but mo
ney often made up for breeding.” Aunt Isabel sat ramrod straight as usual.

  “She appeared more like the cat now than the mouse,” Amélie observed, looking at Sophie.

  “Except for her squeak,” Sophie said under her breath. But her glee had faded. Why had she done that, right in front of the entire shop?

  Maybe because she hadn’t expected it would work.

  Two years ago, she’d lost something besides Mama and the ability to walk freely. She’d also lost her magic.

  She’d been very small when the magic lessons started. Between four and half-past five every afternoon, Mama had locked her sitting room door lest a footman wander in with more coal for the fire, and they had practiced together—the easier things like moving spells (her collection of Chinese snuffboxes dancing a precise minuet in midair) to more complicated changing spells (turning Mama’s dozing Abyssinian cat from golden brown to purple to green) and spells harder still, like the windows Mama could cut in the air that let them look onto Polynesian islands and Icelandic volcanoes and herds of American bison on endless grassy plains.

  Mama had told Sophie that she had been so thankful to have at least one daughter who also possessed her powers. Not that boys could not as well, but it was much less common; Sophie’s younger brothers, Francis and Wrenford, had never shown the least magical aptitude. Then Harriet—Harry—had been born, the little sister she’d always wanted. She and Mama had been so happy when Harry had frightened her nursemaid into a faint by making the animals in her wooden Noah’s ark march up the gangplank two by two—well, not happy about frightening the poor girl—and had planned how they would teach her together.

  But Mama and Harry were gone, and so was Sophie’s magic—vanished, as if she’d never had it. For the first year, there hadn’t been a glimmer of it, and all her concentration and will couldn’t move as much as a dead leaf. Life had been very black—at least, what she could remember of it. There had been no one she could ask about it, no one to explain why this had happened to her. Had her illness maimed her mind and spirit, just as it had maimed her body?

  Over the last several months, though, she’d seen hints that perhaps she hadn’t lost all of it. Very occasionally she would point at a dropped pencil and it would drift up into her hand just as it had before. It could happen after fifty tries or after one; there seemed to be no pattern or indication that practice was helping her regain her power.

  So perhaps Lady Lumley was right after all. Maybe she was feeble-minded. Maybe she had lost more than just her magic—maybe she’d lost that spark that made her her. Some days she couldn’t bring herself to care about anything … and on the days she did, someone like Aunt Isabel or Lady Lumley would happen along to remind her of what she was now.

  Sophie sighed and stared out the carriage window at the passing London street. For years she’d looked forward to coming to London for her first season. Now that she was here—now that it was here—she understood that getting through it was going to be the hardest thing she’d ever done.

  Chapter

  2

  Much to her surprise, Sophie had her fitting the following day and on several others, accompanied only by Amélie. When she asked Amélie how she’d managed to persuade Aunt Isabel to give up the shopping expeditions, Amélie shook her head.

  “Do you need to know the ‘how,’ ma chère Sophie? We discussed it, and I was able to make her see that it was an unnecessary burden on her time that I could take instead.”

  Sophie wasn’t quite sure she believed that, but she could well believe that Amélie could face even Aunt Isabel down. So she had the apple green sarcenet walking dress as well as four others in gray and rose and fawn and blue. She had the cherry pink dinner dress made from Amélie’s sari fabric, with its elegant gold embroidery about the hem, and three others in pale pink and white and blue trimmed with lace flounces and roses and forget-me-nots formed of ribbon. Her new riding habit in deep sapphire blue, looking dashingly military, would be ready next week, along with three carriage dresses, two opera dresses, four promenade dresses, and four morning dresses suitable for shopping or receiving calls.

  But the ball dresses! They made her ache with both longing and sadness. Amélie had insisted she have them, even when she protested that a cripple would hardly be attending balls.

  “Are you so sure? I think it will be expected that you still must attend them and the Almack’s assemblées, even if you do not choose to dance … and eh, bien, who knows that someday you won’t?” she said.

  “And call attention to myself quite spectacularly by falling on my face? No, thank you.”

  “Ah, but a partner who cared about you would never permit you to fall.”

  “What makes you think I shall ever find such a partner?” Sophie asked, rather tartly.

  “What makes you think you shall not?” Amélie shrugged. “Whatever you say, petite.”

  Of course, after that it seemed inevitable that their first invitation of the season was to a ball.

  * * *

  Sophie sat next to her father in the carriage, facing Aunt Molly and Amélie. Aunt Molly returned her regard smugly, Amélie less so.

  Sophie’s dress was … well, it was perfection. Amélie had chosen the pale gold crepe, with its delicately fluttering skirt and modestly rounded neckline. The color brought up gold highlights in her boring brown hair—

  Her hair. Sophie closed her eyes and tried not to think about her hair.

  Aunt Molly and her ancient maid, Bunty, had cornered Sophie after Amélie left to be dressed by her little Indian servant, Nalini, who had accompanied her from India and seemed to be perpetually round-eyed and shivering.

  “Since you’ve no maid here yet”—Sophie’s maid had not yet arrived from Lanselling due to a sprained knee—“we’re here to help,” Aunt Molly proclaimed, closing Sophie’s bedroom door and leaning against it, concealing something behind her back. “You know what a genius my Bunty is with hair. Must come of all the pruning and training she does on the shrubbery walk at home.”

  Sophie, seated at her dressing table, involuntarily put protective hands to her head. Did she look like a shrub? Aunt Molly was the one who looked shrubby. She still wore her hair in the fashion of her youth in the 1790s, cut short and spiky in the style that had come from Revolutionary France called la mode Titus. “Thank you so much, Aunt. I know Bunty’s a genius, but really, I’m nearly done.”

  “Nonsense! You young girls wear your hair so primly these days.” Aunt Molly left the door and came to stand behind Sophie, squinting at her in the mirror over the dressing table. “None of the flair we had, eh, Bunty?”

  Bunty made a grunting noise that sounded like assent. Sophie glanced at a bulge in her apron pocket that looked suspiciously like pruning shears. Oh, dear. “I know, Aunt, but really—I’m fine.”

  Aunt Molly’s shoulders drooped. “Of course you are. I just thought … your mother should be here to help you get ready for your first ball, but since she’s not … I know I’m a poor second best, but…”

  “Oh, Aunt.” Sophie twisted on the stool to look at her. Aunt Molly was a plant-obsessed old maid who rarely stirred from the country—Mama had hinted that she had been Crossed in Love in her youth—but she was her aunt. “That’s so sweet of you. But … um … no trimming, if you don’t mind too frightfully much.”

  Aunt Molly beamed at her. “Gracious, there’s no time for that. We can take care of it tomorrow. Now, let’s see. We could manage cadogan ringlets, couldn’t we, Bunty? There’s nothing prettier than that, I think. And just look what I made for you to wear with ’em!” She whipped out the hand that was still behind her back and flourished something at Sophie. It was a very large wreath of yellow roses twined with ivy. “I thought it would go with your dress—y’know, the yellow and the gold.”

  Sophie hadn’t dared to look herself full in the mirror when they’d finished, but the long curls of hair hanging over her shoulders were unavoidably in her view and would have been perfectly fashio
nable if this were twenty years ago. They contrasted almost ridiculously with her lovely, modish gown, and she didn’t even want to think about what the wreath might look like, plopped atop her head so that she was sure she looked like a crazed Greek nymph. Flowers were a fashionable adornment for hair right now, but this looked more like the wreath worn by the winning horse at Goodwood.

  She’d managed to scoop a handful of hairpins into her reticule before going out to the carriage. Now if she could only find the opportunity to slip away from Aunt Molly, she could disappear into the room set aside for ladies as soon as they arrived at Lady Whiston’s house, deposit the wreath in a drawer somewhere, and pin the long curls into something less old-fashioned. Maybe Aunt’s attention could be diverted to a potted palm. Yes, that might work.

  “Your hair, Sophie,” Amélie ventured after a few moments as they clattered around the square. “It is quite … how do you say it…?”

  Sophie could not meet her eyes. “Aunt Molly’s Bunty kindly did it for me,” she said. Perpetrated was perhaps a better word, but why hurt Aunt Molly’s feelings now? A slight ache settled itself low on her forehead, as if her head were independently protesting the treatment it had received.

  “Brings back memories, don’t it?” Aunt Molly said, wiggling in her seat like a proprietorial puppy. “That’s just how I wore my hair when I came out. Isn’t she darling, Gil?”

  “Hmm?” Lord Lansell turned away from the window and glanced at his sister. Light from one of the new gas streetlamps deepened the shadows etched by the lines in his face. There were a lot more of them than there used to be. “What was that?”

  “I said, isn’t Sophie adorable?”

  Sophie watched her father try to force his attention from wherever it lived these days back to the present. He’d been buried in his work at the ministry now that Napoléon was back and further war looked inevitable. She knew how important his work was, how valued he was by both Lord Liverpool, the prime minister, and Lord Palmerston, the head of the War Office. Would he be able to unbury himself once the war was over … if it ever ended? Or would he find somewhere new to hide from Mama’s memory?