Courtship and Curses (13 page)

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 when 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.

“Don’t you see? It’s scandalous!” But Parthenope sounded anything but scandalized. “I’m sure some rake is planning a seduction in here. How shocking!”

“Planning a seduction
here
? Don’t you think there are perhaps slightly … er … more suitable places for a seduction than a box at the opera?”

“Not if you want to make sure the entire fashionable world knows about your latest conquest. I wonder whose box it is?” She craned her neck to look back down the passage at approaching operagoers. “Maybe it’s Lord Byron’s—can’t you see him owning an opera box with a purple divan in it? Very Turkish!”

Sophie snorted. “Or maybe it belongs to an invalid who loves music. Aren’t you getting a little carried away?”

“An invalid wouldn’t come to the opera and lie on a purple velvet sofa. It’s not at all—
invalidish
enough.”

Sophie struggled to maintain a straight face. “That’s true. A serviceable brown canvas would be much more appropriate for an invalid,” she agreed.

“Stop quizzing me. I’m sure that I’m right.” Parthenope peered across the theater to the boxes on the opposite side. “Oh, famous! I shall be able to see here quite clearly from our box.”

“Shall you? What a happy thought,” Norris Underwood’s voice said pleasantly behind them. “Does that mean I may count upon your undivided attention for the evening?”

Sophie turned. He stood with one hand on the arched door frame, an inscrutable expression on his face that shifted smoothly into a smile as Parthenope turned too and held out her hand to him.

“A delight to see you here. So do the fair Amazons pay tribute to Apollo of the lyre as well as to his sister Diana the huntress?” he asked, raising Parthenope’s hand to his lips. His pale green eyes never left her face.

“Well, we can’t always be on horseback, can we?” Parthenope winked at Sophie and asked, “This couldn’t be
your
box, could it, Mr. Underwood?”

“I have the pleasure of its use for the evening, thanks to the kind offices of a friend who is unable to attend tonight,” he returned.

“Unusual furnishings your friend has provided,” Sophie couldn’t help saying.

He turned to her and bowed. “Good evening, Lady Sophie. Yes, they are unusual, but most comfortable, I am assured. I believe I saw your father in the passage a moment ago, looking for you. Will you permit me to escort you both to your respective families?”

Sophie took his arm, feeling relieved. For a moment, she had feared he was trying to get rid of her so that he could have Parthenope alone, but if he was offering to accompany them both to their boxes … She gave herself a mental shake. After all, what possible mischief could Mr. Underwood get up to at the theater, apart from his usual flirtatious banter with Parthenope?

“I’ll come see you at the interval,” Parthenope called over her shoulder as they left her at Papa’s box. “I think Peregrine’s coming in at some point this evening—I’ll fetch him along if he does.” Norris Underwood murmured something to her, and she laughed as they swept away.

Papa looked up at her from his seat beside Amélie with one eyebrow raised as she slipped around the curtain.

“I’m sorry—Parthenope,” she mouthed, and took her seat at the end of the group of chairs, next to the comte. Papa nodded and turned his attention to the stage, where the curtain had been drawn back and revealed the interior of a Roman palazzo and a plump, elegantly dressed woman clutching a letter to her heart and appearing to sob. There was a scattering of applause and loud comments from the pit.

As the soprano launched into a passionate aria pledging awful revenge for the capture and banishment of her betrothed by her own father, Sophie scanned the boxes opposite theirs. Where was Parthenope’s, and was she safely back in it? She lifted the tiny set of mother-of-pearl opera glasses Papa had bought for her and squinted through them at the other side of the theater, looking for Parthenope’s gold gown and cap adorned with a rakish plume curling around her dark hair. Finally Sophie spotted her, peering through her own set of opera glasses. She swiftly dropped them and waved. Sophie waved back. Well, at least Mr. Underwood had kept his word. She could relax for now and enjoy the opera.