Authors: Marissa Doyle
hours at a time. Then there was the time he dared them to climb one of the enormous oaks in the park
with him, and then shinned down to the ground and stood at the foot of the tree, gazing up at them with
a look of devilish innocence as they tucked their skirts about them and tried to think of a modest way
to get down. They had gotten their revenge by pelting him with acorns, but he had found something
equally loathsome to do on his next visit.
“You must be kind and set him an example,” Mama said when they complained. “He has no mother
or sisters to help teach him moderation.”
“I’ll be happy to teach him a lesson or two,” Pen always replied, but Mama would look stern and
shush her.
One summer day, though, Persy had seen a different side of him. When the maid announced the
Setons’ arrival, she had scurried with her book to Grandfather’s Folly on the far edge of the lawn,
hoping the warmth of the day would keep Lochinvar in the house with the adults and her safe from
whatever new mischief he had thought of. Pen went to hide in their room, claiming a headache and
even allowing Mrs. Groening to dose her with her evil-tasting universal headache remedy.
“Anything’s better than an afternoon with
him,”
she’d whispered to Persy on her way upstairs.
Persy had settled herself against a column on the far side of the little classical Greek-style
summerhouse and thought about casting the concealing spell she had read recently in one of Ally’s
books. But it was too hot for magic, and surely she’d be safe out here. She yawned and opened
Northanger
Abbey again. The August warmth and the hum from a wasps’ nest in the roof made her
eyes heavy despite the chilly gothic rain that beat down in the pages of her book.
She was startled awake by something brushing across her bare head. Her eyes flew open.
Lochinvar stood over her, handkerchief in hand.
“There was a wasp in your hair. I didn’t think you’d want to find out the hard way if he was in a
good mood or not,” he said, shading his eyes with one hand as he looked down at her.
“Er, thank you,” she said uncertainly, and scrambled to her feet. Had Charles given away her
hiding place, the little beast? If he had …
“I didn’t mean to disturb your nap. Is your book so dull?” he asked, holding out a hand for it.
Would he snatch it and run away, just to plague her? She thought about hiding it behind her back,
but that might give him ideas. “Oh, no. Well, it’s a little silly, but it’s supposed to be, I think,” she
said, relinquishing it to him.
He smiled to himself as he read the title. To her surprise, there was no trace of mockery in his
hazel eyes when he looked back at her. “Do you like Miss Austen’s novels? So do I.”
Persy nearly sat down again in shock. Was Lochinvar talking to her? Not calling her Persepolis or
Persnickety, or pretending to think she was Pen, but actually
talking
to her … and about a book? She
swallowed hard. “This is only the second one I’ve read, and Papa said I shouldn’t let Mama see me
reading novels because I’m too young—”
“Do you like them?”
“Oh, yes! I loved
Pride and Prejudice
! Wasn’t Elizabeth wonderful? And I think that I shall try
Emma
next.”
“Then you aren’t too—how old are you, anyway?” He looked at her, head cocked to one side, the
sun sparkling on his bright gold hair.
“Thirteen this past May.”
“That’s right. You and Pen were born the same day as Princess Victoria.” He squinted into the
Folly. “I hear the wasps. Let’s walk in the shade.”
So she had followed him to the edge of the lawn, strolling back toward the house in the shade of the
trees, and listened to him talk about the books he was reading now before he entered Cambridge in
the autumn.
“I’m reading for pleasure all summer, because after Michaelmas I won’t be able to,” he confessed.
They talked about the Waverley Novels, some of which she’d read, and Miss Burney and Miss
Edgeworth, and Persy found herself promising to ask her father to let her read the Persian novels of
Mr. Morier, if they could be found, and the American Mr. Cooper’s
The Last of the Mohicans
.
She stole quick looks at him as he enthusiastically suggested what books she should read next.
What was making him so pleasant today? Why, his last visit at Easter had been when he took them
riding through every brook, ditch, and puddle he could find. It had taken her and Pen days to sponge
the mud out of their riding habits. She almost tiptoed at his side, waiting for him to somehow twist
their conversation into some opportunity to tease. But he never did.
As they approached the stairs up to the terrace, Lochinvar paused to gaze back out over the lawn
toward Grandfather’s Folly. Persy shaded her eyes with her hand and looked hard at his face, to see if
she could see what had changed him since that spring.
It still looked like him—same thick blond hair and dark-lashed eyes. But—she saw with a funny
feeling in the pit of her stomach—he
had
changed. His voice was deeper, no longer cracking and
awkward. The round boy’s face had grown planes and angles. And was that fuzz on his upper lip?
“I never knew you liked to read,” he said, and she realized that he had been watching her stare at
him.
“You never asked,” she blurted out.
But he only laughed. “No, I don’t suppose I did. But then I never see you alone without Pen.”
“She reads too, you know,” she couldn’t help saying pertly. “And you could have told us that you
like to read.”
“With a name like Lochinvar, how could I not? I’ve been reading Sir Walter Scott since I found my
name in the book of his poems in our schoolroom.”
“‘So faithful in love and so dauntless in war,/There never was knight like the young Lochinvar,”’
Persy quoted. “Well, the war part was certainly right, at least as far as we were concerned.” She
tensed to run but he laughed again.
“I hope we can call a truce now, Persy.”
She had seen him only twice more after that, when he was down from Cambridge. Both occasions
had been more formal ones, over tea in the salon with Mama and Papa and Lord Northgalis, but he
had chatted with her about what she was reading and studying with Ally. She did not tell him that she
had pestered her father to find every book he mentioned, both favorably and unfavorably, so that she
could read them. Or that she replayed their conversations in her head over and over again, for weeks
afterward.
Now, walking down the stairs with Charles snuggled under her arm, Persy’s mind raced. Lochinvar
had been nicer to her that summer because he had grown up. Because it had become more amusing to
talk about books with her than chase her bellowing about the garden with a fat toad in each hand.
But she’d grown up, too. Would he still care to talk about books with a young woman, the way he
had with a girl? Or would he think her overeducated? Young ladies in society were supposed to flirt
and giggle, not discuss literature and philosophy. Now he’d surely think her a dreadful bluestocking.
He’d never think that about Pen. Persy thought about the pleased smile Pen had given him just now
when she held out her probably nonsweaty hand to him. Did Pen recall how awful he had been as a
boy?
She had laughed when Persy had told her about their bookish conversation in the Folly, and said
she’d been glad she’d had the headache. Persy never told her about their subsequent discussions, and
Pen had continued to make herself as unobtrusive as possible whenever he came to visit.
She hadn’t today.
How did Pen do it? Their interactions with young men had been limited to the few neighborhood
parties that Mama had let them attend. Pen had claimed to find them as excruciating as Persy had. But
she had been perfectly natural and gracious with Lochinvar just now.
“Well, we
have
known him forever,” Persy could almost hear her say.
But they hadn’t. He wasn’t the awful boy they had once known, but a grown man … a very
handsome grown man—
“Ow, don’t hug too hard!” Charles protested.
“I’m sorry.” Persy yanked her attention back to the present.
“Do you think Papa will let me travel on the continent someday, like Loch—Lord Seton?” Charles
asked as they walked down the gallery to the green salon.
“If it means you turn out like him, I don’t see why not.”
Charles looked up in surprise. “How do you know how he’s turned out?”
“Oh,” Persy floundered. “Well, he’s picked up a lot of polish on his travels, don’t you think? He
looks very well.”
“But he’s always looked—ooh, Persy thinks he’s handsome!” Charles grinned up at her and danced
away, his voice rising. “Persy thinks he’s—”
“Quiet, brat, or I’ll tell Mama you slid down the banister just now!” Persy lunged for him. “And
I’ll find a spell to make your good arm itchy all the time, and you won’t be able to scratch it with your
hurt one.”
To Persy’s relief they’d reached a truce by the time they came to the green salon’s door. She gave
him one last warning glance as they entered.
“There she is!” boomed the Earl of Northgalis. “How’s my Persephone?”
Persy hurried over to make proper greeting to him, but he scooped her into a hug, then held her at
arm’s length to scrutinize her from under his bushy brows.
“Just as pretty as her sister,” he proclaimed. “Or is it that her sister is as pretty as she? No matter.
Haven’t they grown into a handsome pair, Lochinvar?”
“There was never any doubt they would, sir, as they resemble their mother so nearly,” replied
Lochinvar, seated next to Pen on the other sofa by the tea table.
“Listen to him!” said Mama with a pleased chuckle. “He’ll have the London girls eating out of his
hand.” She began to turn back to Lord Northgalis, then paused. “Goodness, Persy, sit down and stop
looking so forlorn. Charles, you really ought—”
“I’ll go back to bed later, I promise!” Charles sat himself down on a chair and gripped its arm with
his good hand as if fearful of being dragged away.
Persy turned away from Charles’s wheedling. Pen and Lochinvar—
Lord Seton
, she reminded
herself—took up most of the sofa, so she sat on one of the tiny gilt bamboo chairs that Grandmama
had bought after a visit to the Brighton Pavilion, and prayed she wouldn’t fall off it.
“Won’t you tell us a little about your travels, Lord Seton—” Pen began.
He interrupted her. “If you call me that again, I shall either laugh or refuse to answer you, as we’ve
known each other since before we could even pronounce each other’s names properly. I’m Lochinvar,
Miss Leland.”
Pen colored slightly. The pink flush made her eyes seem even bluer. Persy was sure that if she
were sitting where Pen was, she’d be positively gibbering.
“Lochinvar,” Pen agreed, and smiled down at her hands. “Now, tell us about your tour. What cities
did you visit? We want to hear everything!”
F
our days after the Setons’ unexpected visit to Mage’s Tutterow, Melusine Allardyce walked briskly
down London’s busy Oxford Street, the last item on her list of errands completed. Examining Madame
Gendreau’s sketches and fabrics for the girls’ dresses had taken the most time, and had in its turn
generated a new list for the next day: visits to purveyors of gloves, fans, and other sundries, to match
the snippets of fabric in her reticule.
But Miss Allardyce felt more than equal to the task of organizing wardrobes for Persy and Pen, and
knew that Lady Parthenope would approve her choices when she arrived in London in a few days.
She and her employer shared a strong mutual respect, born of their similar managerial abilities and
efficiency. Pen had been known to refer to them as General Marlborough and General Wellington
behind their backs, much to Miss Allardyce’s secret amusement.
Oxford Street was crowded with shoppers scurrying homeward for the coming supper hour. She
dodged the rude and the oblivious with ruthless politeness while managing to keep her slippers free
of the worst of the filth of the streets. London did not suit Miss Allardyce’s sense of order and
decorum; she could not see herself returning to her parents’ home here after leaving the Lelands. A
position with another country-based family would be preferable.
But for now, she would enjoy the melancholy pleasure of helping launch her two pupils into
society. Both girls would do well. They had been apt and obedient students, and Persy in particular
had shown a real love of learning that had been most gratifying. A pity she would never have a chance
to display the depth and breadth of her knowledge. And as for their magical abilities …
Miss Allardyce sighed as she twitched her skirts from the grasp of a grubby street urchin, then
extracted a penny from her purse for him. She knew well that the girls could never display their
magical accomplishments to the world. But she was proud to have developed their talent, and proud