Lauren Willig - The mischief of the mistletoe

“Dancing lessons,” the teacher explained.

It sounded more like something being pounded to death with a large club. Turnip feared for his feet when this new crop of debutantes was let loose on the ballrooms of London and Bath.

The French mistress opened another door, revealing a parlor that lived up to its title by the blue of its paper and drapes. There was, however, one slight problem. Or rather, three slight problems.

“I say,” said Turnip. “Only one of these is mine.”

The one that happened to be his jumped up out of her chair. There was no denying the family resemblance. Sally’s bright gold hair was considerably longer, of course, and she wore a white muslin dress rather than a-if Turnip said so himself-deuced fetching carnation-patterned waistcoat, but they had the same long-boned bodies and cameo-featured faces.

They were, thought Turnip without conceit, a very attractive family. As more than one would-be wit had said, they were all long on looks and short on brains.

It was only fair, really. One couldn’t expect to have everything.

Sally gave him a loud smack on the cheek.

“Silly Reggie!” she said, in the fond tone she used when other people were around. “I wanted Agnes and Lizzy to meet my favorite brother. It’s so lovely to see you. Do you have my hamper?”

“Right here,” said Turnip, brandishing it. “And jolly heavy it is, too. What do you have in here? Bricks?”

“What would I do with those?” demanded Sally in tones of sisterly scorn.

“Build something?” suggested one of her friends, revealing a dimple in one cheek. There were two of them, both attired in muslin dresses with blue sashes. The one who had spoken had bronzy curls and a decided look of mischief about her.

“Oh, Miss Climpson would adore that,” said Sally witheringly. Dropping the lid of the hamper, she belatedly remembered her manners. “Reggie, allow me to present you to Miss Agnes Wooliston”-the taller of the two girls curtsied-“and Miss Lizzy Reid.” Bronze curls bounced.

Sally beamed regally upon them both. “They are my particular friends.”

“What happened to Annabelle Anstrue and Catherine Carruthers?”

Sally’s tone turned glacial. “They are no longer my particular friends.”

Turnip gave up. Female friendships were a deuced sight harder to follow than international alliances.

“What did they do?” he asked jocularly. “Borrow your ribbons without asking?”

Sally set her chin in a way that her instructresses would have recognized all too well. “I liked those ribbons.”

“Ah, yes, well. Righty-ho,” said Turnip hastily, taking a few steps back. Hell hath no fury like a little sister whose ribbon box had been tampered with. “Good term at school, then?”

“Oh, an excellent one!” contributed one of his sister’s new sworn siblings. Bouncing curls… this one was Lizzy Reid. Not that it did any good to remember their names. It would be a new set by next Christmas. That is, if Sally weren’t already out on the marriage market by then. That was a terrifying thought, his little sister let loose on the world. It was one that Turnip preferred not to contemplate. Ah well, time enough to jump that hedge when he came to it. “Catherine Carruthers was caught exchanging notes with one of the gardeners and was almost sent home in disgrace!”

“It wasn’t actually with the gardener,” the other one broke in. “He simply carried the notes for her. It was some officer or other on leave from his regiment.”

Sally squinted at her. “Are you quite sure? I heard that it was an artist and they were going to run away to Rome together!”

Tugging at his cravat, Turnip glanced over his shoulder at the door. Was it just him, or did they keep the school unnaturally warm for December? The French mistress, he noticed, had already beat a hasty retreat. Deuced sensible of her. For a large room, this one felt jolly small.

“Righty-ho, then,” he said again. “Jolly good. Rome is lovely this time of year. Wouldn’t mind being there myself in fact.”

“Reggie!” His sister pulled a horrified face, delighted to be appalled. “It isn’t jolly good, it’s a terrible scandal!”

“Then why are you all grinning about it?”

The three girls exchanged a look, one of those looks that somehow managed to combine long-suffering patience with a hearty dose of feminine scorn. They must teach those at school along with tromping on a chap’s toes during the quadrille.

“Because,” said Lizzy Reid, “without scandal, what would there be for us to talk about?”

Turnip suspected a trick question. “Your lessons?” he suggested.

“Oh, Reggie,” said Sally sadly.

Blast. It had been a trick question.

“Now,” said Sally, getting down to business, “let us discuss my travel arrangements.”

“What travel arrangements?” said Turnip warily.

“When you take me home for Christmas, of course,” said Sally, as though it were a forgone conclusion. “You can call for me the morning of the twentieth. That should leave plenty of time to drive up to Suffolk.”

“Oh no.” Turnip wasn’t falling for that one. He folded his arms across his chest. “Can’t be done, I’m afraid. The Dowager Duchess of Dovedale is having a house party. Wouldn’t want to cross the Dowager Duchess.”

Even Sally wouldn’t want to cross fans with the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale. The woman had a tongue of steel and drank the blood of young virgins for breakfast. Well, the blood-drinking had never been proved. But she could be jolly nasty when she chose, and she usually did choose. That cane of hers left quite a welt.

“Pooh,” said Sally. Pooh? Turnip regarded his little sister incredulously. When had it come to this? “Parva Magna is on the way. You can drop me off home and then go on to Girdings. Do say yes,” she wheedled. “We’ll have such fun along the way. You can buy me lemonades and tell me all about your latest waistcoats.”

Turnip wasn’t quite sure why buying her lemonades was meant to be a privilege, but Sally clearly viewed it as such, so there was no point in arguing.

“Didn’t the mater and pater make other arrangements for you?” he asked suspiciously.

Sally wrinkled her nose. “Yes, to travel with Miss Climpson! But she’s a regular antidote. It will be deadly .”

“A fate worse than death!” chimed in Agnes Wooliston, loyally rushing to her friend’s support.

“Doing it a bit too brown there,” said Turnip frankly. “Death is death and there’s no getting around that.”

“That,” said Lizzy Reid, “is because you haven’t yet met Miss Climpson. If you had, you would understand. She’s ghastly .”

Turnip rubbed his ear. What was it about young ladies and italics? It was deuced hard on the hearing, having all those words pounded into his head like so many stakes into the ground.

“Ghastly and deadly,” he said weakly. “Sounds like quite the character.”

“Yes, but would you want to spend four days in a covered conveyance with her?” demanded Sally. “You couldn’t possibly wish that on anyone.”

Agnes Wooliston assumed a thoughtful expression. “What about Bonaparte?”

“Well, possibly Bonaparte,” allowed Sally, making an exception for the odd Corsican dictator. Her blue eyes, so very much like Turnip’s, only far more shrewd (or so she liked to claim), narrowed. “Or maybe Catherine Carruthers.”

“Really liked those ribbons, did you?” commented Turnip, and regretted it as three sets of female eyes turned back to him. “Never mind that. I’ll think about it. It’s only the beginning of the month now. Plenty of time to come to an agreement.”