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CHAPTER TWO

Lysander took the main stairs two at a time, certain no housemaid had let loose with that cry. The pitch was too high, the terror too palpable. He gained the top of the steps and came upon Sophronia gaping at the circular window that looked out over the drive.

“Young lady,” he said, rather loudly. “Explain yourself.”

Sophronia pointed to the window and subsided to mewling. “Th-there. It’s right there.”

Behind Lysander, guests were crowding up the steps, the small woman in the brown dress first among them. Lady… Carhill? Cargill?

“If you are intent on disturbing the entire household,” Lysander said, “you can at least offer a coherent explanation for your histrionics.”

Sophronia waved a hand at the window, though her gaze remained fixed on the carpet. “It’s big, and black, and it has legs.”

“That description fits my horse.”

More guests crowded to the top of the steps, Mrs. Cavanaugh’s blue ensemble making her stand out among them. How excellent, how perfectly excellent that Sophronia should mount this drama before the guests the very moment they arrived to Marche Hall .

Lady Cargill sauntered forward. “Oh, look! Somebody is in anticipation of an interesting event.”

The statement was so outlandish that even Sophronia peered at the woman. Lysander did too, for the last people he’d willingly welcome under this roof were eccentrics.

“I beg your pardon, my lady?”

She peered at a corner of the window. “Such a conscientious mama the little dears will have. See how perfect the web is.”

Lysander lowered his voice. “Madam, what are you going on about?”

“The spider,” Sophronia whispered. “The big, black, hairy, awful , spider. Right in our front window, Papa.”

Lady Cargill took Sophronia’s hand. “She loves the light and warmth here, you see. She probably likes to eavesdrop on all the guests as they arrive. She gets to see who is wearing the latest fashions, whose cattle don’t match. Spiders are busy creatures, but they do like knowing the latest gossip.”

The knot of people at the top of the steps began to dissipate, thank heavens.

Still, this was not an auspicious beginning to the wedding party. “You set up a hue and cry over a mere insect, Sophronia?”

“The spider wasn’t there yesterday, Papa. And spiders bite and make sticky webs and they crawl out from under beds.”

Now that Lysander’s initial terror had subsided, he realized Sophronia was pale, and still whispering. She clung to Lady Cargill’s hand, though the woman was a stranger to her.

“Do you know what else spiders do?” Lady Cargill asked. “They really are wonderful in their busy little way.”

Spiders made a little crunching sound when a devoted Papa crushed them beneath his boot. Lady Cargill sent Lysander a glance that warned him not to offer that observation.

“What do they do?”

“Well, they have babies, of course. That little ball of nothing is an egg sac, and Madam Spider will defend it with her life, just as your Papa would defend you with his life. But the truly marvelous thing about spiders is that they gobble up pesky, nasty, flies. I do not care for flies, and horses positively loathe them.”

Sophronia darted a gaze at the window. “Spiders eat flies?”

The last of the gawking guests, Mrs. Cavanaugh, stood by the newel post through this biology lesson. She sent Lysander an amused, patient look, waggled her fingers at him, and descended to the main hall.

“Spiders must eat something,” Lady Cargill went on. “I daresay I am not interested in eating flies, and swatting at them does tire the arm after the first hundred or so.”

Outlandish woman, though she’d calmed Sophronia, and turned an awkward situation into a silly moment.

“Sophronia, you will return to the nursery now, please.” Lysander said.

“What about the spider, Papa? She’s to have a family.” Sophronia watched the spider, who was going about her arachnid business oblivious to the upset she’d caused.

How like a female.

Lysander was tempted to scold his daughter.

In truth, Sophronia had caused the uproar, though the spider was a rather substantial specimen, and had no business setting up housekeeping in Montmarche’s very front window.

Then too, Sophronia had been genuinely terrified.

Her mother hadn’t cared for spiders, and mice would send Maria scrambling onto the nearest stool, bed, or chair.

“We have a full house,” Lysander said. “That, that bug cannot hatch her family in the Hall when we are already pressed for space. I’ll have her taken to the stables, where she can gorge on flies to her heart’s content.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that,” Lady Cargill said. “Very well done of you, my lord.”

“Papa, do you promise? You won’t squash her and leave the babies orphaned?”

He should have predicted that question from Sophronia, but the implications left a sharp ache in his heart. These moments came less and less often, but they hurt all the more for being harder to anticipate.

“The little creatures will have their mama’s loving example,” he said, “and we will have fewer flies in our stable. I promise.”

“There, you see?” Lady Cargill said, smoothing a gloved hand over Sophronia’s crown. “All has come right, and you may congratulate yourself on having brought a situation to the attention of the person best placed to solve it. My lord, might you introduce me to your daughter?”

More ridiculousness, for adults did not seek introductions to children, though part of the purpose of house parties was to give young people a chance to try out their manners away from London’s ever-judgmental eye.

“Lady Cargill, may I make known to you my daughter, Lady Sophronia Marche. Lady Sophronia, I have the honor to introduce to you Lady Cargill, Viscountess of Cargill.”

Sophronia made a pretty little curtsy, which Lady Cargill returned with proper dignity.

“We should name the spider,” Sophronia said.

“No, we should not,” Lysander said. “We’ll be here all day naming the babies, and I’m sure Lady Cargill is wearied from her travels.”

Lady Cargill looked to be having a grand time, beaming at the child, who was—thank all the merciful gods—smiling as well.

“She looks like an Octavia to me,” Lady Cargill said. “Eight legs, you know. Perhaps we can visit Octavia in the stables tomorrow. For now, she might like some privacy. She must have the maid pack up her dresses for a remove to a better neighborhood and explain the situation to the children.”

Sophronia grinned and spun about, making her pinafore bell out, and displaying the grass stain at the back for all to see.

“Octavia, Lady Spider. Please say I may visit the stables with Lady Cargill tomorrow, Papa. We will pay a call on our new friends. ”

“Do say yes,” Lady Cargill echoed. “I love the very scent of a stable, though one isn’t supposed to make such an ungenteel admission in polite surrounds.”

Lysander loved the scent of the stables. “I see no harm in an outing to the stables, Sophronia, provided other matters are tended to as well.” He infused that warning with a bit of sternness, lest all discipline go completely to pot over one spider.

“I must write an essay,” Sophronia said, “about how a cigar could have started the Great Fire.”

“If you do not scamper off to the nursery this instant,” Lysander replied, “I will add an assignment about how children should be neither seen nor heard when guests are arriving.”

Sophronia did it again. She pitched herself into him, squeezed hard, then darted off at an unladylike pace. “Yes, Papa. I’m sorry, Papa. I’ll write the best essay ever, Papa, and then tomorrow I will go to the stables with Lady Cargill! ”

She whirled away and darted up the steps at a very unladylike pace.

“I despair of her,” Lysander said, rather than attempt to ignore the obvious. “She has a good heart, but her deportment…”

“She’s what? Eight or nine?”

“Ten, but small for age. She came a bit early and has never caught up.”

Lady Cargill patted his arm. “Plenty of time left for the tutors and governesses to coerce her into conformity, then. You are doubtless very grateful that she’s so robust. The children who come early aren’t always so lucky. Weak lungs in particular can afflict them sorely.”

Coerce her into conformity? Surely her ladyship was speaking metaphorically. But no. The child had been caned, contrary to Lysander’s specific orders.

“Sophronia’s lungs are quite in working order.”

Lady Cargill’s laugh was low and pleasant. “True enough. Shall you accompany us on our wander through the stables tomorrow, my lord? Time with your daughter will be at a premium in these next two weeks, and I would not want to steal a moment of it from you.”

Her ladyship believed he’d miss the interviews with Sophronia regarding her studies, her misbehaviors, her sad deportment at meals. When Maria had been alive visits to the nursery had figured into every day’s schedule. Lysander had forgotten that.

“A visit to the stables with a guest will be a pleasant outing at mid-afternoon. I cannot vouch for Sophronia’s ability to keep her clothing clean in such an environment.” In any environment, come to that.

“My own hems grow dusty in a stable, but oh, the joy of patting a velvety equine nose, the pleasure of hearing the horses contentedly munch their hay.”

She spoke with such affection, Lysander nearly left her to go pet Sindri, though the gelding was impatient with affection when there was hay to be consumed.

“I will meet you in the garden by the fountain at three of the clock tomorrow,” he said, offering Lady Cargill his arm at the top of the steps. “And my thanks for your assistance with Sophronia’s distress.”

“One must deal with spiders. One does so more effectively if they are not objects of terror. I can’t stand them, myself.”