"Arabella Dempsey can't imagine the effect that bumping into Reginald Fitzhugh will have on her life."
Reviewed by Leanne Davis
Posted November 29, 2010
Romance Historical
Arabella Dempsey is a good friend of Jane Austen. When
Arabella was younger, she was sent to live with her Aunt
Osbourne as a companion. No one expected her aunt to marry
a man much younger than herself and leave Arabella in a
difficult situation since she thought Captain Musgrave was
going to propose to Arabella. Arabella can't return to her family. Since the death of her
mother, her father and three sisters are stuck in a small
set of rooms with very little income. She can't stay with
her Aunt and continually face her new uncle. She makes the
decision to accept a job teaching at Miss Climpson's Academy
for Young Ladies. On her first day there, she is heading in the front door
when she bumps into Reginald Fitzhugh and is drawn into a
mystery. Reginald, who is called Turnip by his friends, has
come to Bath at his mother's request to deliver a basket of
goodies to his sister at the Academy. His sister gives him a Christmas pudding which was sitting
on the window frame of the parlor. When he bumps into
Arabella, he drops the pudding. She follows him to return
it and finds herself accosted by a man trying to steal the
pudding. Turnip intervenes and saves Arabella. They
discover a message on the ribbon around the pudding. Turnip is friends with members of the gang of the Pink
Carnation. Even upon the retirement of the Pink Carnation,
the ring remains active. Turnip enjoys Miss Dempsey's
company but she keeps rejecting his overtures of friendship.
Her position doesn't allow her to keep company with the
brother of one of her students. However, events will conspire to draw her into the search
for someone who is trying to sell secrets to the French.
Her search will put her in danger and help her learn the
value of love. Turnip will find a love he didn't expect as
he seeks to protect Arabella from those who would endanger
her. THE MISCHIEF OF THE MISTLETOE was a highly enjoyable read
with witty conversation between Arabella and Turnip. There
were many likable characters and a tightly woven plot. It
was only as I finished it that I realized that there was no
contemporary component to this book. I missed it at the end
but it didn't dim my overall enjoyment of the story. The
inclusion of Jane Austen was a small but significant part of
the story. Fans of the Pink Carnation series won't want to
miss this.
SUMMARY
Arabella Dempsey’s dear friend Jane Austen warned her
against teaching. But Miss Climpson’s Select Seminary for
Young Ladies seems the perfect place for Arabella to claim
her independence while keeping an eye on her younger sisters
nearby. Just before Christmas, she accepts a position at the
quiet girls’ school in Bath, expecting to face nothing more
exciting than conducting the annual Christmas recital. She
hardly imagines coming face to face with French aristocrats
and international spies… Reginald “Turnip” Fitzhugh—often mistaken for the elusive
spy known as the Pink Carnation—has blundered into danger
before. But when he blunders into Miss Arabella Dempsey, it
never occurs to him that she might be trouble. When Turnip
and Arabella stumble upon a beautifully wrapped Christmas
pudding with a cryptic message written in French, “Meet me
at Farley Castle”, the unlikely vehicle for intrigue
launches the pair on a Yuletide adventure that ranges from
the Austens’ modest drawing room to the awe-inspiring estate
of the Dukes of Dovedale, where the Dowager Duchess is
hosting the most anticipated event of the year: an elaborate
12-day Christmas celebration. Will they find poinsettias or
peril, dancing or danger? And is it possible that the fate
of the British Empire rests in Arabella and Turnip’s hands,
in the form of a festive Christmas pudding?
ExcerptChapter One
“I am for teaching,” announced Miss Arabella Dempsey.
Her grand pronouncement fell decidedly flat. It was
hard to make grand pronouncements while struggling uphill
on a steep road against a stiff wind, and even harder when
the wind chose that moment to thrust your bonnet ribbons
between your teeth. Arabella tasted wet satin and old dye.
“For what?” asked Miss Jane Austen, swiping at her
own bonnet ribbons as the wind blew them into her face.
So much for grand pronouncements. “I intend to apply
for a position at Miss Climpson’s Select Seminary for Young
Ladies. There’s a position open for a junior instructress.”
There. It was out. Short, simple, to the point. Jane screwed up her face against the wind. At least,
Arabella hoped it was against the wind. “Are you quite
sure?”
Sure? Arabella had never been less sure of anything
in her life. “Absolutely.”
Jane hitched her pile of books up under one arm and
shoved her ribbons back into place. “If you rest for a
moment, perhaps the impulse will pass,” she suggested.
“It’s not an impulse. It’s a considered opinion.”
“Not considered enough. Have you ever been inside a
young ladies’ academy?”
Arabella made a face at the top of Jane’s bonneted
head. It was very hard having an argument with someone when
all you could see was the crown of her hat. Jane might be
several years her senior, but she was also several inches
shorter. The combination of the two put Arabella at a
distinct disadvantage. Six years older, Jane had always been as much an
older sibling as a playmate, telling stories and bandaging
bruised knees. Arabella’s father had been at one time a
pupil of Mr. Austen’s at Oxford, when Mr. Austen had been a
young proctor at St. John’s. Back in the golden days of
childhood, Arabella’s father’s parish had lain not far from
Steventon and both books and children had been exchanged
back and forth between the two households.
This happy state of affairs had continued until
Arabella was twelve. She remembered her head just fitting
on Jane’s shoulder as she had cried on it that dreadful
winter, as her mother lay still and cold among the gray
sheets on the gray bed, everything hued in ice and shadow.
She remembered the clasp of Jane’s hand as Aunt Osborne’s
carriage had come to carry her away to London.
“And what of your Aunt Osborne?” Jane added. “I
thought you were only visiting in Bath. Aren’t you to go
back to her after Christmas?”
“Mmmph.” Arabella was so busy avoiding Jane’s eyes
that she stumbled. Flushing, she gabbled, “Loose cobble.
You would think they would keep the streets in better
repair.”
“How singular,” said Jane. “The cobbles are perfectly
stationary on this side of the street. Why this sudden
desire to improve young minds?”
That was the problem with old friends. They saw far
too much. Arabella developed a deep interest in the cobbles
beneath her feet, picking her steps with unnecessary care.
“Is it so unlikely I should want to do something more than
be Aunt Osborne’s companion?” “You have a very comfortable home with her,” Jane
pointed out. “One aging lady is less bother than fifty
young girls.”
“One aging lady and one new uncle,” Arabella shot
back, and wished she hadn’t.
Jane looked at her, far too keenly for comfort. But
all she said was, “It is final, then?”
“As final as the marriage vow,” said Arabella, with
an attempt to keep her voice light. “My aunt and Captain
Musgrave were married last week.”
“But isn’t he. . . .”
“Half her age? Yes.” There was no point in beating
around the bush. It had been all over the scandal sheets.
“But what are such petty things as numbers to the majesty
of the human heart?” Jane’s laughter made little puffs in the cold air. “A
direct quotation?”
“As near as I can recall.” Arabella hadn’t been in a
position to memorize specific phrases; she had been too
numb with shock.
Captain Musgrave had made a pretty little speech out
of it, all about love defying time, all the while holding
Aunt Osborne’s jeweled hand in an actor’s practiced grip,
while she fluttered and dimpled up at him, her own
expression more eloquent than any number of speeches. In
the half-dark dining room, the candle flames created little
pools of light in the polished surface of the dining table,
oscillating off Aunt Osborne’s rings and the diamond pendant
in her turban, but nothing shone so bright as her face. In
the uncertain light, with her face lifted towards Captain
Musgrave, tightening the loose skin beneath her chin, one
could almost imagine her the beauty she once had been.
Almost.
Even candlelight wasn’t quite that kind.
One of her aunt’s friends had dropped a wineglass in
shock at the announcement. Arabella could still hear the
high, tinkling sound of shattering crystal in the sudden
silence, echoing endlessly in her ears like the angry hum
of a wasp. Arabella had made her way through the wreckage of
shattered crystal, spilled claret staining her slippers,
and wished them happy. At least, she assumed she had wished
them happy. Memory blurred.
He had never made her any promises. At least, none
that were explicit. It had all been done by implication and
innuendo, a hand on her elbow here, a touch to her shoulder
there, a meeting of eyes across a room. It was all very
neatly done. There had been nothing concrete. Except for that kiss.
“It would make an excellent premise for a novel,”
said Jane. “A young girl, thrown back on her family after
years in grander circumstances. . . .”
“Forced to deal with carping sisters and an invalid
father?” The wind was beginning to make Arabella’s head
ache. She could feel the throb beginning just behind her
temples. It hurt to think about what a fool she had been,
even now, with two months’ distance. “If you must do it, at
least change my name. Call her . . . oh, I don’t know.
Elizabeth or Emma.”
“Emma,” said Jane decidedly. “I’ve already used
Elizabeth.”
Arabella smiled with forced brightness. “Did I tell
you that I finished a draft of my novel? I call it Sketches
from the Life of a Young Lady in London. It’s not so much a
novel, really. More a series of observations. Sketches, in
fact.”
Jane ignored her attempts to change the subject.
“Your father said you were only home for the holidays.” “I was. I am.” Arabella struggled against the wind
that seemed determined to wrap her skirt around her legs as
she labored uphill. What madman had designed the streets of
Bath on a nearly perpendicular grade? Someone with a grudge
against young ladies without the means to afford a
carriage. “Aunt Osborne expects me back for Christmas. I am
to spend the twelve days of Christmas with her at Girdings
House at the express command of the Dowager Duchess of
Dovedale.”
The invitation had been issued before Captain
Musgrave had entered onto the scene. An invitation from the
Dowager Duchess of Dovedale was something not to be denied.
The Dowager Duchess of Dovedale possessed a particularly
pointy cane and she knew just how to use it.
Arabella’s aunt attributed the invitation to her own
social consequence, but Arabella knew better. The house
party at Girdings was being thrown quite explicitly as a
means of marrying off the dowager’s shy granddaughter,
Charlotte. The dowager needed to even the numbers with young
ladies who could be trusted to draw absolutely no attention
to themselves. After years as her aunt’s companion,
Arabella was a master at the art of self-effacement.
She had been, to Aunt Osborne, the equivalent of a
piece of furniture, and to her aunt’s friends something
even less.
The first person to have looked at her and seen her
had been Captain Musgrave.
So much for that. What he had seen was her supposed
inheritance. His eyes had been for Aunt Osborne’s gold, not
for her. “And after Twelfth Night?” Jane asked.
She wasn’t going back to that house. Not with them.
Not ever. “What newlyweds want a poor relation cluttering
up the house?”
Jane looked at her keenly. “Has your Aunt Osborne
said as much?”
“No. She wouldn’t. But I feel it.” It would have been
so much simpler if that had been all she felt. “It seemed
like a good time to come home.”
Except that home wasn’t there anymore.
When she thought of home, it had always been of the
ivy-hung parsonage of her youth, her father sitting in his
study, writing long analyses of Augustan poetry and—very
occasionally—his sermons, while her rosy-cheeked sisters
tumbled among the butterflies in the flower-filled garden. To see them now, in a set of rented rooms redolent of
failure and boiled mutton, had jarred her. Her father’s
cheeks were sunken, his frame gaunt. Margaret had gone from
being a self-important eight-year-old to an embittered
twenty. Olivia had no interest in anything outside the
covers of her books; not novels, but dusty commentaries on
Latin authors dredged from their father’s shelves. Lavinia,
a roly-poly three-year-old when Arabella left, was all arms
and legs at fifteen, outgoing and awkward. They had grown
up without her. There was no place for her in their lives.
No place for her in London, no place for her in Bath.
No place for her with her aunt, with her father, her
sisters. Arabella fought against a dragging sensation of
despair. The wind whistled in her ears, doing its best to
push her back down the hill up which she had so laboriously
climbed.
Absurd to recall that just three months ago she had
believed herself on the verge of being married, living
every day in constant expectation of a proposal. It was a
proposal that had come, but to Aunt Osborne, not to her.
A lucky escape, she told herself stoutly, struggling
her way up the hill. He had proved himself a fortune-hunter
and a cad. Wasn’t she better off without such a husband as
that? And she wasn’t entirely without resources, whatever
the Musgraves of the world might believe. She had her own
wits to see her through. Being a schoolmistress might not
be what she had expected, and it certainly wasn’t the same
as having a home of one’s own, but it would give her
somewhere to go, something to do, a means of living without
relying on the charity of her aunt. Or her new uncle.
Uncle Hayworth. It made her feel more than a little
sick.
“She must not have been able to do without you,” said
Jane. Arabella wrenched her attention back to her friend.
“Who?”
“Your aunt.” When Arabella continued to look at her
blankly, Jane said, “You hadn’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
Jane shook her head. “I must have been mistaken. I
heard your aunt was in Bath. A party came up from London.
There’s to be an assembly and a frost fair.”
“No. I—” Arabella bit her lip. “You probably weren’t
mistaken. I’m sure she is in town.”
Captain Musgrave had expressed a desire to go to
Bath. He had never been, he said. He had made serious
noises about Roman ruins and less serious ones about
restorative waters, making droll fun of the invalids in
their Bath chairs sipping sulfurous tonics. Jane looked at her with concerned eyes. “Wouldn’t she
have called?”
“Aunt Osborne call at Westgate Buildings? The
imagination rebels.” No matter that Arabella had lived
under her roof for the larger part of her life; Aunt
Osborne only recognized certain addresses. Pasting on a
bright smile, Arabella resolutely changed the subject. “But
Miss Climpson’s is within easy distance of Westgate
Buildings. I’ll be near enough to visit on my half days.”
“If you have half days,” murmured Jane.
Arabella chose to ignore her. “Perhaps Margaret will
like me better if she doesn’t have to share a bed with me.”
She had meant it as a joke, but it came out flat. “I don’t
want to be a burden on them.”
It was as close as she could come to mentioning the
family finances, even to an old family friend.
Jane made a face. “But to teach . . .” “How can you speak against teaching, with your own
father a teacher?”
“He teaches from home, not a school,” Jane pointed
out sagely. “It’s an entirely different proposition.”
“I certainly can’t teach from my home,” said Arabella
tartly. “There’s scarcely room for us all as it is. Our
lodgings are bursting at the seams. If we took in pupils,
we would have to stow them in the kitchen dresser, or under
the stove like kindling.”
Jane regarded her with frank amusement. “Under the
stove? You don’t have much to do with kitchens in London,
do you?”
“You sound like Margaret now.”
“That,” said Jane, “was unkind.” Arabella brushed that aside. “If I ask nicely,
perhaps Miss Climpson will agree to take Lavinia and Olivia
on as day students.”
It was a bit late for Olivia, already sixteen, but
would be a distinct advantage for Lavinia. Arabella, at
least, had had the advantage of a good governess, courtesy
of Aunt Osborne, and she knew her sisters felt the lack.
“It will not be what you are accustomed to,” Jane
warned.
“I wasn’t accustomed to what I was accustomed to,”
said Arabella. It was true. She had never felt really at
home in society. She was too awkward, too shy, too tall.
“It is a pretty building, at least,” she said as they
made their way along the Sydney Gardens. Miss Climpson’s
Select Seminary for Young Ladies was situated on Sydney
Place, not far from the Austens’ residence.
“On the outside,” said Jane. “You won’t be seeing
much of the façade once you’re expected to spend your days
within. You can change your mind, you know. Come stay with
us for a few weeks instead. My mother and Cassandra would be
delighted to have you.” Arabella paused in front of the door of Miss
Climpson’s seminary. It was painted a pristine white with
an arched top. It certainly looked welcoming enough and not
at all like the prison her friend painted it. She could be
happy here, she told herself.
It was the sensible, responsible decision. She would
be making some use of herself, freeing her family from the
burden of keeping her.
It wasn’t just running away.
Arabella squared her shoulders. “Please give your
mother and Cassandra my fondest regards,” she said, “and
tell them I will see them at supper.”
“You are resolved, then?”
Resolved wasn’t quite the word Arabella would have
chosen. “At least in a school,” she said, as much to convince
herself as her companion, “I should feel that I was doing
something, something for the good both of my family and the
young ladies in my charge. All those shining young faces,
eager to learn . . .”
Jane cast her a sidelong glance. “It is painfully
apparent that you never attended a young ladies’ academy.”
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