The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas by Lauren Willig Page B

blots of Clarissa Hardcastle’s history composition.
    The Middle Ages were called the Dark Ages because they had no windows.
    Arabella cocked her pen, trying to think of some tactful way to tackle Clarissa’s first sentence. Scratch, scratch, scratch went the nib against the page. Windows were, in fact, invented as early as . . .
    When were windows invented? A fine instructress she was, Arabella thought, vigorously scratching out the half-written line. Did the Romans have windows? The Greeks? All she knew was that the apertures in Farley Castle had seemed quite sufficiently windowlike to her, thank you very much.
    Sitting in the close confines of a small room on the fourth floor of Miss Climpson’s Select Seminary for Young Ladies, Farley Castle seemed farther away than its actual geographic distance. The last few days had passed in a blur of activity, as Arabella struggled to remember names and schedules. Some of the girls had already left for the holidays, but the rest of the school was in a ferment over the annual recital put on by the girls for their friends and family. In addition to her classes, Arabella had coached girls through their lines, soothed hurt feelings, and adjusted hems. Jane had been right about one thing, at least; she hadn’t seen the outside of the building since she had entered it.
    Even if she hadn’t squashed Mr. Fitzhugh’s plans, there would have been no way for her to leave the school to take part in them.
    Arabella frowned at the shadowy reflection of her own face in the window. Mr. Fitzhugh had looked so confused when she had told him not to call, confused and then hurt, like a puppy being abandoned by the side of the road. He had followed along after her back to the Vaughns, casting her troubled looks from under the brim of the hat he had stuck back on the top of his head.
    Well, whatever his hurt feelings at the time, he had obviously got over them.
    Like the pudding, she had been a two-day diversion, to be forgotten the moment the next, more interesting toy came along. There was nothing malicious about it; it was just the way of the world. Or, rather, the way of the ton, England’s perpetually bored aristocracy. Arabella had seen it before, the restless shift from diversion to diversion. They wagered on absurdities, they drove their horses too fast, they drank their way into oblivion or gorged their way into ever more ambitious exercises in corsetry.
    By now, Turnip Fitzhugh had probably forgotten about both her and puddings and was currently engaged in hopping three times around Bath Cathedral on one foot or trying to balance a rhubarb on his nose.
    Reaching for the pile of marked papers, Arabella gave them a brisk shake, making sure all the corners were neatly aligned, all the edges in place. It was for the best, really it was. The casual intimacy of the pudding hunt had been nothing more than the product of the moment, a strange little moment, and very much momentary.
    A gentle tap-tap-tapping on the door interrupted her thoughts.
    Arabella swiveled in her chair. “Come in!”
    Drat. Where had her shoes got to? Arabella scrounged desperately for her slippers with a stockinged toe. Arabella’s big toe connected with the side of the shoe and sent it skidding even farther under the desk.
    â€œMiss Dempsey?” The door creaked a few inches open, revealing a hem of gray skirt very like Arabella’s own.
    The hem was followed by the rest of the dress, as its wearer pushed open the portal with her hip, her hands occupied with two cups balanced on saucers.
    â€œI thought you might be in need of some refreshment,” said Mlle de Fayette, extending one of the steaming cups in a hand that trembled from the strain of holding it upright.
    Arabella blinked stupidly at a curl of steam rising above the rim of the cup. “Oh. Thank you.”
    The saucer wobbled in Mlle de Fayette’s hand. Arabella belatedly launched herself forward to take it from