Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine Page 23

  “How funny, Sophia,” she said finally, “Mrs. Dykes should take it into her head to make arrangements for you to go to Bath.”

  “’Ilarious, h’aint it?” she agreed somberly.

  “I fail to see the amusement,” Lavinia protested.

  “But don’t you know?” Maria exclaimed. “Sophia is going to marry Mr. Hartley.”

  “Am I?”

  Henry grumbled, “Isn’t it time you thought of the good of this family? Hartley is the best chance you will ever have.”

  Lavinia began to perk up. “When Sophia marries Mr. Hartley, then we shall have cause to go to London, Henry. We’ll need a house in town, then, shall we not?”

  Henry changed the subject. “You might at least have made an effort with your dress this evening, Sophia. Or is that disarray another of your protests against society’s many ills?”

  She looked down at her grass-stained skirt and was abruptly reminded of her glorious afternoon with Lazarus. A great, surging warmth flooded her veins. Like good wine, it made her dizzy, even made her feel invincible. It was surely dangerous to feel that way. He did that to her all the time.

  He had done so much for her already. What could she do for him?

  Chapter 29

  The cart wheels rolled rapidly down the road as the horses moved at a steady clip. Chivers had urged Sophie to sit in the back, but she insisted on riding beside him on the front seat, one hand hanging onto her bonnet, the other around his arm.

  “I don’t know what Russ will have to say about this,” the big fellow grumbled. “I shouldn’t have let you talk me into it.”

  “You’re a good man, Mr. Chivers. I’ll pay you well for bringing me.”

  But he didn’t want payment. He was willing to take her, he said, only because he’d heard how stubborn she was, and he knew she’d find some other way to go if he refused to help. “I didn’t want you getting into trouble, did I?”

  “Of course not.” She smiled up at him and then looked away down the road as it stretched between flat fields and clusters of greenery. “Is it much farther?” She hoped not, for her backside was already sore from the journey, and as much as she hoped it would soon be numb, it had not, so far, obliged her.

  “There.” He pointed with the whip. “Just over the next dip to the right.”

  She saw a tall church spire surrounded by rooftops of slate and straw. It was a larger place than Sydney Dovedale, the roads much more frequently traveled and, therefore, well kept. As they neared the main street, there was a general sense of bustle: creaking carts and rattling carriages passing them at greater speed, people shouting greetings to one another, dogs barking, and tradesmen singing out their wares.

  Chivers slowed the horses to a trot. “Now we can’t stay long, missy. Remember, I must get this cart and the beasts back before Russ knows they’re gone.”

  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Chivers. You won’t have to perjure yourself for me.”

  The cart drew up before a busy coaching inn across from the church. Sophie gave Chivers a handful of coins for some beer while he waited, and then, tidying herself with nervous hands, she clambered down, straightened her skirts, and hurried over the cobbles. Her eyes scanned the shop fronts and signs. It felt odd to be out alone in a strange town without Henry or her sister, or James dragging her along on his arm, but today she was a woman on a mission, and so she quelled that moment of uncertainty and put up her chin. Let people look at her scar all they wanted, if they had naught better to look at. She was a thirty-year-old woman marked by adventure, and that was all there was to it.

  After a few inquiries, she found the haberdasher’s shop down a narrow alley and stepped inside to the accompaniment of a little bell attached to the door. The shop was larger than it looked from the outside, with rows of cupboards and shelves to explore and a long table for measuring cloth. She waited while two other women were served, and then asked the proprietor if she might have a word with his delivery boy.

  “What’s he done now?” he exclaimed as he rolled his eyes to the heavens.

  She hastily assured him the boy had done nothing wrong, and she explained her mission.

  He turned and bellowed into the back of the shop, “Young Master Rafe, come out here.”

  A small boy emerged, carrying a broom three times longer than himself. Like his uncle, he had thick, black hair, but Sophie was surprised when that curious, slightly cross face looked up, and she found a pair of light blue eyes staring at her instead of the knowing dark gaze she expected. She felt nervous suddenly. Lazarus had told her very little about his sister or her child, and she knew he might not appreciate her going there to see the boy. Men could be difficult when it came to family pride, as she knew too well.

  “This lady has come to see you,” the shopkeeper explained. “She’s brought a message from your uncle.”

  He gazed up at her scar. “Are you a pirate?”

  “Yes,” she replied solemnly.

  “Can I sail on your ship?”

  “Perhaps one day. But first, would you like some lemonade?”

  ***

  They sat in the small tearoom by the church, she with a china teacup, Rafe with a glass of lemonade and a large, sticky bun.

  “My uncle’s a soldier,” he said, feet swinging.

  “Yes, he was. Now he’s a farmer.”

  “Why?” He screwed up his small face. “Don’t he want to kill people anymore?”

  “I think not. I think he had enough of being a soldier.”

  “How d’you know, missus?”

  “I’m a friend of your uncle’s.” She felt inside her purse. “I’ve brought you something.”

  “What’s it?”

  She smiled at his impatience and passed him an envelope. “There’s money in there for you. But try to save it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll need it later, so don’t spend it all on silly things.”

  “Why?”

  Oh, Lord! She never had much luck teaching this principal to her own brother, so why she thought she could teach this boy of ten was anyone’s guess. “I suppose, since it’s yours now, you may do as you wish with it,” she said with a sigh. It was money she’d been saving for a new gown and a few underthings from Norwich, but this boy needed it more than she did, and she knew Lazarus would never take money from her. This was the only way she could help them at the present time, with James and Henry breathing down her neck, watching her every move around him.

  “I’ll put it in me boots, like me uncle done.”

  She sipped her tea. “Good. As you think best.”

  “No one ever says that to me, missus.”

  “Nor to me,” she replied wryly.

  Rafe guzzled his lemonade and smacked his lips.

  “Do you like living here? Are the people kind to you?”

  “’S all right,” he sputtered and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Better than the work ’ouse.”

  She nodded as she watched his small, expressive face.

  “One day I’ll live with me uncle. He said so.”

  Sophie thought of Lazarus struggling to make a new life for himself in Sydney Dovedale, trying to set down roots and put his past behind him. But even if he wasn’t recaptured and sent back to that prison hulk—or worse—that piece of blade lodged by his heart could finish him off at any minute. And here was this boy, waiting for a home and a real, loving family. She could see Lazarus in the boy’s face and imagined him as he must have been years ago. He’d done the best he could for his sister’s child. It must have worried him unbearably…what might happen to Rafe.

  “If your uncle said it was so, then I’m sure it will be,” she said, but her heart ached. Perhaps she shouldn’t raise the child’s hopes. “When was the last time you saw your uncle?”

  “Last winter,” the boy chirped. “He brung me a mince pie.”

  “He brought you a mince pie.”

  “That’s what I said he done.”

  “Did.”r />
  He scowled and fidgeted in his chair. “That’s what I said he done did.”

  “Don’t spill your lemonade.”

  “You’re a bossy one, ain’t you?”

  “Women are supposed to boss men and little boys about.”

  “Bet you don’t boss my uncle about. He wouldn’t never put up with it. He don’t like ladies.”

  “Doesn’t he?”

  He swept out his arm in a dramatic gesture. “Steer clear of ’em, he said to me. Steer clear of the lot of ’em.”

  She laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Yes. He was right to warn you.”

  “He’s going to marry an angel.”

  There was something else in his face, something she recognized but couldn’t quite put her finger on. She set down her teacup and said carefully, “An angel?”

  “He saw her once, when he was a boy. The angel was high up on a balcony, the most beautiful thing he ever seen. And he knew he’d marry her one day, just as soon as he founded her again.”

  “Why? Where did she go?”

  “She fell, didn’t she? She fell from the balcony and broke her wing.”

  Sophie looked over his head, through the tea-shop window.

  Jump, jump, jump, and I’ll catch you.

  “Oy, missus. You’ve gone all white as a daisy. Can I ’ave another bun?”

  She swallowed, looked at him again, and nodded.

  It couldn’t. How could it be?

  Suddenly she remembered what he’d said to her in the church once. Take a leap, Miss Valentine, and I’ll be there to catch you.

  Where had he come from, and how had he known? He’d claimed to be searching for her, but she’d dismissed that as another charming lie. Even when he stole that very first kiss under the chestnut tree, he’d seemed familiar to her somehow—a part of her once lost, now found again.

  ***

  A soft wind blew across the field, only occasionally giving respite to the thick, hot air and ruffling the long grasses with an idle caress. But Lazarus worked on without pause, perspiring under the merciless sun, a man intent on punishing himself. With another swing of the scythe, he cut another bundle of hay and then another. He never looked back to see how far he’d come, or looked forward to see how far he had yet to go. That was always a mistake, so he’d learned.

  Chivers sat a while by the hedge with a jug of cider, but Lazarus swung on, moving steadily through the field, the motion unbroken. He kept one eye on the lane, watching for a certain woman to pass by the hedge, carrying her basket or spinning her bonnet as she often did. It was two days since he’d had sight of her, several more since they last spoke or he had the pleasure of touching her.

  Sometimes he wondered if he’d made a mistake on the day of the picnic, when he rode with her into that emerald glade. Perhaps he’d frightened her off when he told her how he got his wound. But she was stronger than she looked. She was steel inside, and there was no yielding until she was ready to make her choice.

  He wouldn’t want her any other way.

  ***

  She turned about anxiously and studied her reflection in the looking glass with a stern critic’s eye. “It’s kind of you to offer, Maria, but it is a little too young for me.”

  “Nonsense!” her sister replied. “Once I’ve brought it in for you and added a trim, it will look brand-new.”

  It was a pretty gown, in white muslin with little sleeves edged in pearl, and a rather daring neckline—unless one had the foresight to tuck a little lace. Unfortunately, it was similar to the gown she wore the night she leapt from a balcony, and it brought back the memory of how excited she’d been to dress that evening as she anticipated the many delights of a ball. She never wore her lovely gown again after that. It was spattered with crimson drops, and someone must have burned it. That gown belonged to the lost youth of her life, and she was now filled up with sadness for it—for that lovely gown that must have had grand hopes and dreams, the expectation of many fun excursions with charming partners. Worn only that once, now it was ashes.

  Maria dropped to her knees on the carpet, the pincushion clutched in her hand. “Oh dear! It is the fashion now for more embellishment at the hem, and this is a little plain.”

  Sophie looked out through the casement window, to the view of her sister’s garden and the lane beyond. The little scene was picturesque, the window flanked by a yew hedge, and Maria’s genteel flower beds were now blooming with color. The rectory was a pleasant, cozy home. The parlor was tidy, cool, and peaceful, with a delicate, unobtrusive pattern on the wallpaper, silhouettes above the mantel, and comfortable chairs arranged for intimate conversation. Mr. Bentley’s books waited nearby on a small Pembroke table, and the cushion, where he sat when he joined his wife, was shyly dimpled. How nice it must be, Sophie mused, to share an evening in company with someone who was there by choice—someone who enjoyed spending his time with her, even if it was just to sit quietly and read a book or admire the garden together.

  Love. Such a small word with such a devastating effect on the person who suffered it. Love had turned Maria from a vain creature whose head was filled with dancing and the latest fashion, into a busy wife and doting mother. Into a woman who gave away her once-precious gown to a sister for whom she wanted only the best.

  Lady Hartley, probably under duress from James, had invited Sophie to her summer ball. She knew she ought to go. Invitations for the event were much sought after, and one’s appearance there was usually the sign one had “arrived” in the grander society of the county. James was very anxious for her to make a better impression on his grandmother this time. She wished Ellie was still there to give her that little extra burst of confidence, but she had already gone away to Brighton. Her feet never settled long in one place. One day soon that girl would wear herself out, thought Sophie with a sad smile.

  She looked at her reflection again and turned her face so the scar wasn’t visible. Once upon a time, she loved parties and lived for balls, the nervous excitement that preceded them, the satisfaction of being admired in a new frock, trying a new style of hair. Just like James and his memories, her sister’s altered gown took her back there, to that joyous, untroubled season. But there was one thing different. Sophie had changed. Never in her youth would she have passed up the opportunity of dancing at a ball, yet she knew now what a disappointment it could be. That tomorrow, when the candles were snuffed and all the fallen flowers swept up, everything would be just the same as it was before.

  When James first came back for her, she thought these feelings meant she’d missed him, but now she knew it wasn’t that. It was a sweet, sad yearning for times gone by, a part of her life she could never know again, like coming to the end of a good book. But there was new life ahead of her and a new beginning. A new story to discover.

  Since her visit to little Rafe, she kept thinking about his story of the angel on the balcony, and she wondered why Lazarus hadn’t told her. He’d told her everything else, so why not that?

  She stared out through the parlor window again and watched the breeze flirt with the leaves of the chestnut trees that bordered the common.

  Perhaps she’d let her imagination run away with her. Perhaps it was merely coincidence he told his nephew that story.

  “Love becomes you, Sister,” Maria said suddenly. She had removed the pins from her mouth and was looking up at her from the carpet. “I’ve never seen you look so well as you do of late. Even Mrs. Cawley commented on it yesterday…that your complexion glows and your hair shines. And I see”—she sat back on her heels, smiling broadly—“you’ve taken to using curling papers in your hair again.”

  “I do not use curling papers!”

  Maria was smug and wouldn’t hear any denial, but it was true. Sophie didn’t need curling papers when her hair took on a life of its own lately, twisting about of its own accord.

  “Well, it’s no surprise to me, Sister, you won back Mr. Hartley’s admiration, and when you’re his wife, I do hope you won’t l
ook down on us here in Sydney Dovedale.”

  She took a breath. “But I haven’t yet agreed to marry James Hartley.”

  Maria’s lips formed a small, round “O.”

  “In fact”—she took another breath—“I’m not in love with James. He’s not the one who curls my hair.”

  “But…”

  “You know who does.” She felt certain those little bolts of lightning were bright enough even for her sister to notice.

  After a short silence, Maria exclaimed, “But…he’s expected to marry Jane Osborne. She’ll be quite comfortably well off when her father dies, and she has no brothers to take the farm in hand. She’ll need a capable husband, unless she means to sell.”

  Sophie’s gaze drifted back to the window through which she could see sheep grazing on the common and a gaggle of ill-tempered geese chasing Mrs. Flick along the bridge.

  “He’s not going to marry Jane Osborne. He told me so.” And she believed it. He didn’t tell lies. There were just some things he kept to himself, but he didn’t tell fibs.

  Maria resumed her pinning. “But how could you marry a stranger? To be sure, he’s proven himself quite amiable. He’s made a very good impression on my dear Mr. Bentley and apparently he believes himself in love with you…Oh, do keep still, Sophia. Quite distraught with love, according to my Mr. Bentley. He thinks you an angel come to save him. But really, as I said to my Mr. Bentley, James Hartley has everything you could possibly want and is a far better prospect.”

  Her heart skipped, faltered. Quite distraught with love. Lazarus had never spoken to her of love. Yet he’d told the rector.

  Then we don’t exist to people like them? People like her—up there?