“Yes, but no milk this morning. No eggs. No news sheet for the master.”
“Does he seem well this morning?”
Maggie shrugged her plump shoulders. “I don’t quite know, miss, from one minute to the next.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He always looks so angry, miss. That scowl, you know. He frightens me!”
Sophie nodded and smiled. She’d seen through that scowl of Captain Ramsay and recognized it for what it was—a mask to distance himself from other people. She’d seen him smile, heard him laugh, and the transformation in his face had been marvelous. That she had the power to affect such a man made her flush with pleasure, especially in anticipation of seeing him again and eliciting a smile from him. Such an odd goal, really, but one that brought her much gratification, knowing she could provide a few moments of lightness to Ian Ramsay’s serious life. Perhaps one day she would discover what made the man so serious and so closed off.
She dressed in a soft green woolen gown stitched along the skirts with tiny violets and ivy. She pinned a gauzy fichu around the square bodice to soften the line. Maggie rolled her hair and left a queue in the back, which she tied with a green ribbon.
“You look lovely, miss,” she said, beaming. “You’ll make a lovely duchess!”
“You know of the upcoming wedding?”
“Oh, everyone knows, miss! It’s like a storybook. And you’re so lucky. The earl is quite a catch, so young and handsome!”
Young and handsome? Edward Metcalf was at least thirty, as old as the captain. Yet as far as earls went, perhaps he seemed young in comparison. Sophie thought back to the hours spent with the Metcalfs and the languid behavior of her betrothed.
He had barely spoken to her, and seemed bored with anything she said, or anything any of the females had said, as a matter of fact. He’d spent most of the afternoon smoking and playing billiards with a friend of his. She wondered if his ennui masked a distinct lack of intelligence. The last thing she would wish in a husband was a dull wit. Fortunately for her, she would never actually have to marry the man.
After Sophie finished her tea, she flowed downstairs, favoring her still-tender feet, anxious to discover the state of the captain’s health. She hadn’t seen Ramsay much during daylight hours and looked forward to talking with him for a few minutes, even though he claimed he did not like to chat.
She heard voices in the parlor and pointed her steps in that direction, wondering what visitor could have arrived in the storm. Surely not her grandmother! She would have been notified of that particular arrival.
Sophie stepped around the corner of the doorway and spotted a small slight man dressed in a dark brown suit, talking to the captain, who stood with his back to the fire. At the sound of her footstep, Ramsay looked up, and she thought she saw his face flush briefly, but he immediately masked his features and held out his hand to her. She walked toward him.
“Miss Hinds,” he greeted.
“Good morning.” She smiled and nodded at the gentlemen as Ramsay kissed her hand. The short man stared at her, seemingly in awe.
“May I present my assistant, Mr. Puckett.”
“Miss Hinds!” He took her hand. “I am amazed!”
“Amazed?”
“I saw you that night when you jumped out the window.”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t myself that evening.” She shot a glance at the captain, who suddenly looked away.
“A marvelous transformation, miss!”
“Why thank you, Mr. Puckett.”
She glanced at the captain as she motioned toward the settee. “May I join you for a moment?”
“Of course,” Ramsay replied.
“And are you feeling better?” she asked, boldly holding his gaze. His stare took her in, as if he were consuming something in her face. They fell into each other’s eyes. There was no other way to describe the way the world dissolved around them when they looked at each other.
“Never better,” he answered at last. “My thanks to you.”
“That is why I called,” Puckett put in, nervously glancing from one to the other. “To make sure you were still alive, Captain.”
“Puckett, I may wish I were dead when I have one of those cursed migraines, but I shall never succumb that easily.”
“You should eat more often, sir, keep a more regimented schedule—”
“You know me better than that, Puckett.”
Puckett gave Sophie a glance that said, “It’s hopeless,” and then turned to his master.
“What about the club, sir?”
“I doubt anyone will be out this evening, unless we have a hard rain that clears the snow.”
“Then you wish to keep it closed?”
“Aye.”
“The first time since it’s grand opening,” Puckett remarked.
“And how long has Maxwell’s been open?” Sophie inquired.
“Five months.” Ramsay stared out the window, scowling at a private thought. Did he not enjoy owning the club? Did he regret his choice of business? She couldn’t tell.
After a moment, he said, as if to the window. “I doubt the tutor will come this morning.”
“Tutor, sir?” Puckett repeated.
“A dancing instructor whom I engaged for Miss Hinds.”
“I see.” Puckett gave her a fleeting shallow smile.
He reminded Sophie of a bird, full of quick nervous energy, as if always on guard for a predator. Was that predator his master? Surely Ramsay wasn’t a cruel employer. Curt and demanding, yes, but surely fair. Not like Katherine Hinds had been.
“Miss Hinds claims she doesn’t know how to dance,” Ramsay explained, turning toward them.
Sophie felt a rush of anxiety. “It’s true. We didn’t have much opportunity to enjoy music on the plantation.”
“There is only one recourse then,” Puckett declared, wiping his hands on the skirts of his frock coat. He broke for the harpsichord sitting against the wall.
“What are you doing?” Ramsay demanded.
“I can play a passing fair minuet, Captain, if you take the lady in hand.”
“Wonderful!” Sophie rose to her feet, enjoying the look of horror on Ramsay’s face, and ignoring the slight pain in her soles.
He stared down at her. “I am not a dancing master.”
“I will not know the difference.”
“But the burns on your feet—”
“They hardly hurt at all this morning.”
When he didn’t make a move toward her, she tilted her head and smiled, teasing him. “You want me to be a success, do you not?”
“Yes of course.”
“Then show me.” She held her hands in the air, waiting for him to reach out to her, fairly sure that she could goad him into service, if only out of a sense of duty. Just as she expected, Ramsay slowly took her in hand. Puckett fluffed out the full tails of his coat and sat upon the narrow bench, positioning his hands above the layers of the wooden keys of the instrument. He struck a chord that began the measured strains of a minuet.
Ramsay scowled. “I repeat, Miss Hinds, I am not a dancer.”
“Neither am I.” She clasped his right hand, which was very warm. “Show me what to do as much as you can, and it shall be a start to my education at least.”
“Very well.” He sighed and seemed to shift out of his initial reluctance. “The minuet,” he began, turning his hand so that only her fingertips touched his palm, “is a dance of lad meeting lass.”
She laughed. “I beg your pardon?”
“Boy meets girl. Boy and girl bow and approach. Like so.” He showed her. “And then they back away, only to venture closer the next round. Getting to know one another, you see.”
She grinned, doubting most dancing masters would explain the intricacies of the minuet in quite this way. Most of them probably reduced the dance to numbers of steps and types of gyrations. She much preferred Ramsay’s social commentary.
“Then,” he said, and a
smile warmed his eyes as they approached each other. “Just as the boy thinks he’s found his own true love, she coyly walks around him, to see what he’s all about, like so.” He guided her around his wide shoulders, their gazes never breaking. “Good, Miss Hinds,” he murmured, and she could tell he had to struggle to maintain his usual staid composure.”
She inclined her head and gave him a devilish smile, trying to break that composure. His controlled expression never wavered.
“Then the chit changes her mind, curtsies and cycles to another partner.” Ramsay released her to allow her to back away. “Typical female.”
“As the boy immediately looks for her replacement,” she retorted. “Typical male!”
Though his mouth remained a straight line, the light in his eyes danced at her words. Sophie knew the captain was amused by her remark, and it pleased her to lighten his usual somber expression. Even though her head reminded her of her dishonest behavior in regard to Ramsay, her heart rose in his company as if of its own accord, and she realized she hadn’t had as much fun in her entire life. Becoming Katherine Hinds had begun a blossoming of joy inside her that she could barely contain.
“I believe she’s got it,” Puckett announced.
Ramsay surveyed her, his eyes warming her with every passing second. “One more time for good measure, Mr. Puckett.”
As the music began anew, Sophie curtsied in front of Ramsay, and he bowed over her hand. When she rose, she could see Mrs. Betrus in the doorway, watching the lesson, her arms crossed over her ample bosom, a look of wonder upon her face.
Next, Ramsay taught her the quadrille, which took more time to learn. Surprisingly, Ramsay was a patient teacher and Sophie worked hard so as not to waste his time. She hoped she would remember the complicated steps when dancing in a crowded ballroom with practiced partners. Then again, perhaps she would be lucky enough to be gone from London before put to such a test.
As the minutes flew by, Sophie became more accustomed to the warmth of Ramsay’s palms, the momentary brush of his chest as they briefly drew together during the dance, and the strength of his forearm as guided her around the room. The more she grew accustomed to him, the more contact she wanted. She longed to be pulled against his chest, to be held firmly and tenderly in his arms—perhaps not so tenderly, if she were honest with herself. She wanted him to bend to her lips and brand her with that wide masculine mouth of his, to open up to her, to let go with her. But most of all, she wanted to know if Ramsay felt the same growing flame of desire that had begun to burn inside her.
Perhaps this dancing was exactly what her some religious folk claimed it was—blatant sexual posturing better left alone.
Far too aroused for her own comfort, Sophie broke away, using the need for refreshments as an excuse. She met Mrs. Betrus in the hall, dusting the single side table, and hoped the housekeeper wouldn’t notice the high color she felt burning in her cheeks. Luckily, Mrs. Betrus’ attentions were upon the captain. She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him like this,” she commented, staring back at the parlor at her master.
“What do you mean?”
“Happy.” She shook her head again. “Smiling.”
“Really?”
“I think it’s you, Miss Hinds.” Mrs. Betrus patted Sophie’s forearm. “You brighten this house. You’ve brought life into it.”
“Surely it is not my doing!”
“Aye, but it is.”
Sophie paused for a moment, knowing how dark the mood would turn if Ramsay ever found out she was duping him and his entire household. Still, she was curious about the man. “The captain—” She chose her words carefully.”—He—he has no family?”
“He’s never spoken of a family. He doesn’t like to talk about such things.”
“He has no wife in Boston? No children?”
Mrs. Betrus shot her a penetrating glance. Had she gone too far again?
“He’s a bachelor,” the housekeeper replied. “A confirmed one.”
“Such a shame.” She watched the captain put more coal on the fire.
“He’s a man of mystery, the captain,” Mrs. Betrus added, clucking her tongue. “And an unhappy man if you ask me.”
“Not so much unhappy,” Sophie observed, looking over her shoulder at him, her eyes softening as her gaze traveled over his craggy face. “Solitary, I would say.”
Chapter 8
In the early afternoon, Mrs. Betrus made an appallingly bland dinner of roast beef and peas and carrots, which the men dispatched without comment while Sophie secretly marveled at the housekeeper’s singular talent for sapping the flavor out of perfectly good meat and vegetables. During the meal, Ramsay appeared preoccupied and said little, and seemed as if he chafed at being a prisoner in his own home. Did he have somewhere else he wished to be? Perhaps someone else with whom he’d like to spend this quiet day? A lover? Sophie glanced at him, wondering if he had a woman tucked away somewhere. A virile and successful man such as Ramsay would likely have more than one mistress and a gaggle of bastard children about which Mrs. Betrus knew nothing.
The thought of Ramsay with another woman made her throat tighten. She reached for her watered wine.
She much preferred their previous meals together, those short but intimate repasts during which Ramsay had afforded only tidbits of verbal information about himself, while at the same time revealing much more with his quick but telltale glances.
Puckett, however, seemed to enjoy the meal and chattered on about England, providing so many facts about the city and surrounding countryside that Sophie barely had to do more than shake her head or raise an eyebrow.
For the rest of the day, Sophie didn’t see much of Captain Ramsay. He and Mr. Puckett sequestered themselves in the study to do business, which they conducted until darkness fell over the house. They even took tea in the study, eschewing feminine company, probably out of habit and unaware of their oversight.
Slightly disappointed at being left on her own for tea, Sophie passed the time looking through the books Mrs. Betrus had taken from the wardrobe to make room for Sophie’s newly purchased apparel. The books had been temporarily stacked alongside the wardrobe, awaiting the purchase of a shelf.
In the stack, Sophie found an ample supply of reading material to occupy her solitary hours, including a book about London in which she’d discovered a useful map of the city. She located what seemed to be the shortest route to the wharf, should she be forced to flee.
Just before supper, sleet began to fall, tapping at the windows and dampening the snow. Sophie ventured downstairs to stretch her muscles and to get a cup of tea, when she heard a commotion at the back of the house, down in the kitchen.
She quickened her steps and caught sight of a bedraggled woman, her head covered with a drenched woolen shawl, holding a bundle in her arms and standing in the rear entry behind Mrs. Betrus.
“Please, ma’am, I’ve got to see ‘im,” the woman wailed, clutching the bundle to her chest. “‘Tis the captain’s house, I know it. They said he’d help his fellow Scot.”
“They shouldn’t have sent you here,” Mrs. Betrus chastised. “Not to this house.”
“I come on my own, ma’am. Please. They arrested my man, and my bairn’s sick t’ dyin’! I dinna ken what else to do!”
Sophie swept forward. “Let her in, Mrs. Betrus!”
The housekeeper turned, shocked to see Sophie, but then she urged the wretched woman over the threshold and closed the door behind her.
“Och, thank ye, lass,” the woman said, trying to smile at Sophie. She wasn’t much older than Sophie, but her face looked middle-aged, ravaged by poor food, worry, and exposure. Some of her teeth were missing. She was soaked through and her eyes glittered with fever or hunger or both.
Sophie pushed a chair near the warm kitchen stove. “Sit down,” she said, “You must be exhausted, coming through all that snow.”
“I dinna ken what else to do!” Tears sprang to the woman’s eyes as she sank to the chair,
still clutching her bundle. “I been up three nights with my bairn. No food, no fire, nowhere to turn. So cold. So cold!”
Sophie knew only too well what cold and hunger felt like. She glanced at Mrs. Betrus. “Is this truly the captain’s business?” she asked.
Mrs. Betrus shrugged, alarm etched in her face.
“Then get him. I’ll take care of our guest.” Quickly, she poured a cup of tea from a pot Mrs. Betrus had already steeped and added generous portions of sugar and cream.
“Warm yourself with this,” Sophie urged, “And I’ll hold your little one for you.”
“Thank ye. Oh, bless ye, lass.” The woman’s hand shook as she reached for the cup, while at the same time, Sophie gently lifted the damp bundle.
Having spent her entire life as a maidservant, she hadn’t had much experience with handling babies. But she knew enough about them to realize the child was unnaturally quiet, especially when being taken from its mother. Though the blanket of the child was sopping wet, she tenderly clasped the baby to her bosom and gently raised the plaid from the baby’s face to get a glimpse of its condition.
The baby’s face was pitifully small, pitifully drawn, and shockingly gray. Sophie knew the child was dead. Did the mother know? Or had it died en route, while she struggled to get help? Who knew how long and how far the woman had walked?
Sophie looked up, her heart breaking, just as Ramsay strode into the kitchen.
“What have we here?” he called, not unkindly.
“Captain!” The woman jumped to her feet and rushed into his arms. “Captain Ramsay!” She clutched at him like a lifeline, hugging him fiercely and sobbing into his cravat. For a moment he let her cling to him, while he instructed Mrs. Betrus to get a blanket and a glass of his finest, and then he gently helped the woman back to her seat.
He knelt in front of her, clasping her frozen hands in what Sophie knew to be his very warm ones. “Now what can I do for ye, lass?” he inquired. Sophie was surprised to hear him slip into a speech pattern that sounded nothing like an American accent and in a tone much warmer than he’d ever used when speaking to her.
The story spilled in a torrent from the woman’s lips—how they’d journeyed to England looking for work, how the soldiers had detained her husband on a trumped up charge and taken all their money, how they wouldn’t let her see him, how she’d run out of food, how the baby fell ill.
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