The Secret Lover

by Julia London

  Still smiling, he offered her his bent hand. “M-my n-name is Will.”

  “Will,” Honorine repeated, then beaming with pleasure, took his bent hand in hers.

  Sophie did not venture out of Honorine’s massive house for three full days. But then the lack of food and qualified servants—a distinctly separate category from Fabrice and Roland—began to annoy Honorine. She complained they hadn’t enough help. “La ménagère, this is all I wish,” she whined over a soufflé Sophie had made one evening. “And a chambermaid. You will bring la femme de chambre, oui?”

  And perhaps a groom and a scullery maid and a laundress, too. The list went on and on, and by the next morning, Sophie was charged with finding suitable help. She supposed she ought to be enormously thankful that at least this time she could conduct her search in English. Yet the thought of venturing beyond the iron gates was unnerving—as the days in London slowly unfurled, Sophie discovered, much to her vexation, that she had developed a whole new set of irrational fears.

  The greatest among them was the fear of discovery.

  Rationally, she knew that the chance of someone recognizing her on the street or dredging up the old scandal was somewhat unlikely. But her emotions silenced her logic and she feared someone who might have known her then would indeed see her somewhere public and recognize her now. She was so unnerved by the prospect that when a young man had delivered provisions, she was quite certain he had looked at her curiously, as if he knew something about her. Her heart had started to pound; her palms had perspired as she slowly counted out the coins for him…until she realized he could not possibly have known her then. Given his youth and his social class, it was highly unlikely that their paths would have ever crossed.

  Feeling suitably ridiculous, she had told herself that such fears were not only irrational, they bordered on lunacy. Yet she could not quite shake the fear of being discovered, knowing that sooner or later she would surely make an acquaintance and her past would be unearthed and rise swiftly on the wing of the ton’s gossip.

  She did not want to go out.

  Honorine was adamant.

  So out she went.

  Fortunately, she quickly realized she was seeing London from an entirely new perspective than eight years ago and was able to relax a bit. Then, she had traveled about London in a coach as a Kettering, her destination the most prominent houses, the most elegant balls, the finest modistes and milliners. Now, she was simply Sophie Dane, traveling by foot and in search of the best markets.

  That cast London in a whole new light.

  The first thing she discovered was that Covent Garden was quite entertaining, what with all the hawkers and shoppers. For years she had believed what her Aunt Violet told her—full of riffraff, unsuitable for a young lady. The best bargains were to be had on High Street, where she found a pair of blue-green slippers for the price of a song. Rarely did her new responsibilities take her to places of old; only once did she pass one of the secret places at which she and William would meet during those weeks Julian had forbade her to see him. An unexpected shiver coursed her spine, but it was quickly gone.

  Yes, this London suited her. She enjoyed her anonymity, enjoyed buying her own food and chatting amicably with shopkeepers. She liked the smells of the market, the vivid colors of the flowers in the baskets of the young girls who sold them, the sounds of the many hawkers vying for coin, and the bustling activity among the shops on High Street.

  And so did the tranquillity of Regent’s Park particularly appeal to her. In the afternoons, Sophie took long walks alone there, mildly surprised that she never saw anyone she knew. Despite the dozens milling about, she was alone in that park. Honorine had likewise discovered Regent’s Park, too, and found it very much to her liking. This was due, naturally, to the fact that she had met a man there about whom she prattled on in the evenings, her words drifting in one of Sophie’s ears and out the other. Nevertheless, she was exceedingly thankful that Honorine’s daily visits to the park kept her suitably occupied.

  Sophie was suitably occupied, too, and would have been quite content to remain that way, except that Ann had other ideas.

  Her sister meant well, but she was adamant Sophie should slowly reenter society—not in any remarkable way, of course—and had taken that monumental task as her own cross to bear. It surprised her, but Sophie could feel herself falling into the old way of life—an older sibling dictating the course of her life, her following dutifully along. She felt it most keenly when Ann became convinced she should accompany her to Lady Worthington’s garden tea. Sophie was less than enthusiastic about this—she had managed to avoid the trappings of the ton so far and did not relish a foray into their salons. But Ann was relentless in her arguments about why this tea was the thing, and finally worn down, Sophie agreed to attend.

  It was a decision she regretted almost instantly. In addition to Ann telling her what to do and how to present herself—“Do not draw attention!”—it was hardly a small affair, but a garden event with ladies covering every conceivable inch of the grounds. Three of society’s old grande dames, ensconced in giant wicker chairs on the back terrace, peered at Sophie as if they expected her to suddenly sprout another head as Ann introduced her. One of them instantly asked after Madame Fortier, which prompted several questions about her supposed idiosyncrasies. The talk of the flamboyant, eccentric Honorine was undoubtedly making the rounds of the most elite drawing rooms; it was clear she was a source of great curiosity to these ladies, a fact that made Sophie feel exceedingly uncomfortable.

  Fortunately, they moved on to more current gossip.

  Sophie sat politely and quietly next to Ann, trying very hard not to squirm like a child as she listened to the grande dames.

  “You know, don’t you, that Miss Farnhill is to wed Mr. Braxton in the autumn. He has twenty thousand a year,” one confided to the little group.

  “That is indeed the best she could hope for,” sniffed another.

  “I hear Miss Amelia Cornwall has caught the eye of young Lord Ditherby!”

  “It’s a perfect match, is it not, what with his fifty thousand a year and the title.”

  Sophie bit her tongue, looked away. It had been so long since she had concerned herself with such things that the very subject seemed almost asinine now.

  When one mentioned Mr. Whitehall’s unfortunate penchant for whiskey, she could tolerate no more. Anxious to be gone from the prying women, Sophie slipped away from the terrace under the guise of viewing the gardens. Ann smiled broadly, approving of her decision to venture on.

  Sophie walked down the gravel path in something of a fog, trying to regain her composure. Was this what she had missed all these years? Could they not spare a kind word? Worse, what must they be saying about her now? So caught up in her thoughts was she that she hardly noticed the two women strolling arm in arm toward her. She glanced up; one of them looked vaguely familiar. The woman, in turn, stared intently at Sophie. Hoping to high heaven they could not see the sting of self-consciousness in her cheeks, Sophie nodded politely as she passed.

  “Excuse me, madam?” the woman said.

  Oh God. Sophie gripped the seam of her skirts tightly, forced herself to pause and smile. “Yes?”

  “I beg your pardon, but don’t you recognize me?”

  No. No…but perhaps? Sophie cocked her head to one side and looked closely at the woman. Melinda. Melinda Birdwell.

  The woman smiled. “Why, Della, I do believe Lady Stanwood has forgotten me! Oh, I beg your pardon—” She laughed, exchanged a glance with her friend. “I’m afraid I’m not sure of the proper address.”

  The earth seemed to shift beneath Sophie’s feet. “Ah…S-Sophie,” she stammered, trying desperately to find herself. “You…you have always known me as Sophie, Melinda. How do you do?”

  “Oh, very well, thank you,” Melinda said, and looked at her friend. “I was acquainted with Sophie many years ago…we made our debuts in the same Season.”

  They had been
acquainted, all right—Melinda had terrorized her that year. Of all the people she should meet, Melinda had to be the most disastrous.

  Her critical eye quickly assessed Sophie’s gown and hair. “I had not heard you were in England again. I thought I understood you were living abroad?”

  Sophie’s throat felt parched, the smile on her lips tremulous. “Actually, I’ve come home for a time.”

  “Ooh,” exclaimed Melinda, “how very nice for your family.” She grasped the arm of the woman accompanying her, took two steps back. “Well then. Welcome home,” she said, and turned quickly with her friend. The two of them, holding tight to one another, hurried down the path, Melinda looking back over her shoulder for one last glimpse of Sophie before whispering into her friend’s ear.

  As she watched them scurry away, Sophie could feel herself sinking into the same black hole of humiliation that had all but drowned her the last time she was in London. It was all coming back in a rush of dull pain. Melinda Birdwell had never been a friend; in fact, in the Season of Sophie’s debut, she had delighted in stealing her first promised dance and humiliating her. It had been easy to do—she was full of false charm, and Sophie had been…well, she had been Sophie, for Chrissakes!

  Here it was, exactly what she had feared—oh, but she could just imagine how Melinda would regale her family over supper this evening! “You will never believe who I chanced to see! You remember poor Sophie Dane, do you not?”

  Oh yes, they’d all remember, and at that moment, Sophie vowed to avoid the ton at all costs. She would not endure such humiliation again. She would not be their laughingstock. Her heart was too full of the old painful memories to add any new.

  She survived the remainder of the afternoon by staying close to Ann’s side, avoiding conversation and most of all, avoiding Melinda Birdwell. That was not the easiest thing to do—in the first place, Melinda had gained two stones or more in eight years and was a commanding figure, to say the least. And in the second place, Sophie had the terrible feeling that Melinda was pointing her out to others.

  It was, all in all, a horrible affair.

  When her sister called over the next several days, Sophie made it a point to be absent under the pretense of staffing Honorine’s house. At least the endeavor kept her fully occupied—the Season was beginning in earnest, and there wasn’t any good help left to speak of. Their situation was looking increasingly grim, so grim, that Sophie silently rejoiced when Fabrice announced that a woman had called inquiring about the position of housekeeper and cook.

  But she was not exactly heartened by the sight of her first applicant—bent with age, she had a foreboding beak nose and a generally unpleasant demeanor.

  “I been sent to do yer cleanin’ and cooking,” she flatly informed Sophie, and thrust a list of references at her. Sophie glanced at them, noticed two names she vaguely recognized. “The name is Lucie Cowplain.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Cowplain,” Sophie said politely.

  “Not Mrs. Cowplain. Lucie Cowplain,” the woman said abruptly.

  “Ah…I see. Where have you served before, Lucie?”

  The woman pressed her lips so tightly together that they all but disappeared. “Not Lucie. Lucie Cowplain. Seems rather simple to me, mu’um.”

  Now that was a different response than Sophie was accustomed to and she hardly knew what to make of it. “Oh,” she said, nervously rubbing her palms on her gown. “Ah…where might you have served before, Lucie Cowplain?” she asked carefully, cringing a bit when the woman’s lips disappeared again.

  “Ye got the paper right in yer hand, ye do,” she said, motioning impatiently to the references Sophie held.

  “Umm, yes, so I do indeed.” Heavens, was this the best the placement agency could do? She glanced blindly at the list of references as she tried to think of how to politely send the woman on her way. “Let me see…you served Lady Kirkland. I would suppose she’d entertain quite frequently.”

  Lucie Cowplain’s eyes hardened into tiny rocks of coal. “Will ye want me for yer employ or not?” she asked.

  “I…I—”

  “Have it yer way, then. But there ain’t too many willin’ to work for ye and the Frog,” she said, and shoving her battered bonnet onto her head, pivoted tightly on her heel, prepared to quit the study.

  Stunned by what she had said and awed that someone could be so impossibly rude, Sophie could only gape as the woman began her uneven march to the door. But as Lucie Cowplain reached for the brass handle, it occurred to Sophie that Honorine was never in the company of such an unbending woman and would not have the vaguest notion how to bear her.

  Something about that made Sophie smile. “Lucie Cowplain, please!”

  Lucie Cowplain paused; her shoulders stiffened as she turned slowly to glare at Sophie.

  “I should very much like it if you would consider our offer of engagement.”

  Lucie Cowplain’s frown deepened. “Do ye indeed? Then ye’ll kindly show me to yer kitchen.”

  Having no desire to be the one to deny her, Sophie gestured lamely in the general direction of the kitchen, and Lucie Cowplain marched crookedly in that general direction, mumbling to herself.

  This, Sophie thought as she followed the woman’s slanted walk toward the kitchen, would be most entertaining.

  She was not to be disappointed. In spite of all outward appearances to the contrary, Lucie Cowplain turned out to be a fine housekeeper and an even better cook, producing an array of dishes with sauces as delicate as any Sophie had learned in France. Though she thought it rather odd that someone as hard and bitter as that old woman could make such delectable food, Sophie was eager to learn from her, and Lucie Cowplain was, surprisingly, eager to teach.

  Fabrice and Roland, however, were not particularly pleased with Sophie’s choice, at least in the beginning. From the moment Lucie Cowplain hobbled into their midst with a tray of tea and biscuits, they were taken aback by her.

  It didn’t help matters at all that Lucie Cowplain practically laughed at them as she set the tray down. “Now then, what’ave we here?” she asked, peering at the two of them seated side by side on the divan. “Blimey, I ain’t seen a bonnier pair of lassies in me life,” she remarked, then cackled at her own jest.

  Fabrice gasped with astonishment and came quickly to his feet, one hand on his hip, the other waggling a finger at Lucie Cowplain. “You do not speak to me thus!” he insisted.

  Lucie Cowplain merely laughed and waved an old hand at him. “There now, don’t be getting yer knickers into such a knot, laddie. Have a spot of tea and see if that won’t cure yer vapors,” she said, and still chuckling, hobbled out of the room as a stunned Fabrice and Roland gaped at her departing back. They spent the rest of the day and that week avoiding her.

  Honorine, however, seemed oblivious to the juxtaposition of the woman’s personality and culinary skills, much less her severe countenance, and made the mistake of trying to engage her in conversation. Lucie Cowplain did not respond to Honorine’s endless chatter, but merely glowered at her, until the evening she apparently reached her limits. “Madame Fortier,” she said in a gruff voice, “ye’ll pay me to work, not to speak. If ye want me in yer employ, I’ll thank ye kindly to leave yer prattling to the likes of her,” she said, waving bent fingers at Sophie, “or find yourself another. I ain’t hired on to be yer nursemaid, no I ain’t.”

  That clearly took Honorine by surprise. For once she was speechless, her mouth open and wide blue eyes blinking. Lucie Cowplain shifted from one hip to the other, regarding her calmly, waiting for Honorine to decide. After a moment, Honorine said softly, “Oui, madame.”

  Satisfied, Lucie Cowplain nodded her ancient head and wobbled like a crab from the dining room.

  Honorine turned to Sophie, tears brimming in her eyes. “So cruel is this woman!” she whispered, and quit the dining room almost as dramatically as Lucie Cowplain.

  For Sophie, Lucie Cowplain’s arrival signaled a slowdown to the rh
ythm of her life. Worried that Ann would see her idleness as new opportunity to take her round to the drawing rooms, she was suddenly desperate for an occupation. In similar circumstance in other cities of the world, she had turned to charity work. In London, however, that seemed a rather daunting prospect, as there were more charitable organizations than one could count, and many women of the ton involved in all of them.

  There was one charity that interested her above all others—the house to which Claudia had taken her when she escaped Stanwood. But Sophie could not quite bring herself to mention the house on Upper Moreland Street, much less find it. Those jarring memories were always on the fringes of her consciousness, and she wasn’t very sure she wanted to resurrect them.

  So she spent her time wandering Regent’s Park each day, usually carrying a small picnic made up of the delectable treats she was learning to make from Lucie Cowplain. Having discovered a small pond she thought particularly pretty, she took her picnic there each day, along with a book. But more times than not, she spent her afternoon gazing across the small pond, to where a house was being constructed, fascinated by the building of it. Well, actually…she was far more interested in the men who built it than the structure itself.

  Men had become something of an enigma to her; strange creatures that made her skin flush with just a look, or tingle with a careless touch. Her dreams of them, oh Lord… they were decadent, sensual, and so very close to satisfying as to drive her mad. Close, they were, but not quite. Tormenting was more like it.

  One man in particular had caught her eye—she gathered he was a foreman of sorts, as he always appeared on horseback, in a gentleman’s suit of clothes. He would gracefully leap down, and arms akimbo, stalk about surveying the work done that morning. At that point, he would inevitably shed his coat and waistcoat, roll up the sleeves of his lawn shirt, and wade into the middle of the work, directing the others.