by Carla Kelly
She stood and turned to him so quickly that her little chair tumbled to the ground and forced Selwick to take a step backward. “Marry? I do not recall discussing this.”
He gave her a crooked grin. “We did not do much discussing, Sophia. We were…otherwise engaged.”
She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to think. Oh, under any other circumstances, she would not hesitate. But she’d lain with him, and that made all the difference. His proposal now was driven by obligation because they’d been intimate. He would be thinking she’d caught him rather neatly. He would be thinking he was honorbound to make an honest woman of her. Oh, he was being gracious enough, but it would not be long before he felt trapped. Before he grew to resent her. Could she bear that?
She shook her head. “No. I thank you, but no.”
“No?” He repeated the word as if he thought there must be some mistake.
“I am mindful of the honor you have done me, Selwick, but I…I simply cannot accept. What I…what we did…was a simple lapse of judgment on my part. Please believe me when I say that I had no ulterior motive in bestowing my favors. Indeed, had I known you would feel obligated, I never would have proceeded.”
“Never…” He furrowed his brow in a puzzled expression—half incredulous, half angry. “Lapse of judgment? I begin to sympathize with the duke.”
Oh! How could he throw that up to her? It was not the same thing at all! “The duke has nothing to do with this, Selwick, and you know it.”
“Very well, madam. I shall not importune you with this again. Believe me when I say that I thought I was doing the right and honorable thing.”
“I do believe you, Selwick. There is absolutely no question in my mind on the matter.”
He bowed sharply, spun on his heel and left her room.
Sophia could not move for her shock. She could scarcely even breathe. She stared at the closed door and gulped. Marry? But of course. She had suspected he would propose after their first coupling. But last night had been, well…different. All need and no thinking. He’d only been responding to her plea for belonging—a plea that she’d forgotten her pride to make. Why should he have to make the ultimate sacrifice for that? Had he really thought her so shameless and conniving?
She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. Well, that was done, then. She would go forward as if nothing untoward had happened and never mention it again. If Selwick thought she had schemed to trap him, he would be happily relieved.
Preparations in the kitchen were reaching a fever pitch, and Sophia sent word to Selwick by way of Potter that she would join him to resume the inventory after luncheon. Mrs. Cavendish needed her to decorate the biscuits with icing. He hadn’t replied to her note, so she assumed he would proceed without her.
Strands of hair had come undone from her ribbon and curled around her face from the humidity in the kitchen. The wispy curls tickled her nose and she blew them away just as the luncheon bell rang.
Breakfast and lunch had been casual affairs since the family’s arrival at Windsong Hall and Sophia hoped that would continue. She would much rather Selwick take his lunch in the attic than come to the table. Facing him in the presence of her family would be more awkward now than later. Alone.
She put the bowl of icing aside and covered it with a damp towel. “I will finish this after lunch, Mrs. Cavendish. I need to talk to the family regarding our return to London. I have not heard from Mr. York and I fear he is still waiting on a new axle. I may have to leave my coach behind, so I would beg a ride from one of them.”
“Aye, miss. But I warrant Lord Selwick would convey you.”
She was glad her face was already flushed from the heat in the kitchen so that the cook would not note her blush. “Perhaps, but I dislike asking him. Surely Jonathan or Emma—”
“Come now, miss. Ye don’t have to play coy with me. The entire staff has remarked upon what a fine couple ye make.”
She put the bowl aside and tried to smooth her hair back. “You are all mistaken. We are merely…friends.”
By Mrs. Cavendish’s raised eyebrows, she knew the woman did not believe her. And then she thought of Uncle Oliver’s bed. Oh! She had not put it to rights. Had a maid found it in disarray? She removed her apron and headed for the dining room without another word. Pray she could live this down.
Only Marjory and Thomas were at the table when she arrived. A maid served her as she sat. “Where are the others?”
“Can’t say about Selwick, but Emma has a headache and Jonathan has gone riding. To town, likely, looking for a pint in the local tavern.”
Or to find more congenial company? Sophia took a sip of her wine and wondered where Georgie might be. Sent to the kitchen by Thomas? Or reading in his room? She squelched a pang of conscience. She really should have been paying more attention to the lad. It cannot have been fun for him, shut up in a cavernous house, no one to play with and subject to the bickering of his family. Yes, she would finish the remaining inventory as quickly as possible and then devote hours to coddling the lad.
She set her spoon aside and took a deep breath. Lord, how she dreaded asking. “I was wondering if, perhaps, you wouldn’t mind my company on the return to London. I’ve not heard from Mr. York, so it may be necessary to leave him with the coach until the axle is repaired.”
Marjory barely looked up from her plate. “If it comes to that.”
“So long as you do not have more than our coach can comfortably carry,” Thomas amended. “Or I suppose we could hire a cart if we are to leave with Pettibone’s legacy.”
Sophia nearly snorted. She, the church mouse among them? She’d arrived with one small trunk and would leave with one small trunk. She was about to tell them she would beg a ride from Jonathan when a footman cleared his throat from the doorway.
“A wagon has arrived, sir.”
Thomas looked a bit confused, but Sophia realized what this meant. She stood and dropped her napkin on her chair, a tightness forming in her chest. She hurried to the foyer, Marjory and Thomas fast behind, and met Selwick, who was just coming down the stairs, followed by Emma.
The wide door stood open, admitting a blast of cold wind and the imminent threat of more snow. Outside, Potter and three footmen were removing a covered coffin from the bed of the wagon.
Chapter Eleven
Sebastian watched Sophia carefully for signs of distress, then cast a reproachful glance in Pettibone’s direction. His hour of reckoning was at hand and, for better or worse, the family would know the truth by dinnertime. One of the footmen faltered and he rushed forward to lend a hand.
Mrs. Evans took control. “Take the coffin to the back sitting room, if you please. I have prepared a table there. It will be out of the way, and we can leave a window open to…to…”
How unnecessary of the woman to remind them that a body would be in an unpleasant state by now. He saw the first crack in Sophia’s stoic demeanor, quickly controlled as she assumed the endearing little quirk of squaring her shoulders to brace for a difficult task. And he knew better than she that there would be difficulties ahead.
She glanced at him and he gave her an encouraging nod. She returned a little half smile and he imagined she was thankful that he was not still angry. Indeed, he had controlled his astonishment at her refusal hours ago, and now he was trying to be relieved that he would not be saddled with her eccentric family. Without much success.
The meager gathering made a small funeral procession as they followed Mrs. Evans up the entry stairs and into the great hall, the remainder of the family trailing behind the casket. Emma Grant began to sniffle and Sebastian prepared himself for a swoon. To his great relief, there was none.
A long library table had been placed in the middle of the back sitting room and draped in black crepe. Mrs. Evans had been busier than he’d thought. She and Sophia held the crepe in place as he and the footmen slid the coffin onto the table.
Perhaps Pettibone had been right. The entire family was anxious
to be gone from Windsong Hall, including Miss Sophia. And once she was gone, would he ever see her again? The very idea that he might not gave rise to a twist of nostalgia in his gut. Quick memories flashed through his mind—Sophia covered in snow, her cheeks rosy from the chill, Sophia’s dark hair tangled on the pristine white of a pillow, Sophia swooning from the effects of his lovemaking. How would he ever forget her?
Mrs. Evans straightened and cleared her throat. “I sent word to the vicar in the village that we would have need of his services and that I would send word to him of when. Potter, will you see to that, please? Shall we agree upon tomorrow morning?”
Mrs. Grant could not tear her eyes from the coffin. “S-should we open the coffin? I would like to say my goodbyes.”
Pettibone looked disconcerted. “Oh, Mrs. Grant, I think not. After all…it has been months since…since…”
Thomas stepped in. “I believe we can eliminate that step, Emma. Potter has overseen that. Under the circumstances, I believe we should have the burial as soon as possible.”
Mrs. Grant dabbed at her eyes. “Where is Georgie? He should be here.”
Miss Sophia frowned. “I have not seen him all morning, Emma. I thought he was with you, though I found it odd that he did not come to the kitchen with the smell of sweets in the air. Potter?”
“No, miss. I saw him walking toward the stables this morning, but have not seen him since.”
“I’m certain he is around here somewhere, Mrs. Grant,” Sebastian said, keeping a rein on his misgivings. It was not like the lad to miss a meal, let alone forgo a sweetmeat.
Arbuthnot appeared in the doorway, his face reddened by the chill air and snow still clinging to his trouser legs. He glanced at the coffin and sighed. “So Uncle Oliver has come home at last?”
Mrs. Grant wrung her hands. “Jonathan, did you see Georgie in the stables?”
“Just one groomsman,” he said as he removed his gloves. “Why? Is he late for luncheon?”
“Oh! He is missing!” Mrs. Grant wailed.
Sebastian stepped forward. He’d better stop this caterwauling before it got out of hand and turned into outright hysteria. “I am certain he is around here somewhere, Mrs. Grant. Arbuthnot, did you see any tracks along the road?”
“None. How long has the boy been missing?”
“Potter saw him last at…”
“Before breakfast.” Potter’s brow furrowed as he tried to be more precise. “’Twas just past daybreak.”
“Good heavens! And you let him leave the house alone?” Mrs. Evans accused. “He could be anywhere by now.”
Sebastian interrupted before another quarrel ensued.
“Accusations and recriminations will not find Master Georgie. Arbuthnot, see if you can find the boy’s tracks in the snow. Potter, have the servants search the entire house, cellar to attic. Miss Sophia, please take Mrs. Grant and Mr. and Mrs. Evans to the library and calm their nerves with a glass of sherry. I shall go to the stables and search there. Everyone report to the library within the hour.”
As they left the house, Jonathan muttered under his breath. “The villagers are predicting wind and snow, Selwick. Pray we find him before the storm sets in.”
The search took much longer than an hour. Darkness was falling by the time the house had been thoroughly searched and Arbuthnot had reported back. Sebastian did not even apologize for the small bits of manure sticking to his boots as he entered the library to face the family. He’d searched the tack room, every stall, every nook, the stable boy’s quarters, and had even raked through the hay in the loft to see if the boy was hiding there. To no avail. Georgie had simply disappeared.
The family turned to him, hope dimming in their eyes as they noted his expression. He did not speak on his way to the brandy bottle. His fingers and toes were numb with the cold and he needed to compose himself before he spoke. He glanced at Pettibone and gave him a nod.
The man cleared his throat before he began. “We have searched the house top to bottom. Master Georgie is not here.”
Arbuthnot, still warming himself by the fire heaved a heavy sigh. “I followed his tracks halfway to the cliffs. They appeared to stop and turn back, but the snow had begun to blow and cover his footsteps. I’ve been to town and back, in the event that I missed him on my ride back here this morning.” He shook his head. “The villagers say they have not seen any trace of a lone boy.”
Sebastian nodded his understanding, glancing quickly at the family. Mrs. Evans and Sophia sat on either side of Mrs. Grant and were clinging together, united in their concern for the boy. Sophia’s hands were clenched into fists in her lap, a sure sign she was tense, but her demeanor was grimly composed. Arbuthnot looked haggard and tired. Even Thomas Evans was harried-looking as he paced aimlessly in circles, his hands clasped behind his back and his head down.
The task was his, then, to state the obvious. The brandy was warming him from the inside out and he, too, heaved a sigh. “The stables were empty but for the horses and stable boy. I cannot accept that Georgie simply disappeared into thin air. It appeared as though he turned back from the cliffs. He is not in the stables. The villagers have not seen a lone boy. That leaves only two possibilities. Either Georgie met with a stranger or he is somewhere nearby. Potter, are there any close neighbors? Anywhere he might have found refuge?”
The man’s eyes were pale and red rimmed when he answered. “I do not know the surroundings well. I have not seen any neighbors, nor have any come calling.”
Sebastian sank into the chair behind the desk and stared at the gleaming surface, thinking back to the last time he’d seen the boy. Dinner the previous night. The family had been quarreling and even he had been testy. It had started with Thomas’s exception to Sophia making a little Christmas and gone from there to the inventory in the attic and on to Jonathan’s drinking. Nothing so unusual for the family as a whole, but had the boy been frightened? Good Lord! Had he run away from them?
As Sebastian had run away from his own family? Oh, not so obviously, but more subtly, more deviously, and just as absent. A rare tweak of guilt made him uneasy.
“Darling Emma,” Mrs. Evans murmured as she comforted a weeping Mrs. Grant. “Georgie is safe somewhere, I just know it. We cannot lose him. You know we love him, too.”
Mrs. Grant sniffled. “If only we’d paid more attention.”
Sophia, sitting on Mrs. Evans’s other side, held her cousin’s hand, tears welling in her eyes. For all their quarreling and differences, their love for one another was obvious. How had he missed that? A glance at Pettibone revealed that the old man felt the same. They were family.
Sebastian stood again, deciding action was better than stasis for both him and Sophia. There would be no rest until Georgie was found. “I shall ride out and search the surroundings for neighbors—anyone who might have taken him in.”
Arbuthnot put his glass down and straightened his jacket. “I’ll do that, Selwick. I already have the lay of the land.”
Sebastian knew better than to argue. He turned to the others. “Potter, send the servants to the cellar to start the search again. Miss Sophia and I will begin in the attic. Mrs. Grant, please search the boy’s room, and your own, to see if anything is missing—clothing, cash, trinkets, or if there is a note. Evans, you and your wife keep vigil here and if anyone has anything to report, bring the news here.”
Mrs. Evans’s eyes widened. “You think he’s run away!”
“I don’t know what I think, Mrs. Evans. I only know that we cannot give up looking for him.”
Sophia glanced around the attic. She hadn’t been up here since she and Selwick had made love on Uncle Oliver’s furs. That memory stirred a fluttering deep inside her. But she could not think of that now. There was too much at stake.
Selwick had made progress since then. Another crate or two had been opened, one had been tipped on its side and a sheaf of papers lay on the lap desk, an open bottle of ink and a pen placed to the side. He hung the lantern he’d
carried up from one of the rafters and glanced around.
He gestured at the disarray and smiled. “I see the servants made a thorough search.”
She nodded, following the sweep of his hand. A candle burned in the attic window, now lighting the way home for Georgie, too. How thoughtful of Selwick.
Selwick glanced around and then settled his gaze on her. “I am sorry for this, Sophia. Georgie should be home, tucked in his bed. I cannot imagine what Mrs. Grant must be thinking. Your entire family, as well.”
“I do not know what we would have done without you, Selwick. You have been a pillar of strength throughout this. I know how much you dislike crises and fixing other people’s problems, but I am grateful that you are here.” She clasped her hands together and bowed her head. She did not want to see his disdain. “You must be thinking us a great deal of trouble. As much as your own family.”
He winced. “I wish I could deny that charge, Sophia, but that is exactly what I thought after your family gathered here at Windsong Hall. In fact, I’ve thought all families are a great deal of trouble. More than they are worth. But I’ve been a fool. I thought you could barely abide one another, but I’ve watched your love and concern draw you together. And ever since we discussed my family, I’ve been thinking about my stepsisters and stepmother. I believe you are right—that they only want my attention and the assurance that they are secure, and I have been too blind and selfish to see it. Indeed, I’ve thought I would be happiest avoiding all the traps and trappings of marriage and family.”
Sophia glanced up and met his gaze. “You needn’t go on, Selwick. I am well aware how you feel about encumbrances. And I’ve already told you, I do not expect you to marry me.”
“Hush, and let me finish, Sophia.” He took her hands and drew her close. “Yes, families are a great deal of trouble but, in the end, they are the only lasting thing we have. The only thing that will never fail us. And worth any amount of trouble. You taught me that, Sophia. For that much, at least, I am grateful. And, should you need it, my offer stands.”
