by Julia Quinn
“I do indeed,” Lady Bridgerton said. “I haven’t been, but I’ve heard that it is a lovely building.”
Sophie nodded. “It is, quite. Of course, I’ve never been inside. But the exterior is beautiful.”
“Where did your mother work?”
“Blackheath Hall,” Sophie replied, this lie slipping easily off her tongue. She’d been asked that question often enough; she’d long since settled upon a name for her fictional home. “Are you familiar with it?”
Lady Bridgerton’s brow furrowed. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“A bit north of Swaffham.”
Lady Bridgerton shook her head. “No, I do not know it.”
Sophie gave her a gentle smile. “Not many people do.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
Sophie was unused to an employer wanting to know so much about her personal background; usually all they cared about were her employment record and references. “No,” she said. “There was only me.”
“Ah, well, at least you had the company of the girls with whom you shared lessons. That must have been nice for you.”
“It was good fun,” Sophie lied. In all truth, studying with Rosamund and Posy had been sheer torture. She’d much preferred lessons when she’d been alone with her governess, before they’d come to live at Penwood Park.
“I must say, it was very generous of your mother’s employers—I’m sorry,” Lady Bridgerton interrupted herself, her brow furrowing, “what did you say their name was?”
“Grenville.”
Her forehead wrinkled again. “I’m not familiar with them.”
“They don’t often come to London.”
“Ah, well, that explains it,” Lady Bridgerton said. “But as I was saying, it was very generous of them to allow you to share in their daughters’ lessons. What did you study?”
Sophie froze, not sure whether she was being interrogated or if Lady Bridgerton were truly interested. No one had ever cared to delve so deeply into the faux background she had created for herself. “Er, the usual subjects,” she hedged. “Arithmetic and literature. History, a bit of mythology. French.”
“French?” Lady Bridgerton asked, looking quite surprised. “How interesting. French tutors can be very dear.”
“The governess spoke French,” Sophie explained. “So it didn’t cost any extra.”
“How is your French?”
Sophie wasn’t about to tell her the truth and say that it was perfect. Or almost perfect. She’d gotten out of practice these past few years and lost a bit of her fluency. “It’s tolerable,” she said. “Good enough to pass for a French maid, if that’s what you desire.”
“Oh, no,” Lady Bridgerton said, laughing merrily. “Heavens, no. I know it is all the rage to have French maids, but I would never ask you to go about your chores trying to remember to speak with a French accent.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Sophie said, trying not to let her suspicion show on her face. She was sure that Lady Bridgerton was a nice lady; she’d have to be a nice lady to have raised such a nice family. But this was almost too nice.
“Well, it’s—oh, good day, Eloise. What brings you up here?”
Sophie looked to the doorway and saw what could only be a Bridgerton daughter standing there. Her thick, chestnut hair was coiled elegantly at the back of her neck, and her mouth was wide and expressive, just like Benedict’s.
“Benedict told me we have a new maid,” Eloise said.
Lady Bridgerton motioned to Sophie. “This is Sophie Beckett. We were just chatting. I think we shall deal famously.”
Eloise gave her mother an odd look—or at least Sophie thought it was an odd look. She supposed that it was possible that Eloise always looked at her mother with a slightly suspicious, slightly confused, sideways glance. But somehow Sophie didn’t think so.
“My brother tells me you saved his life,” Eloise said, turning from her mother to Sophie.
“He exaggerates,” Sophie said, a faint smile touching her lips.
Eloise regarded her with an oddly shrewd glance, and Sophie had the distinct impression that Eloise was analyzing her smile, trying to decide whether or not she was poking fun at Benedict, and if so, whether it was in jest or unkindness.
The moment seemed suspended in time, and then Eloise’s lips curved in a surprisingly sly manner. “I think my mother is correct,” she said. “We shall deal famously.”
Sophie rather thought she had just passed some sort of crucial test.
“Have you met Francesca and Hyacinth?” Eloise asked.
Sophie shook her head, just as Lady Bridgerton said, “They are not at home. Francesca is visiting Daphne, and Hyacinth is off at the Featheringtons. She and Felicity seem to be over their row and are once again inseparable.”
Eloise chuckled. “Poor Penelope. I think she was enjoying the relative peace and quiet with Hyacinth gone. I know I was enjoying the respite from Felicity.”
Lady Bridgerton turned to Sophie and explained, “My daughter Hyacinth can more often than not be found at the home of her best friend, Felicity Featherington. And when she is not, then Felicity can be found here.”
Sophie smiled and nodded, wondering once again why they were sharing such tidbits with her. They were treating her like family, something even her own family had never done.
It was very odd.
Odd and wonderful.
Odd and wonderful and horrible.
Because it could never last.
But maybe she could stay just a little while. Not long. A few weeks—maybe even a month. Just long enough to get her affairs and thoughts in order. Just long enough to relax and pretend she was more than just a servant.
She knew she could never be a part of the Bridgerton family, but maybe she could be a friend.
And it had been so long since she had been anyone’s friend.
“Is something wrong, Sophie?” Lady Bridgerton asked. “You have a tear in your eye.”
Sophie shook her head. “Just a speck of dust,” she mumbled, pretending to busy herself with the unpacking of her small bag of possessions. She knew that no one believed her, but she didn’t much care.
And even though she had no idea where she intended to go from this moment on, she had the oddest feeling that her life had just begun.
Chapter 15
This Author is quite certain that the male half of the population will be uninterested in the following portion of the column, so you are all given leave to skip to the next section. However, for the ladies, let This Author be the first to inform you that the Bridgerton family was recently sucked into the battle of the maids that has been raging all season between Lady Penwood and Mrs. Featherington. It seems that the maid attending to the daughters Bridgerton has defected to the Penwoods, replacing the maid who fled back to the Featherington household after Lady Penwood forced her to polish three hundred pairs of shoes.
And in other Bridgerton news, Benedict Bridgerton is most definitely back in London. It seems he took ill while in the country and extended his stay. One wishes that there were a more interesting explanation (especially when one is, like This Author, dependent upon interesting stories to earn one’s living), but sadly, that is all there is to it.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 14 MAY 1817
By the following morning, Sophie had met five of Benedict’s seven siblings. Eloise, Francesca, and Hyacinth all still lived with their mother, Anthony had stopped by with his young son for breakfast, and Daphne—who was now the Duchess of Hastings—had been summoned to help Lady Bridgerton plan the end-of-the-season ball. The only Bridgertons Sophie hadn’t met were Gregory, who was off at Eton, and Colin, who was off, in Anthony’s words, God-knows-where.
Although, if one wanted to put a fine point on it, Sophie already had met Colin—two years earlier at the masquerade. She was rather relieved that he was out of town. She doubted that he would recognize her; Benedict, after all, had not. But somehow the thou
ght of meeting him again was quite stressful and unsettling.
Not that that should matter, she thought ruefully. Everything seemed quite stressful and unsettling these days.
Much to Sophie’s extreme lack of surprise, Benedict showed up at his mother’s home the following morning for breakfast. Sophie should have been able to avoid him completely, except that he was loitering in the hall as she tried to make her way down to the kitchen, where she planned to take her morning meal with the rest of the servants.
“And how was your first night at Number Five, Bruton Street?” he inquired, his smile lazy and masculine.
“Splendid,” Sophie replied, stepping aside so that she might make a clean half circle around him.
But as she stepped to her left, he stepped to his right, effectively blocking her path. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself,” he said smoothly.
Sophie stepped back to her right. “I was,” she said pointedly.
Benedict was far too debonair to step back to his left, but he somehow managed to turn and lean against a table in just the right way to once again block her movement. “Have you been given a tour of the house?” he asked.
“By the housekeeper.”
“And of the grounds?”
“There are no grounds.”
He smiled, his brown eyes warm and melting. “There’s a garden.”
“About the size of a pound note,” she retorted.
“Nonetheless . . .”
“Nonetheless,” Sophie cut in, “I have to eat breakfast.” He stepped gallantly aside. “Until next time,” he murmured.
And Sophie had the sinking feeling that next time would come quickly indeed.
Thirty minutes later, Sophie edged slowly out of the kitchen, half-expecting Benedict to jump out at her from around a corner. Well, maybe not half-expecting. Judging from the way she couldn’t quite breathe, she was probably whole-expecting.
But he wasn’t there.
She inched forward. Surely he would come bounding down the stairs at any moment, ambushing her with his very presence.
Still no Benedict.
Sophie opened her mouth, then bit her tongue when she realized she’d been about to call out his name.
“Stupid girl,” she muttered.
“Who’s stupid?” Benedict asked. “Surely not you.”
Sophie nearly jumped a foot. “Where did you come from?” she demanded, once she’d almost caught her breath.
He pointed to an open doorway. “Right there,” he answered, his voice all innocence.
“So now you’re jumping out at me from closets?”
“Of course not.” He looked affronted. “That was a staircase.”
Sophie peered around him. It was the side staircase. The servants’ staircase. Certainly not anyplace a family member would just happen to be walking. “Do you often creep down the side staircase?” she asked, crossing her arms.
He leaned forward, just close enough to make her slightly uncomfortable, and, although she would never admit it to anyone, barely even herself, slightly excited. “Only when I want to sneak up on someone.”
She attempted to brush past him. “I have to get to work.”
“Now?”
She gritted her teeth. “Yes, now.”
“But Hyacinth is eating breakfast. You can hardly dress her hair while she’s eating.”
“I also attend to Francesca and Eloise.”
He shrugged, smiling innocently. “They’re eating breakfast, too. Truly, you have nothing to do.”
“Which shows how little you know about working for a living,” she shot back. “I have ironing, mending, polishing—”
“They make you polish the silver?”
“Shoes!” she fairly yelled. “I have to polish shoes.”
“Oh.” He leaned back, one shoulder resting against the wall as he crossed his arms. “It sounds dull.”
“It is dull,” she ground out, trying to ignore the tears that suddenly pricked her eyes. She knew her life was dull, but it was painful to hear someone else point it out.
One corner of his mouth lifted into a lazy, seductive smile. “Your life doesn’t have to be dull, you know.”
She tried to step past him. “I prefer it dull.”
He waved his arm grandly to the side, motioning for her to pass. “If that is how you wish it.”
“I do.” But the words didn’t come out nearly as firmly as she’d intended. “I do,” she repeated. Oh, very well, no use lying to herself. She didn’t. Not entirely. But that was the way it had to be.
“Are you trying to convince yourself, or me?” he asked softly.
“I won’t even dignify that with an answer,” she replied. But she didn’t meet his eyes as she said it.
“You’d best get yourself upstairs, then,” he said, raising one brow when she didn’t move. “I’m sure you have a great many shoes to polish.”
Sophie ran up the stairs—the servants’ stairs—and didn’t look back.
He next found her in the garden—that tiny patch of green she’d so recently (and accurately) mocked as the size of a pound note. The Bridgerton sisters had gone off to visit the Featherington sisters, and Lady Bridgerton was taking a nap. Sophie had all of their gowns pressed and ready for that evening’s social event, hair ribbons were selected and matched to each dress, and enough shoes had been polished to last a week.
With all her work done, Sophie decided to take a short break and read in the garden. Lady Bridgerton had told her that she might borrow freely from her small library of books, so Sophie selected a recently published novel and settled herself into a wrought-iron chair on the small patio. She’d only read a chapter before she heard footsteps approaching from the house. Somehow she managed not to look up until a shadow fell across her. Predictably, it was Benedict.
“Do you live here?” Sophie asked dryly.
“No,” he said, plopping down into the chair next to her, “although my mother is constantly telling me to make myself right at home.”
She could think of no witty rejoinder, so she merely “hmmphed” and stuck her nose back in her book.
He plunked his feet on the small table in front. “And what are we reading today?”
“That question,” she said, snapping the book shut but leaving her finger in to mark her place, “implies that I am actually reading, which I assure you I am unable to do while you are sitting here.”
“My presence is that compelling, eh?”
“It’s that disturbing.”
“Better than dull,” he pointed out.
“I like my life dull.”
“If you like your life dull, then that can only mean that you do not understand the nature of excitement.”
The condescension in his tone was appalling. Sophie gripped her book so hard her knuckles turned white. “I have had enough excitement in my life,” she said through gritted teeth. “I assure you.”
“I would be pleased to participate in this conversation to a greater degree,” he drawled, “except that you have not seen fit to share with me any of the details of your life.”
“It was not an oversight on my part.”
He clucked disapprovingly. “So hostile.”
Her eyes bugged out. “You abducted me—”
“Coerced,” he reminded her.
“Do you want me to hit you?”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” he said mildly. “And besides, now that you’re here, was it really so very terrible that I browbeat you into coming? You like my family, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“And they treat you fairly, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then what,” he asked, his tone most supercilious, “is the problem?”
Sophie almost lost her temper. She almost jumped to her feet and grabbed his shoulders and shook and shook and shook, but at the last moment she realized that that was exactly what he wanted her to do. And so instead she merely sniffed and said, “If you cannot
recognize the problem, there is no way that I could explain it to you.”
He laughed, damn the man. “My goodness,” he said, “that was an expert sidestep.”
She picked up her book and opened it. “I’m reading.”
“Trying, at least,” he murmured.
She flipped a page, even though she hadn’t read the last two paragraphs. She was really just trying to make a show of ignoring him, and besides, she could always go back and read them later, after he left.
“Your book is upside down,” he pointed out.
Sophie gasped and looked down. “It is not!”
He smiled slyly. “But you still had to look to be sure, didn’t you?”
She stood up and announced, “I’m going inside.”
He stood immediately. “And leave the splendid spring air?”
“And leave you,” she retorted, even though his gesture of respect was not lost on her. Gentlemen did not ordinarily stand for mere servants.
“Pity,” he murmured. “I was having such fun.”
Sophie wondered how much injury he’d sustain if she threw the book at him. Probably not enough to make up for the loss to her dignity.
It amazed her how easily he could infuriate her. She loved him desperately—she’d long since given up lying to herself about that—and yet he could make her entire body shake with anger with one little quip.
“Good-bye, Mr. Bridgerton.”
He waved her off. “I’ll see you later, I’m sure.”
Sophie paused, not sure she liked his dismissive demeanor.
“I thought you were leaving,” he said, looking faintly amused.
“I am,” she insisted.
He cocked his head to the side but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The vaguely mocking expression in his eyes did the job quite well.
She turned and walked toward the door leading inside, but when she was about halfway to her destination, she heard him call out, “Your new dress is quite fetching.”
She stopped and sighed. She might have gone from faux-guardian of an earl to a mere lady’s maid, but good manners were good manners, and there was no way she could ignore a compliment. Turning around, she said, “Thank you. It was a gift from your mother. I believe it used to belong to Francesca.”
