by Mary Balogh
“Ouch!” Sophia said now as he played a sour note. He was trying to learn something Ellen had played over and over for him on the pianoforte last evening, something by Beethoven.
He lowered his violin.
“Tab is not howling,” he said. “My playing cannot be that bad, Sophie.”
“I heard one bad note out of how many?” she said. “Five hundred? Of course, one bad note is all it takes to ruin the effect of the whole thing.”
“A critical audience is all I need,” he grumbled, “when I am trying to learn something new. My repertoire is woefully small.”
“Play it again,” she told him, “and play that note correctly.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled as she sketched an upturned flowerpot with a little door and a round window with checked curtains fluttering out of it—a fairy shelter. A fairy wand propped the door open. She loved teasing him—and being teased. They liked each other. It was a wonderfully warming feeling. It sustained her through days that were frequently not easy for her. His family was kind, even affectionate, and they were careful to defer to her as Vincent’s wife. She liked them all, without exception.
But they were not her own family.
Only Vincent was her own.
She liked almost all the neighbors they had met. And those people seemed actually glad to know them. They looked with sympathy and some admiration upon Vincent, who was well able to be charming. And they received her with deference, as though she were doing them some honor. How could she not like them all?
The viscount before the last—Vincent’s grandfather—had opened the park to all comers once a week, they had been told by some of their older neighbors, so that everyone could enjoy strolling on the lawns and having a picnic by the lake and relaxing in the summerhouse and trudging up over the hills. Vincent had suggested that it happen again, and Sophia had agreed with him—and added the suggestion that perhaps next summer they would organize a picnic for everyone, with games and contests and entertainments and prizes. The neighborhood was apparently already abuzz with both items of news. The park was to be open on Saturdays as soon as the lake path had been completed.
It was only afterward that it struck Sophia—she might not be here next summer.
Someone had mentioned too the grand balls that had occasionally been put on in the state apartments, and Sophia herself had promised that they would happen again. Perhaps even this year, Vincent had added. Perhaps after the harvest, when everyone would be in a mood to celebrate if the crops were good, as they showed every promise of being.
As with their storytelling, they seemed to thrive upon building on each other’s ideas. But how on earth was she to go about planning a harvest ball and a summer picnic—if she was here to plan it, that was? Sometimes she almost lost her courage. But she would not allow herself to do that. She had been given this one chance to … to live her life, and she would not squander it.
She had had a few riding lessons. She had worn her breeches, to the obvious shock of her mother-in-law and the amusement of Vincent’s grandmother. So far she had ridden only a quiet pony and only in the paddock behind the stables. Vincent had taught her how to check the pony over, and he had taught her how to mount and sit correctly. He had adjusted the stirrups so that her feet fit comfortably in them. He had taught her how to hold the reins and what they were for—they were not to clutch as though her life depended upon not letting them go. She had felt alarmingly far off the ground—and he had laughed when she had said so and reminded her that she was on the back of a pony. He had walked her about the paddock, his free hand trailing along the fence. After a while, he had let her go on her own. But of course, the head groom had kept a very careful eye upon her, as he had from the start. Vincent had taught her how to dismount. By now she was mounting and riding alone, but still only in the paddock and with both the groom and Vincent hovering over her.
She was proud of herself nevertheless and exhilarated by her own courage. But how could anyone be reckless enough to climb onto the back of a real horse and coax it into a gallop or even a canter?
All her new clothes had arrived from London, and Rosina had gone into raptures over them as she unpacked them and hung them lovingly in the wardrobe or folded them neatly into drawers.
“Enough for one day,” Vincent said now, lowering his violin. “I am going to have to beg Ellen to play that piece again so that I know I am learning it correctly. I would not want to do poor Beethoven a greater disservice than I am doing him anyway by choosing his music. Once I have it properly learned, then I will be able to enjoy it and start to feel it. I will awe you with my talent. Can you swim?”
“No.” She was woefully lacking in accomplishments.
“Do you want to learn?”
“Now?”
“It is not raining again, is it?” he asked. “Amy and Ellen were convinced the sun was going to shine all day.”
“It is still fine out there,” she said. “I think I am a little afraid of water.”
“All the more reason to learn to swim,” he said. “On the far side of the island the land slopes gradually into the lake, or so Martin told me when we went there once. The water is likely to be shallow enough back there not to terrify you. Of course, we would have to get to the island. Can you row a boat?”
“No.” She laughed.
“Then I will have to do it.” He grinned at her as he put his violin in its case and snapped it shut. “That should be an adventure.”
“I will close my eyes and cover them with my hands,” she said, “so that I will not see disaster looming.”
“Me too,” he said. “Let us go and get some towels.”
“What are we going to swim in?” she asked him.
“Apart from water?” He raised his eyebrows. “I suppose you can swim in your shift if you are afraid I will see too much should you not wear even that. Leave your stays behind, though.”
Tab jumped down from the love seat and accompanied them back to their own apartments, darting ahead and then waiting for them to catch up. He took up residence on the sunniest windowsill in their sitting room while they went upstairs to get ready.
It was indeed a lovely day. A group of gardeners were erecting the wrought iron rail beside the pathway to the lake. Sophia took Vincent’s arm and they walked farther out onto the lawn before turning down toward the boathouse.
“Are you feeling more in command of your own estate than you used to be?” she asked.
“I am,” he told her. “Oh, I know my people are always going to make sure that I am well protected from everything that poses even the slightest threat to my person, from raging bulls on down to pecking chickens. But I have insisted upon knowing what is going on with my farms, and I have insisted upon being taken about in the gig to see for myself, as it were, and to talk to my people. I still feel very stupid when I ask questions whose answers must seem glaringly obvious to them, but I will keep asking. Only so I can get to the point at which I do not need to ask. I shall grow into a very dull squire, Sophie, who can discuss nothing more interesting with his guests than the price of corn or the newest sheep-shearing methods.”
“Are there different methods?” she asked.
“I have not the faintest idea.”
They both laughed.
“Mrs. Jones has asked me to be honorary president of the women’s sewing circle,” she said. Mr. Jones was the vicar.
“No!” He stopped walking to look in her direction in mock astonishment. “Is that a huge honor, Sophie?”
“Well, you may make a joke if it,” she said, “but I am sure it is just that. Not strictly an honor, perhaps, but a reaching out. So few people have ever reached out to me. I do not quite know what the ‘honorary’ part means, of course. I shall have to ask. If it merely means that they can throw out my name and title to dazzle women’s groups from other villages, then I shall decline. But if they want me to sit in their circle sewing with them, then I shall accept, even though my
skill with a needle is nothing to boast of. I have never, ever had a woman friend. Not that the women here will want to be my bosom friends, I suppose. They will think, very foolishly, that I am too far above them. But friendly acquaintances, let us say.”
She was babbling a bit and they had still not resumed walking. And actually Lady Trentham had written to her several times and was in the way of becoming her friend. But at a distance.
“Oh, Sophie,” he said, “I am sorry. I have Martin—and yes, he is a friend and has been since my childhood—and I have the Survivors, and there are numerous friends at Barton Coombs I have neglected for six years. I had not thought that of course I am not enough for you.”
“Oh, that is not—” she began.
“No, I know it is not what you meant,” he said. “But I do not think you would be enough for me either, Sophie.”
She felt a stabbing of hurt and disappointment. And there it was. The reminder that they would never be all in all to each other, that despite their easy companionship, they would never really be even friends, let alone…
“We all need friends or at least friendly acquaintances of our own sex,” he said. “There is a different sort of relationship with friends of one’s own sex than with someone of the opposite sex, and it is one we all ought to cultivate. What I mean is that I understand and am glad for you, Sophie. I am sure you will enjoy the sewing circle. And the quality of your silence suggests to me that I am digging a deeper hole for myself with every word I speak. I have not hurt you, have I?”
“No, of course not,” she said. “I am the one who said I wish to join the sewing circle because I want the companionship of other women.”
There was a brief silence, during which neither of them moved.
“I like your companionship too,” he said. “We rub along well enough together, do we not?”
He looked a bit anxious.
We rub along well enough…
Yes, they did. She smiled a little sadly.
“We do,” she said. “Shall we face the terror of the boat ride? Or shall we stand here for the rest of the afternoon?”
“Oh, the boat ride, by all means.” He offered his arm again. “Just be thankful that we do not have a whole ocean to cross.”
“We might discover a new continent,” she said.
“Atlantis?”
“Or something completely unknown,” she said. “But for this afternoon I think I shall be happy just to reach that island safely.”
“You have put yourself into capable hands,” he told her.
“It is not your hands I am concerned about,” she said.
He laughed as they resumed walking.
Sophia felt a bit like crying.
Sophia ought to have been far more worried than she was, considering the fact that she could not swim. But she was too busy giving instructions to feel nervous. He was rowing with great energy and skill, except that he had no sense of direction, of course. At first it did not seem to matter as long as he pulled in the general direction of the island, but she could see after they were out on the water that there was a little jetty for them to pull into. Elsewhere the bank looked rather steep.
With his skill and her guidance they landed safely, and he climbed out and took the rope from her hand and tied it to a stout post.
“Madam?” He bowed and offered his hand, for which she was thankful. The boat had swayed alarmingly when she had tried to climb out unassisted.
“Oh, goodness,” she said. “And later we have to row back again.”
“We?” He waggled his eyebrows at her and bent to feel around for the towels. “Or you can swim home if you prove to be a more than usually adept pupil.”
She took the towels from him and slipped a hand through his arm. He had left his cane in the boathouse.
“I believe the temple was built as a folly purely for picturesque effect when viewed from the house,” he told her as they made their way up to it. “However, a former viscountess, or perhaps it was her mother—one of my ancestors, anyway—was a pious soul, or so I have been told, and made it into a little shrine. She was Catholic.”
Sure enough, there was a door on the temple and stained glass windows, and inside there was a crucifix on the wall and candles and an old leather-bound prayer book on a table beneath it. There was a chair beside it, a rosary hooked over the back. Nothing else. There was no room for more.
“I wonder if the lady rowed,” she said.
“Or swam.”
“I daresay,” she said, “she had a faithful retainer who brought her across whenever she wished to come. Our ancestors always had faithful retainers, did they not?”
“If they lived in stories they did,” he agreed. “I wonder how Martin would like the title of faithful retainer.”
Sunlight was beaming through one of the windows and casting multicolored light over everything. The effect was glorious.
“It smells a bit musty in here,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Where is this shallow water?”
It was behind the temple, on the far side of the island, where the land sloped more gently into the lake than it did on the near side. Sophia still did not like the look of it.
“Perhaps,” she said, “we should just sit and sun ourselves. That rowing looked like strenuous business.”
“Was clutching the sides of the boat with whitened knuckles just as strenuous?” he asked her.
“There is no way,” she retorted, “you could have seen that, even if it were true, which it is not. What are you doing?”
It was a foolish question to ask since there was nothing wrong with her eyesight. He was undressing.
“Have no fear.” He looked her way, grinning. “I shall leave on my drawers entirely to save your blushes. And you may leave on your shift lest I peep.”
She opened her mouth to argue and shut it again. He was not going to be moved, was he? And if he was going to go in the water, she had to go with him. He could not see. Sometimes she almost forgot that.
She undressed down to her shift. Why did being unclothed, and not even fully unclothed, seem far more wicked outdoors than it did in their bedchamber? There was no danger of being watched. There was no vantage point from which they could conveniently be seen even if someone had been looking for them.
Sunlight lit him up like a god—a very fond and foolish thought. But if there was any muscle in his body that was not fully developed and honed through frequent and strenuous exercise, she had certainly not seen it. And yet he was slender and slight of build and not particularly tall. It was a good thing for her that he was not.
He was perfect.
“You are very quiet,” he said. “Are you cowering?”
No, just admiring.
She took a few steps toward him and set her hand in his.
She had expected the water to be cold. She had steeled herself against the shock. It was—
“It is freezing!”
“It is rather,” he agreed. “It feels quite chilly on the ankles. I wonder how it will feel on the knees and the hips.”
They soon found out. The land dipped more sharply than had been apparent. It was a thousand times worse. Sophia gasped and did not know how to expel the breath.
“I think we should go b-b-b-back,” she managed to say through chattering teeth.
Without letting go of her hand, he held his nose with his free hand and went straight under until only his hair was wafting on the surface. He came up again and shook his head. Droplets of icy water rained on Sophia’s shoulders.
“Ah,” he said. “It is better under than out. Or will be.”
He went down again and reemerged moments later.
“It is better under,” he said. “Trust me. Is that your teeth I hear clacking?”
Hardly. She had them too tightly clamped together.
“Oh, bother,” she said and bent her knees and went straight down until she felt the water close above her head.
She came up sputter
ing.
“Liar!” she cried. “Oh, liar.”
He was laughing.
“Under,” he said, grasping her other hand. “At least up to your neck. Let your body adjust to the water’s temperature. Oh, Sophie, this feels so good.”
Despite her own discomfort, she looked fully at him. His hair was plastered to his head, water droplets were running down his face, his eyes were wide open, and he looked radiant. Carefree. Her heart melted.
She went under until the water covered her shoulders. Already it felt not quite so cold. Sunlight danced across its surface. How lovely, how freeing it must be to be able to swim.
“Come,” he said. “Let us go a little deeper, and I’ll teach you to float.”
“Oh,” she said, “I wish it were possible, but I fear it is not.”
But she waded deeper with him just because of that look on his face. He was enjoying this so much.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” he said. “Lie on the water. I’ll hold you. Like this. No, no need to cling or bring up your knees. That is the surest way to sink like a stone. Stretch along the water. Put your head back. Reach out your arms. Now relax. I won’t let you go. Just relax. Imagine you are on the softest, most comfortable of mattresses.”
It was incredibly difficult to relax, knowing there was only water beneath her—and his hands. It did feel lovely, though. And she trusted those hands and his word that he would not let her go.
She kept her eyes tightly closed.
“You are not fully relaxed,” he told her.
Well, there were the muscles that were holding her eyes clenched. And stomach muscles too, she discovered when she mentally checked them.
She opened her eyes and turned her head a fraction. His head was half bent over her. And—
Oh, God, she loved him.
She stared up at him, shaken—and yet relaxed.
For of course she loved him. He had rescued her. He had married her. And he was beautiful and sweet and kind. It would be very strange if she did not love him. It was not such an earth-shattering revelation.
And it made no difference to anything.
Except to make her heart hurt a little bit more.
“There,” he said softly. “Now you have it. Trust yourself. Trust the water.”
