by Sharon Sobel
“On my way here I was waylaid by our nephews seeking ideas for the day’s activities,” Barclay told her. “While I tend to that, I shall send you up a surprise.”
The words filled Sophy with dread. The surprises she’d had to date hadn’t been the kind she wanted. “What kind of surprise?”
“The fellows have rigged up a sedan chair to carry you downstairs so you might enjoy their company. Wait here.”
As if she could do anything else, Sophy thought dismally, her ankle throbbing and now the foot as well. Moments later male grunts and exclamations preceded the strains of an awkward struggle on the staircase.
A trio of gentlemen eventually appeared, setting down a creation of fabric and wood before they approached and bowed to her. Having learned of her accident, the suitors Barclay had assembled were most solicitous, expressing sympathy and offering support all at once. She was happy to see they were accompanied by a woman. This must be the Arabella Barclay had mentioned.
“We’ve brought you a gift,” announced the most imposing of the three. “A homemade one, but one that should please you.”
Peeking over their shoulders, she was startled to see they had combined their efforts at courtship to create what appeared to be a homemade sedan chair. The contraption alternately dismayed and intrigued her as she eyed it with uncertainty.
“Allow me to introduce myself, my lady.” With a sweep of his arm, a thin gentleman before her bowed low and gallantly, revealing an unfortunate bald spot on his pate. “Sampson Hodge, at your service.”
“Your brother told us of your most unhappy mishap,” another chimed in, pushing the first aside in his eagerness to present himself. “I am Herbert Prindle, a close friend of Barclay’s. And this is my sister Arabella.”
Sophy offered him a smile, recalling the name from Barclay’s forays into London society. Traveling in America had denied her the opportunity to immerse herself in the ton as her brothers had done. Clearly Barclay had solved that problem by bringing the ton to her.
“I’m charmed to meet you, Miss Templeton,” Arabella said in a soft voice that had a charming lilt.
Herbert Prindle took her hand in his briefly before the third stranger, the first of the three who had spoken to her, edged his way in front of the others.
“Allow me to offer my condolences on your most ill-timed accident, Miss Templeton,” he sympathized, taking charge of the situation as he lifted her hand in his. “I am Humphrey Fotherington. We decided to arrange for your comfort during your recuperation by providing you transportation so you shan’t feel quite so housebound.”
“Indeed. What conveyance have we here?” she inquired, forcing pleasantry as she saw the makeshift vehicle for the first time, relieved to hear her brother’s footsteps on the stairs.
“It is a unique sedan chair, a one-of-a-kind carriage,” Fotherington explained, standing beside the chair and gesturing to it with pride. “We prevailed upon your tenant, Mr. Riggs, to find us a board and the two wooden poles you see here on the outside. As you can see, we padded the board for your comfort and added sides and drapery to your chariot to give you privacy.”
“How very thoughtful.” Sophy studied the chair with an uneasy smile, trying to imagine how she would gain anything but embarrassment from riding in it. She struggled to find a diplomatic expression of thanks for her potential suitors. “In America where I spent the last two years, the pioneers are exceptionally mobile, walking miles when necessary. Though I appreciate your efforts, and while the chair might be fashionable in Bath or Tunbridge Wells, I fear it might not be entirely suitable for Derbyshire’s hills.”
“What my sister means to say,” Barclay cut in on his return, forcing a smile as he gave her a warning glance, “is that since she is most concerned about her ankle healing properly she would be happy to accept your kind offer of transportation.”
“We guarantee a comfortable ride,” Sampson Hodge hastened to assure her. “We’ve taken pains to see to your comfort.”
“Someone as light as yourself would be a pleasure to transport,” Herbert Prindle concurred, gesturing to the seat. “Would you care to try it?”
“We promise not to drop you,” Sampson Hodge said, giving her a mischievous wink.
Sophy glanced up at Barclay in alarm. “Dare I?” she whispered, trying to keep the doubt from her voice.
“Give it a try,” he encouraged. “Doctor Evans says it will be awhile before you’ll even be able to use crutches. Why not try this as a substitute means of transportation in the meantime?”
“I take it you had a hand in this and shall take charge of directing this arrangement,” she said darkly.
Barclay slipped his arm about her waist, supporting her so she was able to keep her weight on the right foot while easing herself into her conveyance. The softness of the cushioning surprised her. The gentlemen had left space enough so her legs could extend outward and lie flat, allowing her to sit in a position that would keep her as comfortable as possible.
Impressed with their efforts, she settled in for a ride that promised to keep her free from pain. Together the men lifted the chair and set off for the staircase. Rather than drag her, she realized with surprise, they appeared intent on carrying her downstairs.
Their strength held up admirably until they angled the sedan chair around the corner. They moved toward the stairs, navigating their way uncertainly, bumping first one wall before striking the other. Enclosed within the surrounding draperies that blocked her view, Sophy felt herself jolted left, then right. The bouncing caused a sudden sharp pain in her ankle before the men paused to discuss various approaches to maneuvering the staircase which was apparently narrower than they expected. Apparently, Sophy reflected crossly, they had not considered the effect of her added weight, slight as she was, when they carried the contrivance upstairs.
“Barclay, if there is a problem, perhaps you might carry me,” she suggested from inside her box chamber, struggling to find the elusive opening in the fabric. “I fear this chariot might be less capable of transporting me safely to breakfast than your arms.”
Heedless of her discomfort, they continued until an alarming stumbling sound met her ears followed by thumps. The men seemed to have lost their grip as the chair tipped first one way, then the other. It bounced its way down each stair tread, sending her off-kilter and wracking her leg with pain as it went. The ride came to a sudden halt as she felt the conveyance gripped awkwardly by what she assumed were human hands.
“Release me at once!” Sophy fumed, shaking with fear and humiliation. “Let me out!”
She managed to pull the curtains aside to see the gentlemen had set her down on the landing. She was loath to allow them the opportunity to drop her again. Slipping her strong leg from the box, she seized the sleeve of Barclay’s coat.
“Would you please carry me downstairs,” she instructed, “else I land on my head so that it is more scrambled than the eggs on our breakfast table? I fear before we are done I shall have more limbs severely damaged.”
If she had been worried about disappointing her suitors, Barclay informed her, with some irritation, later that day, her callous dismissal of their invention had failed to discourage them. She might, he suggested, be more open to receiving their ministrations since they promised to offer other helpful suggestions.
The gentlemen he had gathered to woo her remained so solicitous of her welfare they took it upon themselves to position themselves at her beck and call throughout the day. There they remained against her wishes.
Tired of finding at least two out of the three waiting to serve her whenever she showed the least interest in becoming mobile, she retreated to the company of her mother that afternoon.
“Haven’t we a pair of crutches somewhere that I might try?” she begged. “I would feel more secure if I could ambulate under my own power.”
; “I believe we have a set you might use, but I think you might appreciate the efforts of our guests a bit more,” her mother remonstrated gently. Closing her book, she gave Sophy a tender smile. “Before you returned from America, Barclay gave a great deal of thought as to whom to invite to share the holidays this year. He was only thinking of your future happiness.”
“But I am happy now,” Sophy insisted, “or I was until this accident.”
Her mother gave her a bemused half-smile. “I am glad to know it,” she replied, a look of serenity returning to her face, “for it is sometimes difficult to judge from your behavior whether you are truly happy. Your injury will heal in time and you shall be restored to full health, but in the meantime you must learn to be patient. Shall I find you something to read to help pass the time?”
Sophy puzzled over her remark as her mother set her book aside and rose to peruse the shelves, searching for a selection that would please her. For the moment, Sophy decided, she was content to remain with her mother in the library, away from the helpful ministrations of her suitors.
It was in the library where Barclay found her the following evening, reading a book with her leg stretched out on the chaise. Since he was alone she decided his gentlemen friends must be occupied in pursuits other than her.
“I wondered where you’d disappeared to.” Barclay closed the door quietly behind him. “Hiding from everyone, are you?”
“Not especially. Just trying to fill the time until my ankle heals and I can leave for America once again.”
“It’s not so bad.” Barclay shrugged. “If you’d been at war you’d have been sent home anyway. And defending our nation is far more important than teaching Indians.”
“But I wasn’t in the war,” she retorted. “I was simply skating. The only war I’m fighting is against this army of unsuitable suitors you’ve assembled.”
Barclay studied her dress critically. “You aren’t wearing that in their presence, are you? You’re supposed to impress them, not convince them you’re a country dowd.”
“Would it matter? It’s obvious none of them goes to Beau Brummel’s tailor. Mr. Hodge is so skinny he doesn’t look like any Sampson I know. And while Mr. Prindle barely says a word, Mr. Fotherington says far too much. When will you admit we aren’t well matched?”
Sophy shook her head, amused in spite of herself, as she continued, “I felt like hiding after I spilled juice down the front of my dress this morning while trying to manage a crutch. Mr. Hodge didn’t seem to mind. He came to breakfast prepared to tell me how beautiful I looked, and he fulfilled his mission despite the juice.” She pulled a face. “And later, when I dropped the book I was reading, all three men rushed to retrieve it for me.”
“You have to admit they’re helpful sorts. I hope you don’t read so much you scare them away,” Barclay cautioned, glancing at the book in her hand. “They’ll think you’re a bluestocking.”
“Sometimes you try too hard to make me happy. Oh, I do miss our talks.” Sophy closed her book, happy for the company after reading for the last hour. “Come, sit and join me. The tea is still warm if you wish to have some.”
Barclay shook his head. “Thanks, but I prefer something a bit stronger. I’ll join you, though, if I might.”
“By all means.” Sophy watched him make his way to the sideboard. “Were you searching for me or the brandy?”
He dropped into the chair opposite, brandy in hand, his shoulders slumping. “I hope I’m not the only one searching for you. I don’t want your obvious indifference to discourage Herbert or Sampson. I doubt it will scare off Fotherington.”
Sophy opened her book again, seeking refuge in its pages. “They’re grown men, Bark, probably experienced with women if not terribly worldly. I’m sure they’ve dealt with rejection.”
She was startled when he ripped the book from her hands and tossed it aside where she was unable to reach it without hobbling to the spot where it landed. She looked at him in annoyance.
“In case through some complete lack of perception on your part you don’t already know, our mother is most desperate to see you wed, and soon. Harry is as well because Mother wants it.” Barclay slouched lower in the chair, looking more tired than annoyed. “I’ve done my best, Soph. I’ve given you three good men to choose from, and you’ve all but rejected them outright.”
“You’ve given me three graceless buffoons,” she returned. “One dropped me on the stairs in an accident that could have injured me again. Another is either half-witted or blind if he thinks I look lovely with juice all down my dress. And the last is full of himself.”
“Herbert is a bit clumsy, but he had your comfort at heart. Sampson was simply being polite, which is more than you’ve been to him. And if Humphrey is full of himself, he has reason to be. He never has pockets to let. He’s a marquess, and you would do dashed well to consider him.” Barclay turned away, his face set as if he were unable to think more about the subject. “It’s the best I can do at present. All the snow is keeping people away.”
To shake off his reprimand Sophy gazed out the bay window at the softly falling snow beyond. She had always found snowfall quite magical and regretted not being able to walk in it, preferably alone.
“Don’t discount them so easily, Sophy. They want to prove themselves worthy of you. Give them a chance.” When she didn’t reply Barclay sighed. “If nothing else, Jeremy St. Laurent arrives back later tomorrow. I know that probably is no consolation to you.”
She felt her insides tighten. “I suppose he’s bringing his family,” she said, trying to sound casual rather than sarcastic.
Barclay gave her a puzzled look. “He has only his father, and as he’s quite infirm now, it’s doubtful he’ll come.”
“I meant his wife and child.”
Sophy stared as his expression turned solemn.
“His wife and child died during the war. His son expired days after his birth, and his wife was killed by enemy fire.”
Sophy’s heart skipped a beat before guilt and remorse flooded over her. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She cringed to think she harbored such resentment while Jeremy had suffered. The realization shamed her into silence.
“I thought you knew.” Seeing the expression on her face, Barclay muttered, “But then how could you? You’ve been in America so long you’re out of touch.”
“When did it happen?” Her heart still pounded uncontrollably as her shock began to subside. Sorrow mixed with a curious relief that filled her with guilt.
“Three years, perhaps. He never speaks of it.” He shrugged. “It was common enough for soldiers abroad to partner the ladies. I imagine that’s how their union came about.”
“Oh.” Trying to absorb conflicting emotions, she closed the subject. How terrible to lose a child under any circumstances, but especially those Jeremy had endured.
That was the cost of war, she told herself, trying to dismiss him from her thoughts. One could not expect otherwise. It was far better to devote oneself to charitable and philosophical causes, where one was not vulnerable to the pain of such loss but instead open to inspiration and true devotion.
“I’m going up to bed,” she announced. “Wait—no, I can’t.”
With dismay she realized she would have to summon the servants to carry her upstairs on the stretcher they had made.
“Come,” Barclay offered, “I’ll carry you in my arms.”
He set his brandy aside with a thud, the effects of his indulgence throughout the evening obvious in his tired eyes and in a slight slurring of his speech.
“C’mon, I’ll carry you up over the threshold to your room. Someone might as well put you to bed.” Her brow darkened as he muttered, “I might be the only man who ever has the chance.”
It was fortunate Sophy stayed long abed the following day, for she was not the only fam
ily member forced to spend the day indoors. Upon waking she realized from the bright crystal coating on her window that snow had fallen steadily overnight. She passed the remainder of the morning in the playroom with her nieces and nephews, turning it into a makeshift classroom as she shared her experiences in the New World. She found an opportunity to relive her experiences abroad as she explained to them that the natives were not as savage as those on the Continent believed.
Her lesson was interrupted by the arrival of her sister-in-law. Jane stood frowning in the doorway, having overheard part of her discussion with the children.
“Really, Sophy,” Jane remonstrated, “can’t you try to enjoy our company a bit more in the short time you’re here? I know you haven’t felt up to snuff lately, but we’ve hardly seen you. This isn’t the time for such talk. The children are on holiday.”
“I was giving them a bit of a geography lesson.” Sophy smiled, knowing Harry’s wife was likely to disapprove. “And I’m happier than you know to be home again, even if I’m not as demonstrative as you might wish.”
“The children have a governess,” Jane reminded her. “We’d rather not fill their heads with dreams of going abroad as soon as they are able. I need to borrow them so they might help select the ribbons the men will use to pull in the yule log Christmas Eve before we set it alight. What do you think, children?”
Sophy shared in their exclamations of joy as the children ran from the room ahead of Jane. She remembered reacting just as they had when it came to honoring the same holiday traditions.
Warm thoughts of Christmases past lifted her spirits. While reluctant to give Barclay the satisfaction, she decided it would be more respectful in this season of generosity to open her mind as well as her heart. Remembering how much she valued being able to spend time with Barclay, Eddie, and Harry, she vowed, as she engaged in conversation with the gentlemen throughout the day, to keep an open mind and get to know them better. She would give each his chance, as Barclay wished.
