The Temporary Betrothal

by Lily George

  “That’s most generous of you, Miss Handley. I honestly don’t know what to say.” The lieutenant was staring down at his boots, as if they were the most fascinating shoes in the world.

  “Say yes, and then start calling me Sophie. It would be silly for you to call me Miss Handley if we were courting.” She turned him gently back toward the steps of the courtyard, and gathered her skirts in one hand so she could descend without tripping.

  “But it feels like you are doing me a favor, without gaining anything for yourself in return. Is there anything I can offer you, Miss Hand—I mean, Sophie?” He guided her around a crumbling step, assisting her so she would not stumble.

  She glanced sideways at him, a smile hovering around her lips. “Don’t fret about it, Lieutenant,” she rejoined. “I am happy to help a friend. We are friends, aren’t we?”

  “We are.” She watched, fascinated, as a dimple appeared in his cheek. How handsome he was when he smiled. If only he would do so more often. Perhaps, during these next few weeks, she could endeavor to bring him out of his shell. In those few moments they spent together, she discerned that his dour behavior was only a facade, a mask to cover the hurt that his former fiancée had caused him. She didn’t know the lady in question, of course, but she would gladly claw her eyes out for the pain she had caused Cantrill.

  On the other hand, the lady’s defection had left the field open—not, of course, that it mattered to her.

  “Sophie!” Lucy’s voice rang out from the bottom of the steps. The governess was standing beside Ensign Rowland, waving up at them.

  “I must return to Lord Bradbury’s,” Sophie informed Charlie. “When does your mother arrive?”

  “In about a week.”

  “Then we have time to formulate a plan and make sure we have our stories correct,” she replied. “Perhaps we could talk about it when we meet at the veterans’ club this coming week?”

  “Mother may arrive that very day. She should be here by Friday, but it may be as early as Thursday.” He stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned toward her. “If this is too difficult a task, we need not go through with it.”

  “Nonsense. Send round a letter and let me know what to expect. If your mother is arriving Friday, then she will be here in time for Amelia’s dinner party. I shall make sure she is added to the guest list. I can meet her then.” Sophie patted his elbow with her fingertips and then withdrew from his grasp.

  “You will be present at the dinner party?” His voice betrayed his amazement.

  “His lordship has asked to me to take part in it, to help smooth Amelia’s first experience as a hostess,” she replied nervously. It did sound odd, since she was a servant. Yet that was the truth of it, no matter how strange it might appear to others.

  “I see.” He shifted his weight nervously, daring to look her in the eyes for the first time since they agreed to participate in the charade. “So I just need to send you a letter?”

  “Yes, tell me everything I should know about our relationship, in case your mother asks me any questions. Send it around as soon as you can, so I can begin committing everything to memory. And don’t worry, Lieutenant. Everything will be well, you’ll see. My mama was an actress, after all. As her daughter, I can certainly assume this role with assurance.” She tossed him what she hoped was a bright and careless grin, and then turned to go.

  “Charlie,” he called after her, his voice echoing a little off the stone steps.

  “Beg pardon?” She paused and half turned in her flight.

  “You asked me to call you Sophie. Don’t forget, you must call me Charlie.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Charlie,” she said softly. It was nice to call him by his Christian name. With a little wave, she turned back and ran quickly to Lucy, who was nodding her goodbye to Ensign Rowland. The thin young lad tipped his hat briefly at Sophie and then headed over to where Charlie stood waiting.

  “So?” Lucy was grinning, a wide smile that made Sophie laugh. “Did you have a pleasant visit with your lieutenant?”

  “His name is Charlie.” Sophie sighed, relishing the sound once more.

  Lucy stopped short. “Are we on first-name terms, then?”

  “Only on a fraudulent basis,” Sophie replied. She then divulged the plan, noting that Lucy’s eyes got rounder and rounder as she explained it.

  “Well, that’s daft,” Lucy responded when Sophie finished.

  “Why? He’s a family friend, and I want to help him as he’s helped me.”

  “He’s a friend, but it sounds like you want to make him more. Surely, Sophie, you are setting yourself up for heartbreak.” Lucy’s tone held a polite note of warning.

  “Not at all, I assure you. I esteem the lieutenant—”

  “Charlie,” Lucy interrupted.

  “Fine. I esteem Charlie greatly, but I don’t want to marry anyone. Haven’t I told you that I declined two offers of marriage within one year?” Really, sometimes Lucy’s high-handedness could get on one’s nerves.

  “Hmm.” Lucy studied Sophie’s face like one would study a fine work of art. “I think you haven’t married because you haven’t found the right man. And yet, the way you blush at the mention of Charlie’s name, I would think you are quite susceptible to matrimony, should he but offer.”

  Sophie swallowed her annoyance and attempted to carry off the moment with style. “Goodness, Lucy,” she replied with an airy wave of her hand. “The way you talk. Charlie is nothing more than a good friend, and I am doing him a favor. That’s what friends are for, after all.”

  “We’ll see,” Lucy said, her voice betraying a smirk.

  Honestly, she could be most insufferable at times.

  * * *

  Charlie crumpled up the foolscap and flung it into the fire. He had tried to write down the instructions for Sophie three times already, but kept running up against a brick wall. What was he supposed to say? Everything sounded so bizarre when he put pen to paper. He tried jotting down some ideas about how they met, but it sounded like something in a novel—a poorly written, feverishly detailed novel. And then he tried writing down the number of times they had met, but it sounded like a fantasy. He and Beth Gaskell had really only ever met at assemblies and balls. Now that he eschewed most societal functions, and now that Sophie was a servant, those soirees were out of the question.

  She was trying to help him, so the very least he could do was follow her instructions. And yet, he had no idea what to say or do. His heart surged with gratitude. Now he didn’t dread his mother’s visit—only the aftermath, when the sham was over and he and Sophie must put aside their fraudulent courtship. Because of Sophie, he would be able to stay in Bath and take care of the veterans’ fund. Just as her sister’s money had made their comfort possible, Sophie’s selflessness was making continuing his work a reality.

  Had he really just called Sophie selfless? As he’d known her before, as the woman who spurned his best friend, he thought of her as heartless and flippant. And yet, she was generous and lovely. Her few weeks in Bath had worked wonders on her character. Both Handley women were astonishing, in fact.

  That brought him up short. What if Harriet and Brookes found out? Even if they knew that Sophie was doing him a favor, they might decide that the matter was simply too fantastic to countenance. And of course, knowing Mother’s love of gossip, word would spread to Tansley from Brightgate like wildfire. Was it better to go ahead and inform them of the plan in advance, or merely hope against hope that they would never hear about it?

  He turned back briskly to the matter at hand. What should he say to Sophie about their charade? Any time he tried to write it as an epistle, he hated what he wrote. Falling back on his soldierly training, he jotted down instructions as he might lay out orders for his underlings.

  We know each other because your sister married my best friend.

  We became close in Bath through our work with the veterans’ fund.

  We are not engaged, but have been courting for a f
ew weeks.

  We have no fixed plans for the future.

  All of it was true, and yet, spelled out bluntly with pen and ink, it seemed awfully threadbare. But there was nothing more to say. He had tried to dress it up several times and the result was merely ridiculous.

  Whatever you do, don’t tell Mother we’re formally engaged. We will never hear the end of it.

  He crossed it out as soon as he wrote it. Sophie was nobody’s fool, and a broken engagement would cause more harm to her reputation than to his. And since she was seeking to stay in service to Lord Bradbury, it was in her best interest to stay as free from scandal as possible. His reputation was hardier, since he had already endured one broken engagement and didn’t really care about Society, anyway. And coming from the wealthy Cantrills, he could always call on his brother in a pinch. Not that he ever would.

  That was all he could think of to say. Anything else was too much. He folded up the missive and sealed it. Then he placed it on the small mahogany table in the hall, where his housekeeper, Mrs. Pierce, would be sure to see it. She would either deliver it herself or post it in the morning, as she did with all his outgoing letters.

  There was nothing to do now but wait for Mother to arrive. She would be here within days, and he had no idea what to say to her. At least the matter of his personal life was somewhat settled for the time being. She would still likely decry his frugal way of living, and urge him to move to a more fashionable address. She would probably laugh about his work with the fund, and try to entice him back to Brightgate with the promise of a position in his brother’s firm. In fact, the only thing she would probably approve of was Sophie.

  Her dancing eyes and careless smile flashed across his mind. Her sweetness of temper and her willingness to help him out of an unlivable situation were definitely the marks of a true friend and desirable woman.

  Desirable for some other man, he hastened to add. Not, of course, desirable to a crippled old bachelor.

  Yes, Sophie would definitely meet with Mother’s approval.

  * * *

  After receiving Charlie’s curt missive, Sophie had nothing more to do or say about their charade. She had hoped for an elaborate letter, explaining everything in detail. And yet, he simply stated what was already true.

  Sophie threw herself into preparations for Amelia’s dinner party, and the rest of the week sped by in a flurry of etiquette lessons, final menu preparations and practice sessions. The town house, already cleaned and polished, was cleaned and polished once more. Masses of flowers graced nearly every available surface in every available room. During the rush of planning, Sophie saw her employer hardly at all—only once did he nod in passing while she and Amelia worked in the dining room.

  Exhausted after her last day of preparations, Sophie collapsed in a heap upon her bed. There was nothing more to be done. Everything was ready. Amelia had been drilled endlessly on grace, poise and proper manners. She was turning into quite the little heiress before Sophie’s eyes. The house was stunning and gracious. The gowns were pressed and ready. Tomorrow was Friday, when the real test would begin.

  A knock sounded on her door. “Enter.”

  Lucy ducked in and came to sit beside her on the bed. “Are you too worn out to talk?”

  Sophie rolled over, cradling her head in her pillow. “You must know I am never too exhausted for gossip.”

  “This isn’t really gossip.” Lucy plucked at the coverlet, her eyes downcast. “It’s something...more personal.”

  This was intriguing. Usually Lucy was positively bubbly. Now she looked pensive and a bit sad. Sophie sat up. “Yes?”

  “Well, you know how you weren’t able to go to the Widows’ Fund this week?”

  “Yes, I was too busy with Amelia. Go on.”

  “Well—” Lucy kept her eyes downcast. “I read aloud to Ensign Rowland. And spent many hours in his company. Oh, Sophie!” Tears began rolling down Lucy’s pinkened cheeks. “I want to help him. I want to make him well.” She flung herself down on the quilt, sobbing in earnest.

  “Why is that so terrible?” Sophie patted Lucy’s back with a gentle hand. “I think it’s wonderful.”

  Lucy hiccupped several times before she could speak. “The struggles he has been through are nothing to mine. Even growing up in an orphanage as I did, my life has not been so difficult. How can I possibly assist him, when I myself have so little understanding of what it means to suffer?”

  “Lucy, my dear,” Sophie murmured in a soothing tone. “Aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself? After all, you’ve only just met the ensign. Charlie just wanted you to begin by reading to him. Simple human companionship is all he needs.” She handed Lucy her handkerchief. “I am sure, in time, that with your help, he may overcome his suffering.”

  “Does Charlie’s affliction bother you?” Lucy asked, sitting up on the bed.

  “His affliction?” Funny, she had never thought of it as such. Yes, his arm had been shot off, but she felt no revulsion about it. When Brookes returned from the war, his leg gone, she found the changes in him too much to bear. But Charlie—well, his war wound was as much a part of him as his thin face, or the way his eyes twinkled when he joked around. “No. I am not bothered by it at all.”

  Lucy blew her nose with a decisive honk. “What a pretty pair we are, eh, Sophie? Me with my hopeless desire to cure ills, and you with your sham romance. Surely we two maids have more heartache than anyone in Bath.”

  With that, Lucy rose from the bed and retired to her own chamber. But Sophie was too tired to sleep. Having spent most of the week living in a blur, she could not calm her mind to the point that blessed rest could overtake her.

  She rolled over onto her side, scrunching her pillow under her head. Was Lucy right? Was she destined for heartache if she continued with this charade? Charlie’s shocked expression flitted across her mind. He seemed sincerely appreciative of her offer, if slightly taken aback by her brazenness in suggesting it. But what did she feel? Wasn’t she just the tiniest bit excited by the thought of being engaged to Charlie—even if the engagement was a sham?

  Yes. She tucked her pillow under her head and squeezed her eyes shut. She was excited—too excited for comfort. A niggling feeling of doubt crept into her mind. She had better, just to be safe, guard her heart.

  After all, the engagement was only a temporary betrothal.

  Chapter Nine

  A knock sounded on the front door, and Mrs. Pierce bustled to answer it. Charlie eyed her through the crack in his sitting-room doorway. That imperious rapping could belong to only one woman in the world: Mrs. Moriah Cantrill, widow of the late George Cantrill, mother of the esteemed Robert Cantrill and the lesser-known Charles Cantrill. Mother. She was here, and ’twas time to put his plan into action. If only it weren’t so difficult to talk to his family members. Oh, they all had good intentions, but he might as well have been dropped on his parents’ doorstep as a baby. He resembled them—in temperament at least—not at all.

  Mrs. Pierce ushered Mother into the room. No, pretending that gypsies had left him on a doorstep simply was not possible. ’Twas like looking into a mirror. The same dark hair and eyes, the same thin face. He looked too much like his mother to deny the connection.

  “Charles, my son.” She removed her feathered cap and velvet pelisse, tossing both to Mrs. Pierce, who nearly missed catching them.

  “Mother.” He leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her finely wrinkled cheek.

  “You may go,” she replied, half turning toward Mrs. Pierce. “We should like tea in approximately ten minutes.”

  Mrs. Pierce bobbed a curtsy and stalked out of the room, shaking her head. Charlie couldn’t blame her. He never treated her as his mother treated her servants. In fact, Mrs. Cantrill had a reputation throughout Derbyshire for the brevity of most of her servants’ lengths of stay.

  “You look thin, Charles. Careworn, in fact.” Mother sank into a chair, glancing about the room. “It must be this terrible situati
on you live in. You must take a more fashionable address, my son. I know Katherine Crossley lives on Bilbury Lane—perhaps you could take a flat in her building.”

  Already Mother was ordering him about. He clenched his teeth and shook his head. “This flat is perfectly adequate for a bachelor’s needs, Mother.”

  Mother’s patrician lips curled in a slight grimace. “Your flat is unbearable. I shan’t stay here myself. I am staying with our friends, the Pooles, at their townhome in the Crescent.”

  Twin emotions pulled at Charlie’s gut—elation that Mother would not be around all day and all night throughout her stay, and anger that she hadn’t deigned to settle with him in his poky flat. In the end, elation won out over hurt feelings. That was Mother for you. High-handed and snobby.

  Mrs. Pierce rushed in with the tea tray.

  “A trifle early,” Mother admonished.

  “We’ll take it, anyway, and thank you,” Charlie added.

  Mother glanced at him, something like a flicker of amusement in her gaze. “Still coddling the servants?”

  “Merely treating others as I would wish to be treated.”

  Mother said nothing more, but busied herself with the tea things. After an agonizing silence, during which Charlie’s heart beat faster in his chest, she handed him a cup.

  “You know why I am here.” It was a statement, not a question.

  He sighed. “Mother, before we begin, you must know that we are invited to Anthony, Viscount Bradbury’s tonight. His daughter, the Honorable Amelia Bradbury, is making her debut as hostess.” If he cut off any discussions at once—especially with an invitation to dine with nobility—surely Mother would let the matter drop for the time being.

  It worked. She settled back in her chair, a satisfied glow lighting her features. “Of course, I should love to dine with the viscount,” she responded in dulcet tones. “How nice of them to include us.”