Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine

by Jayne Fresina

  On this grim evening, Mrs. Dykes’s dour, mournful appearance was oddly apt, as if she were another element of the storm. Henry’s mother-in-law was a formidable creature in her severe black widow’s weeds. She wore her graying hair pulled back in a tight knot that lifted the corners of her eyes and mouth into a rather terrifying grimace. While she dressed plainly, content to merge with the walls, her daughter preferred flamboyant colors and frills to accentuate her bosomy figure. This proclivity lent her the look of a dancing girl from the Drury Lane Theatre.

  The two women stared at James Hartley in a fierce way, taking their attention from him only when Wilson brought around tureens and platters of food. Then they both looked away just long enough to choose greedy portions.

  Mrs. Dykes had sold her house in Norwich to be closer to her daughter, and she now rented rooms in Morecroft. Like most things, they were deemed unworthy, falling far short of her expectations. She never failed to mention, during every visit to her son-in-law, the discomforts of her living quarters.

  “It hain’t in me to complain,” she said, smiling distantly across the table at James Hartley, “although the rooms are hawfully damp in the winter and hot in the summer. They are, at least, in the better part of town, and one is close enough to visit one’s daughter. When the roads are passable. It hain’t so great a distance, even for an old woman with bad hips and weak blood. Traveling with the mail coach hain’t no comfort, very often cramped with unsavory characters, but one withstands any trial to visit one’s only daughter. I should love a private carriage, even just a small, jaunty little curricle, like what you own, Mr. Hartley. But one makes do.”

  Sophie looked at Henry, who merely slurped at his consommé and offered nothing to the conversation. Fortunately, the Bentleys had also been invited that evening, and Maria could always be counted on for some conversation.

  “What news from Morecroft, Mrs. Dykes? Have you seen any new fashions there?” she politely enquired above the soup tureen.

  The lady answered in a faint, disinterested voice. “One don’t follow fashion these days, Mrs. Bentley, now one’s a widow, of course.” She sat very straightlaced and stiff in her black bombazine.

  Maria’s shoulders drooped in disappointment. Since she relied on news from larger towns when it came to keeping abreast of trends, Mrs. Dykes was really useful only as a conduit to such news. Loath to abandon the subject, she exclaimed, “I hear waistlines continue to fall. I’m sorry for it, as I do hate to wear tight stays!”

  Aunt Finn declared herself heartily glad for the return of stays. “I never gave mine up, of course, but I saw many a young lady discarding stays who would be far better off”—and here she cast Lavinia a sly glance across the sputtering candles—“keeping herself restrained. Some bosoms are better off not being seen flopping about.”

  Sophie thought she would explode with laughter. The insult went over Lavinia’s head, but not her mother’s.

  Mrs. Dykes glared at Aunt Finn with an intense, burning hatred. “Hain’t the soup too spicy for you, Finnola dear? Lady Sadler recommends nothing but bland food for the helderly. It don’t do no good to get them too lively with heavy seasoning, she always says.”

  Aunt Finn, who was surely no older than Mrs. Dykes, raised another spoonful to her mouth and, cooling it with her breath, blew several bubbles that spattered across the table.

  “Such a pity you hain’t got a French cook, ’Enry,” Mrs. Dykes muttered as she dabbed at the spilled consommé with her napkin. “Lady Sadler swears to the proficiary of a French cook above any other.”

  Lady Sadler was a familiar name on her lips. Indeed, she used any excuse, stretched any topic, to include some anecdote about Lady Sadler, the wife of a retired judge and a former employer of Mrs. Dykes. The Sadlers, it seemed, were the authority on all things proper.

  Sophie stole a glance at James and saw he was thoroughly entranced by Mrs. Dykes. Led by a wickedly dark sense of humor, he asked the lady many questions about the Sadlers, which she was only too glad to answer.

  “Indeed, I’ve some right splendid news,” she announced grandly. “The Sadlers have took a place along the seafront in Morecroft this summer for Lady Sadler’s health. They bring all their daughters, Mr. Hartley, all unwed and at present unengaged,” she simpered. “I defy you not to be in love with one of ’em while they’re here. Wherever they go, they’re much hadmired. Of course, they hain’t got my daughter’s complexion or her fine bones, but not everyone can be as fortunate as my Lavvy.”

  Sophie felt the tremors of James’s stifled laughter. “I’m intrigued already, madam.”

  Now Mrs. Dykes turned her gimlet eyes to Henry. “I took the libertary of mentioning to Sir Arthur Sadler our particular problem with Sophia. He’ll soon sort her out.”

  Sophie exhaled. “Sort me out?”

  “Sir Arthur will find Sophia a governess post.” Mrs. Dykes smiled ghoulishly.

  Sophie wondered why this dormant subject was suddenly raised again, but even as the question formed in her mind, she knew the answer. The scandal of her advertisement for a husband suddenly made it even more prudent she be sent away.

  Mrs. Dykes continued, “It hain’t like me to speak out of turn, but disciplinary is somewhat lax in this house, ’Enry. A really well-regulated family like the Sadlers hain’t never suffered with scandal like what this one does.”

  James smiled dashingly at Mrs. Dykes and suggested that as soon as the Sadlers arrived in Morecroft, they must all come to his grandmother’s house for an evening of music and cards.

  “She does enjoy new company and would be excessively glad to meet you all.”

  Sophie winced. James always did love his pranks.

  “You keep an ’ouse in London, sir?” Mrs. Dykes asked James.

  He confirmed he did.

  Gravy dripped down Lavinia’s chin, but she was oblivious to it. “Henry won’t take me to London. He says it’s too much expense.”

  “Not even to visit the Grimstock relatives in Mayfair?” James asked politely.

  “He’s never taken me to visit them.”

  James leaned back in his chair to look at Henry. “Really, old chap? One should take one’s lovely and charming wife to meet the noble Grimstocks.”

  Sophie tried to get his attention with her foot, to end his teasing for her brother’s sake, but turning his handsome smile back to Lavinia, he exclaimed, “You would be the talk of the town, Mrs. Valentine. I daresay Henry fears you might be stolen away by an admirer if he took you out into Society.”

  Lavinia giggled and covered her plump lips with one hand.

  “I don’t have time to go to London,” Henry snapped. “I have an estate to run.”

  Sophie drank her entire glass of wine in one swallow.

  Mrs. Dykes shook her head sorrowfully and sucked on her teeth before giving this pronouncement: “Your sister’s becoming a drinker, ’Enry. I knew it would come to this! Sir Arthur Sadler says an idle mind is too easily prone to over-hindulgence. A firm hand is what you lack here, ’Enry. With your parents gone, certain behavior has been tolerated, unchecked, for far too long, particular in light of…recent hevents.”

  Henry’s face blossomed like a scarlet peony.

  “The Sadlers have, in the past, helped several troublesome young ladies like Sophia find good positions away from ’ome and in the bosom of good, proper Christian families. They’ll surely find somewhere to put Sophia. Out of the way.”

  Sophie sighed so heavily she almost extinguished the nearest candle flame.

  “What with that gypsy fellow down the lane, ’overing like a vulture…”

  Sophie felt James watching her intently, his eyes cool and questioning.

  The syllabub was served, but she couldn’t enjoy a solitary spoonful, not while that nodding dragon sat across the table, trying to force her into another corner. Why did everyone assume they might organize her life? Soon they might drive her to a desperate act of mad violence with a meat cleaver. That cork leg wou
ld not stay attached long to Mrs. Dykes once Sophie began swinging something sharp in her direction.

  As soon as she could politely leave the table, she walked outside for some fresh air. The wind and rain had stopped, coming and going with that peculiar eccentricity of an English summer, but it was still a chilly evening, and Sophie regretted leaving her shawl behind. It was too late to go back for it. They would all be discussing her now, as if she were a disobedient puppy leaving puddles on the rug. She hugged her arms and marched up and down the courtyard to stay warm, acrid smoke from the fireplace still clinging to her hair and gown.

  “So this…gypsy…is the man who leased Souls Dryft?” James had followed her out into the yard and brought her shawl.

  “Yes. He came here because of the advertisement. Just like you.” Taking the shawl from his outstretched arm, she swung it around her shoulders.

  “Not like me,” he corrected her. “I have a prior claim. Besides, Henry says this gypsy changed his mind when he found you scarred.”

  That was a new one, she mused. Before, it was because her dowry was too small. Sophie turned away and walked toward the gatehouse.

  James followed. “Where are you going?”

  She stopped by the ancient stone and inhaled the calming scent of distant pine trees. The damp air was thick with it this evening.

  Where was she going?

  “What is all this about a governess post?”

  “That’s Mrs. Dykes…doing her best to be rid of me for her daughter’s sake. I’m under Lavinia’s feet here, and she resents my daily ‘hinterference.’”

  James reached for her hand. “I can’t decide who is worse, Lavinia or her mother. If I had any liking for Henry, I’d feel sorry for the man, but he makes his own problems.” He looked down at her fingers. “And I can’t forgive him for persuading you to break off our engagement, Sophia.”

  He never believed it was her idea to end their engagement. He preferred to blame Henry’s influence. Ironically, most people in the village assumed James broke it off. No one could imagine Sophie Valentine, quite a commonplace woman even on a good day, would turn down the likes of a James Hartley.

  “We should be married, Sophia. As it was meant to be.”

  He was so handsome and gallant in the moonlight. But it wasn’t enough. People would think her daft, but she couldn’t help it. She wanted more. The way he’d once touched that dark-haired maid in a crowded ballroom when he thought no one saw, had more tenderness, more heated desire in it, than the way he ever touched or looked at her. James seemed to think they belonged together, almost as if it were preordained, an item on a list to be crossed off. It wasn’t because he had to have her, lusted after her, felt he would die without her.

  Of course, if she thought practically, taking stock of her situation, marriage to James offered her much. At her age, it would be ungrateful, not to mention foolish, to turn him away without the slightest consideration.

  “Kiss me, James,” she whispered, wondering if it would feel different now they were older. She reached for his shoulders, but he gripped her arms and braced them so her hands rested on the lapels of his coat instead.

  He was so painfully proper with her, when she knew he was not like that with other women. Oh yes, she knew about his reputation, but their one and only encounter on that billiard table ten years ago was initiated by her. He’d always treated her as if she might break, and the disappointment had led her to leap from a balcony.

  “James. Just kiss me!”

  With Lazarus Kane, she had not needed to ask. He hadn’t given her the chance.

  Finally James kissed her, almost missing her lips but for one southerly corner.

  “Marry me, Sophia,” he said again.

  She sighed heavily, tears threatening at the brink. It would be a “good” match. No more money worries. Henry might even stop being angry with her, and she would no longer be the great disappointment, an embarrassment to be shoved off into the corner. She would escape this fortress and Lavinia. People would stop looking at her with pity in their eyes.

  But she would have to leave behind this pretty village she loved. Then there was her schoolhouse—any good she’d tried to do there would be undone. And venturing back out into James’s world…she didn’t know if she wanted that again. Part of her would die forever. It must if she was to survive in that society. She remembered that evening by the balustrade, how she’d felt stifled and trapped. Of course, she was nineteen at the time, and many things seemed more dramatically wretched to her then. It might be different now.

  “I need time to think, James.”

  “My darling Sophia. I shall be patient.”

  He was probably afraid she might do something drastic again if he forced a decision.

  Chapter 16

  The gift came on the following Monday.

  “Miss Sophie, Miss Sophie!” Wilson clutched a box in her hands and dashed through the waving flags of wet linen. “I just went down to the gatehouse to let Old Bob in with the fish cart, and this was sitting there for you.”

  She took the box cautiously in her hands. “Whatever…?”

  “It has your name on it, miss, look.”

  Sure enough, her name was scrawled across the lid—badly misspelled. There was no note with it, no explanation. Sophie gingerly opened the lid. Inside, nestled in straw, there was a birdcage, complete with the model of a linnet seated on the perch. She recognized it at once from the market stall. There was a tiny key in the base of the cage, and when turned, the little bird let out a pert chirp, flapped its wings, opened its beak, and dipped forward, ready to take flight. But the door of the little cage didn’t open, and the bird remained on its perch, ever ready to go nowhere.

  She knew who sent it to her; there was no doubt. They’d not spoken since the dance, but somehow she knew he was responsible for this.

  “Isn’t it lovely, miss?”

  “Yes,” she whispered reluctantly.

  “But what can it mean?”

  Frowning, she handed the cage to the maid. “I suppose I’d better find out.”

  ***

  The air that morning was fresh and warm as a loaf straight from the oven. The shrill larks, chattering blackbirds, and sultry wood pigeons, feeling the gentle, glowing sun on their feathers, greeted its rise with a full orchestral performance. The slightest of breezes carried a few stringy fleece clouds, just high enough to keep them from snagging on the treetops, and wildlife rustled, unseen and industrious among the hedgerows. Her feet, walking quickly through the long grass of the verge, disturbed a young rabbit and several butterflies, whose sudden nervous emergence caused her as much fright as she caused them.

  She raised one hand to her forehead to shade her eyes and peered ahead to where a man was climbing a stile into the field beyond.

  “Mr. Kane!” The name still sounded strange on her lips.

  He stopped and looked back. She waved and quickened her pace, afraid he might disappear or she’d lose her courage, but he rested his arms on the stile and waited. Panting, she finally arrived beside him. “Mr. Kane, where do you go?”

  His dark, thoughtful eyes studied her warm face. “I go to pick mushrooms.”

  “Oh.”

  “Will you pick them with me, Miss Valentine? If you have the time to spare, of course. I know you have far more important things to do than share a few minutes with a shallow young rake.”

  The invitation was spur of the moment, and she accepted just as speedily, not even waiting for his hand to help her over the stile. When he stood back, giving her room to pass through into the field, she saw him look away, pretending not to notice the little flash of ankle as she leapt from the stile. On his best behavior today, it seemed. He walked on into the field, leaving her to follow.

  “You have no basket, Mr. Kane,” she said as she quickened her pace to walk alongside. “You came out to gather mushrooms but have nothing in which to keep them.”

  “We can use your apron.”

 
; “Did you know you would meet me, then, and I’d wear my apron?”

  He stared ahead. “So I didn’t come out just to pick mushrooms. How astute you are.” Then he smiled crookedly. “Too clever for me. But then I’m an ignorant fool who can’t even read.”

  She ignored that comment. “You came out, Mr. Kane, to leave something at my gate.”

  “Did I?” He looked at her with eyes wide, feigning innocence. Very badly.

  “Why did you buy me the caged linnet?”

  He stopped, and so did she. “It reminded me of the little bird I saved from your schoolhouse. When you shouted at me for no reason and slammed a door in my face. Don’t worry, I won’t expect any thanks for this bird, any more than I got for my other favors.”

  She couldn’t be angry with him, even if she wanted to. “You shouldn’t give a gift to me, Mr. Kane. It’s not proper. We are not engaged.” She hesitated. “And Henry won’t be pleased.”

  “Is Henry ever pleased?”

  Sighing, she lifted a shoulder. “Not these days.”

  “Then I’m sorry for him. His life is passing by, and he can’t enjoy a moment of it.”

  How strange it was that Lazarus Kane should express sympathy for Henry, a man he barely knew, yet James Hartley, who’d known Henry for years, couldn’t spare him the smallest of pities.

  “My brother thinks only of what he doesn’t have. Of course”—she hesitated—“if I wished to be completely honest, I’m often guilty of that too.”

  He scratched the back of his neck and laughed low. “’Tis a human failing.”

  His black hair was almost in his eyes as he looked down at her. She felt the urge to reach up and stroke it back from his forehead. Needing something to keep her hands busy, she untied her apron and knotted the corners to make a sack for the mushrooms. Then they passed through a new gate into the covert. He held the latch for her, and she swept by, swinging her apron. Now he was behind her as they walked between the elm and chestnut trees, sunlight dappling the grass. She knew he was close. His breath came faster as their footsteps rustled along. Then she felt his touch. His fingertips moved her hair, where a loose curl rested on her shoulder.