by Hilly Mason
If she found a place.
When they finished, Sophia and Joyce walked down the hall to take the stairs to the first floor. Lord Gibbs’ study was to Sophia’s right; the door was shut, but she could still clearly remember when she found his deceased body hunched over his writing desk, a pool of red wine surrounding him like blood. That day, she had just gotten back from the shops with Joyce to purchase a new ribbon for her hair and a comb to replace the one she had broken. When she found her husband, Sophia surprisingly did not faint. In fact, the only thing she remembered thinking was how the antiqued desk, one of the many things she had shipped over to England from India, was now ruined from the spilled wine.
It took Joyce’s high-pitched wail to make her realize what she was looking at. The coroner soon decried it to be poison that had somehow been slipped into the bottle of wine he consumed. According to the servants, the wine had been delivered anonymously while she and Joyce were out shopping. Of course, the wife was suspected first. However, there was simply not enough evidence to keep Sophia imprisoned.
Sophia was lucky; there were many people out there who were executed for far less crimes, despite the unsubstantial evidence accompanying it.
Sophia suspected her lawyer was correct in assuming that gamesters had come after Lord Gibbs because of his debts. It made her shiver to think that she could have had some of that wine and be just as dead as her husband.
Despite her now negligible reputation, she decided to still wear her mourning clothes, although they felt more like a costume than anything else. With no money to her name, she doubted if anyone truly believed she was mourning her husband. Sophia gazed morosely at the elaborate Indian decorations that graced her walls and tables. Indeed, it had been part of the purchase to include these artifacts and decor with the house. But would they notice if a few things went missing? Sophia grabbed a elaborate jewel-encrusted box and packed it securely with her clothes.
“Do they all hate me?” Sophia asked Joyce, as she struggled to drag her heavy bag down the steps. It was mortifying to have to do such a thing alone and she could feel all of her servant’s eyes on her as she struggled. None of them offered their help, save for Joyce. A bead of sweat dripped from the back of her neck, all the way down to the bottom of her spine.
Joyce’s arms were filled with garments that could not fit in Sophia’s bag.
“Well, they’re not very happy to be out of a job,” she said quietly.
“Well, what can I do? This was my husband’s fault, not mine.” The words were out of her mouth before she could even think about it. Dear Lord. She thought she had gained some perspective while in prison, but being back at home seemed to have thrown all of that which she learned out the window.
“You can be nice to them, for one thing,” Joyce said. “Maybe apologize?”
Joyce was right, as much as she hated to admit it. She straightened up and turned around to face the mob that had gathered in the drawing room. Most of them had their own bags, having reached a decision to also leave Comerford.
“I’m sorry that it turned out this way,” she told them.
The cook snorted. “Sorry is not going to bring food on my table for my youngin’s,” she said sourly.
Well, your children are not my problem, Sophia wanted to say, but she could feel Joyce glaring at her from behind, daring her to say anything so rude.
“I know,” Sophia said instead to the cook. “And I wish I could make things different, but this is what fate has given us, so…”
“So deal with it accordingly?” the cook asked, her eyebrows knitted together angrily.
“Erm… yes?” What did they want from her, to give them a hundred pounds apiece to help them on their way? She looked down at her bag of clothing and jewels and sighed inwardly.
Then, opening her bag, she took the silks and jewelry out, laying them on the table like they were on display in a shop. The servants looked at her warily.
“These are yours,” she said to them. “Take them, sell them for money, do whatever you’d like to help you out.” They stared at her like she was raving mad. “Well, go on, take them,” she said. “In a calm manner, of course. I don’t want any quarreling.”
She watched as the servants rummaged through her expensive dresses and her jewelry. Tears pricked in her eyes as she realized she would never wear such garments again. And why would she? She was no longer in society. She had no need for fancy clothes and flashy headpieces. Nonetheless, it was as though she were watching her old life being stripped from her bit by bit, all the way to the bone.
“Thank you, Lady Gibbs,” the cook said, her arms filled with Sophia’s silks. She had tears in her eyes as well. “We know you don’t have much anymore, so we appreciate your help.” The other servants nodded and murmured their agreement.
Sophia didn’t know how to respond to such words so she gave them a polite nod as they all left the drawing room, talking excitedly amongst one another. All that remained on the table was a piece of black lace.
“How very apt,” Sophia remarked dryly, picking the lace up. “I suppose I should wear this in my hair for my mourning period.”
“Well, for another eight months, at least,” Joyce said, helping her tie the lace around her mistress’s golden locks. “That was a very compassionate thing you did back there,” Joyce told her as she tightened the bow.
Sophia admired her new look with the back of a silver dish. “I just wanted them to stop staring at me like blood-thirsty ravens,” she said diffidently. However, she liked the feeling that tugged at her heart that she had actually been able to help in some way. Maybe being compassionate could be a part of her new life.
They had even taken the bag that had her clothes in it, leaving Sophia with absolutely nothing but her reticule, her lavender gown, and a light coat. She sighed and turned to her maid.
“Where will you go to, Joyce?” Sophia asked.
“With you, of course.”
Sophia gaped at her maid in shock, before breaking out into a huge smile.
“I can’t say it’s going to be enjoyable, or comfortable,” she told her maid. “But thank you.”
“Wait, you do have a plan, do you?” Joyce asked, frowning.
As Sophia opened her mouth to reply, she was interrupted by a loud knock on the entrance door. Joyce fled to the door and opened it at once. A strange man stood outside. He was tall and thin, with a scar cutting through the right side of his face that looked to be freshly made. His left eye was milky white and sightless. His cheeks were gaunt and his mouth down turned in apparent distaste.
“How may I help you?” Joyce squeaked.
The man looked at her from toe to head. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Joyce took a step back. “Uh, I beg your pardon?”
Sophia walked up alongside Joyce. “I am Lady Sophia Gibbs. How may I help you?”
“Ah, yes, Lady Gibbs. My condolences for Lord Gibbs’ death.”
Sophia nodded her head in acknowledgment.
“Were you a friend of his?” she asked.
“Never met the man. I’m the new manager of this building.”
“Manager?” Sophia asked, not quite understanding. “Are you renting it out then?”
“Lady Gibbs, I doubt anybody would want to live in a house where someone was murdered.” He shook his head. “No, Comerford is to be made instead into a gaming hell.”
Sophia gasped. Her face then flushed with anger. “A gaming hell? I cannot have that.”
“Last time I checked, you’re no longer the owner of this building, Lady Gibbs.” The man said, looking through the papers he was carrying. He then held up one paper that clearly displayed her signature.
Sophia turned furiously to Joyce, who looked at her helplessly.
“Are you the person I sold Comerford to?” she demanded, turning back around to face the man. She couldn’t remember if her lawyer ever mentioned who it was. She was so disheartened by the whole thing that she had signed the pap
ers blindly. “I demand to speak with him.”
The man rolled his eyes. “No, Lady Gibbs. But wouldn’t it be nice to have that kind of money? It was Lord St. George who purchased this place.”
Sophia gasped, causing Joyce to rest a hand on her shoulder with concern.
“Is his given name Alexander?” Sophia asked slowly. Her blood felt like it was beginning to curdle.
“Yes, milady.”
“Very well,” she finally said tightly. She clenched her fists and turned abruptly to her maid. “Let’s be off, Joyce.”
“Where to?” Joyce whispered to her.
“To somewhere I can write a strongly worded letter to Lord St. George,” Sophia replied. She brushed past the man as they walked down the steps. Once her feet hit the sidewalk, she glanced back at her home one final time.
“Who’s Lord St. George, anyway?” Joyce asked, chasing after her. “You turned whiter than a sheet when he mentioned the man’s name.”
“Lord St. George is the man I thought I would marry.” Sophia replied sourly. She swiftly turned her back on Comerford House and walked down Audley Street to meet her new life.
Chapter Two
Chertsey, Surrey
Comerford House was almost a steal.
The building was right in the heart of Mayfair, on a busy street in the center of the district. It was the perfect place for a new gaming club, and had been on the market for less than a day when his broker paid him a visit telling him how little it was going for.
“What is the catch?” Alexander St. George asked the man. “There must be something wrong with the place if it is that cheap.”
“Well,” his broker said, shrugging. “It was Lord Gibbs’ house. Considering that he was murdered in his own home, some would naturally assume it to be haunted and unlucky.”
Alexander considered himself neither superstitious nor sentimental, so he snatched up the house immediately. He had many other gaming clubs scattered across London, but the location of this particular town house would be the perfect central point, and a much bigger facility than his other Mayfair club, the Green Room.
His career as a man in the gaming business was lucrative; it led him to buy his estate out in Surrey, in the countryside just outside of Chertsey, and away from constant busyness of London. When he was younger he dreamed about spending the rest of his days partying in the city, but after a few years of being married and raising his daughter in the confines of London, he knew that the peaceful, rustic life of Ramsbury House was better suited for his family. His days of gallivanting around with his friends from tavern to tavern were over, and after his wife passed away six months ago in childbirth, he had no desire to pursue or even think about the fairer sex.
But when his broker mentioned Lord Gibbs, the deceased man’s wife came unwittingly to his mind. Well, how could it not? Lady Sophia Gibbs’ name had been on everyone’s lips at every party and gaming club he visited. It was the hottest scandal of the year. From his knowledge, and from what his wife, Lydia, told him whenever she came home from a party in London, Sophia Gibbs was one of the most popular ladies in London—other than Princess Charlotte and her companions, of course. The prospect of someone so seemingly well-liked amongst her peers doing something as atrocious as murder was fodder for their hungry ears.
And it revealed how people really had thought of her.
“I always knew she was a bit off in the head,” he had heard one person say.
“Perhaps if she had been raised in England instead of India then this wouldn’t have happened,” another said.
Many of these harsh words came from Sophia’s own aunt, a frequent gambler at his establishment down by the Thames, and the farthest from Mayfair so nobody would recognize the woman and discover her gambling addiction. After a few drinks, she had admitted to Alex that Sophia’s fall from society was revenge for what her niece did to her family.
Whatever that meant.
Curious, Alex tried to prod the woman for more information, but Mrs. Clarke had already stormed out of the building, after literally leaving her own pocket book on the card table after losing a game of piquet.
If the sale of Comerford House was any indication, Sophia was indeed ruined.
Alex chuckled at his foolishness. He thought he felt a certain twang of sympathy for the woman’s plight tugging at his chest, but he quickly realized that he only felt the residual effects of anger and resentment. He had once loved Sophia. The moment he first saw her a few days after she had arrived from India, he had thought her to be the most beautiful woman he’d ever set eyes on. She was not only beautiful, but also sharp, witty, and different from all of the flighty girls who flocked for his attention. Sophia was different in that she liked him for his character, not for his looks or for the fact that his father was a baron.
It was in those few years of friendship that he realized what a strong woman she was to deal with something so tragic as the death of both of her parents, and to then immediately leave the country she was born in to live in a completely alien land, not knowing a single soul. She had taken it all in stride, explaining that she always liked adventure.
“How would you like it if I took you to India?” she asked Alex one day while they were having a picnic in Hyde Park. Even as he remembered the scene, Alex could still feel the warmth of the sun hitting his back, and how the rays caught the shimmering golden of Sophia’s hair like a field of wheat in autumn. “I can show you where I grew up in Calcutta, and take you to the ancient temples and sacred rivers nearby. Oh, it’s difficult to describe how beautiful the countryside is. England is very beautiful, do not get me wrong, but there is something completely magical about India’s landscape that I cannot seem to find here.”
“I would love to come with you,” Alex had told her, resting his hand on top of hers. The smile she gave him was engraved into his heart.
However, then something had changed.
Sophia had inexplicitly turned into her deplorable and intolerable cousin, Abigail. Many men fancied Abigail, but to Alex she was harsh, unkind, and a bully—to Sophia most of all. Once, at a party in Mayfair, he had looked forward to seeing Sophia again after a long absence from visiting family in Northern England, only to see that she and Abigail were not only dressed the same, but also acting similarly, gossiping (which was never in Sophia’s nature) about the other women in attendance, and saying rude things about the hosts and the choice of food and decor.
He had had every intention to ask her for marriage, but this different side of Sophia caused him to recoil. In fact, he went so far as to get down on his knees and pray—something that he hadn’t done since he was a boy—that she would turn back into the vibrant girl he had known and fell in love with.
But when it continued on to the next season, he started to feel helpless.
Alex hadn’t seen Sophia since the night Lord Gibbs proposed to her. That night, he had been planning to speak to Sophia about how much he had missed her, but Abigail had led him away and planted an unprovoked kiss on his cheek, right in front of Sophia. Sophia’s glare could have burned a hole into him if she had stood there any longer, but she quickly fled. He was shocked to later hear that night of her engagement to Lord Gibbs, an unassuming earl who had only been to a few parties, but was rumored to have a large sum of money.
His broker left his study, leaving behind a stack of papers for Alex to read through and sign before Comerford House was officially his.
So was that all she wanted? Alex thought. Was it all merely for the money?
But that was so long ago, and until now, he had neatly filed away his heartbreak and tried to forget about it all. After that whole scene at the party, he had met his wife Lydia, and had a beautiful daughter. For a while, Alex foolishly believed he would live happily into old age.
Yes, he was rich... but was he happy?
“Papa!”
The cheery voice of his three-year-old daughter, Annie, broke him from his thoughts. He swung his long legs to the si
de of his chair and held out his arms for the girl to run into.
“Hello, my dear Annie,” he said, kissing the top of her head as she snuggled into his embrace. “How has your day been?”
Annie had a head of golden-brown hair, with bright blue eyes that echoed her mother’s. She smiled at him with dimpled cheeks as she pulled away. Are you all right, child? He asked her silently, staring into her eyes searchingly. She had taken her mother’s death poorly, as would be expected of someone who was so close to Lydia. But in the past few months she seemed her old self—happy and playful. He wished he could say the same for himself.
The first few months after Lydia’s death were a nightmare to him. He spent many long hours in his study with a bottomless glass of brandy, not wanting to venture outside into the real world. It had gotten to be so bad that his dear sister, Diana, had to practically drag him out of the room, telling him that his daughter needed him. The reality of what he was doing, avoiding life and thus avoiding his daughter, was a true shock to him. Once finally sobered from his long bout of drunkenness, he realized that he did not so much miss Lydia, but was instead heartbroken over the son he would never meet. The revelation brought him a layer of guilt that he thought he would not crawl out of. But his daughter needed him, and he needed her.
He did eventually crawl out of his despair. And after two more months, he felt the energy to get back into his business and take over from the employees who were running things in London during his mourning period.
It felt good to be back, honestly. Moping around Ramsbury House wasn’t going to bring Lydia and his stillborn son back to life, but the wound wasn’t so fresh. With Annie by his side he felt like he could keep moving forward, even if he did have to take it day-by-day.
“Isabel brought me biscuits from the servants’ hall,” Annie said deviously.
