The story was so real in the journals, Constance’s outrage so palpable, that Sophia understood better what experiences had made her mother the woman she was. As a teacher, Constance made little more in a month than the sailor, but she’d pressed seven shillings into the drunk’s hand and bought the girl herself. Constance told the girl she was owned by no man. The sailor had been the girl’s childhood sweetheart, gone to wars, and returned to find her in a forced marriage. The girl, weeping, begged for help in finding him, so Constance accompanied her to his boarding house and watched as the two embraced.
Sophia followed her mother through the years. Constance’s father had been a scientist, and Constance had had the best midwife in the county. But even then the fear of not surviving childbirth or the weeks after was never far from hand. Her joy in her infant daughter Sophia was tempered only by her fears of leaving her without a guide in the emerging new world, a world of potential equalities and great tyrannies.
Constance hadn’t at first been a republican. She distrusted the mob, having seen it for herself in the angry faces of her peers when she raised the question of the morality of the slave trade. But she’d become a republican through seeing the daily injustices created by the wealth of the aristocracy and the poverty of the people.
Sophia’s mother’s voice swept over her, reminding her of all she had forgotten, the way her mother cared for the poor and the sick, the late night knocks on the door, watching her mother dress quickly, kiss her on the cheek and leave . . . sometimes for days at a time, caring for those who needed both her and her knowledge of healing plants. Sophia remembered asking each time if she could go, and her mother had promised every time, “when you are older, Sophie, we will go together.”
At the end, Sophia found a letter from her father.
I’ve read your mother’s journals, dearie, and I hear her voice so strongly, it is as if we have sat down before the evening fire to talk. There is nothing in these journals that you cannot read without benefit. Some (like your brother) would read unsympathetically, caring more for the voice of society than that of conscience. It takes a woman of great strength to forgo luxuries to which she had grown accustomed. How it humiliated your brother when she no longer purchased sugar, and a certain class of visitor stopped visiting.
Our Constance was a woman of convictions, convictions that eventually took her away from us, but her journals record those things she found valuable. She followed the dictates of her conscience, but she never forgot that conscience was heart guided by reason and a careful examination of moral and intellectual obligations.
I loved her, as I love you.
Papa
Sophia realized her memories of her mother had been colored by Phineas’s embarrassment, then recast by her step-aunt Annabella’s disapproval. The Constance she discovered in the journals was not a virago or a shrew as Phineas and Annabella would have her remembered, but a deeply moral young woman who would not be silent when faced with injustice. Constance’s values as expressed in the journal were far closer to Sophia’s own than she had ever imagined. Somehow, growing up, Sophia had come to regard her mother as scandalous, but the journals gave Sophia back the passionate clergyman’s wife and teacher, who dedicated her own life to caring for others. Perhaps had Sophia been able to read the journals as her father had intended, she would have felt less obligated to try to mollify Phineas or Annabella. Perhaps with the words of her mother embedded in her heart, Sophia would have trusted her own conscience, even when it had set her at odds with those in power over her.
She was so absorbed with her reading that she never heard the footsteps approaching from behind her on the path.
* * *
Aidan finished Seth’s responsibilities and went to find Sophia. In the morning room, he found the estate papers she had been reviewing that morning, but the cup of tea beside them was cold. Nor was she in the library. He took the stairs to the family rooms and rapped sharply on her bedroom door before he turned the knob. But the room held only the faintest hint of lavender. His stomach twisted. He opened and closed doors to all the bedrooms down the hall, shutting each one a bit more loudly than the last.
At the servants’ staircase to the nursery and attic, he stopped. He could hear soft footsteps descending the stairs. Of course, she had been in the nursery or the attic, going through Tom’s trunks. The tightness in his stomach eased. Smiling, he positioned himself to the side. When the door opened, she would walk into his arms, and he would surprise her with a kiss. A penalty, he would tease her, for hiding herself away.
The door opened. A mob-hatted maid backed into the hallway, holding a basket of linens. Dropping his arms, Aidan fell back, almost tripping over his own feet.
“Your mistress. Have you seen her?” Even to his ears, his voice sounded abrupt.
Startled, the maid turned to face him, then dropped to a curtsy. “No, your grace. Not in the nursery or the boys’ rooms.”
He pushed past her, past the upper floor to the attic, taking the stairs two at a time. The attic. He would find her there, as he had the day before. He flung the door open. But the air was still, and the trunks unopened.
Not in the morning room, the library, her bedroom, or the attic. His list gave him no comfort. She had agreed not to leave the house without being accompanied by him or one of his men. Did she forget—or had she been taken? Malcolm’s words about not being able to protect Audrey rang in Aidan’s memory.
The muscles tightened in his jaw and neck. He’d been in the ballroom the night Audrey had been stabbed, seen Malcolm holding her to his chest, blood down the front of his waistcoat, calling for help, and begging her not to die. What if Sophia were hurt, bleeding, dying, and Aidan didn’t find her in time? He pushed the thought away.
Beyond the trunks, the attic windows looked out over the front lawn. He shoved the trunks aside and surveyed the area. Four of his men had arrived that morning. Two stood talking, positioned to see both the house and the entrance from the road. Their stances were alert, but not anxious. So, she hadn’t gone out the front of the house.
He took the narrow attic stairs too fast, almost falling midway down. Catching himself against the walls, he chastened himself to be calm. No old army officer who had lived through the barrage of a hundred cannon should be reacting to a misplaced woman with such haste. Deliberate and thorough—that was the way to find her. Yet his heart still pulsed hard in his chest. He hurried down the remaining stairs, opening doors to the rooms he had not checked before, and calling her name. Nothing.
By the time he reached the main floor, the housekeeper stood waiting at the base of the stairs, hands folded before her body. “Her ladyship was last seen in her garden, your grace.”
He began to turn to the back of the house, but stopped. “When? And by whom?”
“Several hours ago, your grace. Cook and I saw her pass by the kitchen window.”
“Alone?” He cursed himself for not having fully informed her staff of the danger. He’d thought his men would be sufficient.
The housekeeper’s face grew concerned. “We did not notice, your grace. Should we . . .”
But he didn’t hear the end of her sentence; he was already moving to the back of the house. From the raised terrace along the house’s back, he watched for any hint of movement or flash of color, for birds taking flight in surprise, for noise turning to silence. For anything that might reveal her location.
He bit off a curse. This was not the time for panic. She was likely in the garden, unaware that no one knew where she was. He had to be deliberate. He looked at the face of his pocket watch; if he didn’t find her in ten minutes’ time, he would call for his men, inform the house, and make a broader search. But he could already feel his body tensed as if for battle.
He crisscrossed the garden, but he did not call for her. If there were an intruder, he did not wish to offer an alert. But she was nowhere. Not in the kitchen garden, not in the knot garden farther from the house, not in the wilderness at t
he bottom of the lawn.
Panic tightened at the back of his throat. How would he explain to Ian that he had failed to protect his mother? How would Ian ever forgive him? How could he forgive himself? He pushed the thoughts away and turned back to the house, prepared to call a search.
Then he remembered. There was a maze built of stone and hedges, past the wilderness, created by Tom’s grandfather for his bride. Tom had taught Aidan its secret rhythm of turns, and he had long ago taught them to Sophia. He stood for a moment, torn. His weight balanced on the balls of his feet, and his arms taut, he considered his choice.
If she had been taken, then the time spent searching the maze would be time lost. He should return to the house, call his men, begin a widening search. But with hours since she had been seen, it would be almost impossible to find her. Once more, he saw the line of blood across her back when she removed her shawl. No, she was simply . . . misplaced.
He ran.
Down the path that led through tall trees to the maze. At its entrance, he realized, he would have to be cautious. It would do no good if he lost his way in the maze. In the decade since he had last visited Tom, the hedges had grown tall enough that once inside, he would have no way to gain his bearings. He would be able to see nothing but hedge and sky.
He paused, wanting to rush in, but knowing he had to remember the pattern first. Even so, his first few turnings led him to a dead end. He was forced to double back, his hands fisted at his side. Starting over, he forced himself to move slowly. Left, left, right. Left? Or was it right again? He made his way farther and farther in.
At the middle, though, he found nothing. No Sophia. Only an empty bench where he had prayed she would be. Fear tasted bitter on his tongue. He turned in his tracks, then back again, trying to get his bearings. He would have to retrace his steps, or lose even more time.
As he began to leave the middle, he heard a soft motion down a path to his right. He waited, hoping to hear it again. But a bird hopped from the bushes, regarded him, then flew away. Not Sophia. But down the path he saw the edge of a fountain in a partially hidden alcove. If she were not there, then she was likely taken, and he had failed to protect her from her enemy, failed her, failed Ian, failed the Home Office. He wanted to run to find her, to take her in his arms, but he was afraid it would be only one more place that Sophia wasn’t. Instead, he walked slowly, silently, down the lawn path.
And there, in an alcove, he found Sophia, a box of books at her feet, lost in reading. Safe. Suddenly he could breathe again.
His first impulse was to embrace her, then rail at her, but he knew she would not understand. He barely understood himself; he had not realized how important just the sight of her had become to him over the last weeks. He stood watching her, letting his emotions pass over him: fear, then anger, then relief, and finally desire. Then he waited still, allowing his pulse to slow, keeping track of how long it took before she realized she was no longer alone.
She lifted a hand, tucked her hair back behind her ear, all the while absorbed in her reading. It wouldn’t do to tell her she could have been in danger; she would just tell him that she wasn’t. His logical Sophia.
His.The word surprised him. All along he had been telling himself that he wanted her to trust him again so that he could gain his revenge. But in the course of protecting her, something had changed. The truth was that he wanted her to trust him—not for revenge, not because he was obligated to Tom or Ian or even the Home Office, but because he wanted her again to be . . . his.
He shifted his weight, and the gravel crunched under his feet.
She looked up, her face troubled. “I’ve been reading my mother’s journals—my uncle sent them to me this morning. Phineas was always embarrassed by her because she would never let an injustice pass by. After her death, I thought I should be embarrassed too. But I see it differently now. She was Judith’s age when she died; I was Ian’s. She was always brave, choosing her own conscience.” Sophia looked down again. “I haven’t been brave for a long time.”
He sat next to her on the garden bench, but facing her, one leg on either side. He pulled her into the circle of his arms, and she leaned her head against his chest. “You sat in an opera box with a knife to your neck, and you thought to remember the shape and design of the blade. Bravery comes in many forms.” He kissed her hair.
She let his comment go by. “I would have liked to remember her as brave before this.”
“You weren’t allowed to. Phineas, your aunt—they couldn’t let you.”
“I suppose not. But I want to be more like her. I spent too many years letting Tom make the decisions and, apparently, take the risks.”
“Tom was always one for a secret. He likely thought he was protecting you and Ian.” Aidan pulled her in more tightly against his chest. Somehow the mention of her life with Tom no longer troubled him.
“Perhaps.” She was silent. “In with the journals was a key. My uncle sent it. I know what it opens, and it’s not far. Will you come with me?”
“Yes.” Whatever her secrets were, he wanted to know them, wanted her to share them all, to trust him fully as she had once long ago.
“Thank you.” She leaned down and slid the box under the stone bench to protect her mother’s notebooks from the elements. She looked into his eyes. “I should apologize. I know I shouldn’t have come to the garden alone. I wasn’t thinking until I was already here. So, I made sure to sit where no one could see me.” Her soft smile made his heart warm. “Anyone from outside the estate would have made too much noise trying to find me. But I should have thought first.”
“I have considered putting a leash around your ankle as if you were a falcon, and tying you to my wrist, so you couldn’t wander.”
She smiled and kissed him, a tender, sweet kiss that reminded him of their first. She started to stand, and he pulled her back, kissing her once more, a kiss of fervor and passion, igniting the fire in her eyes.
She put her hand on his chest and looked into his eyes. “Tonight. I promise. But come with me first.”
He stood up and pulled her to her feet. “Lead on, my lady.”
* * *
Tom’s estate extended past the gardens through an orchard and, across a deep stream, a hay meadow. At the farthest corners, the forest that led to Annie’s house edged the property. The forest lay primarily on her uncle’s land, but Tom’s land and her uncle’s abutted briefly there. Sophia and Aidan did not enter the forest, but walked around its edge, onto her uncle’s land, and then up a hill to a ruin built sometime in the middle of the last century, when ruins were all the rage. In the meadow, the folly offered an elaborate but small fortress: a central hall, decorated in the family colors, and above that, four corner turrets.
The door to the main hall was unlocked, the air of the dining hall grown stale. Sophia walked to a wall tapestry covering most of the back wall and pulled one edge back to reveal a door.
“Can you hold this out for me? I’d rather not have to brush spiders from my hair.”
Aidan held the tapestry, and she took her uncle’s key, turned the lock, and pulled the door back. It resisted only briefly.
“Do we need a candle?”
“No, there will be plenty of light. We just have to manage the first two turns of the stairs in the dark.”
“Cobwebs?”
“Cobwebs. But . . . Yes, here it is. A broom.” Her voice caught. “It’s almost as if no one has been here, but that doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t?”
She didn’t answer. She brushed away the cobwebs before her as she ascended the stairs. He followed, wondering why she had never brought him here before.
After two turns in darkness, the stairwell grew lighter as they ascended. The staircase ended in a single room with two windows, the smaller one facing the countryside, the other one, larger, facing in to the center of the folly. On the inside corner stood a small fireplace, long unused. Next to it, a door led out onto the roof of the mai
n hall. In the middle of the room, an easel held a canvas shrouded by a heavy cloth. Along one wall about twenty finished canvases leaned against one another.
There was little else: a padded chair next to a small table, a larger table covered with paper and drawing pencils, a set of shelves holding books. All covered with a thick layer of dust. Sophia surveyed the room. She walked to the outer window, silent.
Aidan recognized some quality about her that refused any questions, so he turned to the paintings along the walls. The first canvas was unpainted, but he tilted it forward to reveal the next. Several still lifes with fruit, a landscape of the countryside from the view of the small window; all good but unremarkable, indicative of a developing but not mature talent. The next stack were portraits, of Sophia’s cousins in their teens; one of her uncle and of a woman in middle age who Aidan assumed to be her aunt Clara; one of Clara alone; one of another woman in plain dress, perhaps a governess. Each showed increasing promise; Sophia’s gift was for capturing expression. Her cousins, never still, were positioned at angles from one another, almost as if they were in motion; her aunt held in her lap a lattice-topped pie, her mouth offering a bare hint of a smile, while her eyes glinted with secret humor. Why, he wondered, did Sophia move to watercolors and to scientific illustration? Why had she two portraits of Tom, but neither by her own hand?
Sophia had moved to the table, shifting one layer of paper to reveal the next, all sketches.
He wondered about the portrait on the easel, and he moved to it. Taking up the corner of the cloth, he pulled it away just as Sophia cried out “no.”
Of all the pieces in the attic, it was her best work: the face was still young, not yet fully formed, but the detail was remarkable. The lines around the mouth suggested generosity, the eyes good humor, the chin firm and a bit stubborn. The texture of the hair was rich, each strand containing a range of blacks and blues to give a sense of life and energy. The expression was thoughtful with a hint of mischief. This was no lifeless rendition; it was one that revealed the emerging character of the young man being painted. Even Aidan could see that it was a portrait of the man she loved. If he had any questions before of how she had felt about him, this would have dispelled them.
Jilting the Duke Page 24
