by Jaima Fixsen
“You said you finished all your set lessons?” Lady Fairchild asked, as Timothy brought out the second course.
Sophy nodded. “She’ll give me more when she returns.” Miss Frensham was gone for a three week holiday with her family.
Lord Fairchild shook his head. “She’s not coming back.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Taking a new post in Surrey, with the Beauchamps. You’ve had lessons enough.” Feeling the blood drain from her face, Sophy worked around a bite of pheasant, her mouth dry. Tonight was an Occasion, Dessie had said.
Not this.
Some fears Sophy had never been able to eradicate. She’d lived carefully for seven years, afraid of being sent away from Cordell Hall. Her stomach plunged at the thought.
Lady Fairchild frowned at her husband, displeased he had chosen to discuss family matters with a servant in the room. Pointedly, she asked him what he had thought of Sunday’s sermon.
“I’m sorry my dear,” he said. “I wasn’t attending.”
“Well, I am not certain I approve of the vicar choosing his text from Revelations,” she said. “I dislike apocalyptic fervor.”
Swallowing her dry mouthful, Sophy cut her meat into tiny pieces and managed to eat one spear of asparagus. She waited, her hands gathered in her lap, while Timothy removed the tablecloth and brought out dessert. Ignoring her favorite cake—was it a sign?—she took an orange from the bowl and dissected it with her silver fruit knife. She could not look up.
“You’re seventeen now,” Lord Fairchild said at last, setting down a half empty glass of burgundy. “It’s time we spoke about your future.”
Not yet, Sophy thought, desperately concealing her disquiet. But there were governesses her age, she knew.
“Georgiana has spoken to me. She has an excellent plan.”
Lady Fairchild interrupted. “Let me tell her, William.” She was excited, giving off fizz like a glass of champagne. “Sophy, dear. We are bringing you with us to London.”
Sophy blinked. “Why?”
“For the Season, of course.”
Sophy frowned, still not following. Lady Fairchild always looked forward to the Season, but—
“Seventeen is a little young,” Lady Fairchild said, “but with your handicaps it might take two Seasons to come up with a suitable match. We may as well make the best use of your youth and beauty we can.”
Hope and relief flared in her, hot and bright as a struck match. Always, she shied away from thinking of her future; no wonder, with Miss Frensham’s dreary life observable every lesson, every day. Hadn’t old Mr. Lynchem warned her this was how it would be? Her mother had seemed happy as a teacher, but Sophy did not trust her memory. She couldn’t have been really happy, spurned by her lover, suspected by the villagers, hiding a grieving heart.
Well, she would escape this future at least. Now, with the hope of marrying herself, she might enjoy reading the novels Henrietta was always sharing with her. She had three of them now, pasted into false covers (for Henrietta knew well what Lady Fairchild permitted Sophy to read) hiding under the clean handkerchiefs in her bureau drawer. Sophy hadn’t opened any of them. With her history and prospects, she had always found romances painful, teasing her with something she did not hope to have. Henrietta had never understood. Surely her mother had loved Lord Fairchild, and look where that had led?
This wasn’t the same. Lord and Lady Fairchild were helping her to a husband. Rather forlornly, Sophy reflected that it was not necessary to love one of those. But it was possible. Henrietta was unashamedly happy. Sophy brightened. How wonderful it would be, if she could have the same.
“I am to marry?” she said, finding her voice at last.
“Of course.” Lord Fairchild set down his fork. “What else would you do?”
Work. Wither into spinsterhood. Teach Henrietta’s children, or Jasper’s, when he had them.
She was the only one at Cordell—the only one in the neighborhood—without a clear place and a clear path. When Sophy let herself want anything, it was only to remain at Cordell. If she was inoffensive and not too conspicuous she might be able to stay, blending into the background like a dappled fawn, scarcely noticed. Eventually the house would pass from Lord Fairchild to Jasper. He would keep her, she knew.
Lately, she had begun contemplating other paths. Peter Larkin did not quicken her pulse, but she liked his smile and his steady hands. If she—but she could not think it without blushing. He would want a bride with something besides youth and a modicum of looks. She had none of the skills a farmer’s wife would need, and no money either.
“Don’t worry, Sophy,” Lady Fairchild said. “You shall manage perfectly well. Your father has given you an independence—”
“I have money? How much?” Sophy interrupted.
“You have enough to attract respectable men,” Lord Fairchild said repressively.
Lady Fairchild exchanged a glance with her husband. “Respectability is key,” she said. “We should like you to remain within our sphere. Imagine, if you will, how disagreeable it would be for Fairchild if you were to marry one of the locals—Sam Goodwin or Peter Larkin. Such awkwardness! How could he collect rent from his daughter’s husband? Certainly they would use you to impose upon us.”
Not Peter Larkin then. “Is it enough money that I could live on my own?” She had lived in plain circumstances before. A cottage was all she needed.
“What an idea!” Lady Fairchild said. “You are far too young to be thinking of any such thing. I do not approve of spinster households. And it is entirely unnecessary, for as I said, you cannot fail to attract someone worthy.”
“It is important for me to see you are well cared for,” Lord Fairchild said, straightening his knife alongside his plate. “And it is very good of Lady Fairchild to sponsor you.” He looked up into Sophy’s eyes. “Rest assured, I shall look carefully at all the men who apply to me. We will help you make a wise choice.”
No one knew what Society permitted better than Lady Fairchild, but Sophy was skeptical. What sort of man of their rank would be willing to marry a bastard? Yes, the neighbors accepted her as Lady Fairchild’s companion, but she did not think they would tolerate her when they knew she was dangling after one of their sons. When the Matcham girls learned she was entering the lists, they would have her blood. Or what little they could get of it with an embroidery needle. Sophy swallowed, forcing a tremulous smile to her lips.
What sort of man indeed? And what sort of marriage? Sam Goodwin had loved his young wife, until losing her a year ago to influenza. His heart might be given and gone, but he was a gentle man, who would be good to whatever girl he married. If she was to marry into her father’s order—
Sophy glanced between Lord and Lady Fairchild and shivered. No one made marriage look more uncongenial than they.
“One would think you don’t want to marry, the way you carry on,” Lady Fairchild said. She looked offended.
“No, no. I’m merely surprised.” Sophy said. “I—thank-you,” she added, bowing her head to escape her father’s pointed look.
“Think of London,” Lady Fairchild said. “You shall have such a wonderful time!”
She was thinking of London. It was making her ill. London was not Suffolk. There, even Lady Fairchild could not protect her from the contempt of the Polite World. Some would never accept her. Some would scorn her. Mock her. Despise her.
She raised her eyes from her plate.
“This is a happy day, Sophy,” Lord Fairchild said, smiling at her from down the table. “Only to be surpassed by your wedding, I hope.” He raised his glass. “To your future, Sophy! And your happiness.”
Would there be happiness in this future? She feared not. But her tension ebbed as she drained her glass. Don’t be a ninny. They want you to be well.
Setting down her glass, she tried to catch some of their excitement. Her father was on his feet, already refilling her glass. “Have another, both of you,” he said, overriding Lady Fairchild’s weak pro
test. “This burgundy is for celebrating.” Returning to his place at the head of the table, he remained standing, grinning broadly as he raised his glass. “The King,” he said. “And confusion to Bonaparte!”
CHAPTER NINE
Leave Taking
Sophy spent the weeks leading to her departure for London alternately fearing that she would be shunned or that Lady Fairchild would succeed. Everyone was pleased for her, from the lowliest stable boy to Jenkins the butler. She accepted their well wishes with the best grace she could muster, but couldn’t hide her feelings from Dessie.
“I wish you could come with me,” she said.
Dessie snorted, tugging harder at Sophy’s night plait, knotting the end with a piece of string. She had a young man in the village and was being promoted to housemaid. “Worriting will only spoil your complexion. You’ll need a proper maid in London.”
Nine days before Sophy and Lady Fairchild were scheduled to journey to London, she had a reprieve. Jasper wrote, offering to drive her down to London on his way back from Newmarket, giving her a few extra days. Sophy begged to delay her departure and Lady Fairchild agreed. As she waved Lady Fairchild goodbye, Sophy’s spirits rose. She had five days to herself, maybe six. She wouldn’t waste a single one.
She would play spillikins with Dessie and eat ginger biscuits. She would finish walking all the paths in the garden, ride through the marshes and sketch the house and the surrounding country. Her artistic talents were non-existent, but she would try to make a passable representation of the country for which she had grown such a painful love. She had always loved springtime at Cordell, when the family went to London and she had the run of the house.
Her first day alone dawned grey and wet. Sophy spent the morning staring out the window and writing a list of everything she wanted to do before leaving Cordell. In the afternoon, conscious of each passing hour, she ventured out of doors, cloaked and carrying a large umbrella. She returned an hour later, damp and defeated. Sketching was impossible while juggling an umbrella and she did not dislike any of the footmen enough to ask them to hold it for her while she drew.
The rain fell unabated the second day, so Sophy threw the list into the fire, and spent the day with John in his snug room off the stables, listening to him recount horse lineages and famous races.
The third morning was misty and damp. Good enough, she decided. Throwing on an old riding habit, she gulped a quick breakfast, scarcely pausing to chew. A letter from Jasper rested beside her plate. Eager to be on her way, she stuffed it into the pocket of her heavy skirt for later.
Only Jem, the youngest groom, was in the stables. Sophy seized her chance and bullied him into saddling Ajax. She had worshipped Lord Fairchild’s magnificent roan hunter for a year, but been forbidden to ride him. Fate had blessed her with a chance at last. Sophy kept a sedate pace until she was out of sight of the house, then she booted him to a canter, sending clods of black dirt flying behind her. Overhead, the sky was stone grey, and as cold. Flying over the ground, the chill rasped her lungs, stinging her cheeks and stiffening her fingers through her gloves. The damp twisted her flyaway strands of hair into corkscrews.
She loved this, the heavy smell of earth and rotting bracken, the fens so green and alive. She didn’t check when she came to the end of Fairchild land, though she was not allowed to ride beyond without a groom. None of the servants would know. Even if she was discovered, there was no one to whom they could complain. Smiling, she turned down the lane to the village. She made some farewells, thanking Peter Larkin again for the puppy, and bidding goodbye to Stokes, the farrier. Old Mrs. Stokes offered her tea and biscuits, silencing her growling stomach. As she left, Mrs. Stokes urged her to return home, but Sophy wasn’t finished yet.
The servants couldn’t complain if she was back late. She wasn’t hungry, and she was free. She did not know when she would see these sights again: white windmills, the flat expanse of surrounding farms, flocks of sheep cropping the new spring growth. She’d never been this far on her own and was surely trespassing. It scarcely mattered. No one would see her. The chill had chased most people inside.
Her hand brushed her coat, crinkling Jasper’s letter inside her pocket. She dismounted in a spinney of birch trees to read it. The missive was brief, full of his usual nonsense. It made her smile.
A fat raindrop splashed onto her hand and Sophy glanced through the budding branches at the sky. It was darker, and not just because night was fast approaching.
“Damn.” It took a moment to find a large enough stone so she could mount Ajax. By the time she rode out of the spinney, the rain was falling fast. The plume on her hat, limp as the tail of a dead mouse, drooped over her eyes. Wincing over Dessie’s displeasure, she yanked it free and let it fall. Her habit was plastered to her back. Water ran down her neck and her nose. Clenching her chattering teeth, she left the road to cut across the fields, urging Ajax faster. She needed to get home. John would be furious with her for keeping Ajax out in this weather.
There was a stream ahead, bordered by thick trees. Sophy ducked her head as she rode unchecked beneath the branches. Ajax gathered on his haunches, preparing to spring across and lurched beneath her, throwing her to the side. Before she could cry out, she flew from the saddle.
As the ground rushed to meet her, her left hand caught in the reins, yanking her arm, sending her into an awkward spin. She felt a tearing in her shoulder as she slammed into the ground and a moment of sheer terror before her hand pulled free from the reins. Waiting to be crushed by Ajax’s hooves, it was some moments before she realized she had been thrown clear.
Lungs heaving, she rolled onto her back, gasping but making no sound. Frantically she gulped air, unable to exhale. At last she managed it, a high-pitched whistle of pain.
Wet leaves stuck to her cheek. She scraped them off with her right hand and tried to sit up. The movement sent a stabbing pain through her left shoulder. She let out a strangled cry. Gingerly, she tried to move her left arm.
It was useless. She couldn’t move it, not without the edges of her vision swirling darkly. Flat on her back, she stared dizzily at the sky, drawing shallow breaths, her heart beating presto.
You can’t stay here. No one will find you, and you’re cold. And what about Ajax?
Turning her head, she spied him standing not far off. “Beast,” she managed to gasp. He lowered his head, as if he was ashamed.
They had to get help, quickly. Something was terribly wrong with her arm.
Don’t think about it. Just get up.
Reaching her right arm across her middle, she clamped her left arm against her side, and rolled to the right with a groan. Biting hard on her bottom lip, she lurched upward. Good. She was sitting now. Getting to her feet was easier. Her shoulder throbbed, but holding it against her side seemed to help. Unfortunately, she had to let go, to reach for Ajax’s dangling reins.
The pain was staggering, but she caught the reins with a clumsy swing. Looping the leather around her right wrist, she clutched her left arm again.
“Come on,” she said, unsure if she was addressing the horse or herself.
A slick layer of wet leaves covered the ground. No wonder Ajax had lost his footing. She’d be lucky if she didn’t fall herself, the way she was trembling. Eyes on the ground, she picked her way out of the trees, leading an unusually docile Ajax.
There was little light left. She wouldn’t be able to walk far. Getting herself into the saddle was impossible. Pressing her lips into a thin line, breathing noisily through her nose, she started walking, hoping it would not be long before she found the road.
CHAPTER TEN
Strangers
It was a foul day for riding, Tom thought, but that was England for you. It had rained all the way from Bury St. Edmonds, and he was wet to the skin by the time he glimpsed Chippenstone’s lights.
His mother, of course, was waiting for him. As he dismounted, a groom ran out to lead his horse away. He hadn’t taken two steps before the b
utler stood beside him, holding out an umbrella. Tom didn’t recognize him, but he was used to new faces. Servants didn’t usually stay at Chippenstone for long. Stepping inside, he very properly handed his hat, whip and gloves to the waiting lackey. His mother rushed towards him from the drawing room, her crisp purple silk rustling, the ludicrous tower of curls atop her head bouncing madly.
“Martin’s preparing a bath,” she said, helping him from his coat, pushing aside the hovering butler. She kissed him soundly on both cheeks. “I needn’t ask about your journey. You look like a drowned cat.”
“And you look your angel self, mother. Stand off, so I don’t get wet all over you.” He thrust his sodden greatcoat at the butler. “May as well make just one puddle,” he said, fumbling at the buttons of his coat with numb fingers.
“James, bring a dressing gown for Mr. Bagshot,” the butler commanded.
It was, Tom knew, unusual for gentleman to strip down in the front hall. It didn’t bother him to fret his servants; after all, they knew what kind of people they worked for. And if it pleased them to find more congenial employment elsewhere, that didn’t bother him either. It was his mother who suffered agonies of humiliation when the servants explained to her how things should be done, or gave up and left. He wished she would let up, but had lost hope long ago.
“Thank you, James,” Tom said exchanging his waistcoat for a brocaded silk dressing gown. Lord, it felt good to pull on something warm and dry. Pity he had to keep on his wet shirt and trousers. He didn’t mind upsetting the servants, but his mother would be mortified if he removed shirt and breeches down here.
“I’m for the bath,” he said. “I’ll be down in two ticks.”
“I’m glad you’re home,” she said.
He winced. Chippenstone would never be home. Two years since his father’s death, and his mother still hadn’t given up this pile of brick, the evidence of her husband’s last, failed dream. She was lonely here, but nothing Tom said could persuade her to leave. Visiting her was no hardship; he would ride twice as far, in any weather. But when she joined his father, he knew he would sell this place.
