by Jaima Fixsen
Sophy wished her own outfitting was so easy. She and Lady Fairchild could not agree. Though she felt guilty over her intransigence in the face of Lady Fairchild’s generosity, she could not like the clothes Lady Fairchild wanted to choose. They were all perfect debutante clothes in excellent taste—delicate gowns in white and pastel shades that made her look like a corpse.
“It is a beautiful gown, but I will not wear it,” Sophy argued. “Look at what it does to me!”
“Yes, but you cannot wear that,” Lady Fairchild retorted, gesturing at the bolt of emerald muslin Sophy had chosen. “That color is flashy! We have to tread carefully, given your circumstances.”
“Well, I won’t show to advantage in that. Unless there are men looking to marry consumptives. And this has too many frills. I’d look like—like Mrs. Bagshot.” Sophy said and blushed with shame. Lady Fairchild didn’t notice the blush, but she set aside the dress without further protest.
“Mrs. Bagshot . . . from Chippenstone?” Henrietta asked, fingering the dress Sophy had discarded. “How did you meet her?”
“They were good enough to help Sophy when she was thrown from her horse,” Lady Fairchild said, her eyes darting to Madame Foulard, who was bent over, measuring the length for Sophy’s skirts.
Henrietta ignored the signal to be silent. “What was the house like? I heard they had the rooms all redone.”
“The old Mr. Bagshot did. He spared no expense.” Sophy bit her lip. She was recounting facts, not betraying them.
Lady Fairchild sniffed.
“Was it dreadfully vulgar?” Henrietta asked, leaning forward.
“I don’t think it would be to either of your tastes,” Sophy said quietly, failing to keep her lips in a prim line as she remembered. There was a sparkle in her eye when she added, “My room was quite astonishing. And there was a salon, done in the Egyptian style . . .”
“Hmm?” Madame Foulard looked up, giving a knowing nod. “Quite the mania for Egypt this season. I have some sandals, very popular, that would be just the thing to wear with—”
Lady Fairchild blanched. “We shall stay with slippers. No girl in my charge is venturing out with her toes showing. Don’t even think it, Henrietta.”
Henrietta pursed her mouth. She would have a pair within a fortnight, Sophy knew.
“How about this?” Lady Fairchild said, holding out another length of silk.
“It’s lovely, but I can’t wear white,” Sophy said.
“Well, what do you propose?” Lady Fairchild snapped. “Packing paper? Corduroy?”
Madame Foulard flinched. “My Lady, I would never bring such things here.”
“I want that. Done up like that.” Sophy pointed to a bolt of brilliant blue silk lying on a table across the room and a picture in the open magazine before her, while Henrietta made mollifying gestures at Madame Foulard.
Lady Fairchild opened her mouth to protest, but stopped, looked, then frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. “Bring it here.” Madame’s assistant went scurrying across the room for the cloth, bearing it toward Sophy with outstretched arms.
“Hmmn.” Lady Fairchild looked from the cloth to the magazine. “Generally, I favor simplicity, but this cut is almost severe. It will look like your father is a nip-farthing, instead of being quite handsome about your portion.”
“The excellence of the fabric makes ornament unnecessary,” Sophy said.
“It looks perfect with your hair,” Henrietta added.
“There is not one girl in a hundred who could support that color, my Lady,” inserted Madame Foulard, impatient to make the sale. “You cannot deny it is becoming.”
“Very well,” Lady Fairchild said. “One of this blue silk and one of the green muslin you liked. But I still want at least one white dress. Put some gold trimming at the neck. That should help.”
Madame Foulard nodded, and motioned Sophy to hold out her arms. “Very wise, my Lady.”
Madame busied herself with tape and pins. Lady Fairchild sat down on a pretty chair to watch, but stood again almost immediately, frowning and pacing across the room.
“My Lady?” Madame Foulard cocked her head, talking around a mouthful of pins.
“They are such bold colors,” Lady Fairchild said. “You must be careful, Sophy. There are some already disposed to dislike you, simply because of what you are. If I let you wear these gowns, your behavior must be impeccable. You cannot afford mistakes. When you are snubbed, you must smile and accept it gracefully, but you must never act as if you expect to be snubbed. Carry yourself proudly, and most people will accord you respect.”
“Oh, mama,” Henrietta said, but Sophy was nodding, her eyes serious. It was easy to forget, to think she could simply wear what suited her best. Matters would never be so straightforward for her.
“You are right, of course,” Lady Fairchild said, settling herself back into her chair with some annoyance. “The colors are brilliant on you. You will have hair plumes died to match, Madame?”
Madame nodded vigorously.
Sophy held in a sigh. Her right shoulder ached, but it was the heaviness inside that troubled her. Lady Fairchild, sharp as ever, met her eyes and caught something of it in her face. “Madame,” she said severely. “Did I not tell you that Sophy injured her shoulder? Lower your arms, child. You look pale.”
“A thousand pardons,” Madame said, flustering as she helped Sophy off the stool. “Such stupidity is unforgivable. Sit here, Miss Sophy, and I will have Thérèse bring you biscuits. A fitting is very taxing.”
Accepting the offered chair, Sophy agreed with a slight smile. Madame spoke true, but it taxed her in more ways than one.
*****
“How much longer will you stay?” Tom’s mother asked over the breakfast table.
“Mmm?” Tom decapitated his egg and looked up.
“I’m happy to have you here of course, but I wondered how long you intend to stay.”
He had only intended to visit for a week. Already he’d stayed four extra days, and planned to stay as long as he could stand Chippenstone. He had no desire to be in London, not while she still haunted him.
“Tired of me already?” he teased, scooping runny egg onto his toast. While his mother protested, he folded the toast in half and bit off the corner, before yolk could run too far down his fingers.
It was pathetic, really, he thought, licking his fingers clean. In better moments he could laugh at himself, but moments like this he wanted to stick his head in the horse trough. His mother only made it worse, bringing up Sophy every chance she got. He positively hated that book of hers, The Wicked Duke.
Last night, he had suggested starting something new.
“But I’m enjoying it,” she said, her eyes all innocence. “I thought you didn’t mind it. You certainly seemed to enjoy reading it with Miss Sophy.”
He had enjoyed it then. But every evening since, he’d been unable to read it without casting Sophy Rushford in every scene, seeing the flick of her fingers, the turn of her wrist, exactly like a lovesick idiot.
He stabbed a forkful of ham and shoved it into his mouth.
“Hungry?” his mother asked.
He replied with a grunt.
“It’s just that you don’t seem contented here,” his mother continued, recapturing his attention. “I know you prefer London. You needn’t put yourself to so much trouble for me.”
That forced a bland smile from him. Both of them knew he wasn’t staying for her; his visits were always frequent and short.
“Why don’t I go with you?”
He nearly choked on his coffee. “What?”
“I thought maybe I’d go with you to London this spring.”
“You never go to London,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin, trying to ignore the burn in his nose.
“Don’t you want me to go?”
“Of course I want your company. I drag myself all the way here, just to see you. You surprised me, that’s all.”
“I mi
ght enjoy a change of scene,” she said, as if she had been born idle and rich. Tom raised his eyebrows. “Well, why shouldn’t I?”
Tom cleared his throat. “I’m not sure London is the best place for me right now, mother.”
“Of course it is. There you have your work and the company of your friends. And if you should chance to see—”
“I think it very unlikely,” he broke in. “Nor would I wish it.”
“Well I wish very much to go to London,” she said, folding her hands.
“Do you?” he said, fixing her with a stare. She didn’t blink, so he gave up. He didn’t want to go to London at all, not with his mother reminding him about her three times a day. But saying that would be admitting defeat. “Very well. We’ll go. But I warn you, it’s not going to do any good.”
Folding up his newspaper, he rose from the table. “Have your maid start packing.”
He never was angry with his mother. He was all she had, and she deserved better from him. But just right now, he longed to punch something.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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The summons came in the evening, from his mother.
“The termagant. Again.” Jasper groaned to his friends. He’d invited them to join him at his rooms in St James for supper and cards.
“What does she want this time?” asked Alistair, lounging in the chair beside him.
Jasper frowned at the folded note in his hands, “You may be her nephew, but you have nothing on me. She’s my mother.”
“Shall you ignore it, Jasper?” asked Boz, a lean man in buff trousers and a claret colored coat, seated at the end of the table.
Jasper smiled, slipping the note into his waistcoat pocket. “Not this time. The favor she demands is not so onerous.” Turning to the waiting footman, he said “You may tell my mother I shall present myself in the morning.”
Expectant, his friends waited until the footman withdrew.
“Well, what is it?” Boz asked, refilling his glass.
“I’m to go riding with my sister in the morning.”
The fourth man, hitherto silent, frowned. “Not Lady Arundel, surely.”
Jasper laughed. “No, Andre. Her husband would never let her, not so soon after her confinement. I meant my half-sister.” Natural sister, the polite name for bastards like Sophy, was a term he did not use.
Andre’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but Boz lapsed into a reminiscent smile. “The little one?” Boz had passed one holiday at Cordell Hall when he and Jasper were still at Cambridge.
“What’s she doing in town?” Alistair asked, surprised by Boz’s smile. He too had met Sophy, ages ago, when Lady Fairchild had gathered her relations to Cordell one Easter. He and Jasper had captured a grass snake and hid it in one of her cupboards. Her calm response had been vastly disappointing.
Jasper turned over his hand, inspecting his nails. “Puffing her off. Why else?”
Boz, his face already rather ruddy, nodded sagely over his port. “Only reason to bring a young female to town.”
“Think your mother will do it?” Alistair asked, still remembering a scrawny red-haired girl hiding from Lady Fairchild’s stare. “Not so easy to puff off a bastard.” It surprised him that his Aunt would trouble himself over the girl, but it had been years since he had been in England.
Jasper’s face turned cold. “Call her my half-sister, or use her name. I dislike that appellation.”
“Of course. My apologies.” Alistair waited for Jasper to answer his question.
Jasper lifted one eyebrow, wearily. “Surely you know better than to underestimate my mother. She’ll have her riveted soon enough.” He proffered the deck of cards. “Cut?”
“Little scrap of a thing, when I saw her last,” Alistair said.
“Well, she’s grown some,” Jasper said. “But she’s still up to the old tricks. Took out one of m’father’s prime bits of blood last week and came to grief.” He frowned.
“No lasting hurt?” Boz asked, looking up from his cards with a worried face.
“Not this time,” Jasper grunted. “And damned if there’ll be another. Never seen the Pater in such a taking.”
“What’s she look like?” Andre asked.
“Like my father,” Jasper said. “It just about killed my mother, you know.”
“Still?” Alistair asked. “Poor girl.” Red hair seldom looked well on a woman.
“Oh, she’s a rather taking brat,” Jasper said. “Boz thought she looked well enough.” He glanced at his friend across the table. “If I see you sniffing around her, I’ll call you out.”
“You don’t say?” Alistair settled back in his chair, arranging his cards in a fan. “Then it must be time for me to renew my acquaintance.”
Worth looking in, anyways. Fairchild must be giving her an adequate sum. He took a swallow of wine. “I’ll join you tomorrow, Jasper, if I may.”
“All right,” Jasper said. “But lay your card, man, or we’ll be here all night.”
*****
Sophy leaned on her dressing table, straightening her brushes. Pale fingers of morning sunlight curled around the edges of the cream silk draperies at her bedroom window. She was dressed for riding; her hat, whip, and gloves ready on the table.
She didn’t sleep well in London, too aware of the noise and vibration of so many souls clustered together. The city was busier than an anthill and more crowded. There were always people awake: milkmaids and bakers before dawn; butchers, crossing sweepers and cart men in the day; opera goers, link boys and the watch at night.
“Try to adjust, or the parties will wear you to shreds,” Lady Fairchild had urged. She was already half-nocturnal, flitting out in the evenings like a brightly winged moth, then sleeping into the early afternoon. Tonight Sophy would join her for the first time, at the Thorpes’ musicale. Already half sick with anticipation, she had another fence to clear first.
This morning she was riding with Lord Fairchild. If she was clever, she would have made more of her shoulder injury to give her an excuse to stay home, but it was a week and a half since that unfortunate business and she wanted to forget it.
Pushing away from the dressing table, Sophy crossed the room, parted the draperies and leaned against the window, resting her forehead against the glass. It was strange, looking down at the tops of people from the third story—costly beaver hats on the few gentlemen venturing out early and worn caps on the rest. The horses hadn’t been brought round yet.
Only ladies who were horse mad and keen sporting gentlemen rode in the early morning when the rest of the Polite World was asleep. Sophy supposed she and Lord Fairchild both fit the respective descriptions. There were worse ways to find a husband than riding horses and hobnobbing in the park. What unsettled her was being tied to Lord Fairchild’s side for over an hour. What would they possibly say? This was not like their accidental rides in the country, where their paths merged and diverged by chance.
A kitchen boy ran out from a house down the street, momentarily silencing the ragged knife grinder calling out his trade. The man sharpened the knives the boy brought out, accepted his wage with a tug of his cap, and continued down the street, his bass voice rolling ahead of him. Sophy’s eyes followed him, catching on a familiar form in a dark green coat.
It was Jasper, trotting up the street on a chestnut she didn’t recognize. His companion wasn’t familiar either, but he was remarkably handsome and sat well on his horse. Sophy darted to the dressing table, grabbing gloves, whip and hat, ignoring the energizing tonic Lady Fairchild had given her last evening. She was supposed to drink it, but uncorking the bottle had been enough—the vapor of the potion was strong enough to curl her hair. Not that she needed any help with that. Some magic to keep her hair in its pins, maybe.
She left the room with a lighter tread. Riding with Lord Fairchild would be much easier with Jasper along for company. Halfway down the hall, Lady Fairchild stopped her, emerging from her boudoir wrapped in a silk dressing gown. “Sophy
! You can’t go down yet. At least wait until he’s inside.”
Lady Fairchild had spent most of yesterday preparing Sophy for this morning’s ride, choosing her hat and boots and going over things she might say to the gentlemen she met. It shouldn’t surprise her that Lady Fairchild was awake, watching from her window too. This wasn’t just any ride. It was important. Sophy’s eyes dropped to the carpet. “I beg your pardon ma’am. I thought since it’s only Jasper—”
“I won’t insist on you receiving him in the drawing room. That is a bit much for your brother, after all. But I won’t have you rushing at him as if he were returned from the Orient! Wait a few minutes!”
Beckoning Sophy into her room, Lady Fairchild occupied Sophy for a few minutes, inspecting the color of her cheeks and adjusting the angle of her hat. “Wear the veil when you are outside,” she said, referring to the scrap of lace clinging to the brim. Opening a French novel Sophy wasn’t allowed to read, Lady Fairchild dismissed her with a wave. Sophy sped down the stairs, smiling to herself. She had Henrietta’s copy of the book hidden under her mattress.
“Sophy! You look fine as five pence,” Jasper said, coming up the stairs to meet her with a wide smile and outstretched hands.
“Yet this cost a good deal more,” she said, taking his hands and offering her cheek with a smile.
He looked her over. “I’m sure it did. How’s the shoulder?”
“Never better,” she assured him. Glancing past him, she saw that Lord Fairchild was drawing on his gloves, watching them impatiently. He hated having his horses wait. “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,” she said.
As she and Jasper descended the last few steps, Jasper’s companion stepped forward and bowed. “Cousin Sophy. So good to see you again.”
Cousin? Her eyes flew to Jasper’s.
“Alistair,” he whispered. “Spent Easter with us years ago. Remember the snake?”
She did, dredging his name out of the wells of memory. “Of course. Mr. Beaumaris. It’s been such a long time.”
