“No, you’re plotting. It’s in your nature. You must be charming something, and I’ve come to realize that for the last five days, you’ve been charming me as well.”
“I only meant to help.” Sidney felt helpless, unable to have her or to forget her.
“But you had an outcome in mind. You didn’t show me Hatch putting new roofs on his tenants’ cottages, or Burchby teaching his son to ride a horse. No, you showed me something in the heart of each man that would give me pause. But who can stand up to such scrutiny? I’m sure I couldn’t.”
“You know my heart, Phee, and I know yours. Seeing your heart only makes me wish to marry you more, not less.”
“I wanted to make a decision based on my head, not my heart.”
“Can’t you let them both decide? One without the other puts each at a disadvantage. Head without heart makes tyrants of men; heart without head makes them fools.”
“See, there you are doing it again, being wise and thoughtful. No, you must do for yourself what you have done with my other suitors. You must show me something about your heart that I don’t know, something that, knowing it, might make me choose differently.”
Sidney stared at her for a long moment, fear of what she asked taking his breath away. “I will need some time to consider what that might be.”
“That’s fair. But do not return until then. And if, in the meantime, you so much as send me a note, or stick your head out your bedroom window while I’m in my garden, I will choose a thoroughly unsuitable man, just to spite you.
Sidney picked up his hat slowly and rubbed the rim between his fingers for a few minutes. With Ophelia, he always ended up this way, hat in hand, a penitent. He walked slowly to the gate, then turned back, looking at her one last time, as if he might never see her again. He left, shutting the gate quietly behind him.
Ophelia set a hard task, and if he chose poorly, she would reject him in favor of one of the others, or start over, and he wasn’t sure his heart could bear another season of watching Ophelia vet her possible husbands. He wished that they could have begun differently. He wished he hadn’t been so hasty to send an offer for her so soon after their friendship had begun, but he hadn’t wanted to risk losing her once he’d met her. His Boadicea. But by acting hastily, he’d only convinced her that his affections weren’t sincere, or if they were, they were rooted in pity for the wet woman he’d dragged from the pond. He’d marred the whole thing badly, but she had given him one last chance to fix it. If only he could...
* * * *
Ophelia slipped back into the house, and, once in her room, sank into a well-stuffed chair. Sending him away was difficult, but it had to be done. She needed to see clearly without Sidney charming her.
The next morning passed slowly. Ophelia began her breakfast, thinking the solitude was lovely, but before she finished her toast, she had thought of five things she would love to laugh over with Sidney. And he wasn’t there.
By midmorning, she was growing restive. The conversation in the drawing room was less easy, and the pauses between speakers more frequent. Eventually, the conversation sputtered to a stop altogether. Tom had told her that Sidney was a true diplomat, moving the conversation along with little nudges and jogs but so naturally and unobtrusively that no one noticed he was the master of it.
By the afternoon, Ophelia was simply bored. Each of her suitors visited in turn, but none of them hummed along when she sang, or knew exactly the word she wanted but couldn’t remember. No one noticed if she wore a new frock or an old one. No one told her she was beautiful, or if they did, she didn’t believe them. Sidney, she believed, because Sidney had no reason to lie. And Sidney was never unkind, not even when he was busy and Kate or Ariel demanded his attention.
By the time she received Sidney’s note that evening, telling her to open the unused box and meet him at midnight by the garden gate, Ophelia had almost decided she didn’t need to sneak around in the dark to catch a glimpse of what made up his heart—she saw it every day. But she was curious what he might show her.
* * * *
At midnight, dressed as a common laborer, Ophelia climbed into Sidney’s carriage, her pulse fast with anticipation. “Where are we going?”
“To the lodgings of some… friends.”
“With me dressed like this?” She looked at his clothes. “You look like a beggar as well.”
“They live some distance from here. We will likely return only shortly before dawn, so it is lucky that your Aunt has not yet returned from Bath. I recommend you sleep, if you can.”
“Sleep?”
“Yes, sleep. You have given me the task of showing you some part of my heart that you do not know. And since I have failed to this point with my words, I have decided to let tonight’s visit speak for my character.” He turned his face to the wall and closed his eyes.
Ophelia waited for him to change his mind and talk to her, but when he didn’t, she made herself comfortable and slept.
Sometime later, Ophelia awoke to a choking smoke. “Is there a fire?”
“Take this.” Sidney handed her a handkerchief doused in water. “Hold it to your face.”
“What is that stench?”
“It has many parts. We are in a center of manufacturing. Nearby a candle manufacturer melts tallow, a dyer burns woad balls; and a tanner uses urine, lime, and alum to treat leathers. And not too far away is a slaughterhouse, so blood and manure make up part of this particular fragrance. But we have arrived at our destination. Hold tight to my sleeve. In this smoke, if separated, we might never find one another again.”
Ophelia could barely see, and she clung to Sidney’s arm, following him closely from the hackney to the boardinghouse door. By the time she’d reached the building, she felt her stomach churning, the taste of bile strong on her tongue.
At Sidney’s strong knock, the door opened quickly, and the pair were ushered into a small room by a narrow-faced but welcoming woman. In the room six children of various ages sat on the floor, and a man in worn clothes sat before the fire, his shoulders thin, his chest emaciated. The coal fire gave a smoky warmth, so that even inside, the fog remained.
“These are my friends, the Friths,” Sidney explained, then turned to the couple. “A gift for your family, Maeve…Peter.” Sidney held out a large basket, and the woman took it gratefully. Covering the contents was a bolt of sturdy fabric, and underneath were various food stuffs. The children gathered around as Peter laid each item out carefully on the table. Then with relief and real joy, the children each received a portion of the gift. “Maeve, I’ve also brought a gift for you.” Sidney held out a vial of perfume, and Maeve accepted it with grateful hands.
The elder children pulled up two of the chairs, and Peter Frith motioned Sidney and Ophelia into them. Maeve offered them something to drink, but both refused, saying they would not be staying long.
“Mr. Mason tells us you wish to know somewhat about our industry,” Peter spoke, his voice thin and frail. “When he bought the soap works, me and Maeve had no work, but all the children, save Lorchan who was just a babe, worked at the factories here.”
Ophelia looked at the children, estimating their ages between six and twelve. Lorchan, about three, looked like a babe still.
Sidney interrupted the tale. “The factories prefer children to adults because they can be paid less.”
“And easily controlled. It leaves the parents out of work, while the children slave,” Peter continued. “Mr. Mason had the idea not to employ any child under nine at the soap works. But that only meant that the young children would go to work for another who would hire them and treat them less kindly. Once I saw that he was a fair employer, I asked Mr. Mason to keep the children. Now we all work the soap, but Mr. Mason gives us a meal during the day, and none of the children work more than ten hours.”
She looked at the family who had welcomed them,
the woman still clutching the vial of perfume Sidney had brought her to her chest. What other man would bring something so frivolous and yet so desired? Perhaps the perfume would have been heartless, if he hadn’t accompanied it with a basket of food and clothing.
* * * *
As they left, Ophelia looked back at the children pulling on the socks Sidney had brought, not of coarse homespun, but a finer yarn.
Back in the carriage, the two were silent for some time before Sidney spoke. “You discount my work in Parliament, and your description is often right. I do spend a great deal of time talking, but I’m building relationships. The time isn’t right now to change this.” He motioned toward the factories that surrounded them. “But it will be someday, and when that happens, I must be there, with years of work and obligation behind me, to help push reform through. As it is now, I can only nudge here and there. Sometimes the tide moves forward, sometimes back, but the movement of reform is slow because it rests on changes in hearts and minds. If you were to be my wife, you could share in my work of reform. I would bring Parliament home to you each night that we are in session, and you could help me imagine ways to change the world we live in, for our children and for theirs.”
In the dark, she reached out her hand, touching his knee. “I had no idea. I never imagined. I’m sorry.”
In the dark, his hand found hers, then his other hand touched the side of her cheek tenderly, longingly.
And she longed for more of his touch. She leaned into his hand, tilting her cheek into his palm, feeling the warmth of his hand into the depth of her belly.
He then moved toward her. She felt him draw closer, his body close to hers. His lips brushed hers, teasingly, tantalizingly. She leaned forward, wanting more, and he met her, pressing his lips, his mouth, against hers. What began as a tentative question became a decided answer: yes.
His kiss grew bolder, headier, more passionate.
It was the kiss she had imagined since her first thought of kisses, yet better and more wonderful, because it was Sidney. Then he pulled away, back into the dark, and she felt bereft.
For the rest of the ride home, they sat in silence, their hands clasped together.
* * * *
Ophelia blinked at the morning light in the drawing room. The sun, rarely so bright in April, seemed insistent on reminding Ophelia of how little sleep she’d gotten for the past several days.
All of her thoughts were haunted by last night’s trip to the dark depths of London. She’d known that in comparison to others, her family was comfortably situated, neither rich like the duke, nor poor like the cottagers on the duke’s estate. She’d never questioned her obligation to help those in need.
When they spent time in the country on the Forster estate, she’d frequently helped Judith visit the cottagers, taking food or medicine or clothes. But on the duke’s lands, cottagers were well cared for, and she hadn’t been allowed to visit those cottagers whose landlords were more rapacious. Yes, she’d often helped her aunt gather materials to take to female prisoners at the Fleet, but as an unmarried woman of a still marriageable age, she wasn’t allowed to accompany her aunt on the actual visits. It had often left her unsettled, knowing that a whole world existed outside her narrow experience. But neither the country poverty she’d seen nor the glimpses of women’s suffering she’d gleaned from her aunt’s work had prepared her for the rank human suffering she had observed with Sidney. Even now, she could smell the rotten stench of the district, see the frail, hungry faces of the children. And suddenly she wanted to have a place in the grand, long plan that Sidney had laid out.
If something could be done, Sidney, with his dogged determination, his long hours at Whitehall, and his insistence on the power of government to lighten the load of its citizens could do it, or die trying. And he would, she knew, never give up once he’d set his mind to helping.
Ophelia saw his heart clearly now, and she needed only an occasion at which to tell him that she would never be happy except by his side. She touched her lips, remembering the press of his, so chastely, then so passionately, against hers.
Dressing quickly, she made her way to the drawing room for breakfast, only to find Sidney already there and a large box of sweets placed between Kate and Ariel.
“What are you doing here so early?” Ophelia tried, but failed, to stifle a yawn. “And which of those tarts are mine?”
He held up a note. “I’ve been summoned by your aunt.”
“Whatever for?” Ophelia’s head felt muddy. “Aunt Millicent is here? Already?”
The door opened before he could answer. Aunt Millicent entered, her progress deliberate, her demeanor stern. “Kate, Ariel, leave us, and shut the door behind you. Ophelia, remain.”
The tone of her voice left no room for question or debate. Kate picked up her knitting, and Ariel her embroidery, and both girls hurried from the room. At the door, Kate looked back at Ophelia apologetically, mouthing, “I’m sorry.”
Ophelia almost asked for what? but realized she would know soon enough.
The lines of Millicent’s face were set with anger and resolve. She stood behind her desk, her palms flat against the wood. She directed Sidney to the chair positioned directly before her desk, and Ophelia to the one positions to the side, as if Ophelia were to be primarily an observer. Sidney took his as ordered, as did Ophelia. Millicent waited until they were both seated before she sat.
“I have learned, to my dismay, that you and my ward have been sneaking from the house. At night. Alone.” She paused. “I have learned that on several occasions you have remained out almost the whole night through. Together. Without a chaperone.” She waited, looking between the two of them for any sign of confession.
Sidney sat, unmoving. He did not meet Ophelia’s eyes.
“I might have ignored this behavior were Ophelia my only ward, but I cannot countenance it when I have Kate and Ariel to consider. The duke, I am certain, would not look favorably on such a lax discharge of my responsibilities. And I will not risk him insisting that they live only with him. As you were both wearing disguises, we have little to fear in the way of a public scandal.” She paused again, opening the top drawer of her desk, deliberately removing a folded document, and just as deliberately placing it on the blotter before her. Ophelia recognized it as Sidney’s marriage contract. Her aunt let her hand rest on the document. “But I believe that our course of action is clear, isn’t it, Sidney.”
“Am I not to be consulted in this matter?” Ophelia couldn’t let things proceed, not when Sidney didn’t know she’d made her choice. She had to tell him that she wanted him, for all of his late nights at Whitehall, trying to change the world. She wanted him, with his lopsided smile, and his ready humor.
Her aunt raised her forefinger to silence her. “I told you not to involve Sidney in your courtship games, and yet you proceeded against my instruction. You have forfeited whatever consultation you believe you deserve. Now I must think of what is best for your sisters and, of course, for you.”
Sidney leaned forward and slid the marriage contract from under her aunt’s hand. He unfolded it as if to read it, then stopped and folded it back. His knuckles, where they gripped the paper, were white.
“And I must think of what is best for me.” Sidney’s voice was quiet but hard. “I made this offer under the belief that I wished for a marriage of like minds.” He held up the marriage contract, the edge of the paper crumpling under his grip. “I believed your niece and I were suited in that regard. But in the last weeks, I’ve come to believe that I deserve a marriage of like hearts. I will only marry a woman who loves me as much as I love her. Sadly, Ophelia has made it clear, repeatedly, that she is not that woman.”
“What does this mean?” Millicent’s voice was hard, but uncertain.
“I will not marry your niece.”
Ophelia felt as fragile as the paper crumpling beneath Sid
ney’s fingers. She’d waited too long. She had denied her heart until all that as left was for it to break.
“Are you denying your late-night excursions?”
Sidney said nothing. He slid the marriage contract inside his waistcoat.
Her aunt sat back, for the first time looking all of her sixty-three years. “I think…it would be best for you to go.”
“Of course.” Sidney rose, not once looking at Ophelia.
“You will not be welcome here henceforth. We are no longer friends.”
“Of course. Good day, Mrs. Morvis. Good day, Oph…Miss Gardiner.”
Ophelia watched him leave the room, noting without intending to the way his tailcoat fell in neat lines down his strong back.
She waited, suddenly too weary to move, much less cry.
The study door opened, then closed, then several moments later, the front door opened and closed as well. A moment later, Sidney, or rather Sidney’s hat, passed by on the street below the study windows.
Her throat felt full.
Her stomach fell endlessly downward.
He was gone. And worse, he wasn’t coming back.
* * * *
He wouldn’t come back.
She knew him, knew him all too well.
But one thing might make the difference. And it didn’t hurt to try.
She found her birthday copy of Comedy of Errors, the last in a long line of books from Sidney. In this, he had written a second inscription, a sly compliment: “Had Shakespeare met Ophelia Elliot, he would have found another name for Hamlet’s wet betrothed.”
Since her own words had deserted her, she began with Shakespeare’s, taking snippets from across his works and changing words to fit her need. Then eventually, she made her way carefully into her own voice.
“My imagination carries no favour in it but Sidney’s.
I am undone: there is no living, none,
If Sidney be away. ’Twere all one
That I should love a bright particular star
Charming Ophelia Page 7
