Miss Sophie's Secret

by Fran Baker

  “Do you recognize me?” she asked the old woman in a quavering voice.

  The ancient gasped and opened a cavernous mouth that was totally devoid of teeth. “Miss Pamela!” she cried. “Darlin’ girl! Ye’ve come back to Agnes. Come let me hold ye, dearest child. I knew ye’d come back someday. My own beautiful darlin’.”

  Sophie cast a quizzical glance at Agnes’s daughter.

  She shrugged indifferently. “She be out of her head.”

  Sophie put out a groping hand to steady herself. Jonathan slid a welcome arm around her waist.

  “It isn’t Pamela,” Sophie said, when she had recovered her voice. “It’s Sophie.”

  Agnes chuckled. “O’ course, love. I’ll not tell. Not ever! ’Is lordship an’ all his cronies can do as they like . . . torture me, even . . .”

  “His cronies?” Jonathan glanced at Lovey.

  She sealed her lips into a tight white line.

  The old woman made an angry gesture toward Jonathan with a shriveled claw. “Agnes’ll be here when ye need ’er!”

  Jonathan cleared his throat. “Agnes—”

  “Don’t speak to me, sir!” she spat. “I’ll never forgive ye!”

  “But don’t you see?” Sophie said. “I’m not Pamela. I’m Sophie—Sophie Althorpe. And I want you to tell me who I am. Who is my mother, and who is my father?”

  Agnes poked her head forward, looking for all the world like a vulture inspecting its dinner. “Eh?” she chirped. “What’s that ye say? Come closer, lady. Let me look at ye.”

  With some difficulty Sophie picked her way around one side of the bed, over some piles of rags and several pieces of broken crockery, until she was close to the old woman. She bent down to allow the light from the one smoking candle to fall on her face.

  “Ye ain’t my Pamela!” the old woman screeched.

  Lovey waved a hand at her impatiently. “She never said she were. She said she were Sophie.”

  The bedridden woman shook her head angrily. “Sophie were only a baby. My own darlin’ Sophie.”

  “But who is Sophie?” Sophie persisted. “Who is her mother? And who is her father?”

  The old woman let out a piercing howl. “I’ll never tell! Get away from me!”

  Lovey stumbled over the rubbish on the other side of the bed and, grasping her mother by the shoulders, gave her a savage shake. “Shut up, ye daft old witch! Tell the young lady what she be wantin’ to know. She’ll pay handsome if ye do.”

  “Stop!” Sophie cried, putting a restraining hand on her arm. “You’ll hurt her.”

  Lovey stepped away, snorting disdainfully. “’Urt ’er, eh? What were she good for, I ask ye? She be better orf dead.”

  “She’s your mother and she relies on you for kindness,” Sophie said. “It’s cowardly in the extreme to take advantage of her illness.”

  “Ye givin’ me lessons how to behave? Is that what ye come ’ere for?”

  “No, I—”

  “Ye wipe ’er mouth an’ ’er bottom day after day an’ then ye can lecture me.”

  Sophie looked down and saw that Agnes had closed her eyes and was fast asleep, her mouth hanging open and a thick pink tongue gliding slowly in and out. She realized she wouldn’t have a chance now to show her the earring and maybe spark a memory that would help in her search.

  Sighing, she turned to Jonathan and said in a desolate voice, “There is nothing more for us here.”

  Lovey led them back along the musty hall. Halfway to the door, she turned and confronted them. “So what’s it yer wanting’ to know? And ’ow much ye be willin’ to pay for it?”

  Jonathan fished a five pound note from his purse but kept it in hand. “Who was Miss Sophie’s mother?”

  Lovey tore her avaricious gaze away from the note he held. “I can tell ye ’er mum were that Pamela me mum be bawlin’ about—I ’eard ’er say it often enough.”

  “And who was her father?”

  “Me mum never said.”

  Jonathan handed her the five pound note, promising there was more where that came from if she could find out Sophie’s father’s name. “Any information you discover should be delivered to Vaile House,” he told her. “It’s on Berkeley Square at—”

  “I knows Vaile ’ouse,” she interrupted. “I were kitchen maid there when I were a girl.”

  “Indeed?” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to come back?”

  She scowled and shook her head. “No thankee. I be marryin’ soon . . . a innkeeper across th’ river.”

  “Well!” Jonathan said. “Please accept my congratulations.”

  She shrugged. “What else ye be wantin’ t’ know?”

  “Who is my father?” Sophie asked.

  “I’ll send ye word.” Lovey tucked the bill into the bodice of her dress, then turned and led them to the door. While one of the guards opened it, the other went outside to hail Johnnie Aysgarth, who was passing by in the curricle. Aysgarth reined his team and backed to the gate.

  The storm was deepening. A heavy fog had enveloped the city and the wind was beginning to throw drifts of snow against the side of the curricle. The guards quickly helped Sophie and Jonathan into the vehicle, Johnnie arranged the fur robes over their laps and then they all sprang onto their places at the back.

  Jonathan urged the team down the street and around the corner. Once one of the horses stumbled and slid, scrambling with its hooves to keep from falling. Jonathan reined them to a snail’s pace. Gas lamps flickered no brighter than candle stubs. The few pedestrians who had ventured out carried dim lanterns to light their way.

  “Are you cold?” he asked Sophie once they reached the high road..

  “No,” she said. “It’s enjoyable to be out in the open air. I only wish we had learned something more.”

  “We learned quite a bit,” he pointed out. “I think we can accept as fact that someone named Pamela was your mother—whoever she might have been.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I shall confront Aunt Ruth with this information as soon as we are home. Perhaps she’ll relent and tell me the rest.”

  When they arrived at Vaile House, two footmen scrambled up out of the servants’ quarters and were in place to assist Sophie to the ground the moment the curricle had come to a full stop. Jonathan tossed the reins to Johnnie Aysgarth and then walked with Sophie up the front steps and into the vestibule.

  “I’ll meet you in the yellow salon in fifteen minutes,” he told her. “Will that give you enough time for your talk with Aunt Ruth?”

  She nodded and scampered up the staircase to search for Lady Biskup. But after she had changed her boots for dry ones, returned the earring to her jewel box, and warmed her hands, she hurried to her aunt’s room only to discover that she was fast asleep. While she was tempted to awaken her, she decided against it and dashed off a quick note to Jonathan, postponing their meeting an hour. Pressing it into Anna’s hands, she instructed her to give it to Johnnie Aysgarth to deliver.

  An hour later Anna had not returned, and when Sophie went to peek at Lady Biskup again, she found her still sleeping. From that time on she checked her aunt every fifteen minutes. It was necessary for her to send three more notes to Jonathan by various messengers before Lady Biskup roused and Sophie was able to sit down with her for a quiet conference.

  “I have been to visit my old nurse,” she told her. “Agnes Baxter.”

  Lady Biskup started in surprise. Then she primmed her mouth and frowned thoughtfully. “Agnes Baxter . . .” she mused. “Let me see . . . Where did you receive the information that she was your nurse, my dear?”

  Sophie reached out a hand. “Aunt Ruth, please don’t dissemble. It’s common knowledge that Agnes Baxter lived at Vaile Priory until 1799. Jonathan sought her out and we have been to visit her. She said that my mother’s name was . . . that is, Sophie’s mother’s name was Pamela. Now, what I would like to know is: Who was—or is—this Pamela, and who is my father?”

  Lady Biskup took her hand and, dra
wing her down beside her on a small settee, kissed her gently on the cheek. “My dearest child,” she said. “I, too, have been to visit this Baxter woman. Poor creature, she is quite beyond the pale. Babbled to me of someone named Ophelia and then fell asleep and could not be roused. She is dreaming of the children she cared for long ago. But as for her giving me any useful information about you . . . Well, alas, I fear her case is hopeless.”

  Sophie stared unhappily at her aunt’s face. “Ophelia? Are you telling me that this was my mother’s name?”

  “It is possible,” Lady Biskup said.

  Sophie lowered her gaze and began to pleat a length of her skirt between her fingers. She bit her lips. When she looked up a moment later, she found Lady Biskup watching her intently.

  “I must know the circumstances of my birth, Aunt Ruth,” she said. “I’ve fallen in love with Jonathan, you see, and I cannot—”

  “Love him!” Lady Biskup scoffed. “It’s quite impossible. You’ve mistaken loyalty and sisterly affection for love.”

  “No, I haven’t. I love him. And he loves me. He even swears that he’ll go off to the New World if we don’t marry.”

  “Good God!” Lady Biskup exclaimed. “This is my fault, keeping you together in this house.” She cupped a hand under the girl’s chin and drew her face toward her. “Sophie, listen to me! A match between you and Jonathan may be quite impossible. I wish it were otherwise, but it is quite probable that”—she inhaled deeply—that you are brother and sister.”

  Sophie’s mouth fell open, and she stammered out a breathless, “What!”

  “I fear you have the same father,” Lady Biskup told her flabbergasted niece.

  “Are you saying that I am Matthew Gray’s daughter?”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Then who?” Sophie tried to sort through the upheaval in her heart. “Lady Camden assured me that there has never been such a person as Timothy Althorpe.”

  Lady Biskup ground her teeth. “Meddling fool!”

  Coming to her feet, the older woman began to pace restlessly up and down the room. “Now, listen to me, my child, I do not wish to impart this information to Jonathan, though he is pressing me relentlessly. As a matter of fact, I may be mistaken, but I do not believe that Jonathan is Matthew Gray’s son. I believe that he is the blow-by of another, much greater man.”

  Something churned in Sophie’s mind, something that whirled and danced just out of her reach. “Are you saying—”

  “At this time I don’t have the proof for either of you in my possession,” her aunt continued. “But I have hired a new solicitor, a Mr. Moneypenny. And if you’ll trust me for two more days—only two, I assure you—I shall reveal everything: your mother’s name, your father’s, and your relationship, if any, to Jonathan. Only trust me, my love, can you? Two more days.”

  Sophie hesitated and then sighed. “Very well, Aunt Ruth. I have no choice.”

  Chapter 11

  When Sophie finally hurried downstairs to keep her rendezvous with Jonathan, she found him in the library, impatiently thumbing through an atlas of the world.

  “Well?” he said, leaving the book and coming rapidly toward her. “Did she confide in you?”

  “No,” Sophie said, hanging her head. “I don’t understand her reticence, but she promised to divulge everything in two days’ time, if we can be patient while she investigates a certain connection.”

  “What of Pamela? Was she your mother?”

  “She says not. She says that she visited Agnes Baxter herself, and Agnes spoke of a certain Ophelia, who might have been my mother, instead.”

  “Nonsense!” He bunched his fists and, turning angrily away, said, “I’ve lost all patience with this subterfuge. Why is Aunt Ruth prevaricating in this matter? What is she hiding? Certainly it’s easy enough to tell us the facts as she knows them. Why is it necessary to be surrounded by all this secrecy?”

  Swallowing hard, Sophie turned her gaze away from him. Jonathan went over to her and cupped a hand under her chin.

  “Why are you accepting this, Sophie? Aren’t you angry to be treated in such a cavalier manner? It’s quite unfair of Aunt Ruth to keep you in the dark. She’s wrong to do so, I swear. I’ll go to her right now and demand the truth.”

  “But she’ll lie to you,” she said, turning away. “And if we can summon up the patience to wait for two days, perhaps she really will tell us everything.”

  He frowned at her thoughtfully for a time and then shrugged. “All right,” he said. “If you wish. But I’m going to have a talk with her right now, and see if there aren’t a few facts I can pry out of her.”

  He departed abruptly, and Sophie could hear his footsteps as he bounded up the central staircase. Still in a state of shock over her aunt’s news, she sat in silence, reviewing her conversation with Agnes Baxter. She realized that Agnes had never stated precisely that Sophie was Pamela’s child. She had mistaken Sophie for Pamela and had said that Sophie was only a baby, but she had never directly linked the two, except by implication.

  Voices in the vestibule startled Sophie out of her own thoughts. A moment later Leeds ushered Albert into the library. Albert had divested himself of his coat, and with his cheeks stirred by the ongoing snow storm, he was looking especially handsome.

  “Ah, here you are,” he said with an easy smile. “You are well today after the rigors of the ball last night?”

  Sophie nodded. “Yes, I am well, thank you. And you?”

  “In excellent spirits.” He came toward her as if intent on embracing her.

  “That’s good to hear.” She stood, wondering how soon Jonathan would return.

  At that moment the door opened and Jonathan entered the room, stopping Albert in his tracks.

  “Look who’s come to call,” Sophie exclaimed.

  Jonathan came across the room to stand next to her.

  “Are you ill, Cousin?” Albert asked him. “You’re shockingly pale.”

  “You’re mistaken, Cousin,” Jonathan replied in a level voice. “I’m quite well, I assure you.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it.” Albert tipped his head. “We heard of the dastardly attack on you the other night. I was relieved to hear that you escaped relatively unscathed.”

  Jonathan bowed. “I thank you.”

  Turning, Albert walked slowly over to the window and peered out. “This weather is wretchedly confining. How long is it going to last, I wonder? There is nothing I should enjoy more at this moment than a bracing walk through the square.” He turned back and smiled broadly at Sophie. “Would you care to join me?”

  Jonathan spoke up quickly. “She has been out in the cold already today. For her health’s sake it is not advisable that she go out again.”

  Frowning now, Albert looked Jonathan steadily in the eye. “I’d have thought she could speak for herself.”

  Sophie fluttered a hand. “I’ve no desire to go out into the storm again, Albert. But I thank you for your kind invitation.”

  “May we offer you something hot to drink?” Jonathan offered.

  “Oh, yes, forgive me,” Sophie said. “May we offer you something hot to drink?”

  Albert bowed. “Thank you, no. I must finish my round of calls. The Jordans are expecting me for tea.”

  He walked over to Sophie and raised her hand to his lips. After being stuffed into his coat by a solicitous footman, he tapped a finger jauntily to his hat and, with a smile, departed.

  “Damn his unmitigated gall!” Jonathan said with a venom that startled Sophie. “I’d wager everything I possess that, when the truth is revealed, he’ll prove to be at the bottom of my ‘accidents.’”

  Sophie caught his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “Don’t say so! If these mishaps are linked together and there’s one person behind them, I’ll never be able to let you out of my sight without being in terror for your life.”

  Jonathan slid an arm around her shoulders and drew her against his side. She waited, breathless, expectin
g him to kiss her, but he only held her for a short time then gave her a squeeze and released her. He sat back on the edge of a large desk.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Sophie? I’m convinced that Albert is determined to kill me.”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s the problem at this time.”

  “I don’t see how he can be such a villain,” she said. “When we’re talking together, he seems so open and sincere. I think we’ve misjudged him.”

  “Indeed?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yes. And I’ve thought . . . that is . . . perhaps . . . if worse comes to worst . . . if you go away to America . . . well . . . he’s my cousin, after all. We both love crags and storm clouds and . . .” Unable to finish, she turned away.

  They were both silent, musing.

  Turning back, Sophie asked him, “What did you learn from Aunt Ruth?”

  “Damned little,” he admitted, running a hand across his brow. “I’m still not sure how to take her nonsensical stories. She’s either the wiliest woman in the British Isles or the silliest. I was tempted to call her a bald-faced liar, but I was able to control myself in time.”

  “Do you think my mother’s name was Ophelia?”

  “Of course not.”

  Sophie burst into tears.

  Jonathan drew her into his arms. “What is it, love?”

  “I can’t bear it! All these problems . . .”

  He held her tighter and began to stroke her hair. “I think that the time has come to take the advice of a certain Roman general.”

  “What is that?” she asked, raising a tearstained face.

  “It was his conviction that a commander who continually fights a defensive war—no matter how strong—will eventually be defeated. I suspect that he was right, and I’ve decided that the time has come to counterattack.”

  Sophie frowned. “How will you do that? Is it dangerous?”

  He smiled. “Not for us. What are the names of those busybodies Aunt Ruth is always warning you against? Mrs. Harris is one, I remember, and there’s another.”