Miss Sophie's Secret

by Fran Baker

  “No, ma’m,” Lovey said. “Money ain’t no good to me if I be froze dead. I brang ye the message. Now I be goin’ back to a warm fire. The cold ’ere be somethin’ fierce.”

  Sophie trotted alongside her. “Miss Baxter, where is my father? I should like to speak to him, but I should also like to have Mr. Gray . . . that, is Lord Vaile, speak to him.”

  “I ain’t tarryin’,” Lovey told her with a decisive nod of her head.

  Sophie sighed and lengthened her stride to keep pace with the woman. “Where is he, then? I must not go far from my friends. My absence will alarm them.”

  “Just over there,” Lovey said, waving her hand toward a row of ramshackle buildings across the river. “’E be stayin’ at a inn fer the night and leavin’ at first light.”

  Sophie glanced back toward the fair again. All she could see was a seething mass of strangers. Around her a steady stream of pedestrians was moving back and forth across the frozen river, their brightly colored clothing scattered cheerfully against a background of white.

  Something niggled at the back of her mind, warning her not to cross the river with Lovey. She stopped and planted her feet, thinking she should wait for Jonathan to come looking for her. But she was only able to maintain her resolve for a few seconds before her heart leaped again and she scampered onto the frozen river after the other woman.

  “Miss Baxter,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “Can’t you wait a moment? Only one moment, I beg of you.”

  Lovey shrugged and continued, her pace unabated. “It be nothin’ to me if ye meet ’im or no. I brought ye the message from mum. The rest be up to you.”

  “But I . . .” Sophie had to run to keep up with her. She glanced over her shoulder and then turned to survey the riverbank they were approaching. A long row of dark buildings was sitting with their backs to the frozen wharves. She couldn’t discern a sign for an inn. “If you’ll tell me the name of the place,” she said, “I’ll come here with my friends.”

  Lovey put a finger to her brow in an elaborately quizzical gesture. “It were . . . well, now, let me think.”

  Sophie was struck by a certain insincerity in Lovey’s tone, but curiosity spurred her resolutely on.

  Finally Lovey sighed heavily and said, “I forget th’ name o’ th’ place.” She gave a vague wave. “It be right over there.”

  They had reached the foot of a rude stairway that had been cut out of the snow. Suddenly, in her haste, while she was staring at the buildings above her, Sophie turned her ankle on a low ridge of ice and began to fall. She held out both arms to try and keep her balance.

  Lovely grabbed hold of her and she of Lovey. They clung together for a moment, slipping first to one side and then the other, wobbling and sliding their feet. It appeared certain that they were both going down in a heap, but at the last moment a rosy-nosed old gentleman in a silver-gray top hat caught both of them by the elbows and straightened them up.

  “Now, now, my good woman,” he said to Lovey, wagging a finger in her face. “You must take better care of your mistress.”

  Lovey’s brow drew down in a resentful scowl. The old gentleman whipped off his hat, bowed low to Sophie, and continued on across the frozen river.

  Grateful for the chance to catch her breath, Sophie looked around curiously. “Now, where is the inn, Miss Baxter?”

  “Up ’ere,” Lovey muttered, and began climbing the stairway.

  Fighting to maintain her footing on the slick steps, Sophie followed.

  At the top of the steps, Lovey gestured toward a wharf that was piled high with mysterious bundles, all of which were mounded over with ice.

  “It be just past there,” she said and walked off toward the area she had indicated.

  Sophie glanced back one more time toward the fair, hoping to see at least one of her friends coming across the river after her, but there was no one in sight whom she recognized. With a sigh, she set off again in pursuit of Miss Baxter. She fairly skated over the ice-encrusted planks of the wharf, praying she wouldn’t fall. When she finally reached the street, she picked her way carefully over ridges and icy patches.

  The sky had darkened and hand-sized flakes of snow were beginning to fall.

  Sophie’s toes felt numb. Her fingers, too. Teeth chattering from the terrible cold, she crossed her arms over her breast, trying to conserve warmth and pressed on.

  Ahead of her Lovey turned a corner. When Sophie caught up with her, she had stopped at a heavy doorway and taken hold of the latch.

  “In ’ere,” Lovey called over her shoulder.

  Sophie watched her disappear into the building, which looked more like a warehouse than an inn. She searched for a sign, but saw nothing to indicate a name. Swallowing the feeling of dread that suddenly swept over her, she peered in the open doorway.

  A common room was illuminated by only the dimmest flicker of light from a few sputtering candles that were set here and there on random tables. Puffs of wood smoke issued from a huge black fireplace. Many of the filthy and ragged inhabitants of the room were holding dirty pipes to their mouths, from which tendrils of blue tobacco smoke were rising.

  Suddenly Lovey reached out, caught hold of her arm and pulled her inside, slamming the door shut and saying sternly, “’Tis too cold.”

  Sophie shuddered. A heavy stench of mildew, rancid sweat, and rotting timbers assaulted her nostrils. Her eyes began to sting and her throat to ache from the pall of acrid fumes.

  She pulled away. “Please tell my father I’m out—”

  “Wait.” Lovey grabbed her coat sleeve and dragged her further into the room.

  A heavyset man with matted black hair and a grizzled beard appeared out of the murk. He was wearing a filthy shirt of indeterminate color and a greasy apron. He made to wrap his huge lumpy arms around Lovey, but she put up her hands to ward off his embrace

  “Not now, Jed” she told him.

  “What took ye so long, darlin’?” he asked in a whiny voice.

  Darlin’? It struck Sophie then that this was the innkeeper Lovey had said she was going to marry.

  Ignoring his question, Lovey asked one of her own. “Where’s the gent that be waitin’ for us?”

  Sophie felt a small hand picking at her other coat sleeve. She turned to find a grimy little man standing next to her. To her dismay she saw it was the dwarfish coachman who had tried to crush Jonathan against the fence.

  “We meet again,” he cackled, and brandished the rod he held in his other hand.

  “You—you hit our guard,” she gasped.

  His affirming grin made him look like a small gargoyle.

  Jed shooed the coachman away and pointed a fat finger toward a staircase that was lying in the shadows against the far wall. “The gent be upstairs, first room to yer left.”

  “Come along,” Lovey said, and jerked Sophie toward the staircase.

  Sophie tried to hang back, but Lovey had too good a grip on her arm and was able to bundle her along. They made their way across the room, through the murmuring, chuckling crowd, then up a staircase that rose sharply toward the rafters and disappeared into darkness. At the landing Lovey took a candle from a shelf and struck a light with a flint. Then she grabbed hold of Sophie’s arm again and opened the door.

  To her surprise Sophie found herself in a low-ceilinged room that was remarkably clean. A big bed stood in one corner, its thick comforters covered with a clean white spread. Braided cord tied white curtains back from the window, which rattled in its frame as the wind howled against the outside of the building.

  Standing at the window with his back to the door was a man in a tall beaver and caped coat.

  Lovey pushed Sophie forward.

  She stumbled into the middle of the room. The prospect of meeting the man who had given her life scalded the empty holes in her heart, the places where she needed love and reassurance. She was full of pain and joy and emotions she couldn’t even name.

  Clearing her throat in a bid to ease the su
dden tightness there, she said, “Father?”

  Her eyes widened with shock and her mouth dropped open when the man turned away from the window.

  Chapter 14

  “Albert?”

  “Hello, Sophie.”

  Lovey set the candle on the small table against the wall and stepped between them. “Where’s me money?”

  Sophie wasn’t sure she had heard her correctly. “What money?”

  Albert pulled a purse out of his coat pocket and thrust it at Lovey. “Go on with you now,” he ordered her. “I wish to speak in private to my fiancée.”

  Lovey stuffed the purse in her pocket and left the room.

  “Your fiancée?” Sophie felt a coldness seeping into her flesh when Albert fixed her with a level gaze.

  “I won’t do you the injustice of prevaricating,” he said as he removed his hat and coat, setting the former on the table and draping the latter over the back of one of the chairs at the table. “I paid Miss Baxter to bring you here under false pretenses.”

  Sophie backed up a step, as though she’d just been struck a powerful blow. “It was you who was following us the day we went to see—”

  “I’d heard about Agnes Baxter years ago, when I visited the Priory,” he admitted. “But finding her after Vaile pensioned her off . . .” He shrugged. “Then I heard that Jonathan was asking around about her and knew it was just a matter of time before he located her. All I had to do was wait and watch.”

  “But why the ruse about my father?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist meeting him at long last.”

  She couldn’t look at him now, for she was certain he would see the disgust in her eyes. To think of the way he had played upon her emotions . . . She stared down at the rag rug on the floor. “And the attacks on Jonathan?”

  “So, you figured that out too? I paid both the coachman and the footpads quite handsomely, but they were never able to finish him off.” He spoke of his perfidy as coolly as if he were discussing the latest sporting event about town.

  She felt like her bones had turned to ice, but she managed to face him squarely. “You’re quite clever, Albert.”

  He stepped close to her and studied her face for a long moment. “And you’ve grown into quite a beautiful woman, Sophie.”

  She made a moue. “I still don’t understand why you felt the need to trick me into coming here.”

  “Because I intend to marry you and take you home with me before Jonathan . . . or should I now say Vaile”—his mouth twisted bitterly—“can put a stop to it.”

  The room began to undulate, and she feared she might faint. She set her reticule on the table and grabbed hold of the other chair’s back for support. “No.”

  He merely raised a brow at her denial.

  “I don’t love you, Albert.” Her mind fought for control over her trembling body. “I love Jonathan.”

  “Love match or no, you can be assured that I will never mistreat you.” His face was a map of pure indifference. “In fact, I still feel quite well disposed toward you. You’re pretty and lighthearted—the perfect sort of wife for the monseigneur of Stonehaven. You’ll be able to give the people heart, a thing sorely needed on that harsh little island. And with your fortune—”

  “My fortune!”

  He went on as if she hadn’t interrupted him. “I’ll repair the castle and buy four hundred sheep to improve the herds. I’ll have the still rebuilt and we’ll bring our whiskey back up to its former quality. Before twenty years have passed, the de Lisles will be enjoying a standard of living as high as any in the empire, and our people will be well fed and happy again.”

  “You’ve really thought this through,” she said in voice she hoped sounded casual.

  He misinterpreted her comment as a compliment. Smiling broadly, he drew a paper from his pocket, unfolded it carefully and then laid it on the table for her to see. “This is a special license. You may examine it, if you wish. It’s quite proper and legal.”

  Leaving her to study it, he walked to the door and called down the staircase, “Send Mr. Walker up here!”

  There was a sound of scraping chairs in the common room and then footsteps moving rather unsteadily up the stairs. A little man in a suit of coarse black cloth appeared in the doorway. His eyes were bleary, his face was mottled and his unruly brown hair was standing up in tufts all over his head.

  “Aye . . . sir,” he said on a hiccough.

  “Come in,” Albert told him. “We’re ready.”

  “Wait!” Sophie protested, her stomach twisting in revulsion. “I am not!”

  “Begin the ceremony,” Albert told Walker.

  “No,” Sophie said. “I must consider a moment.”

  “Nonsense! You’ll be happy married to me, whatever you believe at this time.” An obviously annoyed Albert waved a hand at Walker. “Come along now, proceed with the vows.”

  “I won’t do it!” Sophie cried.

  “I’ll not marry the lass against her will,” the minister said.

  “Don’t be an ass!” Albert snapped. “Who will know but ourselves?”

  “I’ll know,” the man said and hiccoughed again. “I’ll not be able to make peace with my Lord.”

  Albert snorted. “Your Lord turned his back on you long ago, you drunken hypocrite! Proceed with the service.”

  Sophie did not doubt that Albert meant to marry her and gain control of the fortune Lord Reginald had left her. She realized she must try to remain calm, to do the right thing. Her only chance of escape was to play along, then catch him unprepared and run. An idea struck her and she laid a hand gently on the back of his wrist.

  “I need a moment of privacy first,” she said, and cast a meaningful glance at the chamber pot sitting beside the bed.

  The minister’s face flushed an even deeper red as he turned and tottered out of the room. “I’ll wait downstairs.”

  Albert eyed her with suspicion before snapping, “Five minutes, and not a moment more.”

  Sophie flinched when he slammed the door behind him and then hurriedly dragged a chair into position. Her heart raced as fast as her feet when she rushed to pick up the pot. It was nice and heavy, perfect for her purpose. She removed the lid and put it on the bed so it wouldn’t rattle and give her away, and then set the pot on the seat of the chair.

  The wind howled, covering her footsteps as raced to the window and stripped off the cords that swagged the curtains. Last, she peeled a case off a pillow. No sooner did she have everything at the ready than Albert gave the door an impatient rap.

  Pot in hand, she climbed up on the chair and cooed, “Come in.”

  Albert opened the door and stepped into the room.

  Gritting her teeth in determination, Sophie raised the pot high and then crashed it down as hard as she could on his head.

  He slid limply to the floor.

  Knowing time was of the essence she jumped down from the chair, closed the door and got to work. Lord Reginald had taught her to tie several kinds of knots one summer, and she used that skill now to bind his wrists and feet together with one of the cords. Halfway through the process, he moaned. She grabbed the lid off the bed and conked him again and then tore a strip off a linen sheet, wadded it up and stuffed it in his mouth. To make doubly sure he couldn’t raise an alarm, she slipped the pillow case over his head, tied it around his neck with the other length of cord and fed the rope down and around his wrists and down again around the ankles, pulling his body into a bent figure S.

  Satisfied the bindings were taut enough to choke him if he moved she pushed and shoved him, she pushed to her feet, ran to get her reticule and happened to catch a glimpse of herself in the darkened mirror that hung above the table. Through spotted and undulating waves of hazy amber, she found a startled, wild-eyed face staring back at her, its bonnet sliding to one side and large untidy clumps of hair bursting out in unlikely places.

  “Good heavens,” Sophie muttered, setting her reticule back on the table an
d pulling off her bonnet.

  She ran her fingers over her curls, soothing them and tucking them back into their pins. Then she replaced her bonnet and tied it in place. It was still sadly askew, she realized, but with no time to spare, she was obliged to settle for a slightly drunken effect.

  A roar, a clatter, and then a thundering crash gave her a startle. She rushed to the door, pulled it open, and put her head out. She had a clear view of the common room below and saw that a spirited altercation was in progress.

  At first it appeared that several louts were swinging at each other with bottles. Then she noted that one of the men was of a different stamp, tall, agile, clean, and dressed in a greatcoat of excellent quality. It was not long before it became apparent that all the other men were ranged against him and he was attempting to defend himself.

  “Jonathan” she breathed as his hat tumbled off and his black hair was revealed.

  His fists were swinging out strongly, and it appeared for a time that he might triumph over superior numbers. He landed a punch and one of his attackers fell to the floor with a muffled thud. But the next moment a hooligan swung at him with a bottle, striking him hard on the temple, and Jonathan sank to the floor.

  “I’ll slit ’is throat,” one of the rogues bawled, leaning over Jonathan’s still form.

  “No, ye don’t!” a woman’s voice cried out.

  The breath whooshed from Sophie when Lovey stepped away from the door and into the middle of the room.

  “De Lisle’ll pay extree if ’e wants ’him dead,” Agnes’s daughter told the lot of them. “This be Vaile hisself. Watch de Lisle dance like a dervish when ’e comes down an’ sees what we caught.”

  “Good thinkin’, me little Treasure Chest.” Jed grinned at Lovey and then waved a ham-sized hand toward a closet that was set into a back wall. “Put ’im in there. That’ll hold ’im fer now.”

  Three men gathered Jonathan among them and half dragged him to the closet, where they dumped him unceremoniously and backed out, locking the door behind them.

  “Ye got a rope?” one asked the innkeeper. “I’ll tie up ’is ’ands.”