Masquerade

by Sarita Leone

  “Be that as it may, my dear, Mr. Randolph is abed and feeling poorly. The soup will do him some good, I hope.” The tone was stern but not hard, that perfect blend of mothering and acceptance her daughters had come to expect. She softened her voice, and added, “And I hope the short walk down the lane and back will bring you some comfort, as well. Thank you for delivering the crock, Sophie. I appreciate your going out of your way for someone else—it is so like you to be so charitable. It is one of your most admirable traits, your willingness to help others—even if at this moment you feel…”

  She did not need to say anything more. Sophie filled in the last part of the sentence in her own head. It was regrettable that her mother felt she was not being as kind as usual, and perhaps her mother was right but Sophie couldn’t help how she felt.

  Right now, she was irritated by Colin’s recent behavior. That would probably change later, but at the moment she planned to hold tightly to the aggravation. It kept her from having to examine the reason behind her feelings. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but she suspected the reason she was so annoyed by her old friend’s antics was deeper than she was prepared to admit.

  “I’ll be back shortly.” Sophie put her hand on the door latch, and would have escaped had she been a second or two faster.

  “I don’t know where you’re headed, but may I come along?” The question was followed by a giggle.

  I thought you were still in your bed!

  Sophie wondered if she could bolt without being caught. It was a daring daydream, one she could not indulge but nonetheless, it did cross her mind.

  Turning, she pasted a bland expression on her face.

  “Why, good morning, dear.” Mrs. Teasdale smiled warmly. “How did you sleep?”

  Wendy stood on the bottom stair, beaming as brightly as if a large candle lighted from her within. Sophie nearly squinted, aggravated by the sight of the blue-eyed interloper.

  “Good morning to you, Mrs. Teasdale. Sophie. I did sleep well, thank you.” A smile flashed across her face. For an instant, she looked like a china doll, too pretty by far to be an ordinary flesh-and-blood woman.

  Attired in what was obviously a dressmaker’s creation of periwinkle blue and cream, Wendy looked like she had just stepped off the pages of the latest ladies’ fashion magazine. Her dress matched her shoes, which were a darker shade of blue designed, no doubt, to provide contrast to the outfit. It was the first time blue leather shoes had been worn in the Teasdale house.

  Sophie noticed the way all the ribbons lay flat against Wendy’s bodice. Perfect pleats and skillful embroidery stitches gave the garment exquisite detail the likes of which Sophie certainly could never hope to possess in her own wardrobe. It was hard to take her eyes from the dress and in particular the fine stitches just below the neckline. It was, by far, one of the prettiest morning dresses she had ever seen. Her fingers itched to reach out and touch it, but her pride kept her arms immobile.

  Irritation ratcheted a notch higher. A dull headache began to form behind her eyes.

  “That is what I hoped to hear, Wendy. I wouldn’t want you to spend one sleepless night beneath our roof.” Sophie’s mother looked from her guest to her daughter, with one eyebrow arched for the latter, and then went on, “Sophie is doing me a favor by delivering some soup to Mr. Randolph. He is, I am afraid, feeling rather low, and it’s my hope Louisa’s chicken soup will chase the sniffles right out of his head. The walk is a short one, but I know you two young ladies will find something interesting to discuss along the way. I am sure Sophie would love your company.”

  There was no polite way to refuse, so Sophie smiled when she wanted to scream.

  “Of course. I would very much enjoy it if you would walk with me.” Her mind scrambled to come up with a deterrent. Almost as a last resort, she nodded to the blue shoes and added, “I shan’t stay at the Randolph’s. I’m merely going to drop off the soup and turn right around. It might not be worthwhile for you to chance ruining your lovely shoes on such an unimportant errand.”

  There. That should put an end to this, Sophie thought with a burst of satisfaction. It seemed no matter where she turned these days, someone or something brought confusion to even the simplest act. Time to grab the upper hand and restore order.

  “Oh, these old things? Why, they are hardly worth the worry.” Wendy lifted the hem of her gown, exposing the shoes all the way up to their side buttons. They were attractive but sturdy looking. A flash of stocking—also dyed blue—showed before she released the dress, allowing it to fall back into place. “By any chance, is the sickly Mr. Randolph Colin’s father?”

  Sophie nodded. “It is.”

  “So we are going to Colin’s house?” A giggle, one that made Sophie grit her teeth.

  “We are. But only for a moment,” Sophie added. “Remember, Mr. Randolph is ill and this would be an inopportune time for a social call. I’m merely dropping off some soup for medicinal purposes, that’s all.”

  As if she hadn’t heard a word, Wendy turned for the kitchen. Calling back over her shoulder, she said, “I’ll only be a second. I just want to grab some peanut brittle for Colin. You saw how much he enjoyed my peanuts yesterday, didn’t you?”

  Had she still been within earshot she would have heard Sophie’s aggravated groan. But with her mother giving her a steely gaze, Sophie nodded. Then, plastering a smile that was almost painful to muster on her face, she called back, “Why, yes. We all saw just how enamored Colin was with your nuts.”

  ****

  Confound the woman! Colin thought crossly. Wendy was like sticking powder. As much as he tried to shake her, she refused to loosen her grip.

  Voices roused him from the deep armchair beside the fireplace in the library. He had been reading Homer’s Odyssey—or so it would have appeared to anyone who happened to glance his way. The truth is he had been staring at the same page for over an hour and would have probably continued to do so had the voices not intrigued him.

  Chance was a scheming opponent, and he had fallen for its ruse. Curiosity brought him to the threshold of the library, clearly within sight of the front door. Colin hadn’t seen who stood just beyond the door, but as soon as he was spotted he knew who had come calling.

  His stomach dropped into his boots.

  The giggle. The infernal, grating, sickly-sweet giggle. Had he realized Miss Wentworth stood on his front stoop he would have kept staring at Homer’s words.

  By the time he knew, it was too late. He had been seen, and his only recourse was to proceed to the door. To his relief, Sophie was with the irritating blond. Unfortunately, Sophie seemed more interested in getting away from him than anything else. How could he blame her? He had acted like a bacon-brained schoolboy, not a man who knew his mind. What else could he expect after his unseemly exhibition yesterday afternoon?

  “Well, we must be running. Mother’s waiting,” Sophie said, turning on her heel when the soup was safely delivered to Penny’s hands. “Give your father our best, won’t you?”

  Colin nudged his sister out of the way, walking through a heavenly scented cloud to stand in the doorway. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “No need,” Sophie said.

  He grabbed his coat. “But I insist. It is wet and slippery, and my father would be greatly annoyed if either of you were to slip on his account. No, you must allow me to accompany you.”

  Offering to walk them home had seemed a safe way to get back into Sophie’s good graces. He knew she liked an escort in the slippery weather, and they had a natural rhythm when they walked side by side. Perhaps it would remind her that they were so well acquainted that even their strides matched.

  He had not counted on the giggler being present. In fact, once he saw Sophie on the doorstep he altogether forgot about her companion.

  Miss Wentworth, however, had not forgotten about him. From the first steps she had attached herself to his arm. She refused to let go, or to move to the side in order that Sophie might share the path.r />
  With Sophie trailing behind them, there was no chance of restoring her good humor. His, as well, had taken a decided turn for the worse.

  Think of something, man! Sophie will be madder than a wet hen before we reach her gate.

  Colin cleared his throat. Then, he stopped walking. With a small smile of regret, he pulled his arm from Miss Wentworth’s grip.

  “I fear I am not being a suitable walking companion.” He spread his hands apologetically, bringing his shoulders up beneath his earlobes. “Miss Teasdale is, I am afraid, back here on her own. It will never do.”

  He took a step back, putting himself beside Sophie. Now things were as he hoped they would be—or at least on their way to being what he had in mind. But while he was happier with the arrangement, Sophie remained stubborn in her refusal to look his way. She stared ahead as if there was a circus elephant performing in the street and she did not wish to miss even one second of the free show.

  Look at me, Sophie. He telegraphed the thought—to no avail.

  “But she seems fine,” Miss Wentworth said. To punctuate the point, she giggled and asked, “Aren’t you, Sophie?”

  “I am.” Sophie’s lips were set in a straight line, so severe and unforgiving they intrigued him. There hadn’t been many times in the past when she wore such a stern look.

  Colin wondered how those lips, with their rigid appearance, might taste. He wondered, too, just how long it might take before this unyielding woman beside him turned back into the Sophie Teasdale he knew. And loved.

  Colin held his arm out, but Sophie didn’t place hers in his. It was the first time she had ever refused him.

  “See? She’s fine.” Miss Wentworth would have latched onto his arm again, but Colin would rather bite it off than allow it to happen. They only had a very short distance left to the Teasdale residence, and if Sophie didn’t wish to hang on his arm he wouldn’t have anyone on it.

  Skirting the pair of women as one might avoid a fully loaded charge of explosives, he moved off the path and into the lane. Slowly, he began to walk. On the path, the women did the same.

  “Now that’s better. You can both walk side by side, and I’m still close enough to catch either of you if you slip.” He forced a grin.

  Another infernal giggle made the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. “It’s so nice to have such a strong, capable man about. Isn’t it, Sophie?” Another giggle. Then, before Sophie could reply, she went on. “I do so enjoy being ferried about by a gentleman. It makes the day seem so much brighter. Don’t you agree, Sophie?”

  This time Sophie was forced to answer. Colin knew before she opened her mouth the words weren’t going to be as flowery as her companion’s had been.

  He was right.

  “Truth be told, I’m not much on being ‘ferried about’ by anyone, Miss Wentworth.” Sophie shot Colin a scathing glare, one that would have curled the toes of an easily frightened man inside his boots. His remained flat against his boot soles, which was good because she was not done. “As for the brightness of the day, I must admit it was considerably brighter earlier this morning than it is now. Why, I almost venture to say it seems…”

  They had reached their destination. The gate and the front walk were all that remained before he could consider the ladies well and truly accompanied to their end. Suddenly he could not wait to be away from them—even Sophie. What had seemed like such a grand idea only a short time earlier now seemed a colossal mistake. He had accomplished nothing worthwhile these past minutes. Quite the contrary; Sophie had never been so annoyed with him, or he so disappointed in her. How could she be so angry when it was plain to all involved that the attraction between the Teasdale guest and himself was purely one-sided?

  Again, Sophie glanced his way. Then, she turned her attention to the gate, unlocking it and pushing it wide open. She walked through, leaving them to follow—or not. It was no secret she wished for the latter.

  She will have the last word, Colin realized as he watched Sophie march to the front steps. Neither he nor Miss Wentworth followed, so his view of her retreat was unobstructed. Had she not been in such a fit of temper, he would have laughed at the amusingly indignant stride she adopted. He might have bungled this attempt at placating her, but he wasn’t stupid, so he wisely kept his amusement to himself.

  At the door, Sophie turned. She glanced at the sky, and pronounced, “Yes, I’m quite certain of it. This morning was much brighter.” She looked to where they stood and said, a genial lilt in her tone making her words sound cordial, “It’s quite drab now by comparison. Quite dismal, actually.”

  With that said, she opened the door and went inside.

  For a long moment, Colin stared at the gaping front door.

  Then, he gave into his urge—and laughed. What else could he do under the circumstances? The blond beside him stood with her mouth hanging wide, staring between his face and the door, but he didn’t explain. Why bother, when the only one he wanted to understand him was already inside?

  Chapter 10

  Morning came long before Sophie was fully rested. She had spent another night tossing and turning in her bed, awake long after the coals in the warming pan had gone colder than stones in a creek bed. Their heat hadn’t been enough to lull her to sleep. Her mind was too jam-packed with scattered thoughts. Her conflicting emotions only added another dimension to her state of alertness.

  Until I figure myself out, I fear I shall not find a moment of peaceful slumber.

  Sandpapery eyes gazed out on the world beyond the front parlor window. The room was blessedly empty. The only sounds came from the kitchen. Soon the aroma of coffee would fill the air, but for now there wasn’t anything even remotely enticing about the quiet morning.

  She’d escaped the bedroom while Rachel was still fast asleep. Her nose had been the only thing poking out from beneath the bedcovers when Sophie tiptoed by her. Even a creaking floorboard wasn’t enough to move the slumbering form, and Sophie had sighed in relief. She needed to be alone.

  It looked to be another in a long string of bleak days. A steely gray sky with quickly moving clouds scudded against the darker background. It wasn’t snowing, but if the sky and clouds were indications, it wouldn’t be long before fresh snow fell atop the slushy gray mess coating the lane.

  Winter in London was similar to winter in any other cold-weather city. Long stretches of harsh weather, dotted here and there with all-too-brief interludes of brightness, made the months seem endless. Very few parties, no circus in town, and hardly any other amusements made for dreary living.

  The next spot of sunshine on the calendar was the St. Valentine’s Day dance at the Atwell house. It was only a few weeks away, and should have brought a tingle of anticipation and a feeling of eagerness to the day but it did neither. Sophie didn’t feel thrilled by the prospect of another masked dance. She didn’t wish to attend, but could see no way out of going. Short of falling down dead in the street, she would be obligated to attend—like it or not.

  Sophie sighed, and let the heavy brocade drapery panel fall back into place. The room got darker without the feeble daylight to add to her candle’s glow, but she didn’t care. What did it matter?

  “Such a deep sigh from such a beautiful lady. It behooves me to ask, my dear daughter, what it is that makes you sound so gloomy.”

  She hadn’t heard her mother enter the room. The idea of being alone, even for a short period of time, had appealed to her, but now that her mother stood before her, Sophie realized how desperate she was for company.

  “I hate it that I don’t know what I want,” she admitted, folding into one corner of the sofa with yet another long exhalation.

  Her mother sat beside her. She still wore her favorite pink dressing gown, and her hair hung down her back in one thick braid, making her look much younger than her years. Sophie could well imagine her mother as a woman her own age, someone just starting out with her whole life stretching before her. She hadn’t lost any of her girlish
figure, and there were very few lines on her creamy complexion.

  “Why do you need to know this very minute? Can’t you allow your aspirations to reveal themselves in due course?”

  It sounded logical, but Sophie couldn’t agree with her mother’s rationale. It didn’t take into account the emotions swirling within her, or the way those thoughts made her feel completely out of control.

  “I wish I could, Mother, but I must admit I’m too impatient for that. I cannot bear the thought of feeling this way any longer. Lately my life is not my own, and this uncontrolled chaos has to stop. This cannot be my life.” Sophie drummed her fingers impatiently on the arm of the sofa. The dull thumping rhythm on the worn chintz was the only sound in the room for several heartbeats.

  “Whose life are you living, then, if not your own?”

  Leave it to her mother to get to the heart of the question! It was something Sophie had asked herself time and again, yet she had no answer.

  “I don’t know. Oh, Mother, I feel as helpless as a cork bobbing along in a stream, caught by the current and lacking the wherewithal to choose my own course. I hate feeling tugged this way, pulled from one idea to the next without any rational thought behind any of my feelings. It is entirely upsetting.”

  Her mother smiled, and then nodded. “I can see how that might trouble you, especially since you have always been, and, I suspect, will always be, my sensible child.” She looked thoughtful for a long moment, as if choosing her words carefully.

  Sophie wondered what she was about, but knew enough to hold her tongue. Her mother would reveal herself in due time.

  “I know you must imagine your father and I have always been as we are now, an old married couple who never do anything exciting or go anywhere particularly invigorating. We are, at this point in our lives, settled.” When Sophie opened her mouth to protest, her mother cut her off. “Before you try to deny the truth, let me remind you that I’ve known you from the minute of your birth. I can tell what you think before you even open your mouth. It is, I am happy to say, a talent reserved for mothers.”