by Jo Goodman
Eastlyn did not answer immediately. He stood and walked to the drinks cabinet and poured himself two fingers of whiskey. He sipped once from his tumbler of Dutch courage before he spoke. "There is little chance of either."
The colonel merely lifted a skeptical brow and awaited further explanation.
"A letter from Lady Sophia arrived with yesterday's post. I think I must have suspected the nature of what she would write because I did not allow myself to read it then. I waited until I returned from the club." He raised his glass. "Fortification, don't you know." He shrugged and finished his drink when Blackwood made no reply. "Her correspondence underscores the reasons I can do neither of the things you suggest."
"How is that?" Blackwood asked flatly.
"I do not know where she is any longer," East said, setting his glass down and pouring one for the colonel. "She has left my sister's home, so I cannot speak to her." He crossed the room to Blackwood's side and gave him the drink. "And she is going to be the mother of my child, so I cannot forget her."
The colonel looked at Eastlyn for a long moment, and then he drained his glass.
* * *
Built against the side of a cliff on the Devon coast, the tiny fishing village of Clovelly had much to recommend itself to Sophie. The people were hardworking and steady and minded their own affairs before prying into the business of others. Conversation was all about the fishing and the tide and the ships and the swells. Every aspect of their lives revolved around the fleet that was kept in the snug and safe harbor below the town. What Sophie knew about fishing would not fill a single page of her journal, but she was a keen observer of what went on around her, and she wrote about that instead.
High Street dipped steeply toward the cove below, and the cobbled street was built in steps and stages so that it might be negotiated more easily. One side of the street had a stream running along its length, so that every house and place of business had to be entered by crossing a short bridge. Sophie liked to entertain the notion of moats and castles and bridges that could be drawn up when there was a siege, and she gladly took possession of a narrow house on that side of High Street when the opportunity came to her.
Her home was far cozier than a castle, she reflected, as she crossed the bridge to the front entrance. And the running stream was more pleasant to her senses than a stagnant moat would be. The bridge did not lift, but that was not entirely unfortunate as her neighbors would surely have grown curious if she set herself from them.
With one hand hovering near the door, Sophie turned and gave a last look down the length of the street toward the ocean. It was a balmy day for so late in December, and a gust of wind pressed her redingote against her legs and stirred the hem of her dress and petticoat. It seemed that the street dropped away suddenly, so steep was its descent, and that the white-capped sea actually rose up to meet it. From where she stood it looked as if it might be possible to drop off the end of the earth.
There were days, though far fewer of them now, that this idea had some appeal.
"So you are come at last."
Sophie's nerveless fingers uncurled around the handle of the basket they were holding. The basket and its contents thudded to the floor. A jar of jam rolled away. A split appeared in the paper that wrapped the fish she meant to have for dinner. The string tying off the pouch of dried beans broke, and a third of the beans spilled into the bottom of the basket.
Sophie ignored the wreckage and concentrated on not letting herself become part of it. To that end she calmly closed the door behind her and began removing her bonnet. "I do not know how I could have been clearer that I mean to ask you for nothing."
"I understood you," East said, coming to his feet. His caped greatcoat lay on the sofa behind him; his hat rested on top. "It does not follow that I mean to ask nothing of you."
Sophie laid her bonnet on the table beside the door. Her efforts to release the buttons from their tabs on her coat were jerky, and it took her overlong to accomplish the task. "You are going to be unpleasant, are you not? Why is it that you are never stopped for lack of an invitation?" She shrugged out of her coat and placed it on a hook at the bottom of the enclosed stairwell. When she turned back, she saw Eastlyn's eyes were on her belly. His face was very pale.
"You have lost the child?"
Sophie looked down at herself, at her abdomen that was still remarkably flat even when she smoothed the muslin walking dress over it, and understood what accounted for his question. It was a reasonable assumption on his part, and she might reasonably be expected to lie, but she never considered it. "No," she said. "I am still carrying the child. It is only that I have not begun to swell. I understand it is like that sometimes. It was true of my mother, I believe, and therefore likely to be the same with me."
He nodded, a measure of color returning to his face. "Wait, don't do that," he said, stepping forward when she bent to pick up the basket. "I will take care of it."
Sophie glanced up at him, amused. "I can manage as simple a thing as this."
Eastlyn hunkered down anyway, scooping up the jam jar and putting it back. Once done, he placed his hand under Sophie's elbow and assisted her in rising. Her thanks was polite, though cool, and she brushed past him to carry her purchases to the kitchen. He decided the better course was not to follow. While her pointed remark about his lack of invitation had not stung, it had been noted.
He returned to the sofa and made his second assessment of his surroundings. It was a comfortable enough place, and he was glad for that. He did not want to find her living in a mean little cottage that stank of fish, though perhaps it would have made her more amenable to that first sight of him.
Sophie's home had pleasant light from a large window at the front, and an openness that was unfamiliar to him in a space so small. It was because she had little in the way of furniture, he supposed, and no curios on the mantelpiece or on the table at the door. There was a braided rug in front of the brick fireplace and a copper kettle hanging from the hook inside. A large wicker basket rested beside the sofa filled with an assortment of colorful fabrics and threads and yarns, all of which he imagined were part and parcel of Sophie beginning to build her nest here.
From the kitchen Sophie had a slim view of Eastlyn sitting on the sofa. She stood very still, not placing another thing on the table lest she draw attention to herself and be caught staring at him. He was a pleasure to watch. He always was. She saw his head swivel slightly as he glanced around, and she could tell that he approved. That smile was there on his lips, the one that edged the corners upward so faintly it might easily be missed. The sweet familiarity of it made it difficult for her to breathe.
She watched him lean over the side of the sofa and could not imagine what he was about until he lifted her sewing basket onto his lap. He went through it carefully, examining the threads, then the yarns, even going so far as to hold some spools up to the light to mark their color. It seemed important to him to touch her things, to hold them in his palm for a moment as if he meant to test the shape of them without benefit of eyesight, as if once held against his skin he would know it again anywhere. She felt as though she should look away, that what she was doing was intruding on his privacy, and that she was guilty of the very thing she had accused him of: coming to a place she was not wanted.
Still, she could not look anywhere else. Her vision was filled first with his three-quarter profile, the windblown chestnut hair, the dark lashes that were lowered to half-mast, the faint stubble along the line of his jaw, and then with his beautiful hands as he drew out a length of damask fabric the color of sage. He fingered one corner of the material, rubbing it gently to gauge the texture, and then pleated it several times as she was often wont to do when her nervous fingers had no other outlet. He had not the look of a man who was nervous, but of one who was remembering and was caught by the regret of it.
When he pressed the material to his face, Sophie felt her knees give way.
East's head came up. He tossed the
fabric from him and shoved Sophie's sewing basket off his lap. The contents were spilling onto the floor as he got to his feet. It required only a few long strides for him to reach the kitchen.
Sophie stood with her hands braced on the top rail of a chair, her knuckles nearly white with the effort she had made to stay upright. The chair was situated at an odd angle more than a foot from the table, dragged there when she first grabbed it for support. She thought that she must have cried out, though she didn't remember doing so. When she cast her glance down, she realized it was the chair's sudden movement that he'd heard as it came close to toppling.
"Sophie?" His eyes darted over her, assessing quickly that she was all of a piece. "It sounded as if you were—"
"It is nothing." She offered a quick, apologetic smile. "My hem was caught by the table leg. It was a near thing, but I have averted a fall."
East did not question her story, though he doubted the truth of it. The table looked to be situated as it had been when he entered the house, and the leg of it was too smooth to have snagged her dress. "You are flushed," he said. "Will you not sit down?"
"In a moment. I was going to make tea. Will you have some with me?"
"Yes. Thank you."
Sophie nodded and set about drawing water for the kettle. She was very much aware that he was watching her and wondered that it did not make her clumsy or uncomfortable. Once the kettle was set in the hearth, Sophie stoked the fire.
"It will not be long," she said. "Will you not sit?" She noticed the overturned basket for the first time and realized that he must have thrust it aside very quickly to make it spill in such a willy-nilly fashion. She felt she had to ask the question because to make no comment would have been suspicious in its own right. "What happened here?"
East was already bending to pick up the basket when she put the question to him. There was the slightest hesitation in his movement, and then he continued about the business of collecting the contents. "I believe I must have kicked it on my way to the kitchen," he said. "I am sorry. I hope nothing has been damaged." A small tin had opened, and pins were scattered everywhere. He began the painstaking task of collecting them, cursing softly each time he jabbed himself.
"Let me," Sophie said, kneeling beside him. "You are fast on your way to becoming a pincushion."
"Thank you."
"And I also collect you have not many curse words left."
"Not ones I might say in your company."
She smiled. "I imagine your friends have heard them all."
East did not rise but sat back instead, leaning against the sofa while Sophie continued to deftly pick up the pins. He noticed she had not pricked herself once and supposed her beautifully tapered fingers must give her the knack of it. "I'd like to think we invented most of the truly fine curses ourselves."
"I can well believe that you did." She realized her tone was not even remotely reproving and there was no sense feigning it. "How do your friends fare?" she asked. "They are all well?"
"It is good of you to ask."
She paused in her collecting to glance at him. "I do not do it to make idle conversation," she said. "Or even to avoid what we know we must discuss."
"Did you detect something in my manner that led you to suppose those were my thoughts? Because I assure you, they were not. My thinking was contrary, for it has been my experience that many women of my acquaintance, that is, certain women... Well, permit me to say they are not..."
It occurred to Sophie that she might let him prick himself on the point he was trying to make or she could go straight to the heart of the matter. The latter was the better choice since she might never acquire an answer to her question in any other manner. "You are speaking of mistresses," she said directly. "I am familiar with the word you know. And I am supposing you're trying to tell me they find the Compass Club to be rivals for your time and your affections. Am I correct?"
"I am all admiration," he said, meaning it.
"Yes, well, that is neither here nor there." They would arrive at the subject of mistresses in due time, Sophie knew. She would see that they did. "I should still like to hear how your friends are faring."
East drew one knee toward his chest. "South is away from town for parts unknown, at least unknown to me. We do not live in one another's pockets as some are wont to believe, but can be depended upon to come together when there is a need to do so. We were all at the service for West's father last month. Mayhap you knew of the duke's death?"
Sophie shook her head. "Poor Mr. Marchman," she said softly.
"West did not have the same affection for his father that you bore yours, but your sympathies would be appreciated by him for reasons you could not expect. Before his death the old duke recognized Marchman as his own son, making him the legitimate heir to the title and properties and fortune. Our friend is now of considerable consequence, poor fellow, and will be known to others as the Duke of Westphal."
"Oh, my." Sophie's eyes had widened during East's recounting, and finally she blinked. "West. So he has come into his name at last. He is unhappy with this, is he not?"
"Most assuredly."
"He has always stood a bit apart from others, I thought. I do not mean to suggest that he was too high in the instep, but rather that he did not strike me as one entirely comfortable in society. It is perhaps a mere fancy on my part. I do not know him at all well."
"It is no fancy," East said. "West is just as you described. How could you know?"
Sophie dropped the last pin into the tin and closed it carefully. She was looking at the ornamental case, not at East, as she spoke. "Sometimes we are obliged to see in others what we know to be true of ourselves." She did not allow him to comment on this small confession. "And what of Northam? You have not yet told me about him."
Eastlyn let himself be moved to this subject because he could see Sophie's discomfort in her averted glance and busy fingers. She had revealed something more than she meant to when she spoke of West, but there would be nothing gained by pressing her now. "North has had rather a time of it," he said instead. "You will understand that I am depending on your discretion once again when I tell you this."
"Of course. I am not a gossip."
He smiled faintly. "No, I did not think you were." He knew quite well that it had nothing at all to do with the fact that she had been the subject of so much of it. Some people took pleasure in it. Others did not. "It is about Lady Northam, you see. Shortly after West's father died, she disappeared for a time, and North did not know where she had taken herself. Their marriage was something of a hastily arranged affair, and neither was entirely happy, though they did their best to make it seem otherwise. When she left, North thought she might have gone to her father's, but she was not there. He asked for our help, and so I was delayed in London while I lent some assistance."
"She was found?" asked Sophie. "And safe, I hope."
"Yes. On both counts."
"That is good, then."
East nodded. "Indeed. She is a fine lady who has had a difficult time of it. There is much about her character that is admirable. Naturally North's affections are considerably more engaged than my own."
"He loves her."
"No one who knows him has ever thought otherwise."
Sophie folded her arms around her sewing basket and hugged it to her midriff. "You said it was a hasty marriage," she said, staring at the damask fabric Eastlyn had pressed so impulsively to his face. "I suppose I was..." Her voice trailed away as she found she could not give sound to the thoughts she had conceived.
"It does not mean North did not marry for love."
He had divined her thought perfectly. Sophie glanced at him, nodded, and then looked away again. "As you said, those who knew him understood. I do not know him."
"That could be changed, Sophie."
She did not reply. His meaning was clear, and they had not yet arrived at the moment when she could answer him. She pushed the basket aside and rose. "How did you find me?"
"Yet here you are." She sighed. "Is it because I mentioned Clovelly to you before we parted?"
"No. I would have come here because of that comment if I had had no other clue, but I did not have to depend upon it." East saw the vertical crease appear between Sophie's eyebrows as she considered how she might have given herself away. "It is perhaps wrong of me to take any pleasure from your confusion, but I can freely admit I am not so generous a person to let this moment pass without noting it. You gave me a time of it, you know. It is not unreasonable that I should want a little of my own back."
"No," she said quietly. "No, it's not."
"It was your writing, Sophie, that led me here. I did not know until very recently that it is more in the way of an occupation than a pastime."
Her frown deepened. "I'm not certain I know what you mean. I keep a journal of my observations. It is largely for my own pleasure."
Eastlyn knew prevarication when he heard it. "But you create stories from your observations."
"Yes, again it is for my pleasure. It can be of no importance to you."
"And you have sold at least one such story. In June, I believe. Around the time I visited you at Bowden Street."
"You cannot possibly know this."
"At Once Beguiled," he said, proving that he did indeed know. "A novel. It is an intriguing title, I thought. The author, one Alys Frederick, is credited to have a fine talent and is expected to pen several more. The book will be ready for printing in January and at the booksellers the following month."
