by Jaima Fixsen
Her throat closed. The stick of charcoal snapped in her hand. “It’s no use Tom, however much I might wish it.”
“Why not?” he asked, his mouth hardening. “There’s no logical reason why you couldn’t choose a fellow like me. Anything else is made up prejudice.”
“My family wishes me to marry Alistair.” This was not going the way she had planned. Alistair wasn’t the only reason.
Tom looked away, scowling at the distant city. “Are you engaged to him?”
“Not yet.” Not officially.
Neither spoke for some time. “I’m sorry, Tom. You—you must know I have an affection for you,” Sophy faltered.
“Then why marry him?”
She pulled free from his gaze, turning blind eyes to the park. “Alistair doesn’t matter. That’s not the real reason. You might care for me now, but when you know the truth—”
“Care? I’m mad for you—can’t you tell?”
She pressed on. “When you know the truth, you will not.”
“Almost, I hope you’re right. What’s come over you today, Sophy? Don’t you think I’ve tried to get you out of my head? You’re lodged so tight, I’d have to blow out my brains to get rid of you.”
“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not a good person. You don’t know—”
“I don’t believe you. What have you done? It can’t be so terrible.”
She was angry now, mouth tight, cheeks hot. “You know nothing about me. I was born tainted. I killed the person I loved most.”
That silenced him. He stared at her, his eyes wide with horror and disbelief. This wasn’t the truth she’d meant to tell him, but she supposed it was a good place to start.
“It wasn’t murder,” she said with a bitter laugh, “Though at the time I believed I was guilty. I was only ten, you know. I tossed her a chestnut and it stuck in her throat. She turned red, then grey. I could not get it out.”
She started at her hands lying limp in her lap. “They brought me to Cordell after that.”
This detail caught him by surprise. “Where were you before?”
“Herefordshire. A little village called Bottom End.”
“Oh,” he said, “I’d forgotten your people do that.” It wasn’t unusual for the upper classes to send their infants to foster homes when they didn’t want to be bothered with their children. “I’m sorry. You must know that it wasn’t your fault.”
She looked up at him, ashamed of her leaking eyes. “It doesn’t matter, though, does it? She still died.” She’d be bawling next, and he hadn’t yet grasped the truth.
He leaned forward, enclosing her hands in his own. “She must have been like a mother to you. I’m so sorry.”
“She was my mother,” Sophy sniffed, freeing one hand to swipe at her eyes.
Tom did not hear her. He was staring past her shoulder with a look on his face she didn’t understand. Twisting around, Sophy saw Betty standing behind them, scowling and brandishing a glass of milk.
“Here you are, miss.” Betty thrust the glass between them, slopping drips onto Sophy’s skirt. “There was a boy carrying a glass for his sister,” she explained. “I bought this from him instead of walking all the way, since you said you were so thirsty. Who is this gentleman?”
“Mr. Gerald—” Sophy began, choosing a random name from Lady Fairchild’s ‘acceptable’ list.
“Bagshot. Tom Bagshot,” Tom interrupted, giving Sophy a severe look.
Sophy took the glass and gulped down the milk, wishing it were poison. Betty and Tom were sizing each other up like strange cats. “Will you return the glass, Betty?” Sophy asked feebly.
“I think we both should, miss. You could use a turn, after sitting for so long. You’ll get cramp in your legs.” Betty said, full of false solicitude. “Have you finished speaking to Mr. Bagshot?”
She could say no more, not in front of Betty. “Of course,” Sophy said, looking around for her charcoals. Only the stub of one was left in her hand. The others had rolled away into the grass.
“Allow me.” Tom bent down to retrieve them.
“I don’t like your reasons,” he whispered as he rose and passed the sticks into her hand. “I’m not giving up.”
“Please. You must.” But he ignored her, setting his mouth more firmly. Nothing had gone as she had planned. She had failed. Her fingers were thick and clumsy, fumbling with the catch on the charcoal box. She jammed each stick in place and shut the lid with a snap. Taking Tom’s offered hand, she rose to her feet and passed the drawing implements to Betty.
“A pleasure to see you, Mr. Bagshot,” Sophy said. It was impossible to convey her message within conventional goodbyes. She’d muffed this meeting horribly, going all weepy and telling him about her mother, instead of going to the essential point.
Tom, blast him, seemed almost pleased that Betty had discovered them. He’d won Jasper over; no doubt he planned to do his best with the rest of her family.
“I hope to have the honor of calling on you in the next few days,” he said, ignoring her desperate looks. He bowed and walked back down the hill.
When he was gone, Sophy looked sideways at Betty. “I do not want anyone to know about Mr. Bagshot,” she said flatly. “What will your silence cost me?”
Betty hugged the drawing tablet close and smirked. “I have my duty to consider, you know. Lady Fairchild would not like me keeping secrets from her.”
Sophy sighed. Betty would be expensive.
They settled on three pounds, a pair of silk stockings and a Chinese fan, with a pound to follow each month for Betty’s continued discretion. An exorbitant price, but Sophy didn’t plan on giving Betty the extra money. Once Tom knew the truth and she was safely married, it wouldn’t matter what Betty had seen.
Returning to Rushford House, they climbed the stairs to Sophy’s room. Betty entered first, her nose in the air.
“Here you are,” Sophy said, setting the money and trinkets onto the dressing table. Betty seized them with eager fingers, making them disappear like magic.
“I need my blue riding habit,” Sophy said. “Please have it ready in five minutes.” Alistair would be arriving shortly.
She left. Her room did not feel like her own anymore. The only way to get the truth to Tom was in another letter and she couldn’t write that under Betty’s eye. Descending to the first floor, she closeted herself in her father’s library.
Her mother’s garden sketch of Cordell was framed on the wall. Ignoring it as she always did, she moved to the desk and extracted a heavy sheet of gilt edged paper.
Mr. Bagshot— she wrote, then crossed it out.
Tom,
I planned to confess in person, but Betty returned before I could finish. Now I have no choice but to write it down in bald words. I’m sorry, more than I can say.
When I was your guest at Chippenstone, I lied to you. I am not Lord Fairchild’s daughter. Not his legitimate one, anyways. Your mother mistook me for the real thing and foolishly, I pretended that I was. The chance to play at being the person I will never be proved too tempting. There can be no excuse for my deceit; all I can offer in defense is that I began it as a joke, without malice.
You and your mother were most kind to me, which makes my own actions so much worse. Because I admired you, I could not bear for you to know the truth. I should have known it could not be helped.
I ask your forgiveness, but do not expect it. However, there is one favor I must beg. Please conceal my wickedness from my brother Jasper. If my father or Lady Fairchild should hear of it, they would never forgive me. Though I cannot, with justice, claim your compassion, I beg it anyways.
I am so very sorry,
Sophy Prescott
Folding over the paper before she could reread it, she sealed it with a wafer and went to find Jenkins. He was in the pantry, decanting wine.
“Will you deliver this letter for me?” she asked. “To the house in Russell Square?” No matter where T
om spent his afternoon, he would have to return home to change before going out with Jasper. Her letter could not miss him.
Jenkins set down the bottle without making a sound, regarding her solemnly from his deep set eyes. “Is this the last one?”
She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. After this message, there would be nothing more to say.
“Then I will do it. You’ll do yourself no good my dear, going on as you are. If Mr. Beaumaris should find out, I do not think he would like it.”
One side of her mouth lifted and fell. “Probably not. Thank you, Jenkins.”
He straightened his cuffs and picked up the bottle again.
“I’m happy to be of service, Miss Sophy. You’d best change. Aren’t we expecting your young man this afternoon?”
“Indeed we are.”
“You’ll look fine indeed on that pretty horse of yours. You’ll make us proud.”
With Jenkins’ tender smile stiffening her resolve, she went to make herself ready. When Alistair collected her, she was quiet and composed. They found his mother in the park, riding in a barouche with a faded looking companion. Her toothy smile made Sophy want to squirm in the saddle, but she imposed an iron self control worthy of her step-mother. They returned to Rushford house in silence, Sophy counting out the minutes remaining.
Exactly as she imagined, Alistair swung off his horse and escorted her up the stairs. Jenkins took their hats and gloves. Sophy walked into the drawing room without looking back, knowing Alistair was behind her.
He cleared his throat. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“Yes.” Turning away from the window, she held him off by extending her hand. He planted upon it the requisite kiss. “Thank you, Alistair. If you will allow me to tell Lady Fairchild?”
“Of course.”
Sophy climbed the stairs, thinking of summers at Cordell and how the fish she caught felt in her hands when she unpacked them from her basket, laying them on the kitchen table for Cook, eviscerated, limp and staring. She made it to the landing before she had to lean against the wall, biting her knuckle hard to stop herself from crying. She did not let out a sound.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Getting Scorched
Tom arrived home late. It had been a strange day. In the early afternoon, he heard the first rumors of an American declaration of war. His firm had a ship ready to sail, but if war was igniting the Americas it might be better to refit her and send her east. He had chased through the city all afternoon looking for official news, but found none. Nothing more could be done until he knew the truth of the matter.
His thoughts strayed again, as they tended to do. He wondered how his meeting with Sophy would have ended had they not been caught by her maid. With a kiss, he hoped. Tonight he would tell her brother all, so he could pursue her with a clear conscience. Society and her family might censure her, and she had been reared to conform, but he had seen her kick over the traces often enough. Given the chance, wouldn’t she choose to follow her heart? She would not suffer. He had money enough to give her all she could want.
Mr. Rushford’s hat was lying on the table in the hall when he let himself in the front door. There was a letter too, with Tom’s name curling across the front in Sophy’s well-trained script. No time to read it now. Had Rushford seen it? For a second Tom debated whether he should turn the letter over. No, he decided. He was finished with concealment. If Sophy would have him, he would take her with or without her family’s consent. If she wouldn’t . . . Well, with luck it wouldn’t come to that.
“How long has Rushford been waiting?” Tom called to his butler from halfway up the stairs.
“Ten minutes, sir,” the man said, his face tight with disapproval.
“Tell him I’ll be down in five,” Tom returned, shocking the butler still more.
In fact, it took seven minutes for him to dress because his valet would not fasten his cravat while he brushed his teeth.
“Impossible, sir!” he gasped. “You’ll crease it, or dribble!”
Tom clattered downstairs, knowing his simply knotted cravat would draw no admiring stares, but that it was crisp and neat. He’d allowed his valet to stick a ruby pin in the folds since this was something of an occasion. Following the dictates of the polite world, his linen was spotless white, his coat absurdly snug and a sober black. His tousled, uncombed hair would pass as the popular windblown look. He would concede no more.
Flinging into the library, he found Mr. Rushford turning over the trinkets littering his desk.
“My sincere apologies. I’m afraid I was detained in the city. Rumors of war with the Americans. You may have heard.”
Rushford did not look up. “Mmm, yes. I dare say it will come to nothing. Liverpool has repealed the Orders in Council. War shouldn’t be necessary now he has decided to mollify them.”
“Let us hope,” Tom said, less sanguine.
“Something of a traveler, are you?” Rushford set down a stone arrowhead and picked up a fringed leather pouch, turning it over to inspect the intricate beading. “Afraid I can’t risk snooping. This one is interesting. What is it?”
“An Indian artifact, from the Canadian colonies,” Tom explained. “They make these to carry the umbilical cords of their children.”
Jasper dropped the pouch as if it had caught fire. “Delightful.” Rubbing the fingers that had handled the pouch together, he raised his quizzing glass with his unsullied hand and gave Tom a long look.
“Am I bearable?” Tom asked, with a shadowy grin. “Or will I humiliate you utterly?”
“You’ll do,” Mr. Rushford said. “Though you won’t draw any attention, mind. My man has an excellent way with boots. If you like, I can have him send yours the recipe.” Tom held back a laugh, sensible of the honor Rushford thought he was bestowing. He guessed the valet would be furious with his master for offering to divulge the secret to perfectly glossed boots.
With light fingers, Rushford affected an infinitesimal adjustment to his own cravat, a rather magnificent example of the nigh-impossible Trone d’Amour. “Shall we?”
Once settled in the carriage, Tom stuffed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat.
“You don’t have to do this, Rushford. My father tried to turn me into a gentleman, but it didn’t take. He gave up the second time I ran away from Rugby.”
“Didn’t know you went there,” Rushford said, lifting his eyebrows in surprise. He paused, inspecting his manicured fingers.
“I have no concerns bringing you with me to White’s,” he lied. “In fact, I should like to nominate you for membership. You would certainly be accepted. My word is good enough that I could nominate an ass and they would take it.” He tapped his lip with his quizzing glass. “That might be something to try, you know. I shall have to have an animal sent from Cordell.”
“You wouldn’t purchase one here?” Tom asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Certainly not. Couldn’t vouch for its character then, could I?”
Tom choked on a laugh. “I don’t know that I should be flattered by tonight’s invitation.”
“Dear fellow,” Rushford smiled. “I thought we’d agreed between us that I was the ass.”
Tom laughed. “Had we? I’d nearly forgotten.”
“Rode with my sister today,” Rushford said, his fingers idly drumming against the side of the coach. “I expect she’d want to be remembered to you.”
“Give her my best regards, Rushford,” Tom said. So she had not confided in her brother, nor had her maid exposed her. He should tell Rushford. Better here, in the privacy of the carriage. He could not imagine him receiving the news with perfect equanimity.
“You may as well call me Jasper,” Rushford said, taking Tom by surprise.
“I’m honored. You must call me Tom of course.”
The hackney jerked to a stop. Too late. Tom disembarked with a rueful glance at the hallowed edifice. His father had never secured an invitation here, but Tom’s hopes
were not for the connections and prestige he would garner, rubbing shoulders with the upper crust. He thought of the tenderness in Sophy’s eyes as she had looked at him that afternoon. Friendship with Jasper would make his suit acceptable. He would wait for a private moment to confide the truth.
“Evening Dawes,” Jasper said to the porter. “I’ve brought my friend Bagshot this evening.”
“Very good, sir,” the porter said, relieving them of hats and greatcoats. “This way.” He ushered them into a salon as rich and heavy as Christmas pudding. Unfortunately, he did not lead them to an empty table.
“I’d like to introduce you to my cousin and my friend,” Jasper said, smiling. “Alistair, Andre, allow me to present Tom Bagshot. Alistair Beaumaris is my cousin,” he added, gesturing to the dark haired one. “Andre Protheroe, my good friend," he said, indicating the other. "Andre, you have seen Tom before, but I dare say you don't remember."
"Yes I do," Protheroe said. "Foxed or no, I don't forget a leveler like that. Where'd you learn to box?"
"Here and there," said Tom, concealing his chagrin. No doubt Jasper considered this part of the favor, introducing him to society.
He had seen Alistair at the masquerade, and again, whispering into Sophy’s ear at the theatre. Jealous sot that he was, he had even made inquiries. Unlike the others (he had ferreted out the background of any man she happened to mention) he hadn’t considered Beaumaris a serious threat until Sophy's revelation earlier today. True, Alistair had tried to kiss her, but she’d been furious at him for that. Moreover, Captain Beaumaris was a third son without a fortune. Tom could understand an ambitious marriage—it was what he expected of the Rushfords’ ilk—but Alistair Beaumaris was not a brilliant match for Sophy, despite his looks. He’d expected Lady Fairchild to look higher for her daughter.
“Heard anything about the Americans?” Jasper asked as they took their seats.
Mr. Protheroe shrugged. “Haven’t asked.”
