Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1)

by Charlotte E. English

  ‘Sir!’ Sophy spluttered, ‘You cannot possibly ask me again so soon!’

  ‘No? And why not?’

  ‘It is not proper, as you must know. Not after your—that is—you must choose another partner.’

  ‘I will dance with whomever I choose. I see no reason to ask someone else, when I wish to dance with you.’

  This was a step too far. Part of Sophy’s heart went into an absurd flutter at finding him still so desirous of her company; but the rational part of her nature—always the stronger force—overruled her silliness and drew a firm line. For a man to dance twice with the same partner was undeniably particular; to dance twice in immediate succession with the same woman was very particular; to do so having already snubbed the very desirable daughter of the hosts in favour of someone else was enough to excite talk for the next month at least. A flicker of annoyance intruded upon Sophy’s happy glow. He might be important enough to flout convention and disregard talk, but she was not. He might go away at the end of another week, or another month, but she would have no escape from the censure he seemed determined to excite.

  ‘You may think nothing of wagging tongues, Mr. Stanton, but you might give my position a little more consideration. I thank you for your kind invitation, but I do not mean to dance any more this evening.’

  An expression of concern mingled with confusion crossed his face, and he nodded awkwardly. She waited for a moment, allowing him time to make his apologies if he would. He seemed tongue-tied, however, and so she curtseyed and withdrew.

  She found a seat in a relatively quiet corner of the ballroom and claimed it with relief. She was overheated; perhaps that had contributed to her uncharacteristic irritation a moment ago. It was a pleasure to sit quietly and grow cooler, and watch the goings-on from a safe distance. She saw Miss Adair and her brother, both dancing, along with their primary rivals in importance, the Winbolts; Mr. Snelling was present, dancing with Anne but with his eyes fixed upon Miss Adair; Miss Gladwin and Miss Lacey had formed a little huddle in one corner with old Mrs. Snelling and Mrs. Ash; Anne’s sisters were giggling around the punch-bowl; Isabel was dancing with Mr. Andrew Winbolt. This last caught her attention for a moment, as they did make a remarkably suitable-looking couple. She wondered if Mr. Winbolt had any intentions.

  Mr. Stanton did not immediately seek another partner. Instead he retired to the nearest wall and stood, his eyes turned in her direction. This would not do either! To stand aloof when other young ladies besides herself had no partner—to prefer staring at her to dancing with another—he was thoroughly scandalous! She averted her gaze.

  When the dance ended, Isabel spotted Sophy sitting down and made her way over. She quietly took the adjacent seat and said softly, ‘I must agree with Anne, Sophy. You have made a conquest there.’

  She nodded in the direction of Mr. Stanton and his wall, who seemed every bit as pleased with each other as they had at the beginning of the dance.

  ‘He has certainly paid me a great deal of attention,’ Sophy said cautiously.

  Isabel was silent. Sophy guessed that she meant to enquire why Mr. Stanton had singled her out above every other woman in the room, but would not do so for fear of offending.

  ‘I can account for it no more than you can,’ Sophy said.

  ‘I did not mean to suggest—’ Isabel began, but then she sighed. ‘It is a little strange.’

  ‘Quite, quite strange,’ Sophy agreed. But also agreeable, she thought privately.

  Mr. Stanton chose that moment to leave the companionship and safety of his wall and make his approach.

  ‘Heavens!’ Sophy said despairingly. ‘Here he comes again!’

  He wove his way through the crowd—ignoring several attempts to interrupt him—and stopped in front of Sophy and Isabel. He bowed.

  ‘Mr. Stanton—!’ Sophy began, but with a gentle smile he cut her off.

  ‘Perhaps you will introduce me to your friend, Miss Landon?’

  Relieved, Sophy did so. She was even more relieved when Mr. Stanton asked Isabel to dance, and they went away. This went some way towards mending matters, and she was pleased that he had chosen to distinguish Isabel. It spoke well of his taste.

  The rest of the party passed with little to trouble Sophy. She maintained her seat for some time, until she felt quite cool; then she began to seek out her friends for conversation. Everyone had some remark to make about Mr. Stanton, but since he had, by this time, enjoyed dances with a few different partners and had made no further attempt to approach her, she was able to turn these off with a laugh and a joke.

  Only one small disappointment occurred, when Mr. Green approached and asked for her hand. Having told Mr. Stanton that she did not mean to dance again, she was obliged to tell Mr. Green the same. She was sorry for it. The two gentlemen had begun to intrigue her more than she cared to admit, and she would have appreciated an opportunity to converse with Mr. Green as well. But perhaps there would be other occasions.

  She travelled home at last with the Ellerby family, at a very late hour and with a great many yawns shared among the company.

  ‘I believe we shall soon be wishing you joy, Miss Landon!’ said Isabel’s mother, with her usual liveliness. ‘I like him the better for it, I do indeed. Although I must own that I think he and my Isabel looked very well together, do not you think?’

  Sophy agreed to this without hesitation. They had made a very fine couple, and if Mr. Stanton had any sense at all he would cease his odd pursuit of herself and transfer his attentions to her sweet-natured and far more beautiful and eligible friend.

  This would be the logical thing for him to do, certainly, but in spite of her love for Isabel, Sophy found she could not truly wish for it in her heart.

  Chapter Eight

  Now, I’m a troll o’ few words. I can no more manage eloquence than I can dance a quadrille, an’ believe me, I’ve tried. So ye’ll no doubt excuse me if I say only that I was right proud t’ hear o’ my Sophy’s triumph, an’ don’t try to tell ye how much. Ye may draw yer own conclusions as t’ that.

  But I’ll admit: as fond o’ Sophy as I am, I also know full well that she don’t usually “take”, in the way the gentry-folk say; not like that! She ain’t usually pestered wi’ invitations and solicitations an’ the like. Just between you an’ me, I think it’s as much because she don’t put herself forward. She hangs back, an’ lets herself be eclipsed by bolder types—like that Miss Adair.

  But anywho, I got curious about this Mr. Stanton. He must be a gentleman o’ rare perception if he caught hold o’ my Sophy’s merits in so short a space o’ time. I’m not sayin’ it’s an impossibility, mind! No, indeed! But I were curious, as I said, so I made a point o’ lookin’ into the matter, didn’t I?

  ‘Mamma would like you to come and spend a day with us again soon, Sophy. Do say you will come! We would all be so glad of your company!’

  Isabel Ellerby stood in the centre of Sophy’s parlour, wearing the pretty lavender silk gown she had previously worn to the ball. She would not normally be so attired in the middle of the morning, but in the crush of the ball her gown had been trodden upon, and the delicate fabric had torn. Sophy was on her knees at Isabel’s feet, her hands full of silk and needles and her mouth full of pins as she attempted to mend the tear.

  Taking the pins out from between her lips, she shook her head and replied, ‘I am not at all sure I shall have time. Papa has a great deal of mending for me to do—as ever—and I must at least try to be of use to poor Mary and Thundigle.’

  ‘What a shocking untruth! Of course you have time. It is only that you do not wish to come.’

  Sophy sighed inwardly. It was not that she did not like the Ellerbys; she did, very much. But their goodwill was sometimes overpowering, and she had so little to offer in return. She hated to feel like a charity case, and the extreme kindness of Mrs. Ellerby made her feel like an object of pity.

  Furthermore, the lively family life that Isabel enjoyed made her feel her own l
ack the more keenly. It was best to keep her visits infrequent, she found.

  ‘I am very much obliged to you for the invitation,’ Sophy said, giving her friend a warm smile to show her gratitude. As she did so, the sharp tip of her needle somehow found its way into her finger, and a tiny spot of red blossomed on Isabel’s fine lavender silk.

  ‘Oops,’ Sophy said, absently scrubbing at it with a scrap of cloth. ‘Please convey my thanks and regards to your mother, also. She is far too good.’

  ‘But the answer, I collect, is still no,’ Isabel said, craning her neck to see what Sophy was doing behind her. ‘Has something gone amiss?’

  ‘Nothing of any great moment.’ No one would ever see the tiny speck of red, Sophy assured herself, though resolving at the same time to pay a bit less attention to the conversation, and a bit more to the whereabouts of her needle.

  Isabel smiled ruefully down at her, shaking her head. ‘I will need you next Tuesday, for Anne is to come to us. You know she will tease poor Charles until he is quite out of patience if you are not there.’

  Charles was Isabel’s elder brother, and the pride of the Ellerby family. He was heir to their small but worthy estate, soon to take orders and become a clergyman. And he was, as yet, unmarried. Naturally, this made him a great favourite with Anne.

  He was a favourite with Sophy, too, though more on account of his manners, which were courteous and amiable, and his interests, which constituted reading and walking more than the sporting and card-playing which pleased most other young men. Isabel had once hoped that her brother would take a more direct interest in Sophy; but Sophy knew well that her parents, in spite of all their kindness to her, had been a little relieved when he had not.

  ‘I can hardly prevent Anne from teasing Charles,’ she said.

  ‘No, but you may occupy him for some portion of the time, so he is not left entirely at her mercy.’

  ‘As a programme for a day’s activities, that is not very enticing; that you must acknowledge,’ said Sophy, laughing. ‘Charles is very well able to manage himself.’

  Isabel sighed deeply. ‘I do wish you would not shut yourself up so. How can you possibly expect to meet anyone if you will hardly go into society—and when you do, you pass yourself off as an old matron?’

  ‘Perhaps I do not wish to “meet someone”.’

  ‘Do not wish…? But what will you do if—when—if, I mean…’ Isabel broke off, her pink complexion turning pinker.

  Sophy understood her perfectly well. What Isabel was trying not to say was that she would be quite alone when her father died, and she must therefore do all in her power to secure a husband before this sorry event occurred. And her father’s health was not good, that she could see all too well.

  But Sophy’s pride revolted at the notion of husband hunting, or going on the catch. And to shackle herself for life to any man who would take her, no matter what his character, his ideas and his interests may be! The notion was too hideous; she could not contemplate it without a shudder.

  ‘Well, but there is Mr. Stanton!’ Isabel continued, having recovered from her confusion. ‘You have met someone, in spite of your attempts to put everyone off with those caps of yours.’

  For a moment, Sophy considered this notion. It would be a different matter if the man who would take her proved to be agreeable, generous and good-hearted, of course. But she had no particular reason to believe that Mr. Stanton was any of those things, except that he could be agreeable when he chose. Was it his handsome face which encouraged her to credit him, far too soon, with all the rest?

  Amused at herself and blushing at the direction of her thoughts, Sophy quickly dismissed these reflections. Two invitations to dance most certainly did not amount to an imminent proposal of marriage! Even if it did, she could hardly accept him on so little real knowledge of his character. One dance and a little conversation were by no means sufficient. How she had come to think so favourably of his character she could hardly imagine, especially given that his behaviour had, at first, struck her as odd. There was something about him, she supposed, that set her at ease and encouraged her to trust him; some quality which rendered conversation easy, and banished awkwardness between them.

  But she was being foolish. She had felt nothing of the kind until the ball, and their interaction on that occasion had still been slight. A small, desperate part of her mind—that corner which held all the doubts and fears for her future that she dared not confront—had broken free of its confines and run away with her. She was attaching huge importance to trifles, seeing portents where none existed, and beginning to live too much in her own fancy.

  That was quite enough of that. She resolutely packed every absurd thought and foolish idea back into the dark spaces where they belonged, and summoned her usual sunny smile for her friend. ‘There, your gown is quite healed! You may change now, if you wish.’

  Isabel bent to examine the silk. ‘I can barely see it at all! You are a marvel. I had given up my poor gown for lost.’ She picked up her skirts and stepped carefully out of the room, leaving Sophy alone with her thoughts.

  This was dangerous in her present mood. She occupied herself with tidying up her scissors and pins and thread, and so busy was she that she did not hear Mary come in.

  ‘Mr. Stanton, Miss,’ said Mary.

  Sophy jumped, and turned quickly around. There he stood indeed, immaculately dressed in a dark red coat and freshly tied cravat, his hat in his hands. Her heart thumped a little uncomfortably. People as handsome as that, she thought, should not smile too much, and certainly not in that particular way. It is very hard on the rest of us.

  Mary talked on. ‘I am sorry, Miss! I couldn’t find Mr. Landon and I didn’t know what else to do.’

  ‘It is perfectly all right,’ Sophy assured her. ‘You were quite right to bring him to me. Is there any possibility of tea, do you suppose, and perhaps something to eat?’

  Mary nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, to be sure. There’s an apple tart, fresh from the oven. I’ll send it in directly.’ She turned to leave, casting a sly wink at Sophy as she did so.

  Sophy suppressed a smile, torn between amusement and mortification. Mary had heard the news, of course, and would be sure to tease her about the visit later.

  ‘Will you sit down, Mr. Stanton?’ she said, mustering a calm smile for her visitor. She felt reasonably confident that her momentary flutter had not been perceptible; now she must ensure that her manner remained friendly and composed.

  Mr. Stanton seated himself in the proffered chair, and proceeded to study her face rather intently. The conviction that he was registering all of the faults of her face took hold of her mind, sweeping away all her composure. It was very possible that she was actually blushing with mortification.

  This would not do at all.

  Lifting her chin, she said: ‘Does something displease you in my countenance, Mr. Stanton?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Of course not. Why should you suppose it?’

  There was no simple answer to that question, and Sophy would not attempt any. She should have confined her conversation to the commonplace, of course. Hastily she said: ‘I am sorry that my father was not able to receive you. He often sleeps at this time of the morning. His health is not the strongest, as you may have heard.’

  Mr. Stanton nodded thoughtfully, his dark brown eyes still fixed immovably on Sophy’s face. ‘I had heard, and I am sorry to hear it. I do hope his health will improve. I had not set out to visit the parsonage with any thought of seeing your father, however.’

  Here was more of that awkward particularity. Did the man know nothing of small talk? Torn between pleasure and irritation, Sophy hardly knew whether to smile or frown. Deciding on attack instead of avoidance, she said: ‘Oh? What was the nature of your errand?’

  ‘I wished to hear your opinion on a matter of some importance to me.’

  He said this in such a serious tone that Sophy began to feel a little fluttered—a little afraid that the silly daydre
ams she had indulged in only moments before may actually come to pass. Unable to suppress the colour that rose in her face, she managed only, ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Indeed.’ The smile returned to his face and he said, ‘What do you think of this coat?’

  Sophy blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘This coat! It is new, and an entirely new colour for me. Mr. Green says it is altogether too military, but I cannot agree. The shade is much darker than the traditional redcoat, as I am sure you will observe.’

  Struck by the incongruity between his manner and his subject matter—between her flights of fancy and the truth behind his words—Sophy lost control of her dignified composure and began to giggle. Mr. Stanton laughed too, and at once the slight tension in the room eased and disappeared.

  ‘I had no notion that gentlemen worried over such things,’ Sophy said, when she had regained her breath. ‘A difficult problem, indeed! I can only assure you that it looks very well.’

  ‘Ah! Then I shall not mind Mr. Green’s opinion. He cannot abide red, you know, but then it would not do at all with his hair.’

  His serious manner was back, but now Sophy could see the gentle self-mockery that lay behind it. ‘No, indeed,’ she agreed, mimicking his gravity. ‘Too much red all in one place! It cannot be good for a person’s health.’

  ‘That is a possibility I had not considered,’ said he seriously. ‘Do you think it will be of detriment to mine?’

  ‘No, for you are not at all red.’

  He smiled and leaned a little forward. ‘I have been learning all manner of things about you, Miss Landon. The neighbourhood has a great deal to say, since the ball. For instance, you are a terrific seamstress! Is my information correct?’

  ‘I cannot agree with the term chosen; modesty forbids it, you know, and there can be no more awful prospect than an immodest young woman. But I do sew a great deal.’