Miss Lattimore's Letter

by Suzanne Allain

  “I have no special talent; it was just based on observation. Indeed, I do not claim to be skilled at making matches. I very much doubt I’ll ever do so again.”

  “Will you not? But you’ve made at least two people very happy.”

  Sir Edmund gestured to where Lord Fitzwalter was sitting on a bench in conversation with Lucy. They did appear incandescently blissful, and Sophie had already noticed that they could not stop smiling or looking at each other. While Sophie and Sir Edmund watched, Lord Fitzwalter brought Lucy’s hand to his lips and tenderly kissed it. Sophie felt guilty to be observing them during such an intimate moment and looked away, quickening her pace until there was a turn in the path and she could no longer see the couple. Sir Edmund followed, adjusting his step to hers.

  “I am more pleased than I can say that they are so happy,” Sophie said, once they were again strolling slowly. “I really did very little, and I was always conscious of the fact that I could unintentionally cause more harm than good.” She shook her head. “Truly, it is a responsibility I do not desire.”

  “But do you not think, especially in genteel society where a couple go into marriage knowing very little of each other, that your assistance could be of great benefit? A gentleman cannot spend a great deal of time in observation or conversation with a prospective bride, lest he be accused of trifling with her affections and be forced into a marriage to suit convention, rather than himself.”

  Sir Edmund had stopped walking and turned to face Sophie, and so she did likewise. She wondered that he did not recognize what he’d just said could also apply to their situation. They were separated from the rest of their party in a sheltered part of the gardens, in earnest conversation with each other. If anyone saw them, they risked censure and gossip. But perhaps Sir Edmund felt that Sophie’s age, lack of wealth, and role as chaperone excluded her from such considerations. How old was he? she asked herself. Surely he was at least her age, if not a few years older. She wondered that he had not married by now. And what it was he wanted from her.

  “What is it you are suggesting, Sir Edmund?” Sophie asked.

  Sir Edmund smiled, a little wryly. “I’m not sure, really. I’m a hypocrite, I suppose. Here I am accusing you of keeping your talents to yourself and really all I desire is your help in securing my happiness.”

  “You desire to marry?” Sophie asked, trying to appear as if his answer mattered little to her.

  “Of course. I am a single gentleman in possession of a good fortune, so I must be in want of a wife.”

  Sophie smiled at his reference to the popular novel written by “a lady” that she had also read and enjoyed. But she didn’t really feel like smiling. She felt like she was cursed, destined always to watch others pair off while she remained alone. And lonely.

  “And do you have a particular lady in mind?” Sophie forced herself to ask, though she had absolutely no desire to hear Sir Edmund praise some other woman.

  “No, I do not. Unfortunately, there are no Elizabeth Bennets to be found in my home parish.”

  “Is Lizzy Bennet your ideal, then?” Sophie asked.

  “Of course. A woman of wit and good sense, determined to marry not for advantage but for affection. She is precisely who I am looking for.”

  Sophie shook her head in mock despair. “But Sir Edmund, therein lies your problem: she doesn’t exist.”

  “There must surely be ladies like her, however. Look at you,” he said, gesturing vaguely at her. Sophie felt the weight of his gaze as he took in her appearance, and she hoped he found nothing to criticize. “I am certain, when you wrote Fitzwalter that letter, you had no thoughts of the size of his fortune when recommending Miss Barrett to his notice.”

  “You are correct. I did, however, think of Mr. Beswick’s,” Sophie said with a smile.

  “I do not understand.”

  “I knew that Miss Hammond’s mother was swayed by material considerations, and I felt that she would not allow her daughter’s match if Mr. Beswick had no prospects at all. So I inquired into his circumstances before writing the letter.”

  Sir Edmund smiled warmly at her. “A woman with her wits about her indeed. But we should probably return to the others,” he said, looking around him as if wondering how they’d ended up in so isolated a situation. “Your cousin will be looking for you.”

  * * *

  Cecilia was looking for her cousin, but not because she desired her company. No, she had seen her walking with Sir Edmund and had determined to join them. However, before she could do so, Mr. Hartwell had approached her, and in conversation with him she had lost sight of Sophie and Sir Edmund.

  Cecilia felt Mr. Hartwell’s attentions were becoming a little irksome and thought perhaps it was because of him that she was unable to attract a more desirable suitor. Still, a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush, and she was hesitant to discourage him too much. It was rather gratifying to have a gentleman rush to one’s side to request a dance, offer to fetch a drink, or put his carriage at her and her cousin’s disposal, as he had this very day.

  She just wished he were older and more sophisticated and less blond and cherubic. That instead of his honest, open, slightly bulbous blue-eyed gaze, he would look at her from glinting dark eyes. She wished he were . . . Sir Edmund Winslow.

  But when Sophie and Sir Edmund returned from their walk, Sir Edmund merely nodded at Cecilia and said: “Here is your cousin, Miss Foster. I am sorry to have kept her from you.” He then turned to leave almost immediately, before Cecilia had time to do more than offer a smile and a “Thank you, Sir Edmund.”

  She was excited to see him approach again just as she and Sophie were about to get into Mr. Hartwell’s carriage to leave. But Cecilia could not flatter herself that Sir Edmund even noticed her presence. He merely asked Sophie if she would drive with him the next day and, at Sophie’s surprised acceptance of his invitation, asked for her direction. He wished Cecilia a good day and left as quickly as he’d come.

  Cecilia, noticing again how attractive Sophie appeared and that her cheeks were tinged with pink, had a moment’s regret she’d lent her Betsy to do her hair.

  3

  Sophie’s aunt Foster had no doubt Sir Edmund’s attentions to Sophie would eventually result in his taking notice of Cecilia. Particularly since she instructed her niece to ensure they did so.

  “Sir Edmund Winslow very rarely comes to town, preferring instead to spend much of his time at his estate in Somerset,” Sophie’s aunt told her. “And while he is merely a baronet, there are very few eligible members of the peerage resident in London this season.” She interrupted herself to tsk in disdain. “It’s too bad Lucy Barrett snatched up Lord Fitzpatrick so quickly. You know, Sophronia, you might have mentioned Cecilia in your letter to him rather than Lucy, a girl to whom you’re not even related.” As Sophie didn’t know how to respond to this accusation, and even Cecilia looked as if she were about to protest, Mrs. Foster didn’t allow them a chance to speak. She continued, “But that cannot be remedied, so it appears as if Sir Edmund is our best prospect. You must take advantage of this rare opportunity, Sophronia, to recommend your cousin to his notice as often as the conversation permits you to do so.”

  Cecilia quickly spoke up. “Mama, if Sophie were to do as you say, it might become too obvious and have the opposite effect from what you intend.” She turned to address Sophie. “You must not mention me so frequently, Sophie, that he becomes suspicious. But if you are able to subtly insert my name into conversation, you could then learn what opinion he holds of me.”

  Sophie inwardly rebelled against such an order, vowing to herself that if Cecilia’s name even crossed Sir Edmund’s lips, she’d turn the subject immediately. However, then Cecilia smiled very sweetly at her and said: “But I trust you to follow your own counsel in this matter. I know you have my best interests at heart.”

  Sophie, feeling ashamed of her ungene
rous thoughts toward her cousin, could only manage to smile and nod, though she had no clear idea to what she was agreeing.

  * * *

  However, when Sir Edmund arrived he did not enter the Fosters’ town house, as Cecilia had hoped he might, merely sending his groom to tell their manservant he was waiting for Miss Lattimore outside. He did, though, hand the reins to the boy and jump down to help Sophie into the curricle himself.

  It had been ten years since Sophie had ridden with a gentleman in a curricle, and she was a little overwhelmed at first by the sensations crowding in on her. The feelings had begun when Sir Edmund lightly clasped her hand and waist as he helped her onto the seat, and were intensified when he sat beside her, just a scant few inches away. The smell, sight, and sound of the horses, the wind in her hair, the sun on her cheek; all of her senses were alive and tingling, and she silently instructed herself to somehow make a record of this moment in her brain so she could relive it in the weeks, months, and years to come.

  She had no wish to make idle conversation and could think of nothing to say anyway, so the drive passed in near silence until they entered the park and Sir Edmund slowed the horses. He then turned to her with a smile. “Lovely day, is it not?”

  “Absolutely beautiful. I’m so glad the temperate weather has continued to hold,” she replied, smiling back at him. In their smiles and glances she felt they were both expressing much more than their mundane words implied; that he, too, felt this was a golden moment in time, to be appreciated and treasured.

  “I’m grateful you agreed to drive out with me. I am leaving town but wanted an opportunity to speak to you again before I did so.”

  How quickly a cloud could roll in and the warm breeze turn chill! “I am sorry to hear you are leaving, Sir Edmund. Your friends will miss you; especially Lord Fitzwalter,” Sophie said, and congratulated herself that she sounded only mildly disappointed, as befitted the departure of a casual acquaintance.

  “To tell you the truth, Miss Lattimore, I’m not convinced Fitz would even notice I’d left,” he said. “He’s quite occupied with his future bride at the moment, as he should be. But I have promised to stay for the wedding, at least.”

  There was a momentary interruption as an acquaintance drove by and he and Sir Edmund exchanged greetings.

  “Where do you go?” Sophie asked, and then wondered if he would think such a question impertinent.

  “To my estate, Newbrooke, in Somerset. My steward has written me; there’s some problem between two of the tenant farmers. He probably could handle the matter himself, but it seems like a good excuse to return home.”

  “You are not a fan of the London season, Sir Edmund?”

  “I am not comfortable around strangers, no,” he said.

  He exchanged nods with a gentleman in another passing carriage.

  “But it appears that you have many friends in town,” Sophie said.

  “I know a great many gentlemen, it is true. I number fewer ladies among my acquaintance.”

  “Since you have expressed a desire to marry, it would seem you need to enlarge your circle of acquaintances,” Sophie said.

  “That is precisely why I invited you to drive with me this afternoon, Miss Lattimore,” he said, before apparently realizing his words might be construed as meaning he saw her as a potential bride. “I beg your pardon, I did not mean—I meant, I invited you in order to request your advice on how to become better acquainted with a lady, without creating unfulfilled expectations if I should find we do not suit.”

  “Is it your desire to protect the heart of this hypothetical lady or your own?” Sophie asked, impelled by the pang of her own remembered foolishness that summer she was eighteen.

  Sir Edmund turned to look at her, and Sophie wondered if it was merely her pain she saw reflected back to her, or if he had suffered similarly. “Both,” he replied. “I have no desire to wound anyone, nor do I want to suffer heartache myself. I don’t mean to make it sound, however, as if I rate myself so highly that I think ladies will be tumbling into love with me,” he said with a self-deprecating smile, and Sophie felt a sudden responsibility to her sisterhood, as Sir Edmund looked so sublimely handsome at that moment and obviously had no notion of how much of a threat he actually was.

  “If you want my counsel it is this: widen your circle of acquaintances, without paying marked attentions to any particular lady. If one does catch your fancy, observe her in group settings and see how she interacts with others. Choose with your head first, before involving your heart.”

  Sir Edmund did not reply for a moment, reflecting on her words. “It sounds like a prudent course of action.”

  Sophie suddenly grinned, lightening the serious mood that had descended upon them. “That is what my name means, you know.”

  “Your name?” he asked.

  “Sophronia. It means sensible or prudent.”

  “Sophronia,” Sir Edmund repeated softly, and Sophie felt anything but sensible. “ ’Tis a pretty name.”

  Sophie lowered her eyes, wondering how she was so imprudent that she had somehow just granted him the intimacy of using her Christian name.

  * * *

  Before Sir Edmund returned Sophie to her home, she asked him how far he lived from Bath.

  “Very near, actually. No more than ten miles.”

  “Had you thought of attending the assemblies there?” she said.

  “Do you suggest I do so?”

  “I doubt you will meet many eligible young ladies in dealings with your estate manager or tenant farmers.”

  Sir Edmund sighed. “You are right, of course. Where do you and your cousin go at the end of the season?”

  “My cousin?” Sophie asked, wondering at his introduction of Cecilia into the conversation. Perhaps he was interested in her, after all.

  “You live with her and her mother, do you not? I assume if you leave town you will do so together?”

  “Yes, but we have no plans, as of now, to leave town.”

  “I’ve recently had Bath recommended to me as a desirable destination,” he said with a half smile.

  “An inspired suggestion,” Sophie replied. “I’ll mention it to my aunt.”

  * * *

  Sophie was merely jesting when she said she’d mention a stay in Bath to her aunt, as she had no intention of chasing Sir Edmund around England. After all, he gave no indication that he saw her as anything more than some kind of sexless mentor and dispenser of sage advice. Most certainly he did not view her as a woman, the type of woman he was concerned with wounding with his attentions. (That didn’t prevent Sophie from admiring him for his sensitivity toward this yet-to-be-discovered lady and even envying her.) She found it far easier, however, to bid him luck in his quest for true love and put him out of her mind. She had absolutely no desire to watch him court the object of his desire.

  But she found when she returned home that her aunt and cousin somehow misconstrued the information she relayed about her drive as an invitation to join Sir Edmund in Bath. The confusion came about when Cecilia asked if Sir Edmund had mentioned her.

  “Once. He asked where we are to go after the season ends,” Sophie replied, and could have bitten off her tongue when she saw that she had somehow encouraged her aunt and cousin in their delusions.

  “Upon my word, that is a promising sign!” Mrs. Foster said, with a fond look at her daughter. Cecilia appeared gratified as well, and Sophie wondered how she could have so unintentionally misled them. “Did he say where he goes?”

  “To his estate,” Sophie said, determined to offer only the briefest of answers to their queries.

  “Where exactly is it?” When Sophie did not respond quickly enough, Cecilia turned to her mother. “Do you know, Mama?” she asked.

  “In Somerset, very near to Bath,” Mrs. Foster told her daughter, before turning to Sophie. “Did he say whether h
e plans to attend any of the assemblies there, Sophronia?”

  Sophie wished she didn’t have to answer. She reluctantly said, “He mentioned he might. I do not think he has made definite plans.”

  Her aunt spent a moment in thoughtful silence before announcing her decision. “We shall take a house in Bath for the summer.”

  “Bath!” Cecilia exclaimed, twirling around in glee. “How delightful! Are you not excited, Cousin?” she asked Sophie, whom Cecilia couldn’t help but notice was not responding in like manner (but then she was very dizzy and may have misread Sophie’s expression).

  “ ‘Excited’ does not begin to describe my feelings,” Sophie replied.

  * * *

  However, Sophie eventually did find herself growing excited at the prospect of removing to Bath. She’d never been before, as after her father’s death she’d gone directly to London from her home near Tunbridge Wells, which was also a spa town. Her father would never have thought to take her to Bath when there was a similar, though less modish, option so near. She’d always wished to travel but until now had contented herself with doing so through the pages of a book. Yet here was an unexpected opportunity to explore a city that was famous for its architecture and entertainments, and she remembered her prediction that this summer was to be special and wondered if this was proof that she’d been quite astute.

  But before they could leave for Bath there were a few social engagements they could not miss, one of them being the wedding of Lord Fitzwalter and Miss Barrett—or Lucy, as Sophie had now been given permission to call her.

  It was held at ten on a Friday morning at St. George’s in Hanover Square, and there was likely to be at least one ceremony before and after, as St. George’s was quite busy that time of year. Sophie wondered that the vicar performed the reading with such enthusiasm, as he had probably recited it a hundred times at least. Sophie herself felt the solemnization ceremony was distinctly too solemn at times, especially the part that seemed to amount to an accusation of criminal behavior on the part of the bride and groom. She thought this vicar, a relation of Lord Fitzwalter, might agree with her, as he seemed to speed up as he recited the words: