Instead of replying, Mr. Hartwell looked over at Cecilia, who met his gaze, her aloof façade slipping for a moment and her conflicted feelings plainly displayed on her face. His expression softened a little, but then Lord Courtney chose that inauspicious moment to make his presence known by sneezing three times in rapid succession and then saying, “I beg your pardon. Something is causing a ticklish sensation in my nose. Probably all of this deuced vegetation.”
After this Mr. Hartwell and his party took their leave, Miss Woodford asking Cecilia to please tell Sophie she would call on her soon.
Mrs. Foster turned to speak to her daughter after the others had left but, seeing the frozen smile on Cecilia’s face, said nothing. Later, as she watched Cecilia and her noble suitor sitting in an awkward and uncomfortable silence, broken only by his fatuous and nonsensical remarks, Mrs. Foster, too, came to an unwelcome realization.
* * *
Sophie didn’t remember the walk to the center of the Labyrinth being so long and wondered if it was because they were forced to slow their pace to accommodate Mrs. Beswick. Charles was becoming frustrated, and Sophie could not blame him, though she thought it was most likely Priscilla’s slippers that were causing the problem, and not Priscilla.
“Priscilla, must you walk so slow?” Sophie overheard Charles asking his wife, in the tone of a man who had endured enough.
“I am walking at a ladylike pace; it is you who are walking too fast.”
“Miss Lattimore’s ladylike pace doesn’t seem to be as snail-like as yours,” Charles said, and Sophie was disconcerted to find herself a bone of contention between the couple. They always seemed to be bickering. She did not understand how they had ever ceased arguing long enough to fall in love and marry.
Mr. Maitland stopped walking and turned back to face the couple. “When a lady presents such a vision of loveliness as your wife, Mr. Beswick, a man is happy to have the opportunity to contemplate it and doesn’t complain that he is given the leisure to do so.” He punctuated this piece of pretentiousness by bowing to Priscilla.
Sophie did not feel as if Charles Beswick appreciated this remark, and she found it somewhat annoying as well. So she was not as gravely disappointed as she expected she should have been when Charles Beswick said: “Fine, then. You walk with her.” He left Priscilla’s side and walked over to Sophie, offering her his arm. “Miss Lattimore?”
Sophie took his arm without remark, and Mr. Maitland, though he looked regretfully at Sophie, stretched out his arm for Priscilla to take.
Mr. Beswick started walking briskly, and Sophie matched her step to his. Contrary to what Priscilla had said earlier about it being too warm for a walk, Sophie had been somewhat chilled, as the day was overcast and the sun hidden behind a cloud. So she found the increased activity warming and rather exhilarating. But after a few minutes Charles slowed and turned to her with a frown. “I suppose I should beg your pardon, Miss Lattimore. You probably would have preferred to walk with Mr. Maitland.”
“I have no complaints,” Sophie said.
“That is kind of you to say, but I am aware that I’m behaving childishly.” Sophie did not reply, and after a moment, he continued. “You must wonder why it is that Priscilla and I . . . You see, Miss Lattimore, I’ve known Priscilla since we were both children. I was a few years older and she was ‘just’ a girl, so obviously I had no time for her.” His frown disappeared, transformed into a reminiscent, fond smile. “But when I came home from school she literally forced herself into my presence. She rode faster, ran further . . .” He stopped to shake his head in disbelief. “You should have seen her on the back of a horse, Miss Lattimore, wearing an old riding habit, her hair streaming wildly out from under her bonnet. She was far more beautiful to me than the night I saw her in London in her expensive ball gown, a dozen fops at her feet.”
Sophie was quite surprised by the picture of Priscilla he’d just painted. Sophie would have never guessed Priscilla to be interested in any kind of physical activity. If this was whom Charles had thought he’d married, was it any wonder he was disappointed by the dainty fashion plate who had taken her place?
“I am aware you advocated for our match, Miss Lattimore, and I was very grateful to you at the time, as I loved Priscilla most sincerely and had despaired at the thought of losing her. But,” he said, his expression becoming bleak again, “is it possible I have lost her already? Where is the girl I fell in love with? She no longer cares for the things we once enjoyed doing together, but only wants to talk about frills and furbelows, beaux and society gossip, and expects constant compliments on her appearance. I care naught for any of those things. It’s enough to drive a man to drink!”
“It is indeed, Mr. Beswick,” Sophie said sympathetically, as she genuinely felt sorry for him. “I was not aware that Priscilla’s personality had changed so drastically. But the girl you fell in love with is still there somewhere, I’m sure,” she said, a little mendaciously, as she was sure of no such thing.
Charles Beswick stopped walking abruptly and turned and grabbed Sophie’s hand. “Could you help us repair our relationship, Miss Lattimore? Priscilla tells me you have a talent for such things.”
Sophie reflected on the fact that no one could have ever been punished for an act of benevolent interference more than she had. And yet she had obviously still not learned her lesson, because she found herself assuring Mr. Beswick she would do her best to help him and Priscilla with their marriage. She, an unmarried spinster, who could not resolve her own relationship dilemma.
* * *
Sophie and Charles Beswick reached the swing long before the other couple, but since there were a lady and gentleman in the process of using it, Sophie reasoned they would have had to wait anyway and stifled any impatience she might have felt. Charles Beswick, too, did not appear to be worried by his wife’s extended absence with another gentleman, but seemed more interested in studying the mechanics of the swing.
Merlin’s swing was housed in a gazebo-like structure that had a roof but was open on the sides. The compartment where the participants sat was boat-shaped, had two bench seats at each end, and was suspended by ropes from the ceiling. There was also a rope that hung above each bench seat, and by pulling it a rider could propel the swing from side to side.
The attendant was willing to hurry the other couple along (apparently they had already been on the swing for some time), but Sophie explained to him that they were waiting for their friends, so he allowed the couple to continue swinging until they’d had their fill. It was just after they’d finished that Priscilla and Mr. Maitland arrived.
“Finally!” Charles pronounced irritably, but after a warning glance from Sophie he managed to swallow his ire. “You two arrived just in time,” he said, in a much milder tone.
The attendant helped them into the swing, providing some instruction as he did so, though Charles Beswick obviously felt he did not require it. Indeed, he was quite eager to get started, and Priscilla had barely taken her seat before he was already giving his rope a pull.
“Eek!” Priscilla screeched, grabbing her husband’s arm.
Mr. Maitland and Sophie had settled beside each other on their bench seat opposite the Beswicks, but Sophie was not quite ready to be catapulted into motion, either, as she was in the midst of trying to figure out how to arrange her skirts so that they would not fly up and expose anything unmentionable to passersby. When the swing began to move, Mr. Maitland steadied Sophie with a hand around her waist, but before she had time to become too self-conscious he removed his hand to grab the rope and pull.
Priscilla had regained her balance but was still holding on to Charles as tightly as she could. He did not appear to mind but smiled affectionately at her before giving the rope another mighty tug.
Sophie was concerned the men were going to launch them into space, as there seemed to be some contest between them over who could propel the swing t
he furthest. As she was not married to Mr. Maitland, she did not feel comfortable grabbing on to him as Priscilla was doing with her husband, so she instead had one hand on the side of the boat and grasped the underside of the bench with the other. She felt she would have enjoyed the experience far more if she and Priscilla had been the ones in charge of the rope-pulling. Although for once Priscilla was not complaining about her husband’s behavior but seemed to be enjoying the wild ride, laughing and squealing and squeezing her husband’s muscular arm. Sophie began to see a semblance of the girl Priscilla had been before, and from the fond glances Charles was casting at her, it appeared he was seeing the same.
It was Sophie who felt the urge to complain, and she may have done so if the attendant hadn’t shouted a warning to the two men not to pull the ropes so hard.
Once they were swinging at a gentler pace and were not in imminent danger of being hurled from the contraption, Mr. Maitland turned to speak to Sophie. “You are welcome to hold on to my arm.”
Sophie had often taken Mr. Maitland’s arm when they walked together, but it seemed rather forward of her to do so while he was engaged in activity that caused his muscles to tense, something that Sophie could feel through the fabric of his coat and caused her to become much warmer than she had during her brisk walk with Mr. Beswick. She was feeling extremely ill at ease, and felt even more so when she looked across at the Beswicks, who were staring at each other heatedly as if they were about to resume their interrupted honeymoon.
But then Charles, while pulling on the rope, swiped the side of Priscilla’s head and dislodged her hat, just before a rush of wind swept it from her head.
“Oh, no!” Priscilla cried, standing up in the swing and looking as if she were going to leap out in pursuit of her hat, which had landed on the ground a few feet away. Charles stopped her before she could do so, pulling her down beside him and laughing and saying, “It’s just a hat, Priscilla. I’ll buy you another.”
“Just a hat! Just a hat!” Priscilla repeated in disbelief. “Men have written odes to that hat! One compared it to the nimbus of a goddess!”
Before Charles could respond, the attendant had run over to the headgear and snatched it up, slapping it against his thigh in an attempt to remove any dirt it may have acquired. They all watched as an egret feather floated sadly to the ground.
“No harm done,” the attendant said. “It’ll be waiting for you when you’ve finished the ride.”
But that incident effectively did finish the ride, as even Mr. Maitland couldn’t smooth things over when Charles failed to show the proper remorse (or any at all) for his part in destroying Priscilla’s favorite chapeau. The newlyweds, who had been enraptured with each other only moments before, were now barely speaking to each other, and their mood infected Sophie and Mr. Maitland as well, as it halted any romantic overtures on his part and he and Sophie began exchanging polite platitudes in an attempt to pretend nothing untoward was occurring.
11
The excursion that Sophie had thought would clarify her conflicted feelings failed miserably in that regard, but apparently had the opposite effect on Cecilia, who came away from Sydney Gardens determined that she would never marry Lord Courtney and convinced that her true love was Mr. Hartwell, whom she had unfortunately lost to another.
Sophie valiantly overcame any desire to tell her “I told you so,” and instead listened very sympathetically to Cecilia’s laments. Sophie was not only sad for her cousin but sorry for herself as well, because she did not see how she could continue her friendship with Emily Woodford, the woman who had stolen the affections of the man her cousin loved. Of course Sophie knew Emily was blameless; she had been present when the couple had first met and recognized that Emily’s attraction toward Mr. Hartwell was genuine, and Cecilia had been very publicly encouraging a different man’s attentions. Still, she realized it would pain Cecilia to be forced into association with the couple through Sophie’s friendship with Emily, and Sophie knew her first loyalty lay with Cecilia.
Sophie could remember very well how it had felt at eighteen to have the man you admire reject you in favor of another, and although Cecilia had only her own stupidity to blame for her loss of Mr. Hartwell’s affection, Sophie had no doubt that made it sting even more bitterly.
Mrs. Foster had not discussed the matter with her daughter, Cecilia’s tearful revelations having taken place in the privacy of Sophie’s bedchamber once they’d returned from the gardens, but Mrs. Foster did announce over dinner that they must all be tired from their excursion and that they would spend a rare evening at home rather than attend the assembly rooms.
Sophie felt as if this was just delaying the inevitable meeting between all parties involved, but she appreciated that Aunt Foster seemed to be cognizant of Cecilia’s distress and was trying to help. And when later she heard her aunt knock on Cecilia’s door and ask to speak to her, Sophie desperately hoped her solution wasn’t to pressure her daughter into making a disastrous match with Lord Courtney.
But the next morning at breakfast Sophie found her worries were unfounded. She and Mrs. Foster were alone, Cecilia not having come down, when Mrs. Foster explained that she now recognized her folly in encouraging Cecilia to reject Mr. Hartwell’s suit in favor of Lord Courtney’s.
“It is a difficult thing for me to admit,” Mrs. Foster told Sophie as she toyed with the food on her plate, “but I have failed my daughter.”
Sophie wished she could deny this claim, as Aunt Foster looked ten years older that morning in the bright light streaming through the window, the dark shadows under her eyes harshly illuminated. But Sophie knew any protestations she made would be hollow and unconvincing, so she remained silent. And after a moment Mrs. Foster began telling Sophie things she had never confided in another living soul.
“I had a cousin my own age whom I was raised with; we made our come-out together. But she was my superior in every way; looks, manner, charm. I was completely overshadowed by her, and when she made a brilliant match to a wealthy earl, I felt my failure even more acutely. I was far from a success. So awkward and shy and plain, or at least I felt that way in comparison to my cousin. Mr. Foster was the only gentleman to make me an offer, and so I accepted him.
“Poor man,” Mrs. Foster said with a self-mocking smile, “he did not win much of a prize. Instead of appreciating that I had a husband who treated me with kindness and gave me a beautiful daughter, I instead dwelled upon what I thought I had missed out on: a title and a respected position in society. I thought my marriage confirmation of what I knew to be true of myself: I was lesser, unworthy, a failure.”
“Was your cousin happy in her marriage?” Sophie asked.
Mrs. Foster shrugged. “I do not know. She did not complain, at any rate, even though the earl was widely reputed to be a philanderer. She seemed to enjoy her social status, but she didn’t have long to do so. She died in childbirth just over a year later.”
“I am so sorry.”
“Yes, it was very sad. Perhaps if she’d lived longer I’d have come to recognize how misguided my thinking was, but instead I became stuck in that view, and continued to believe my cousin had achieved the pinnacle of success for a female and that I was an utter failure. And then when Cecilia grew into such a handsome young lady, so charming and self-assured, I began to think she was my opportunity for redemption, that her success would mitigate my deficiencies.”
“Aunt Foster, you are too hard on yourself—” Sophie began, but her aunt waved her to silence.
“Don’t worry. I have come to realize, far too late, that my judgment was flawed. And that Mr. Foster was the superior marital prize, little though I recognized it at the time. But I encouraged Cecilia to have the same warped view of marriage that I had, and I can see it’s made her very miserable indeed.”
Sophie couldn’t deny this, and the two sat in silence for a few minutes, before Mrs. Foster ventured, “Perhaps it�
�s not too late for her and Mr. Hartwell.”
“It may not be,” Sophie agreed. “One excursion in the park with Emily Woodford does not a marriage make. But I would do nothing to encourage Cecilia’s hopes in that regard.”
“No, of course not, but perhaps you could do something to assist your cousin? Something similar to what you did for Lucy Barrett and Lord Fitzwalter?”
And Sophie had cause to regret, yet again, that she had ever written that letter.
* * *
Sophie was thankful when Priscilla Beswick called later that morning, as she was able to convince Priscilla to accompany her to the Pump Room. Since Cecilia and Mrs. Foster were not at all eager to face Lady Smallpeace and Lord Courtney, they were eschewing their usual social appearances for the time being, and Sophie, too, would have been forced to remain at home. So she found herself greeting Priscilla warmly, even though the last time she’d seen her had been at the disastrous excursion to Sydney Gardens.
Which was what Priscilla wanted to discuss as they walked to the Pump Room together. “I realize I may have overreacted a trifle to the destruction of my hat, but Charles is so unsympathetic, there is no bearing it! Mr. Maitland is far more understanding. Do you mean to have him?”
Sophie, who had only been listening with half an ear to Priscilla’s complaints about her husband (and her ruined hat), was jolted to attention by this abrupt question. “What?”
Miss Lattimore's Letter Page 12
