“I thought when I first arrived in Bath it was Sir Edmund whom you admired, and he would no doubt be the more brilliant match, but then Mr. Maitland is so”—here Priscilla paused before finally finding the word she was searching for and uttering it in a breathy sigh—“simpatico. He’s even more agreeable than Lord Fitzwalter. I honestly wonder if I’d met him before I knew Charles . . .” Priscilla shrugged without finishing her sentence. “But, then again, if I hadn’t known Charles I would have likely married Fitzwalter.”
Sophie was relieved that Priscilla seemed to forget her question regarding Sophie’s intentions as she became involved in a complicated analysis of her own current and former gentlemen admirers. She required little more than a nod of agreement and a sympathetic murmur, which allowed Sophie to ponder her own tangled affairs, and her cousin’s. Still, Sophie hadn’t forgotten she’d offered to help the Beswicks as well, and she did try, interrupting Priscilla’s musings to ask: “Priscilla, is it true that you were far more interested in physical pursuits when Mr. Beswick first began courting you? Had you thought that he might enjoy spending time with you in some of those activities far more than balls and morning calls?”
“I did enjoy those things when I was younger, but Charles has to have realized that when I put my hair up I was finished with all of that. I learned when I went to London that my youthful behavior, while permissible before I’d made my come-out, was completely unsuitable for a lady of quality. Why, you are not even permitted to gallop in Hyde Park! Charles certainly cannot expect a woman who has been the toast of London to gad about like a wild schoolgirl.”
Before Sophie could find a way to contradict this assertion, she and Priscilla had reached the entrance to the Pump Room and been hailed by one of Priscilla’s many admirers, and any private conversation between them was perforce concluded.
* * *
Sophie had no clear idea how to help Cecilia other than to somehow hint to Mr. Hartwell that Cecilia had decided not to entertain Lord Courtney’s suit any longer, since it seemed to Sophie this must be why he had ceased his attentions to her. Therefore, when Sophie entered the Pump Room she was so intent on finding Mr. Hartwell that when instead she immediately encountered Sir Edmund, she was completely taken aback and thrown into total confusion.
“Miss Lattimore, how do you do?” he asked, and she curtsied in response.
“Quite well, I thank you,” she replied, but she blushed as she said it and looked so strange that Sir Edmund thought the opposite.
“Are you sure you are not suffering from the heat? Would you take my arm?” he said, concerned.
“No, no, I am fine,” she said, but then, seizing upon the excuse he offered, Sophie continued, “though Mrs. Beswick and I did have rather a long walk, so perhaps I am a trifle overheated.” She turned to Priscilla for confirmation of this remark but found that she was engaged in her own conversation with Mr. Andrews. Sophie realized that this was probably for the best, because Priscilla was so unpredictable that she was as likely to contradict Sophie’s statement as she was to confirm it.
“It is rather crowded here. Perhaps we could walk closer to the window,” Sir Edmund said.
Sophie took his arm, and they walked to a bench by a window, where she sat down, mentally berating herself for her lack of composure. But it had been a few days since she’d seen Sir Edmund, and she had neglected to prepare herself for a meeting with him. She realized suddenly that, while she also felt uneasy and confused in Mr. Maitland’s presence, this exhilaration she was feeling was caused by Sir Edmund alone. But should she indulge these feelings? What if they were not reciprocated? Wouldn’t Mr. Maitland be the safer choice?
But these were not thoughts she could ponder at the present moment, so she took some deep breaths in an attempt to regain her sangfroid.
“How are you feeling?” Sir Edmund asked.
“I am fine. But I do thank you, it is far more pleasant in this corner of the room.”
“It is indeed,” said Sir Edmund with a smile that had a touch of the flirtatious in it, and Sophie was reminded of when she offered to tutor him in the skill and blushed again at her foolishness.
There was silence for a moment, as Sophie shyly stared down at her hands and Sir Edmund studied her. And then Sir Edmund cleared his throat before saying, “I am glad we have this opportunity to be private. I have something I want to ask you.”
Sophie’s eyes flew to his, but he immediately rushed into further speech, as if aware that such a beginning could portend more than he’d intended. “That is, I should have said I wished to offer you an invitation.”
Sophie nodded encouragingly. She was bemused by how awkward and diffident Sir Edmund could become at times. He seemed even more shy and uncomfortable with the opposite sex than she was! And then at other times he seemed a practiced flirt, as she had reason to know.
“I wondered if you—and your aunt and cousin, of course—would care to spend a day at my estate, Newbrooke. It is no more than an hour by carriage from Bath, and I could arrange transportation. And my housekeeper Mrs. Cooper could make arrangements for tea and the like.”
He had barely finished his sentence before Sophie was rushing into a pleased acceptance. “Yes! That would be lovely, thank you! I can think of nothing I’d like more.”
“It is I who would be honored by your visit,” Sir Edmund said, smiling at her excitement. “Is there someone else you would like me to invite? Your particular friend Miss Woodford, for example?”
“No!” Sophie said, a little too vehemently, and Sir Edmund raised one eyebrow in surprise. “No, thank you, not Miss Woodford. But do you think, perhaps—would you invite Mr. Hartwell?” Sophie asked. “And also, if it’s not asking too much, the Beswicks?”
Sir Edmund did not reply for a moment and then began to chuckle. “Miss Lattimore, have you decided to take up matchmaking again, after protesting vigorously that people should be allowed to manage their own affairs and that you could not, would not, interfere?”
Sophie looked about her, to be sure no one had heard Sir Edmund. “Please, Sir Edmund, lower your voice. It is not matchmaking, precisely, but rather an attempt to rectify the problems caused by previous matchmaking efforts, both mine and others’.”
“I see,” Sir Edmund said, but he appeared to be making an effort to restrain a smile. “If Beswick and Hartwell are coming then I suppose I need to arrange for more than tea and biscuits. Do you ride, Miss Lattimore?”
“I do, though I haven’t done so in years.”
“What about the other ladies? Somehow I cannot picture Mrs. Beswick on horseback, galloping ventre à terre and putting her coiffure at danger of becoming disarranged.”
“Oh, you would be surprised. I am told she is quite the horsewoman. But perhaps you should just plan on rides for the gentlemen.”
Their tête-à-tête was interrupted at that point by the very gentleman Sophie had been searching for earlier. Mr. Hartwell greeted them both and then turned to address Sophie, looking self-conscious as he did so. “I do not see your aunt and cousin with you. I trust they are both in good health?”
Sophie rose from the bench in order to converse more easily with Mr. Hartwell, as Sir Edmund had been standing slightly bent toward her with his arm resting against the wall, partially obscuring her from view.
“They are not ill, but Cecilia is suffering from a slight depression of spirits,” she said, and hoped that her cousin would never discover she had told Mr. Hartwell so.
“I am sorry to hear it,” Mr. Hartwell said, but he looked more confused than sorry, as if he could not decide what significance this remark might have, if any. “Please give her my regards. Or, no, well, yes, I suppose you can pass on my greetings. If you don’t think it would dampen her spirits further,” Mr. Hartwell said, and once again looked as if he was unsure whether to hope for or against such an eventuality.
“I think
it would raise her spirits tremendously that you thought kindly of her, or indeed, that she was in your thoughts at all,” Sophie said, and tried to ignore Sir Edmund’s slight cough, which she felt was produced on purpose to tease her.
“I’m sure she’s more concerned with Lord Courtney’s opinion of her than mine,” Mr. Hartwell said, and his open, placid countenance assumed the most bitter expression it could, which made him look a little like a grumpy young cherub.
Sophie had hoped for such an opening, and gratefully took it. “May I tell you something in confidence, Mr. Hartwell?” She turned briefly to Sir Edmund. “I am sure I can trust Sir Edmund as a gentleman not to repeat anything I might say.” Sir Edmund bowed very gravely, though Sophie thought she saw an inappropriate twinkle in his eye. Ignoring him, she stepped closer to Mr. Hartwell and lowered her voice. “It appears that my aunt Foster has been promoting a match between my cousin and . . . someone I shall not name, though I believe you may have just mentioned him.” Sophie raised her eyebrows significantly as she said this, and Mr. Hartwell nodded his understanding. “And Cecilia is such a dutiful daughter that she tried to accede to her mother’s wishes, but upon closer acquaintance with this unnamed gentleman, found that nothing could induce her to enter into a binding commitment with him. And now she is quite inconsolable at the thought of disappointing her mother. I think you can understand what has caused her depression of spirits, can you not, Mr. Hartwell? And I hope you shall remain her friend.”
“But of course! Poor Cecil—er—Miss Foster; I will do everything in my power to cheer her.”
“I am so relieved to hear that! I was sure we could rely upon you, Mr. Hartwell,” Sophie said admiringly, and Mr. Hartwell immediately colored up. Sophie refused to look at Sir Edmund, afraid that he would cause her to lose her composure with a teasing glance. So she was surprised and grateful when he took charge of the conversation at that point, inviting Mr. Hartwell to join in the visit to his estate, which was then tentatively scheduled for a week hence.
Once their plans were made, Mr. Hartwell soon took his leave of them both, and Sophie finally ventured to peep up at Sir Edmund, her eyebrows raised as if asking a question. He met her gaze with a smile, and then clapped lightly. “Brava! What a masterful performance,” he said. “I am in awe. And also in fear, as every unmarried gentleman in your vicinity should be.”
“Nonsense,” Sophie said, embarrassed. “Everything I said was true, though I may have painted Aunt Foster’s behavior as worse than it actually was.”
“But you had to, in order to stir the gentleman’s chivalrous instincts. And I’m certain any mother would be more than willing to sacrifice her reputation if it was done in such a cause,” Sir Edmund replied. “Why was all of this necessary, by the way? I had assumed Hartwell’s heart to already be firmly in your cousin’s possession. Had he deserted her because of her folly in encouraging that nincompoop Courtney?”
“Yes, and had begun to look elsewhere.”
“That must have brought Miss Foster to her senses rather quickly. He should have done that weeks ago,” Sir Edmund said.
“Why, Sir Edmund, you appear to be quite skilled at the management of affairs of the heart yourself,” Sophie congratulated him.
“Oh, no, I am not skilled in the least at maneuvering such matters. I bow to your superior knowledge. Indeed, I encourage you to exercise your talents in my behalf. My heart is yours to manage,” he said, and this time he did not quickly retract his statement, or look away in embarrassment, but stared meaningfully at her. And when Priscilla Beswick approached, saying that she had been looking for Sophie everywhere, and what did she mean by hiding away in this corner with Sir Edmund, Sophie had the greatest difficulty tearing herself away from Sir Edmund’s mesmerizing gaze.
12
When Sophie returned home from the Pump Room, she found that Cecilia had come down with a cold (perhaps brought on by the lowness of her spirits), which gave the ladies an excellent excuse to offer for not receiving callers or going out. Thankfully it was not a serious illness, and it appeared as if she would be fully recovered by the time they were to visit Sir Edmund’s estate. When Cecilia learned that Mr. Hartwell would be accompanying them, she began looking forward to the excursion nearly as much as Sophie was. Sophie, who felt she now knew which of her suitors she preferred and had some reason to believe he might feel likewise, obviously could not reveal her partiality for him before he confessed his for her, and hoped that this might occur during their visit to Sir Edmund’s estate. So she was as intent on avoiding Mr. Maitland as Cecilia was Lord Courtney.
Mr. Hartwell had sent Cecilia flowers, which she kept at her bedside table, and when they began to droop, she selected one to carefully press between the pages of her diary. (Sophie noticed that a bouquet from Lord Courtney had been left in a dark corner of the drawing room, to wilt unseen and unlamented.)
Sophie had not been neglected by her erstwhile suitor, either, as Mr. Maitland had sent her a poem he had found that had been written by a woman poetess of the previous century, Mary Leapor, titled “Advice to Sophronia.” Sophie was very touched upon receiving it, and even felt guilty that she could not reciprocate Mr. Maitland’s affection. That is, until she read the poem, something she felt sure Mr. Maitland must not have taken the time to do.
“When youth and charms have ta’en their wanton flight,” it began, “And transient beauty bids the fair good-night; When once her sparkling eyes shall dimly roll, Then let the matron dress her lofty soul; Quit affectation, partner of her youth, For goodness, prudence, purity and truth.”
But the insulting advice to the aged, decrepit, and apparently vain and shallow Sophronia did not stop there. On the contrary, it continued:
Time’s rugged hand has stroked your visage o’er;
The gay vermilion stains your lip no more.
None can with justice now your shape admire;
The drooping lilies on your breast expire.
And after more choice descriptions of “shriveled arms” and “once-lovely eyes,” it ended with this dreary prophecy:
Ye pitying Fates, this withered damsel save,
And bear her safely to her virgin grave.
At first reading Sophie was surprised and offended, but then she had to laugh at what Mr. Maitland had intended as a grand romantic gesture, and finally decided to save it in her diary. After all, it was the first poem she’d ever been given by an admirer. No gentlemen were writing odes to Sophie’s attire, as they had Priscilla Beswick’s. But neither were they comparing her to cows, so she eventually decided the gift of a poem which contained her name in the title was not necessarily an insult, after all.
* * *
Mr. Hartwell, now that he was back in Cecilia’s favor and she in his, had happily taken it upon himself to arrange the ladies’ transportation to Newbrooke. As the Beswicks had also accepted Sir Edmund’s invitation, it was decided that the four ladies would travel by carriage while Misters Beswick and Hartwell would accompany the carriage on horseback.
The first meeting between Cecilia and Mr. Hartwell since their last encounter at Sydney Gardens and Cecilia’s realization of her feelings for him was less awkward than it might have been, as there was so much hustle and bustle involved with preparations for the trip that they were able to do no more than exchange greetings, though they did so with a heightened color and an air of consciousness. But of course Priscilla Beswick must be at the center of every activity, and that morning was no different, as she soon was distracting attention away from the timid couple with earnest questions about the length of the trip and if it was possible for her to sit facing forward, as she was inclined toward motion sickness. Charles looked impatient at his wife’s queries, and Sophie had to agree that if Priscilla really was the daredevil he’d described, this pretense of delicacy was a little much. But she had come to recognize that Priscilla thought all these little affectations she’d adopted w
ere the appropriate behavior of a leading society lady. In fact, now that Sophie understood Priscilla’s thinking, she could even recognize mannerisms Priscilla had copied from some of the more popular London belles. And Priscilla was correct that these tactics usually did result in a greater share of the gentlemen’s attention. It was unfortunate, however, that Priscilla’s own husband was not a fan of such ploys. Therefore, Sophie did not contradict Priscilla’s claims of fragility but quickly offered to sit across from her in the carriage, and Cecilia volunteered the same so that her mother could also face forward, and they were finally on their way.
Once they had left the city proper, the gentlemen were seen passing the carriage, riding vigorously and with obvious enjoyment. They had good reason to be pleased, as the weather had cooperated with their excursion, and though there were a few puffy white clouds, the sky was of an astonishingly deep shade of blue.
“Mr. Hartwell has a good seat,” Priscilla commented suddenly as the ladies watched the gentlemen ride by, and Cecilia blushed and again looked self-conscious. “But I wonder why he is escorting you. I thought you meant to have Lord Courtney,” she said to Cecilia, to the consternation of all of the ladies, who would have preferred such a remark to have remained unspoken.
“Well, I—I . . .” Cecilia stuttered, and looked to Sophie for assistance.
“Priscilla, you should know better than anyone that nothing is certain until the banns are called,” Sophie said.
Priscilla blinked at Sophie as she attempted to make sense of her words, finally coming up with an interpretation Sophie had not intended. “Oh, Lord,” Priscilla replied. “Did you write another one of your letters?”
There was a momentary silence following Priscilla’s remark, and then Sophie began to laugh. Cecilia was soon giggling as well, and even Mrs. Foster’s frown was replaced by a small smile. After this lighthearted beginning to their trip, Mrs. Foster diverted the conversation away from any further discussion of men or marriage by asking Priscilla about her home in Devon, and the foursome were soon chattering away quite happily. So enjoyable and engrossing was the conversation that when the castellated gatehouse came into view, the women were shocked that they’d arrived at Newbrooke so quickly, and Sophie, at least, was upset that she hadn’t paid more attention to her surroundings, as she had a particular interest in Sir Edmund’s home that went deeper than that of the others.
Miss Lattimore's Letter Page 13
