Miss Lattimore's Letter

by Suzanne Allain

  As the carriage passed through the gate and onto Sir Edmund’s property, Sophie leaned forward for a better view and promptly collided with Priscilla, who was doing the same. But for once Priscilla deferred to Sophie, drawing back with a mischievous smile and gesturing for Sophie to look out the carriage window. Sophie smiled her thanks and leaned forward again, but soon felt Priscilla’s hand on her shoulder and her breath against her cheek, and before too long was listening to her admiring commentary about the grandeur of Sir Edmund’s estate.

  It was a grand sight. The brook from which the estate derived its name babbled happily on one side of the drive, with a Palladian bridge coming into view after they’d rounded a bend in the road, while a Greek folly could be seen sitting serenely at the top of a hill once they’d gone around another. Sophie knew that Sir Edmund was considered a “catch” and so had assumed he was wealthy, but she was a little taken aback all the same. She began to wonder if she had imagined he’d displayed a preference for her company, and that any romance was all in her head. Could she be acting as she had when she was eighteen, when she’d been so sure of Mr. Maitland’s regard and thought him on the verge of a marriage proposal? Why would Sir Edmund Winslow of Newbrooke consider Miss Sophronia Lattimore of nowhere and nothing a worthy recipient of his hand? Such a thing defied explanation.

  She was a little relieved upon finally approaching the house. It was a lovely manor house, stately and elegant, and its honey-colored limestone gleamed in the late-morning light, but it looked to be no more than a hundred years old and was not at all the gargantuan Tudor or Elizabethan mansion she had been expecting. However, it was still a great deal more elegant than she was, and she tried to gather her tattered bits of self-esteem, telling herself she was as worthy of love and happiness as any person, that such things had nothing at all to do with family connections, wealth, or physical appearance. Yet just then her gaze chanced to fall upon Priscilla Beswick, who had not one russet-colored hair out of place and whose French carriage dress exuded elegance, and Sophie could not help thinking she should have at least purchased a new pair of gloves for this occasion.

  Before she had time to dwell any further on her defects, the door was opened and she was being helped down from the carriage. She and the ladies were directed up the front stairs into the vestibule and from there into the drawing room, where the gentlemen were waiting for them.

  Sir Edmund turned at their entrance, and Sophie was relieved to see he scanned all the ladies’ faces, even Priscilla Beswick’s, without pausing until his gaze fell upon her, at which time his expression transformed into a tender smile.

  “You have arrived at last! I am so happy to welcome you—welcome you all—to Newbrooke,” he said, bowing to the four ladies, but Sophie didn’t think she was deluding herself this time in believing that he was speaking most particularly to her.

  * * *

  After they had partaken of a cold collation in the dining room, Sir Edmund announced that his housekeeper would show the ladies the house while he took the gentlemen on a riding tour of the grounds. Mr. Beswick was quick to agree to this plan, but Mr. Hartwell hesitated, casting a quick glance at Cecilia.

  “We have been on horseback all morning, and I would like to see the interior of the house. I’m very interested in”—he waved his hand about vaguely, searching for the correct word—“home décor. You know, draperies, sofas, rugs, and all that. I’m thinking of redecorating soon myself.”

  “I think, Charles, that you should come as well,” Priscilla told her husband. “Birch House is desperately in need of refurbishing. It obviously could never be as grand as this, but in its current state it looks positively shabby.”

  “My dear, I had no idea you were at all interested in such matters. How positively wifely of you. I find myself very eager to join this tour,” Charles said, extending his arm to his wife.

  The housekeeper, seeing that the lord of the manor was to be present after all, begged that he give the tour in her stead, as his knowledge was bound to exceed hers.

  “Nonsense; I am sure the opposite is true. Mrs. Cooper is much more skilled at giving tours than I, and you would likely learn a good deal more from her than from me,” Sir Edmund told the others. “However, I will assume the role this once and trust that my audience will exercise a great deal of forbearance,” he concluded, as he could see his housekeeper was nervous at the thought of giving the tour in his company.

  Sophie was pleased at his kind treatment of this member of his staff and thought that his oversight of Newbrooke in general appeared to be a benevolent one. Of course, she realized she’d been there scarcely two hours and could not really know the true state of affairs, but there was an air of ease and comfort among the servants she’d seen thus far, and she’d visited grand estates where the opposite was true and the discontent of the staff could be sensed immediately, casting a dark shadow over any splendor of well-designed architecture or gilded furnishings.

  The tour began in the Blue Drawing Room, where they had all first met, but in the excitement of greetings, Sophie had failed to fully assimilate her surroundings. She was still having a difficult time taking it all in, especially the beautiful plasterwork that decorated the walls and the ceiling. She felt sure she was going to get a crick in her neck from looking upward, but it was such a work of beauty and there was so much to see, she could not bring herself to look away.

  Sophie was correct in her supposition that the present house was not centuries old, but that was only because, as Sir Edmund explained during the tour, his great-great-grandfather had razed the Tudor mansion that had once been there and commissioned Sir John Vanbrugh to build a new one in its place. The construction of the present house was completed almost a hundred years ago in 1720, but then Sir Edmund’s grandfather, not content with his grandfather’s efforts, had begun a renovation in the 1760s and had commissioned Robert Adam to redesign the interiors.

  “And do you, Sir Edmund, intend on continuing the pattern of every second generation?” Charles Beswick asked him.

  Sir Edmund looked surprised for a moment, as if he hadn’t recognized that a pattern had developed and that it was up to him whether it would be continued or broken. Finally, he smiled and shook his head. “I don’t think I could improve upon my grandfather’s efforts, and it would be a desecration to undo all of this,” he said, gesturing around him at the friezes, cornices, and works of art that were on display. Looking more closely at the furnishings that Sir Edmund had told them were largely designed by Chippendale, Sophie noticed that they, too, fit the overall neoclassical theme, and she agreed with Sir Edmund that he should not alter such a masterpiece. But she once again began thinking that her modest person had no place in such a vision of elegance and, feeling overwhelmed, followed the group into the next room in silence, even though Sir Edmund had looked at her questioningly, as if expecting her to comment.

  * * *

  The tour of Newbrooke’s interior finished at the library at the back of the house, which exited onto a terrace overlooking parterre gardens, so the group had quite naturally continued their explorations by stepping out the French doors and into the grounds. While still on the terrace, Sir Edmund pointed out various features that could be seen in the distance, including a “secret” walled garden, the dairy, and the orangery, but after that everyone broke off into pairs, wandering as they saw fit and no longer part of an “official” tour. Mrs. Foster, who had become fatigued by all the walking she’d done already, decided to wait for the younger members of the party inside and was conducted to a comfortable location by Mrs. Cooper.

  That left Cecilia and Mr. Hartwell, the Beswicks, and Sophie and Sir Edmund to their own devices. Priscilla, who had wondered aloud whether she should also wait indoors, was finally led along with her husband to examine the stable block, though she was heard to protest that the hem of her petticoat was liable to get dirtied in such an excursion. They were out of earshot befo
re Sophie could hear Charles’ reply to his wife’s concerns, but she doubted it was sympathetic.

  She sighed aloud at the very poor job she had made of this particular match, and Sir Edmund looked at her sympathetically, seemingly able to read her mind. “They do appear to be somewhat ill-suited,” he said quietly.

  “It is undoubtedly a Divine judgment upon me. I overreached my authority as a mere mortal and now I’m being punished for my vanity and conceit.”

  Sir Edmund smiled. “I doubt that. You do not appear to me to possess either of those qualities to an excessive degree.”

  Sophie, thinking back on her feelings of worthlessness when faced with Sir Edmund’s obvious eligibility, couldn’t deny that she was not really vain or conceited. That brought to mind the poem Mr. Maitland had given her and she was startled into a gurgle of laughter.

  “What is so amusing?” Sir Edmund asked, though he was tempted to laugh, too. It was such a pleasant, infectious, attractive sound, he thought to himself, and as he watched Sophie walking slowly through the gravel paths of the gardens, her profile framed here and there by blooms and leaves, not once did he think her out of place or ill-suited to her glorious surroundings. On the contrary, he reflected that she seemed as lovely in her unaffected way as the exquisitely wrought paintings by Gainsborough that graced Newbrooke’s walls and the delicately molded Sèvres and Chinese porcelain in its cabinets.

  She raised those marvelous gray eyes, now brimming with amusement, up to his, and his breath caught in his chest. “I am just laughing at a poem that Mr. Maitland gave me. I only wish I had it with me so that I could read it to you. ‘Advice to Sophronia,’ it is called,” Sophie said, but wished she could have bitten out her tongue as it was obvious as soon as she mentioned Mr. Maitland that the mood between her and Sir Edmund had changed dramatically. His gaze, which just a moment before had appeared frankly admiring as it played upon her features, had immediately grown distant and cold.

  “He wrote it for you? A love poem, no doubt,” he said, breaking the awkward silence, though his voice was strained and his attempt to sound lighthearted failed miserably.

  “Oh, no, not at all. I would not be laughing or discussing it with you if that were the case. That would be in the worst possible taste. I’m sorry I brought it up at all, as it is inconsiderate of me to ridicule his gift, which I have no doubt was kindly meant, but then I am fairly certain he did not read the poem himself, and he definitely should have. It was written by a lady poet, advising an elderly Sophronia whose beauty had faded past reclaiming to cultivate her inner qualities, as that was all that she had left to her at any rate. She had obviously been very vain and conceited, which is why your words put me in mind of the poem. At first I was quite offended that I had been compared to that Sophronia, but then it struck me as terribly humorous.”

  Sophie was relieved to see some of Sir Edmund’s stiffness fade at her explanation, but neither did he appear as if he found it funny in the least, and once again she regretted introducing the subject. She desperately tried to think of something to say that would restore their previous harmony. Really, it had been more than harmony; it had almost seemed like affection, even love, and she could kick herself for ruining the moment. However, before she could say anything, Sir Edmund spoke, his thoughts apparently still dwelling upon Mr. Maitland.

  “Please forgive me if you think this none of my affair, but I have noticed Mr. Maitland’s very obvious partiality for you, and I wondered that you did not accept him when you knew each other before. That is, I had heard you had known each other previously, when you were quite young. Was that the issue? You felt yourself too young to enter into a lasting bond?”

  “No, that was not the reason. I was no younger than most ladies are when they are married. I was eighteen when he—courted me,” Sophie said, hesitating over the word.

  “That seems quite young to me, but if that was not the reason . . .” Sir Edmund said, his voice trailing off as if he knew that this was an intrusive line of questioning but could not contain himself. However, Sophie knew it was more than idle curiosity that prompted his question, that if he was considering pursuing a relationship with her, this was something he deserved to know. Certainly if Sir Edmund were involved with a young woman to the extent she was involved with Mr. Maitland, she would desire an explanation herself.

  Still, she didn’t know how to explain without making herself look pathetic and unlovable and so did not comment for a moment while she gathered her thoughts, but continued walking until she saw a bench in an alcove up ahead.

  “May we sit there while we talk?” she asked, and he agreed, running his hand over the bench first to ensure there was nothing that could mark her skirts before inviting her to sit.

  But when they were both seated Sophie wondered if this was altogether a good idea. There were flowering vines growing over an arched trellis under which the bench was placed, and they had grown so thickly that the two of them were completely hidden from view. Sophie was reminded of the night of the musical concert, when Sir Edmund’s nearness had had such an overwhelming effect upon her, and she was experiencing some of the same symptoms at this moment. However, she made a concerted effort to gather her thoughts and finally began to speak, though she found her voice was a little uncertain and she had to clear her throat. “As you mentioned, I was quite young when Mr. Maitland courted me, but I would probably have accepted him had he offered,” Sophie said, stretching the truth a bit, as she most definitely would have accepted him. Still, a lady was entitled to some secrets. “He showed every indication of making me an offer, but then he proposed to a woman of fortune and married her instead.”

  “But he seems so enamored of you, I thought it was you who had turned him down,” Sir Edmund said, and it was obvious he was surprised.

  “I was given no opportunity to do so, as he never proposed to me,” Sophie said.

  “Do you intend to do so if he offers for you now that he’s free? Because it seems apparent that is his purpose.”

  Sophie sighed. “It has always been my desire to marry, Sir Edmund, and as you have mentioned in the past, finding a suitable match is not at all an easy matter, especially for a lady like myself who has no large dowry. What if Mr. Maitland is my last opportunity of marrying and having a family?”

  “But that is complete nonsense! You are so lovely, Miss Lattimore—Sophie,” he said, drawing out her name and speaking it in such a caressing tone that Sophie shivered. “You could surely have any man you desired. And Frederick Maitland, bah!” he said, his tone changing to one of contempt. “I do not deny he has a great deal of superficial charm, but he is not worthy of even a glance from you. Sophie,” he said again, his voice urgent now as he reached out and grasped her by the shoulders. “You cannot marry him; promise me you will not.”

  They were now facing each other in a near-embrace, only inches apart, and they both seemed confused at how they had come to be in such a position. Sophie had almost forgotten what it was that they were discussing, other than that he was asking for a promise from her.

  “I promise,” she said, though she wasn’t entirely sure what she was agreeing to. Sir Edmund also appeared to have lost track of the conversation. He made no response as his eyes darted over her face, finally coming to rest on her lips, while one of his hands drifted up from her shoulder to caress the bare skin at the back of her neck.

  Sophie shivered again, wondering how she could be chilled in the middle of summer, and then she ceased to think at all as his lips came down upon hers.

  13

  Cecilia and Mr. Hartwell were finding the grounds of Newbrooke delightful as well. As they walked further from the house, Cecilia reflected on the fact that, as many months as Mr. Hartwell had been courting her, they had never once been alone together. Of course, they were not really alone now, as if she looked back she could see Sophie and Sir Edmund walking behind them. She glanced over her shoulder and t
o her surprise could not see the other couple at all. And then Mr. Hartwell suggested they enter the secret garden that Sir Edmund had pointed out to them.

  Cecilia wondered how she should respond—surely the proper thing would be for her to demand to be returned to her chaperone—but when she looked at Mr. Hartwell, she realized there was not a person on earth whom she trusted more than him. Her heart softened at the sight of his dear face, a familiar expression of adoration on it as he looked at her. So she agreed to his suggestion, and he opened the heavy wooden door for her to enter, then shut it behind them.

  They walked the small garden in silence, and Cecilia began to wonder why it was he’d wanted to be alone with her if he had nothing to say. But then he finally began speaking. “Miss Foster, I was greatly distressed when your cousin told me how your mother was pressuring you to accept Lord Courtney’s suit.”

  “Sophie told you what?” Cecilia asked, surprised, and then realized she’d destroyed the opportunity her cousin had afforded her to appear the damsel in distress. Though after a moment’s reflection she realized she wanted Mr. Hartwell to know the truth, to see if he could still admire her once he became aware of how very flawed she was. So she admitted, “It wasn’t just my mother’s idea. She put no undue pressure on me. I thought at first I would enjoy becoming a viscountess, with all the privileges that entails. But I began to realize that those things matter not at all when weighed against the bigger question of whether or not you can find happiness with a certain person.”