But instead of feeling that this was the culmination of her life’s dreams, a vindication for eighteen-year-old Sophie, who had been publicly humiliated and made to feel unwanted, unattractive, and unimportant, she instead felt . . . nothing.
“What answer will you give him?” Cecilia asked.
“I don’t know,” Sophie replied.
15
Sophie’s strange ambivalence lasted through the night and into the next day. She had breakfasted, dressed, and was awaiting Mr. Maitland’s call in the drawing room and still had no idea what reply to make to his offer. She discounted the promise she’d made to Sir Edmund that she wouldn’t marry Mr. Maitland; he had no right to demand promises of her when he apparently felt no obligation to make them to her. Really, it should be easier now that Sir Edmund had taken himself out of the running for her hand. She only had two options: marriage to Mr. Maitland, whom she had loved once and still found charming and extremely attractive, or lonely spinsterhood.
Maybe I should reread “Advice to Sophronia” for guidance, Sophie thought to herself, and this at least made her smile.
Cecilia and Mrs. Foster had not pleaded for or against Mr. Maitland. After Sophie told Cecilia that she did not know what answer she would give him, Mrs. Foster had said: “You’ve proven yourself to be a good judge of character, Sophie, much better than either Cecilia or I. So I have no doubt that whatever decision you make will be the right one.”
Sophie was left feeling gratified by the unusual praise from her aunt, while wishing at the same time she had told Sophie exactly what she should do.
Now Sophie was restlessly pacing back and forth, finally going over to stand in front of the portrait of the lady in the ruff, tempted to ask her for advice. Before she could do so, Mr. Maitland was finally announced.
She turned to greet him, and was struck again by how very good-looking he was. He was wearing a gray coat, a color he had to know emphasized the incredible blue of his eyes, and two waistcoats, a pink one and a patterned silk, and Sophie realized that he had probably taken even more pains with his appearance than she had. It was unbelievable to her that such a handsome man considered her a desirable wife, but as she had no fortune and he was no longer in need of one, he could only be choosing her because he wanted to. She started comparing him mentally to Sir Edmund, telling herself Mr. Maitland was the more handsome—and he was—before realizing it did not matter anyway; she was no longer deciding between the two men and must stop thinking of Sir Edmund and instead think only of the man standing before her. And certainly, if a woman had Frederick Maitland, she was in need of no other man.
So she offered him her hand with a smile as composed as she could make it, especially when he raised her hand to his lips, a liberty he had seldom taken before now.
“Sophie,” he said, still holding her hand in his and reaching out to grasp the other. “I’ve dreamt so long of this day, that I can scarcely believe this is really happening.”
Sophie felt the first stirring of emotion pierce the numbness that had overtaken her, but it was not the emotion she had expected to feel. Instead of wonder, happiness, affection, or even passion, she felt . . . anger.
How dare he! He’d dreamt for so long! she thought, wrenching her hands from his.
“And when did you dream of it? Before or after your marriage to another woman?” she heard herself asking, and it was as if her soul had left her body and taken a seat in the corner of the room and she was watching herself say these bitter things but unable to do anything to stop them from coming out of her mouth.
Maitland winced. “Sophie, what can I say so that you will forgive me? I was wrong, I admit it. My marriage was not a happy one. Is that what you want to hear? But she was so persistent in her admiration for me, and you were so young; I was never completely sure of your feelings—”
“I don’t believe you. Say, rather, the truth: she had money and I had none.”
“That was part of it, undoubtedly,” Maitland agreed, his tone calm and affectionate, which somehow made Sophie feel as if she was being cast as the unreasonable party in this affair. “Who of us does not, cannot, consider such things? Tell me, Sophie, if I came to you now and had nothing, would you even entertain my suit? Of course not! You would not be able to, even if you wished to.”
“If I’d had money of my own, as you did, and we truly loved each other, I would have been happy to share what I had with you.”
Maitland smiled tenderly at her. “This is why I love you, Sophie. You’re so pure at heart, so untainted by the worldly considerations that influence the rest of us.”
Sophie thought this was a somewhat unromantic reason; it made her feel rather like a pious nun. She wasn’t so unworldly that she wouldn’t rather hear praise of her eyes or lips. Sir Edmund had told her that she was lovely, at least. Maitland must have sensed her disappointment; he was so attuned to his audience, always reading them and adjusting himself to fit their response. He raised his hand to her mouth and traced her lips with one finger, and Sophie was disconcerted to feel something other than anger, something more akin to passion.
“But I’m not pure at heart like you, Sophie. It’s not just your inner qualities that I find so appealing,” he said huskily, before bending and kissing her.
Sophie found it quite astonishing that she had gone eight-and-twenty years without being kissed by even one gentleman and had now been kissed by two different ones in the span of as many days. It was odd, too, that she’d thoroughly enjoyed both kisses, though when Mr. Maitland kissed her she had a pang of heart, a feeling that she was betraying Sir Edmund, which was absolutely absurd, as he was nothing to her. So she dismissed that feeling and concentrated on the other feelings Mr. Maitland was stirring inside of her, which were tumultuous indeed.
He drew back after a moment, smiling triumphantly. “I shall put a notice in the papers immediately,” he said, and Sophie realized he’d assumed her acceptance of his embrace meant she’d also accepted his proposal. “And, Sophie, love, don’t you think you could finally call me Frederick?”
“Wait! Mr. Maitland—Frederick,” she amended, as it did seem hypocritical to continue mistering a man who had just kissed her, “I have not yet accepted your proposal.”
“Oh, Lord, I didn’t actually ask the question, did I? I do beg your pardon, Sophie, but it’s your fault, you know, for being so distracting. Should I go down on one knee?” he asked, and began looking down at the floor as if preparing to do so.
“No, that’s not why—that is, I am aware of your purpose in calling this morning, it is just that I”—and once again she had that out-of-body feeling, the sensation that someone else was saying the words that were inexplicably coming from her mouth—“I cannot accept your proposal.”
She was as shocked to hear herself say those words as Frederick Maitland was. “You cannot accept my proposal,” he repeated.
“At least, not right away. I think I need time,” she said, feeling the complete idiot, as they both were aware she’d had more than enough time; and that if he’d asked this question ten years ago there would have been no doubt what her answer would have been.
But he was too perceptive not to realize what was really at issue. “It’s Sir Edmund, is it not? You fancy him; I’ve seen it on your face. But Sophie, if you believe I toyed with your affections and are holding it against me, you must be aware that he did far worse. Surely he told you?”
Sophie wanted to put her hands over her ears, so sure was she that she did not want to hear what he was about to tell her. However, she was eight-and-twenty, not eight. “Told me what?” she asked.
“It’s not a pretty tale, and normally I would not sully your ears with it. Certainly it never became widely known in society, even though the gentlemen who were at Cambridge together were aware of it.”
“You were at Cambridge?” Sophie asked, as this was the first she’d heard of it, and
she was certain he would have managed to mention it before now.
“No, not I. But I was at Eton with a fellow who later went on to Cambridge, and he knew Sir Edmund. It was from him I had the story, and he would not have lied about such a matter.”
Sophie was skeptical, but she couldn’t help remembering that just yesterday Sir Edmund had said he had something he wanted to explain to her, something “similar to what she’d confided in him.” So she refrained from comment, and Maitland continued his explanation.
“There was a young lady who was accepted in Cambridge society though she came from an undistinguished, middle-class family. Still, she was lively and pretty and popular. Sir Edmund began paying her obvious attentions, dancing with her at local assemblies and taking her for drives. But apparently he had no intention of marrying her, something that became very obvious when it became necessary for her to marry and he would not do the proper thing.”
“Necessary for her to marry? You mean . . .” Sophie was unsure how to finish the sentence.
“She became pregnant with Sir Edmund’s child,” Mr. Maitland said bluntly.
“You cannot know that for certain,” Sophie protested.
“It is what she asserted, and she would hardly have said such a thing, destroying her own reputation, if it were not true,” Mr. Maitland said reasonably. “And his behavior also established his guilt. He paid his steward at Newbrooke to marry her. The young woman reportedly gave birth to a healthy baby boy just a few months after their marriage.”
“Poor girl,” Sophie said.
“It is you I feel sorry for, Sophie, not this girl I’ve never met. You, the woman I love, who has allowed herself to be manipulated by Sir Edmund.”
“I have not been manipulated by him,” Sophie protested, but it was said to defend herself, not Sir Edmund.
“Haven’t you? Wouldn’t you be accepting my proposal right now, if it were not for him?”
Sophie didn’t respond; she didn’t feel capable of a response. It was all too much to process, and she wished Mr. Maitland would just go away so she could do so.
With his unique gift for perception, Mr. Maitland easily discerned Sophie’s feelings. “But I will not persist when you’re obviously not in a mood to hear my addresses,” he said. “I will give you time, Sophie, since that is what you have asked for, and when I return I trust that I will have the answer I most desire. Because I do love you, my dear, despite my very foolish behavior ten years ago.”
And Sophie, though she was in a state of confusion and preoccupied with what she’d just learned about Sir Edmund, could not hear such words without being stirred. However, when he bent to kiss her again she quickly stepped back, offering him her hand instead.
“I’ll wait, Sophie, but please don’t make me wait too long. I think you and I have waited long enough,” he said, before pressing a fervent kiss on the hand she’d offered him. And then he was gone.
* * *
Cecilia came into the room almost as soon as the door had closed behind Maitland.
“Well?” she asked Sophie. “Am I to congratulate you?”
“For being an idiot? I’m not sure congratulations are in order,” Sophie said.
“I don’t understand. Are you an idiot for accepting him or for refusing him?”
“For doing neither,” Sophie said, shaking her head at her own stupidity. “I asked for more time.”
Cecilia dropped onto the sofa beside Sophie. “You are almost as bad as I am,” Cecilia told her cousin.
“Don’t remind me. Now I can no longer look down upon you with disdain,” Sophie said, half joking.
“Is that what you used to do?” Cecilia asked.
Sophie nodded. “We might be cousins, but I am firmly on Mr. Hartwell’s side in this matter.”
Cecilia sighed. “So am I.”
* * *
Mrs. Foster had joined the two girls in the drawing room when they heard a second visitor arrive and their manservant came to ask if they were at home to Mr. Hartwell.
Mrs. Foster looked quickly at Cecilia, who nodded.
“Yes, Jonas, you can admit Mr. Hartwell,” Mrs. Foster told him, as her daughter rushed to check her appearance in a mirror hanging on the wall.
Cecilia had just rejoined Sophie on the sofa when Mr. Hartwell entered, looking unusually grave.
“Mr. Hartwell, how good of you to call. Please take a seat,” Mrs. Foster told him with a smile.
“Thank you, Mrs. Foster, but I wondered if I could beg the indulgence of a word in private with Miss Foster. It should not take long,” he said.
This was very irregular behavior, but the events of the past weeks had shaken Mrs. Foster, and she was determined to do nothing to further jeopardize the happiness of her daughter, or even her niece. So she and Sophie quietly got up and left the room.
“I am come to take my leave of you,” Mr. Hartwell announced, to Cecilia’s great surprise, as she had half expected him to again ask her permission to approach her mother and formalize their relationship, and had wondered, with a delicious thrill, what form his persuasions would take. But a less amorous-looking gentleman she had never seen, as he stood, stern and unsmiling, before her.
“Take your leave?” Cecilia repeated. “Where are you going?”
“To my estate in Derbyshire,” he said, to her even greater surprise, as she’d expected him to announce his return to London, where she at least had hopes of seeing him again once they, too, returned there from Bath.
“Your estate in Derbyshire,” she said faintly, before realizing she was doing no more than parroting his words and must sound the greatest simpleton alive. “Will you be returning to London after you’ve completed your business there?”
“No, I am removing there indefinitely. I have no plans to return to London. Or Bath,” he added.
“Then, I am never to see you again?” Cecilia whispered.
“Perhaps someday,” he said. “When it no longer matters.”
There was a moment of silence, and then he bowed to her before turning to leave the room.
“Wait!” Cecilia called. He turned back. “Will you write to me?” she asked.
“I do not think that would be appropriate, as we are not related or affianced.”
Cecilia walked over to where he stood by the door. “You may kiss me goodbye, if you’d like,” she said, tilting her face up toward his and closing her eyes. After a moment, when nothing happened, she opened them. He was staring at her, but it did not seem as if his eyes held the adoration that she was so accustomed to seeing.
“Goodbye, Cecilia,” he said, and left the room.
* * *
After leaving Cecilia with Mr. Hartwell, Sophie and Mrs. Foster went to the dining room, where they sat together in silence. Sophie wished she’d at least thought to bring her sewing along with her; she had left it on the sofa next to Cecilia. Before she could excuse herself to go to her room and find something else to occupy her, Mrs. Foster turned to Sophie and said, “I’m very pleased to have this opportunity to speak with you alone, Sophie. There is something I’ve been wanting to say to you.”
Mrs. Foster was very obviously ill at ease, and Sophie assumed this was bad news indeed and steeled herself for her aunt’s confession.
“I wanted to apologize for the way I treated you after you came to London,” Mrs. Foster said. “Cecilia related to me what you told her of your history with Mr. Maitland, of your ostracism from society after his marriage to another, and how you’d failed to find a real home after coming to live with us. I most humbly and sincerely beg your pardon, Sophie. I realize now how you must have felt, completely alone in the world and being treated as an unwelcome encumbrance by the only family you had left. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Of course I can forgive you, Aunt. I imagine I was an unwelcome encumbrance,” Sophie said, with a slight sm
ile. “Another young lady to feed and shelter, with no prospect of ever being rid of her.”
“No, Sophie! You mustn’t think that! That is the other thing I wished to say. I wanted to assure you that you are a most welcome part of this family. Whatever Cecilia decides, whether she marries or not, I have decided that I’ve enjoyed this time in Bath, and indeed there are other places that I quite long to visit. I would hate to do so alone. Even if we were not to travel together but merely return to London, I’ve come to value your companionship and would miss you exceedingly if you were to leave us. What I’m attempting to say, Sophie, is that I pray you do not marry Mr. Maitland merely to acquire a home, because you have one with me for as long as you may want it. Indeed, if I had my way in the matter, I’d counsel you to reject Mr. Maitland immediately so we could depart on a tour of the Lake District,” Mrs. Foster said, and Sophie was astounded that it was said in a droll, humorous tone, as if she were attempting a jest. Aunt Foster, joking! Sophie had never thought she’d see the day.
So Sophie wasn’t sure why she was more inclined toward tears than laughter. She surreptitiously wiped at her eyes, and her aunt cleared her throat and looked away, seemingly overcome as well. Sophie’s impulse was to hug her aunt, but looking at her as she sat ramrod straight, her face turned away in embarrassment, Sophie realized that it was a little early for affectionate gestures. Maybe after another six years.
Before any more could be said between them, Cecilia ran into the room.
“He is leaving! I am never to see him again,” she announced, and burst into tears.
16
Sophie felt it impossible that any matchmaker had ever had a more ignominious fall than she had. Not only had she failed to make a match for her own cousin, but she herself, who had recently been courted by two highly eligible gentlemen, was destined to remain a spinster.
Miss Lattimore's Letter Page 17
