For she had decided to reject Frederick Maitland’s offer.
She had been sorely tempted to give him an answer in the affirmative, entirely so she could experience what theologians would most likely term “the desires of the flesh.” There was no denying his kiss had aroused a passionate response in her, and hadn’t Saint Paul said: “it is better to marry than to burn”? But she hadn’t been named Sophronia for nothing, and she had the wisdom to realize that marriage with a man whom she did not, could not trust; a man who had already caused her a great deal of heartache and had a disconcerting tendency to flirt with other women; was not destined to provide her with any lasting happiness.
The interview was thankfully very brief. It took place the day following Mr. Maitland’s proposal, after Sophie had sent him a note requesting that he call. Her aunt Foster was present the entire time, even when Mr. Maitland asked if he and Sophie could be alone together.
“I do not think that is necessary, Mr. Maitland,” Sophie replied. “You did me the great honor of making me an offer of marriage that unfortunately I cannot accept. I apologize for any disappointment my refusal may cause you.”
“You still haven’t given up on trying to catch the richer marital prize, have you, Sophie? Just don’t expect me to renew my offer when Sir Edmund fails to come up to scratch,” Mr. Maitland said, and Sophie was conscious of a huge feeling of relief that he had reacted in this manner, which had the effect of making her surer than ever that her decision was the right one.
“Mr. Maitland! That is not a very gentlemanly remark,” Mrs. Foster protested.
“It is no matter, Aunt,” Sophie said. “It is not to be wondered that Mr. Maitland thinks I would be most concerned with marrying for money, when it is what he did himself.”
But Mr. Maitland was not one to waste his energy on a hopeless endeavor, and he recognized that Sophie was not going to change her mind. Regaining his usual composure, he made her a very elegant bow. “Goodbye, Sophie, my love. You are making a terrible mistake, you know. But I made a much bigger one, ten years ago, so I suppose I have only myself to blame.” He flashed his charming smile at her, and Sophie felt a sharp twinge of regret at what she was rejecting but managed a cool nod in response, and he soon left the room.
Mrs. Foster looked over at her, a little stunned by what she’d just witnessed. “I must say, Sophie, that I’m not sure I would have had the fortitude to do what you just did. Mr. Maitland is such an attractive gentleman! But sadly unreliable. There is no doubt you made the prudent choice,” her aunt commended her.
Sophie sighed. “Sometimes I wish my mother had named me ‘Clara.’ Or ‘Jane.’ ”
“What?” her aunt asked, unable to follow this conversational diversion.
“It’s nothing, Aunt,” said Sophie, turning to her with a determined smile. “I think you had a brilliant idea earlier. Let’s plan a tour of the Lake District.”
* * *
Before they could plan a trip anywhere, even to Sydney Gardens (as Sophie and Mrs. Foster were determined to get Cecilia out of the house for some fresh air), they had another visitor. But instead of proceeding directly into the drawing room, he could be heard conversing with Jonas in the vestibule.
“That sounds like Sir Edmund,” Sophie whispered to her aunt and, though she knew it was foolish, found herself desperately hoping that her suspicion was correct and that it wasn’t just the fishmonger or some such person.
“Will you see him?” Mrs. Foster asked, but before Sophie could respond it proved to be a moot point anyway, as Jonas appeared at the door to the drawing room holding a letter.
“Miss Lattimore, Sir Edmund asked if I would pass on this correspondence to you,” Jonas said, most formally and properly, though he was undoubtedly aware that it was not proper to correspond with a man to whom one was not related or engaged, and that another one of Miss Lattimore’s suitors had just left the drawing room only a short while earlier. Sophie was conscious that she was supplying quite a bit of talk for the servants, and that they probably wondered what had happened to the quiet mouse they had grown accustomed to in London.
But Sophie merely replied, “Thank you, Jonas,” and held out her hand for the letter. He handed it to her somewhat reluctantly, darting a glance at Mrs. Foster as he did so, his eyebrows raised, as if questioning whether she was about to put a stop to such scandalous goings-on.
“That will be all, Jonas,” Mrs. Foster barked at him, and Sophie, though she winced at her aunt’s tone, could not help feeling grateful for her intervention when Jonas quickly left the room.
“Such insolence!” her aunt remarked. And then, as Sophie still sat with the letter in her hand, making no move to open it, she asked, “Would you like me to leave you to read your letter in solitude?”
Sophie, who had wondered if her aunt would even allow her to read the letter or would take it from her, felt a sudden rush of gratitude and affection for her. It was entirely due to Mrs. Foster that Sophie had the luxury of deciding if she would marry and hadn’t been forced to accept Mr. Maitland in the face of her many misgivings. And now she was being given similar freedom to decide what action to take toward Sir Edmund.
“Thank you, Aunt, but I’ll take it up to my own chamber,” she said, and was suddenly consumed with curiosity as to what its contents might be. So after her aunt nodded in dismissal, Sophie fairly flew up the stairs, and was soon reading Sir Edmund’s words to her.
The letter had yesterday’s date and was written at Newbrooke and began without any salutation:
Now you have not only that impertinence I pressed upon you in the garden but my impertinence in writing this letter to forgive, but I knew no other way to correct the misapprehension I created with my unthinking words, and hoped if I could explain the reason behind my lack of ease with you, and indeed, with all the members of your sex, you could find it in your heart to feel sympathy for me rather than condemnation.
When I was at university I was not the man I am today. I was carefree and perhaps a little careless, I had no fears about raising unfounded expectations in a young woman’s mind, and I thought nothing of dancing with and paying court to any lady who took my fancy. Of course, it was all very innocent, or so I thought, until I danced a few too many times or paid a few too many compliments to a young woman who felt she could use my carelessness to her advantage.
She spread the rumor that I had led her to expect an offer of marriage, and her father showed up at my lodgings demanding that I marry his daughter or he would sue me for breach of promise. When I protested that I had never promised her any such thing, he informed me that she was in a delicate condition and that she had claimed the child was mine. I was astounded and told him I was entirely innocent of such charges, that such a thing was impossible, that I had never touched her except to dance with her. I think my honest shock and bewilderment made it obvious to him, at least, that what she said was not true.
When he approached her and told her he knew she had lied, she finally confessed to him that the man who had seduced her had left Cambridge when she’d told him of her condition. By this time, everyone was pressuring me to “do the proper thing” and marry the girl. What was I to do? I couldn’t very well go around telling them the truth and thereby destroy her reputation even further. Besides, she would not tell her father who it was who had seduced and abandoned her, probably reasoning that either her father or I would force him to meet us. When she continued to refuse to tell her father who her lover was, he threw her out of the house, a pregnant young woman with nowhere to go. It was unconscionable of him. I heard of it and found her and promised to help. The only solution to her problem that she was interested in was marriage, and I wasn’t willing to pay that price. Perhaps you feel I should have done so, but please remember that I was only nineteen! I did not love this girl, and while I had perhaps been a trifle reckless in my behavior, I was not the one responsible for her predicament
.
Our steward at Newbrooke at that time was a very ambitious young man, determined to make his fortune, and he had been a natural child himself. I asked him if he’d be willing to marry the young lady if I were to give her a generous dowry. He agreed to it so long as they were able to meet beforehand, to see if they’d suit. They seemed to take to each other immediately and were married as soon as the banns were read. But I had little idea, when I performed such a disinterested act, that this would confirm in people’s minds that I was indeed the man who had seduced and abandoned her. I was fortunate that the girl wasn’t genteel enough for it to become widely discussed in polite circles, and so I wasn’t thrown out of society outright, but it made me extremely hesitant to court any young lady.
Such has been my situation for the past eleven years. I had been forcibly brought to realize that, regardless of any personal attractions, my estate and my wealth made me a desirable catch, and that it behooved me to protect myself from a similar thing happening a second time. But I did desire to marry, most especially when I met you.
Now that you know the reasons for my fears, perhaps you will understand that, while I admired you very much and hoped to court you, I knew not how to do so. I noticed you before we were even introduced, and of course I thought you were lovely—what man would not?—but every time I saw you, even after I’d known you for weeks, I felt this catch in my chest, as if you were literally reaching inside me and touching my heart.
However, I counseled myself to be cautious, and reasoned that if I pretended an interest in having you find me a match, we could continue to meet and I could get to know you better without raising any expectations on your part. Though I think it probably became plain to you very quickly, when I had eyes for no other woman, that it was a ploy and nothing more.
I had thought when I invited you to Newbrooke that if everything went well, I would ask your aunt to allow me to pay my addresses to you. However, you are aware of what happened instead. I pray that you will believe I was not toying with your affections or accusing you of playing the coquette, but I was panicked at the situation proceeding faster than I could control (and at my failure to control myself) and did not know how to react.
I desire nothing more than to prove to you that my intentions toward you are honorable and that nothing in the world would give me greater joy than winning you as my wife. I am no more skilled at explaining my feelings on paper than I am in person, but I have hopefully written enough for you to believe me . . .
Yours ever,
Edmund
Sophie read through the entire letter so quickly that she was convinced she had not read it correctly, and so immediately began reading it a second time as soon as she’d finished it. But she grew impatient reading about Sir Edmund’s youthful affair and skipped again to the part where he described his feelings for her, hardly able to believe that he felt that way and had written it down in black and white where it could never be denied.
She sat in her room for some time, marveling over the fact that a scant few hours ago she had turned down Mr. Maitland’s offer and had wondered if she was making a dreadful mistake. How quickly everything had changed, now that she knew the man she truly loved returned her affections. Finally, however, she thought about how curious her aunt Foster must be and went downstairs, finding both her and Cecilia eating dinner in the dining room.
Cecilia was pale but composed, even smiling a little when Sophie entered the room. “It is good you came down, as we would have finished it all without you,” she said. Then she looked more closely at her cousin. “Sophie, what is it? What happened?”
“Sir Edmund—he wrote—he does have a regard for me—he wants to marry me,” Sophie said disjointedly, and her aunt and cousin got up from the table and soon the three ladies were hugging one another, laughing and crying, to the great consternation of the servants, who heard the uproar but were not sure if it portended something good or bad, particularly since both young ladies had been looking utterly miserable the past few days. But when Mrs. Foster called Jonas in to ask that he open a bottle of champagne it was deduced it was definitely good news, and most likely an engagement. However, the servants were not sure if it was Cecilia’s or Sophie’s betrothal that was being celebrated and which of the four gentlemen who had been courting their young ladies was the lucky man. Finally Jonas, by virtue of his knowledge of “the letter,” suggested that it was most likely Sir Edmund who had proposed, and when Betsy put her ear to the dining room door she heard his name mentioned enough that she supported Jonas’ theory. And based on the probability of one of their young ladies’ marriage to a wealthy baronet the servants opened their own bottle of wine in the kitchen, and were soon making far more noise than that which was emanating from the dining room.
* * *
Mrs. Foster was quite perturbed when she did not receive her chocolate the next morning, and Cecilia and Sophie, too, though not as annoyed as she, did wonder where the servants might be and if it was necessary to go down to the kitchen themselves to get a cup of tea. They had finally breakfasted and Sophie, who expected Sir Edmund would call that morning to find out what her reaction had been to his letter, had just put on her best morning gown and had her hair done by a very pale Betsy when she did hear a caller arrive. But upon entering the drawing room she was surprised to find Charles Beswick waiting, and not Sir Edmund.
He had come earlier than was polite, and Sophie’s aunt and cousin weren’t dressed yet, but Charles had apparently come to see Sophie anyway, and rushed into speech before she could even ask him to sit down.
“I am sorry to call so early, Miss Lattimore, but I was hoping Priscilla might be with you, though I can see that I’m mistaken,” he finished, looking around him in despair. “But perhaps you know where she might be?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Beswick, but I have not seen Priscilla since the evening before last, at the assembly rooms,” Sophie replied. “She is not at home?”
“She left early this morning,” Charles replied. “We quarreled again last night and she is hardly ever up before noon. I can’t help thinking she . . . has run off,” he said, his voice breaking a little in his distress.
Sophie suddenly remembered that the last time she had seen Priscilla she had mentioned that she might do something “desperate,” and so could not immediately assure Charles that his supposition was incorrect. Also, Sophie realized that her rejection of Mr. Maitland’s proposal might mean that he, too, felt inclined toward desperate action.
“Oh, no!” Sophie said. “She left no note, no clue as to where she was going?”
Before Charles could answer, there was the sound of another person arriving, and Sophie and Charles looked hopefully toward the door of the drawing room.
“Sir Edmund Winslow,” Jonas announced, though his voice was very soft and weak and had tapered off by the end so that it was barely audible. But Sophie had no time to worry about the servants’ strange behavior that morning.
Sir Edmund entered the room quickly, a worried expression on his face that turned to one of relief when he saw Sophie. “Thank God!” he said. “I thought you had run off with Maitland.”
“What?” Sophie asked, distracted from her shyness at seeing him again by his assumption that she and Maitland had run off together. Why would he think that, unless—
“Did you see Maitland this morning, Sir Edmund?” Charles Beswick asked urgently.
Sir Edmund looked around, as he had not even noticed Charles Beswick, who had walked over to the window when Sir Edmund was announced.
“Yes, which is why I was concerned. I drove here this morning from Newbrooke and passed a coaching inn where I saw Maitland helping a woman into a carriage. She was veiled, so I couldn’t see who it was, and she didn’t look like Soph—er, Miss Lattimore, but I couldn’t think whom Maitland would be escorting out of town and very foolishly began to worry it was Miss Lattimore.”
He looked again at Sophie. “I beg your pardon for calling so early—”
Charles Beswick interrupted his apologies to announce very matter-of-factly, “It must be Priscilla. She has run off with Maitland.”
Sophie had come to the same conclusion herself, little though she wanted to believe it of Priscilla. “We must go after her,” she said.
Sir Edmund appeared astounded that he had observed an elopement after all, but Charles, who had suspected it from the start, had gotten over his shock and was now bitterly angry. “She has made her choice very clear,” he said. “I will not humiliate myself further by chasing after her.”
“But, Mr. Beswick, I am sure she does not love Frederick Maitland, she loves you! She is just young and very foolish. And if she succeeds in running away with him she will be totally ruined! If you love her—”
“If I love her then I am even more foolish than she is, because she’s given me no reason to! Please excuse me, Miss Lattimore, Sir Edmund. I have had my fill of Bath. I will be returning to Devon,” Charles said, leaving the room before Sophie could stop him.
Edmund and Sophie were left facing each other. “Sir Edmund, you said you drove to town . . .”
“Yes, I have my curricle. Do you want me to go after them?”
“No!” Sophie said, picturing Edmund fighting a duel with Frederick Maitland over Priscilla Beswick. “Not you. I want us to go after them. As soon as I change into a carriage dress. That way Priscilla can return with us. That is, if you think we can catch them?”
“Of course we can. He cannot make good time in that ponderous traveling carriage with the team of sorry-looking nags I saw pulling it. I am sure he is headed to London. We’ll overtake them in no more than an hour or two.”
Sophie, who was already sure she was in love with Sir Edmund, felt it well up inside her to such an extent at this evidence of his goodness that she couldn’t stop herself from running over to him and standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” she said. Before she could step back he caught her more firmly to him, pressing a longer and more passionate kiss upon her lips.
Miss Lattimore's Letter Page 18
