Miss Lattimore's Letter

by Suzanne Allain

  He drew away slightly to look at her, an expression of adoration on his face, and Sophie thought she might actually burst from happiness. “Sophie, I would chase down a dozen eloping lovers for you.”

  “It is my sincerest hope that you will not need to, as I am most definitely retiring from my matchmaking career.”

  “As long as you make me a match, with yourself, before you do so,” Edmund said. “I assume you read my letter?”

  “Yes, and I’m very sorry for what you suffered. We were both greatly affected by the way we were treated in our youth.”

  “And . . . you will marry me?” he asked, with a resumption of his previous shyness.

  “I will,” Sophie said, feeling shy herself. But then Edmund lifted her off her feet and swung her around and she began laughing in surprise. As he lowered her to her feet again, he held her so tightly against his chest that she did not feel as if she could breathe, but perhaps that was because she was so very light-headed already. She could feel his heart beating as rapidly as hers and his breathing sounded just as shallow, but she had no desire for him to loosen his hold; she felt as if they could never be close enough. Finally, however, Sophie very reluctantly made herself break away, conscious that every second took Priscilla further away from them. “We should go,” she said.

  “Yes, we can talk along the way,” Sir Edmund said. “You go change. I will wait for you outside.”

  * * *

  Sophie explained to her aunt that she was going for a drive with Sir Edmund and that they might also stop at Molland’s, so not to expect her back for a few hours. Mrs. Foster, who was in the midst of a domestic crisis, as a strange sickness with symptoms of bloodshot eyes, queasy stomach, and headache had apparently struck all in her employ, merely waved her off with a wish that she enjoy her drive.

  So Sir Edmund and Sophie were free to ride off together, and if Sophie had not been worried about poor Priscilla’s fate, she would have found the drive absolutely thrilling, as Sir Edmund was an expert at handling the ribbons and drove like the wind, though the hills surrounding Bath didn’t always make it possible for him to go as fast as he would have liked. Still, this was a far more exciting ride than the only other one they’d had together, that excursion to Hyde Park so early in their acquaintance. This time Sophie could sit as close to him on the seat as she desired (and was encouraged to do so). The pace he set was not at all conducive to conversation, but they were able to exchange smiles and glances from time to time, and those looks contained a thousand things that mere words could not express anyway.

  Sophie felt that there was a new openness and ease in his manner and wondered if this was what he had been like at nineteen, before that treacherous experience had made him unnaturally reserved and overly cautious. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that Sophie returned his regard that accounted for it. Whatever it was, Sophie was delighted that any restraint that had existed between them was now gone.

  They had driven for about an hour when they approached the village of Corsham and Sir Edmund was obliged to slow his horses. “We could possibly catch up to them here at the posting inn. He’ll need to change his team,” he told her, and sure enough, when the Hare and Hounds came into sight, he triumphantly identified the post chaise pulled up there as the one he’d seen at the other inn earlier that morning.

  A boy ran to the horses’ heads as soon as Sir Edmund drove into the innyard, but Sophie stopped Sir Edmund with a hand on his sleeve when he was about to jump down from the curricle. “Please,” she said, “let me speak to Priscilla alone. Perhaps she’s had second thoughts and will be very willing to come back with us. And if she isn’t,” Sophie said, finishing her remark with a shrug, as it was clear that they could not force her and, as her husband was not there to do so, neither could they call Mr. Maitland to account.

  Sir Edmund nodded his understanding but came around anyway to help Sophie down from the curricle.

  Sophie walked over to the post chaise, hoping that Priscilla was inside and she would not have to go into the inn to search for her, while at the same time dreading the upcoming confrontation. She was relieved to find that there was a woman inside the carriage, but when she came face-to-face with her she was very surprised to see that it was not Priscilla Beswick.

  17

  Charles Beswick returned to his lodgings and began throwing his things into a saddle bag, telling his manservant to pack up whatever was left in the house and to follow him to Devon.

  “Except do not bring any of Mrs. Beswick’s belongings. I do not want them. You can burn them, for all I care,” he said, as he looked around him for anything he might have missed. As he was doing so he heard a door slam, followed by her voice.

  “Charles? Where are you? I have a surprise for you,” she called, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening and she hadn’t left him for another man.

  “He’s upstairs, Missus,” Hitchens said, as he went down the stairs, “but he’s not in the best of moods,” Charles heard him say in a lowered tone of voice that was still perfectly audible.

  “Charles!” she called again. “Come down as soon as you can. I have something to show you! Hitchens, come with me.”

  And then Charles heard her leave the house. It took him a moment to make sense of what was happening, but it slowly became obvious that if Priscilla was here . . . then she had not eloped with Maitland.

  She had not eloped with Maitland!

  Charles exited the town house to see Priscilla standing in front, dressed in the most exquisite dark blue riding habit he’d ever seen. And while it was very modest and covered her from chin to ankle, he couldn’t help thinking it somehow emphasized her glorious figure more than any other costume she’d ever worn, particularly the braiding and frogging at her chest, to which his eyes kept returning. When he was finally able to draw them away, he noticed she was also wearing a tall shako hat with two huge white ostrich feathers. And, most surprisingly of all, she held the reins of the horse he had bought her as a wedding gift but which had been left in Devon.

  “Well? Are you surprised? I sent Tom to Devon to bring Sugarplum to Bath”—Charles tried not to wince at what she’d insisted upon naming her horse—“and I commissioned the finest modiste in Bath to make me this habit so that we could go riding together. I actually had to go this morning at an ungodly hour for a final fitting just so it would be ready for me to wear today. There’s a riding track around Sydney Gardens that I thought we could try, but if you want to ride further afield we can do so. Hitchens has gone to get your horse.”

  She was smiling at him, so very proud of herself for her surprise, and all he could think was that he had believed her to have been lost to him forever and so she had never seemed so precious. He grabbed her to him, kissing her as he’d never dared kiss her before, uncaring that they were standing in the street in full view of anyone who might happen by. She was surprised at first, but was soon kissing him back just as fervently, dropping the reins of her horse and sliding her hands around his neck as she attempted to press herself even closer to him. He realized he was probably destroying her grand outfit and that she cared about such things even if he did not, so he finally made himself pull away from her, though it pained him to do so. “Priscilla, we’re going to ruin your hat,” he said, straightening it, as he had disarranged it a little and it was no longer propped as saucily upon her head.

  Priscilla just looked up at him, blinking, as if she did not know where she was. Finally she said, “Hang my hat,” and pulled his head back down to hers.

  They were eventually brought to their senses by Hitchens clearing his throat. He had Charles’ horse saddled and was holding it ready for him, and he had also grabbed Sugarplum’s reins, though Charles thought hazily that for once, riding a horse was the last activity he cared to participate in. He thought of another activity that appealed to him far more and smiled wickedly at Priscilla, a smile she returned, as if she
knew exactly what he was thinking. Still, he couldn’t very well ruin her big surprise, so he took some deep breaths and tried to calm himself.

  “That is the loveliest getup I’ve ever seen you in,” Charles said, in an attempt to change the subject, though the only conversation they’d been having had been happening in his head.

  “Charles, was that a compliment?” Priscilla asked, her eyes opening wide. Charles thought they sparkled more than the finest emeralds and told her so.

  “Is there an assembly this evening? I want to dance every dance with you,” he said, and Priscilla could not believe this was really happening.

  “Sophie is a genius,” she said, and Hitchens thought this had to be the most nonsensical conversation he’d ever heard. “If we have a daughter we should name her Sophronia,” Priscilla told Charles, “even though it’s a horrible name.”

  “Whatever you want,” Charles said.

  * * *

  Sophie, who was completely taken aback not to find Priscilla Beswick in the chaise, did not know what to say to explain herself to Lady Mary, who was the inhabitant of the carriage.

  “I beg your pardon,” Sophie said, but got no further. “Please excuse me,” she tried again, and Lady Mary, who was an expert at filling awkward silences, chose this moment to remain mute. “May I just ask you, Lady Mary, if you’re traveling with Mr. Maitland?” Sophie finally said, as Frederick Maitland was not in the chaise with Lady Mary, and it occurred to Sophie that perhaps she had stumbled across the wrong carriage and Priscilla still needed to be rescued.

  “I am. We are going to London, to be married,” Lady Mary said, and Sophie did her best not to appear shocked, as she realized that would be very insulting to Lady Mary.

  “I wish you both . . . all the happiness in the world,” Sophie said, and Lady Mary nodded regally in response. Sophie began backing away from the chaise, intent now upon reaching the curricle before she had an even more awkward meeting with Frederick Maitland. As soon as she was out of sight of the carriage she ran the rest of the way to the curricle, telling Sir Edmund hurriedly, “Let us go; it is not Priscilla. She must still be in Bath. Hurry, before Mr. Maitland sees us.”

  And Sir Edmund drove quickly out of the innyard, just as Frederick Maitland exited the inn.

  As soon as they had left the village behind them, Sophie explained to Sir Edmund who was in the carriage.

  “Lady Mary?” he repeated incredulously, and Sophie couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, as this was likely to be the universal response to the news of her marriage. “I can’t believe it! It seemed completely in character for him to run off with Priscilla Beswick for a temporary liaison, but if he wished to marry someone I was sure he would ask you.”

  “Yes, well, he did propose, the day after we were at Newbrooke, but I declined his offer.”

  “Sophie! You refused him even before you’d had my letter,” Sir Edmund said, letting his horses slow to a walk while he stole a quick kiss. “You don’t know how pleased I am to hear it. I couldn’t help feeling a little jealous of him, as he was your first love.”

  “As to that, it’s a good thing you did write me that letter, because when he proposed and I didn’t accept he correctly deduced I had feelings for you and told me the story of what happened at Cambridge, but painted you as the villain of the piece.”

  “I’m not surprised. He would have done anything to win you. I could almost feel sorry for him, if he weren’t such a fool.”

  They rode in silence for a moment, as Sophie considered Mr. Maitland’s unusual choice of wife. “He married for money before, but perhaps this time his motive was unselfish. His children are fond of Lady Mary. And he told me she reminded him of his first wife,” she said.

  “Ha! He married her because she’s connected to every noble family in England,” Sir Edmund said.

  “But they’re eloping, which means Lady Smallpeace must not have given her permission for the match. Lady Mary’s connections will do him no good if she’s cut from society.”

  “Lady Smallpeace will come around. Maitland’s an expert at twisting women around his little finger,” he said bitterly.

  Sophie looked at him with a mischievous smile. “It sounds as if you’re more than a little jealous.”

  Sir Edmund saw a wide section of road ahead and steered the curricle to one side, bringing the horses to a halt before pulling Sophie into his arms. “He is the one who should be jealous of me,” he said, kissing her. He pulled back to look at her face, running a finger over her cheek, which was softer than any rose petal. “And I’m very sure he is, the poor dastard.”

  * * *

  There was an assembly that evening, and Sir Edmund, Sophie, Mrs. Foster, Cecilia, and the Beswicks were all in attendance. Priscilla told Sophie that she was brilliant, her best friend in the entire world, and that she was naming her unborn daughter after her, before asking: “Do you have a second name?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Sophie said. “I think my parents thought ‘Sophronia Lattimore’ was long enough.”

  Priscilla sighed. “That’s a great pity.”

  Charles Beswick had not stopped smiling the entire evening and Sophie thought his facial muscles were likely to be sore, as they were so unused to assuming such a position. He approached her at one point to thank her for her help, and Sophie asked him, with a teasing smile, if they were to see him in the Pump Room the next day.

  “Not tomorrow, as Priscilla has planned for us to walk Beechen Cliff. But if she wants to go to the Pump Room the morning after I will happily escort her.”

  “You are to stay in Bath, then?”

  “For a few weeks at least. It feels more like a honeymoon here than our original one did,” Charles said.

  Sophie strongly doubted the honeymoon would last that long—she was sure the tempestuous young couple would find something else to argue about before the week was out—but she felt that at least they had learned to more deeply value each other and to find enjoyment in activities and pursuits together. Watching them that evening, Sophie noticed that Charles Beswick was a remarkably good dancer and appeared to like it very much, and when Sophie asked Priscilla if she was enjoying participating with Charles in his favorite activities, Priscilla blushed a fiery red and said, “Oh, yes!” very fervently. At which point Sophie decided it was best not to probe into the affairs of a newly married couple too closely and changed the subject.

  Emily Woodford was also present that evening, but there was an awkwardness between her and Sophie now that nothing could overcome, and they did no more than exchange distant nods. At any other time Sophie would have been sorry that their friendship had come to such an abrupt end, but she was far too happy over her engagement to allow it to depress her tonight, though she did feel a pang of sympathy for Emily, who must have heard that Mr. Hartwell had left town and realized he was lost to her.

  The only existing worry Sophie had was over Cecilia. Cecilia had a number of invitations to dance, which she accepted politely, and she was careful to smile and even to laugh, but there was no denying she was unhappy. Sophie knew she missed Mr. Hartwell, whether or not she was sure she loved him. Sophie was watching Cecilia dance, a pensive expression on her face, when Edmund spoke in her ear.

  “You have a very determined glint in your eye as you survey those unsuspecting couples. I hope you’re not planning any more matches,” he said.

  Sophie turned and smiled up at him. “I am not, I promise you. I am too consumed with joy over the excellent match I made for myself.”

  “Do you mean to say I was the target of a scheming matchmaker all along and wasn’t even aware of it?”

  “You were. However, there was nothing for you to fear, because this particular matchmaker is very bad at scheming.”

  “You’re right, you know. You’re incapable of artifice. It’s one of the things I love about you,” Edmund said, lowering his
voice even more, and Sophie felt a delicious thrill.

  “This is quite the most interesting conversation I’ve had all evening,” she said, opening her fan and hiding the bottom half of her face behind it. “Tell me what else you love about me,” she said, dropping her own voice to a whisper.

  “I’d far rather show you,” he whispered back, and she looked around to make sure no one was observing them, because she was quite sure his lips had brushed her ear while he was speaking.

  He then began stroking the bare skin above the back of her dress, his hand cleverly positioned where no one could see it, and she wondered how a man who had avoided her sex for so many years had become so very accomplished so quickly.

  “Who taught you to flirt, Sir Edmund?” she asked somewhat breathlessly. “You’re quite skilled at the art.”

  “The most adorable, delectable woman of my acquaintance,” he said. “My heart, my love, my Sophie.”

  18

  A few days later Cecilia and Sophie were walking on Milsom Street when a sedan chair pulled up next to them, seemingly in a great rush. Both the men who were carrying the chair, one in front and one in back, were jogging and breathing heavily. Cecilia and Sophie stepped out of the way, thinking the carriers would hurry past them, but instead their passenger hissed at them.

  “Pssst, Miss Foster,” a man said, and looking inside the box, Cecilia realized it was Lord Courtney. She did not know if he expected her to speak to him while he was being carried by two other men, but after a moment he instructed them to let him out of the chair. Cecilia, exchanging a puzzled glance with Sophie, waited for him to exit.