by Sara Bennett
Sophy stood and watched him, trying to make sense of the puzzle that was Harry’s brother, before she began looking for Harry himself. Last time she’d seen him he was being held captive by the age spotted hands of an elderly neighbour.
Someone swooped in front of her with a dancer’s grace. But instead of Harry, as she’d hoped, she met Digby’s green gaze.
She wanted to look away, but the intensity of his stare held her in place, and before she could break free he smiled and swaggered next to her.
“You really are exquisite, Sophy. I wonder, has Harry had you yet? He’s a fool if he hasn’t. You’d be wasted on a yokel.”
“Excuse me,” she said, and flushed as she pushed by him.
Her heart had begun to thump and not in a pleasant way. Apart from Adam’s warning, and the way Digby had just spoken to her, there was something about him she didn’t like. She knew he was Harry’s friend but she didn’t trust him. She found herself wishing Harry had not brought him to Pendleton Manor.
She had barely escaped him when Sir Arbuthnot’s hearty voice made her jump. “Sophy? Come here!” She turned and saw he was beckoning her forward. “Your father tells me you can sing, young lady. Is that so?”
Sophy blushed. “A-a little,” she stammered. She looked for her father to save her, but instead he was beaming at her with pride. She gave an inward groan.
“Then let us hear a tune from you!”
She opened her mouth to protest but it was clear from the look in Sir Arbuthnot’s eyes that this had not been a suggestion.
Nervously, Sophy went to the spot pointed out to her. Her gaze danced around the room and she found everyone watching her. For a moment her throat closed over. She swallowed and forced herself to think of calming thoughts. She could hold a tune, and although her voice wasn’t strong, it was mostly true. Recently she had been taking the children at the academy for singing, so she was used to performing, albeit in front of an uncritical audience. As long as her nerves didn’t get the better of her she would not disgrace herself.
She could do this, she really could. She …
Someone moved to the left of her. She saw Harry standing there, smiling and nodding encouragement. There was a girl clinging to his arm, one of his neighbours’ daughters, who didn’t look very happy to be forced to listen to Sophy sing. The girl gave Harry’s arm a tug, which he ignored. Sophy refused to be jealous. In fact, she was motivated more than ever to astonish her onlookers.
‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman’ was the song she chose, and it rang out sweetly, with only a bit of a wobble on the high notes. She was enjoying herself so much that she forgot to be nervous. Despite what her father believed, Sophy wasn’t a perfect singer, but there was something about it that made her feel happy. Made her feel free. It was like walking in the garden during the summer, with the sun warm on her head and bees buzzing, and the whole world promising so much.
Her eyes landed on Harry again and she realised that wasn’t quite true. There was another thing that made her feel happy and free. Being with him.
HARRY
Sophy sang so beautifully, her lovely face full of feeling, her eyes mostly closed, and the candlelight picking out the gold in her fair hair. And she was his. He felt the truth of it in every part of his being.
The girl at his side was a nobody. His father had invited her but he knew Sir Arbuthnot had as little interest in finding a match with his neighbours as Harry did. He would be seeking a daughter-in-law from among the wealthy and privileged. Harry was only nineteen, and until he turned twenty-one his father would be in control of his future. Harry hoped that if he could stave off any prospective engagements until then, he would have no need to openly disobey his father. Sir Arbuthnot was a dangerous opponent when his will was thwarted.
Harry’s dearest wish was to marry Sophy, but his father would never agree to it. If Harry was to make his wish come true then he would need to be patient and clever, and he would need a strong will. Harry believed he had all three, but he did not relish the scene he would eventually have to face and what he might lose because of it.
Sophy was worth it. He couldn’t imagine a world without her, or a life lived without her. When his father understood Harry was not going to play the obedient son, he would fight him every inch of the way, and Harry would win in the end. He had to.
An elbow dug into his ribs and startled him. It was Digby, and he was also watching Sophy, a big grin on his face. Harry’s frown deepened as Digby’s grin widened, but Sophy finished her song before he could say anything. She curtseyed to the applause, her cheeks pink with pleasure.
“Bravo!” shouted Digby. He shot another glance at Harry, taunting him, and unease twisted in his gut. It occurred to him now that he shouldn’t have shown Digby up at their archery contest. Not that he would ever have let him win, Harry never let anyone win, and especially not where Sophy was concerned, but he could have managed matters better. Digby was one to hold a grudge, and he was beginning to suspect that his friend was planning his revenge, despite the terms of their wager.
Harry kept his focus on Sophy as afternoon turned to evening. There was a game of charades and more dancing, but after her performance her father and aunt kept her close. The aunt even sent Harry more than one suspicious glance, as if she thought him capable of corrupting her niece in front of them all. Although he was unable to claim the dance he had promised her, he was glad she was being taken care of. When Sir Arbuthnot led them out to the barn where the Baillieu estate workers and servants were having their own Christmas celebrations, the Harcourts came as well.
Sir Arbuthnot had to raise his voice above the racket to deliver his usual Yuletide speech, and it was received with rousing cheers as well as a few drunken tears. After he was finished, he pushed Harry forward. “Your turn!” he roared. “Come on, boy, speak up!”
Harry didn’t mind stepping into his father’s shoes, but he would rather have done so in a more dignified manner. He was no Sir Arbuthnot, with his extravagant promises and theatrical showmanship. He preferred to be honest in his approach and not get their dependents’ hopes up for a bumper year. In time he would grow into the role of master of Pendleton Manor, but if his father had his way that was still many years in the future.
He thanked everyone and wished them good health. But what he really wanted to say was that spending so much money on Christmas celebrations was all very well, but a better use of the money would be to spend it on mending rooves and repairing fences.
On the day that he stepped into his father’s shoes at Pendleton Manor, he would do things differently. He already had plans for modernising the way in which the estate was run. His father was too set in the past and would never change, although he acknowledged that in some ways the two of them were very alike. The Baillieus were land owners and farmers and had been for generations—they were practical men.
There had been Baillieus on this patch of land since the Norman Conquest, and if Harry had anything to do with it, there would be Baillieus here forever.
After he had swallowed a mug of beer with the workers and listened to their drunken and sentimental good wishes, he moved on with relief. His eye was caught by the sight of his father and Sophy’s father huddled together. They were in a discussion, and on Sir Arbuthnot’s part at least, the matter didn’t appear to be amiable. Although George Harcourt had always been polite to Harry, and he had no reason to doubt he did his job to the best of his ability, he wondered sometimes whether they needed someone more modern in their thinking. In Harry’s opinion, Mr Harcourt’s books were often chaotic, and the few times he had cast his eye over the uneven columns, he’d found it difficult to trace outgoing payments and incoming amounts.
He’d even said so to his father once, who only glared at him with disgust. “We are not book-keepers, Harry! You were born to run the estate, not scribble on paper!”
He hadn’t mentioned it again.
Now, as he watched the two men, he noticed the frown grow on his
father’s face while George Harcourt had a mulish look. Harry might have joined them, if only to keep the peace—his father had been drinking heavily all day—but at that moment he was distracted by a shriek.
He looked around sharply. One of the farm girls was being chased by one of the tenant’s sons. By the look of happy excitement on the girl’s face, she was enjoying herself immensely. Nothing to worry about there. But the scene brought his thoughts back to Sophy.
Harry turned his head this way and that, but he couldn’t find her. She’d been here just a moment ago. He began to search the barn and the space outside but she was nowhere to be seen. And more worryingly, neither was Digby.
Chapter 6
SOPHY
The stars were brilliant and the air was chill, and Sophy stood gazing upwards at the heavens as if they could tell her what the future held. Then she reminded herself that she didn’t need to be told because she already knew. Her future was at Pendleton Manor, with Harry. And yet tonight she felt strangely uneasy, as if those dreams were in jeopardy.
She had come outside because the barn had been so hot and stuffy, but it was more than that. Digby’s presence had changed things, reminded her that she didn’t know everything about Harry despite thinking she did. What was he like when he was away from home? Did he behave like Digby? Sophie wondered if she had been foolish to think Harry was perfect—because how could any man live up to such expectations?
Her father had been keeping a close watch on her throughout the evening, more so than usual, and she could only think it was to do with the conversation she’d overheard. She could understand him worrying about Digby—he made her skin prickle—and had no intention of ever being alone with him. But Harry? Harry would never harm her, and if they thought he might then they were very wrong. And as for her cousin Arnold, if she heard her aunt say one more time how wonderful he was, she would scream.
Snow had been falling while they were inside the barn and the crisp white layer that blanketed the garden now looked serene and beautiful. Sophy knew there would probably be slush and ice to contend with tomorrow, but for now everything was unspoiled.
“Sophy.”
In this perfect moment it could only be Harry calling to her. She turned. A man stood behind her, the light from the barn behind silhouetting him. He moved a little to the side so that she could see him better.
It was Digby, and he looked the worse for wear. His neckcloth was undone and his hair stood on end. His skin was tinted green in the glow of the flaring torches. He’d taken off his jacket and she thought he must be cold out there in his shirt sleeves. She told him so. His response was unnerving, spoken in such a meaningful voice that she felt as if she should know what he meant.
“I’m not cold, little Sophy, I’m hot. You. You make me very hot.”
His eyes held a gleam she had seen in Adam’s earlier, and she assumed that meant he had drunk far too much. But there was a determination in his expression that concerned her. In fact—she glanced over his shoulder toward the barn—she would very much like to return to the others.
She told him that too.
“I’m sure we can entertain ourselves far better away from the crowd,” he responded, and the smirk on his face only increased her anxiety.
Digby might be Harry’s friend but he wasn’t hers. She didn’t know him. She didn’t like him. She took a step toward the barn but he mirrored her movements, so that he was standing in front of her again.
“My father will be wondering where I am,” she said.
He shook his head and closed the distance between them, and now she was afraid. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said.
She could feel her heart thumping in her breast and her palms damp despite the cold. She tried to dart around him but he was ready for her. He even laughed, as he caught her arm and swung her about, as if her trying to escape was a fine joke. Before she could gather her scattered wits he was tugging her along the path that ran down into the woods. Her slippers sank into the cold snow—it was much deeper here—and she stumbled, but he held her up, his grip unrelenting. She cried out in pain but he didn’t let her go, and that was when she realised she was in desperate trouble.
“Wonder if Harry’ll think he’s won now?” he muttered to himself, then cackled. “Digby gets the last laugh.”
Sophy realised something else then. Digby wasn’t doing this for himself; he was doing it because Harry had humiliated him.
She screamed. The sound was shrill and frightened and quickly cut off by Digby’s hand.
He shook her until she felt dizzy. “Where does this go to?” he demanded, pointing in front of them, where a gate separated the path from the woods proper. She could see the glitter of his eyes in the starlight. His hand over her mouth was clammy as he lifted it up to hear her answer.
“There’s a-a pavilion,” she said, teeth chattering in the cold. “But we can’t go there now. The w-woods are dangerous at night.”
He laughed as if the thought of danger was merely another challenge to him. He tugged her forward again, her feet numb now. Her only hope was that she could escape him in the darkness of the trees. Digby was a stranger to the estate but Sophy knew all the hiding places. If only she could get away from him for long enough to find them.
But it wasn’t as easy to escape as she’d hoped. He kept that painfully strong grip on her arm, and before she could make her attempt they had reached the clearing. Snow had fallen here, and the trees around them were frosted in white like the Pendleton cook’s fruit cakes.
He tugged her closer to the steps. “Is it locked?” She didn’t answer and he reached for the door and gave it a shake. It was locked but Sophy had a feeling that wasn’t going to stop the man. He’d force the door open and then he’d force himself on her. Her heart began to pound, and as he raised his foot, intending to kick against the barrier, she made her move.
Sophy pulled away from him and leapt down the steps. She ran, her eyes darting everywhere, looking for somewhere, anywhere to find refuge … and promptly fell flat on her face.
The cold snow pressed into her nose and clung to her lips. She gasped and tried to stand up, but her foot seemed to be caught in the stair behind her.
She heard him chuckling, and then he felt his hands on her, rolling her over onto her back. Her foot wrenched as it came free and she cried out, but her voice was small, breathless from her fall, and seemed to make no dent at all in the tall, bare trees around them. He was bigger and stronger, and he held her down easily even as she struggled.
“This will do as well as anything,” he said, speaking to himself, his breath hot in her face. Then, without warning, Digby began to kiss her.
His mouth was wet and tasted of ale, as she fought to push him away. She had never felt so helpless, and it was all so very wrong. She shouted at him to let go but he wasn’t listening to her. His mouth was all over hers, his hands tearing at her gown, searching for bare flesh.
And then he was gone.
Sophy gasped up at the sky through the crooked branches, trying to catch her breath. To her side she could hear grunting and the sounds of a struggle. She got up onto her knees.
Harry and Digby were rolling about in the snow, fighting. Harry rolled on top, and his fist came down upon Digby again and again, striking him in the face. Dark blood stained the snow. Digby hissed, fighting back, twisting and turning beneath his larger opponent, to no avail. Harry hit him again and it was all over.
Harry pushed him away and Digby curled into himself in a ball, shoulders heaving, shudders running down his back. Harry stood over him, his panting breath coming out in white spurts.
“You’re leaving in the morning.”
Digby lifted his head and muttered a curse but made no other response. Harry watched him a moment more, then wiped a hand across his face and turned to Sophy. She stared up at him, eyes wide, shaking from the cold and the shock of the attack.
Then Harry dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her
, holding her so tight that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. But it was good. So good that she pressed closer, wishing she could melt into his body and disappear.
“Did he hurt you?” Harry asked. He pushed her back so that he could see her face, then cupped her cheeks in his cold hands. There was blood on one of them.
She shook her head, because he hadn’t hurt her, not in the way Harry meant. “He frightened me,” she said shakily. “I think he wanted to hurt you, that was why—”
“I am so sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “This is my fault, Soph, and I am so sorry.”
She stared back at him. She knew what he said was true, but she wasn’t used to Harry being at fault for anything. “It was Digby,” she said at last, seeking a compromise.
Harry wasn’t listening. “I should have known he’d try to get back at me. I should have known—”
“I didn’t want to go with him. He was too strong and no one heard me scream.”
He groaned and held her tight again. “I followed your footprints in the snow,” he said. “I came as fast as I could when I realised what must be happening.”
Her gaze slid over his shoulder. Digby had risen to his feet and was standing, watching them. There was something angry and bitter in his face, so much so that she thought he was going to fling himself at Harry and fight him again, but instead he turned away, trudging back the way they had come.
“He hates you,” she said.
Harry had turned to watch his friend go, but he didn’t seem to care about Digby’s feelings anymore. “Right now the feeling is mutual.” He began to murmur into her hair and kiss her cold, damp cheeks.
“I love you,” he said. “I love you more than anything, Sophy. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again, I swear.”
And because he was Harry, she believed him.
HARRY
Harry felt as if his heart had been wrenched from his body. The sight of Sophy struggling with Digby, of him pressing her down and pulling at her clothing, threatened to suffocate him. It would be a long time before he was able to remember these moments without wanting to strike Digby’s face again. Over and over.
