The Invention of Sophie Carter

by Samantha Hastings

  “Sophie, be a love and button me,” Mariah said. “I want to get us some new books for the week.”

  Her sister groaned but sat up and buttoned Mariah’s dress. Once finished, she fell back into bed and covered her head with a pillow.

  Mariah chuckled as she picked up the stack of books to return and opened the door. She walked slowly toward the stairs. Crinolines were funny, bobbing up and down if she walked too fast; the first time Mariah wore one, she nearly fell over.

  She held her breath as she walked slowly down the stairs, a firm grasp on the railing, only exhaling when she was safely at the bottom. Then she walked to the library and opened the door.

  “Hello, Miss Carter.”

  Mariah dropped the books she was holding. Standing before her was Lord Bentley, wearing day clothes and a crimson silk over-robe. She tried to pick up the books, but the bottom of her crinoline was stuck in the doorframe. She gave her skirt a tug, only to trip over the books and into his arms.

  “I’m so sorry, Lord Bentley,” Mariah said. She awkwardly untangled herself from him, trying not to notice how nice he smelled. “But I’m glad to see you out and about. Aunt Bentley said you needed rest and were confined to your room.”

  “Lucky I was here to catch you,” Charles said with a smile that transformed his stern, gaunt face into something rather handsome.

  Mariah knew she was blushing, which meant she was red everywhere—hair, face, neck. She tried once more to bend over and collect her books, but she couldn’t quite reach them because of the wide hoop of her crinoline cage. Charles knelt down easily and helped her, reading aloud each title as he picked it up.

  “I see you have quite exhausted our collection of Mrs. Burney’s novels.”

  “Yes,” Mariah managed. “I mean, I suppose I ought to read more serious books, but for the last eight years the only book I’ve had access to was the Bible—”

  “All you’ve read for eight years is the Bible?”

  Mariah nodded.

  “You poor girl.”

  She smiled a little at this. “I love the Bible, of course, but one does long for a change. And to experience books written by other women is such a pleasure.”

  Charles set down the stack of books on the table and turned to the shelf. He pulled out two books that looked brand new and handed them to Mariah.

  “Mary Barton, published anonymously,” she said, reading the title pages, “and Jane Eyre: An Autobiography by Currer Bell.”

  “Mary Barton was written by a Mrs. Gaskell,” Charles explained, “and Currer Bell is really Charlotte Brontë.”

  “Really, Lord Bentley?” Mariah exclaimed, louder than she meant to.

  “Yes,” he said in a conspiratorial voice, a hair above a whisper. “Such secrets always slip out. And you may call me Charles if you like.”

  Mariah smiled and walked toward the bookcase. Over her shoulder, she said, “I’m glad you’re feeling better … Charles.”

  “Better, just bored,” he said, picking up another book and flipping through the pages. “Well enough to move about, but not to go back to work; at least, not according to your most solicitous aunt.”

  Mariah added another book to her pile and turned to look at him. “She speaks of nothing but you.”

  “She’s the only mother I’ve ever known, and I her only child, even though we aren’t related by blood,” he said lightly. “But I don’t understand how ladies can sit around all day.”

  “A week ago, I would have given anything to sit around all day. And now that I can, I find I miss having a purpose,” Mariah said.

  “What purpose was that?”

  “Taking care of the Ellises’ small children, cleaning, cooking, mending, teaching the little ones how to read and do math. Sometimes a bit of shopping,” Mariah explained. “There was always something that needed doing.”

  “Sounds exhausting.”

  “It was,” Mariah admitted. “But I had a purpose, and now I’m idle.”

  “But you are at least putting your idleness to good use,” Charles said, “by expanding your knowledge of the world and the people who have lived in it, by reading.”

  “I thought that maybe I could become a governess. I like to teach children, and I love to draw and paint. But I don’t speak French or play the pianoforte—or rather, I haven’t since I was a little girl.”

  “Why did you stop?”

  “I—we, my sister and I—had a governess and a pianoforte when we lived with the Trentons, but there were no such luxuries available in the Ellis home.”

  “Who are the Trentons?” Charles asked.

  “They took us in after my mother died when we were born,” Mariah explained. “Captain Trenton was my late father’s commanding officer.”

  “If it isn’t too impertinent to ask,” he said, “why did you leave?”

  She shrugged. “Miraculously, she had a son rather late in life and no longer wanted foster daughters.”

  “That must have been very hard for you.”

  “It was harder for So— for my sister,” Mariah said. “But I am determined to be a dependent no more. Do you think I might practice on your pianoforte?”

  “You’re welcome to anything in the house.”

  “Then … might I have some paper and a pen?”

  Charles walked over to the desk and opened a drawer. He took out a stack of hot-pressed paper, an inkpot, and two pens, then handed them to Mariah. “Writing letters?”

  She shook her head. “Mrs. Ellis is not literate and would never allow me to teach her … I was hoping to use the paper to draw, if that is all right?”

  “The paper is yours now,” he said. “You can do whatever you wish with it.”

  “Thank you.” Mariah picked up her books and set them on top of the paper. Trying to suppress a smile, she turned away to leave the library.

  “The look on your face is terribly intriguing,” Charles said. “You must tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Mariah pivoted on her right foot. “You’re much nicer in your robe than you are dressed in a full suit of clothes.”

  He laughed loudly. Mariah carefully ducked sideways through the door—so she wouldn’t get stuck again—and ran up the stairs with her crinoline bobbing up and down.

  * * *

  “Sophie, you will accompany me on some calls,” Aunt Bentley commanded. “We need to expand your acquaintance with single gentlemen.”

  “Yes, Aunt Bentley,” Mariah said.

  Aunt Bentley lent Mariah one of her own very stylish hats, complete with ribbons and artificial flowers. They rode in a fine closed carriage, with the family coat of arms on the panel, to the first house, where they were ushered into a sitting room by a wizened butler.

  Aunt Bentley sat down on the sofa and gestured for Mariah to sit beside her. A plump woman of forty with a plain face and very ornate puce dress entered the room, followed by an equally plump older man with a similarly plain face. The two were undoubtedly related.

  “Miss Blacking, may I introduce my niece, Miss Sophie Carter?” Aunt Bentley said.

  Mariah bobbed an awkward curtsy. The older man was staring at her in a way that made her feel quite unwell.

  “Lady Bentley,” Miss Blacking said, “may I introduce my brother, Mr. Blacking?”

  “A pleasure, sir,” Aunt Bentley said in her most polite voice. “I believe you are in the business of canals and boats?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said in a gruff, low voice. “My business has been to dig canals and charge for their use. And right profitable it has been.”

  “My niece grew up in Lyme Regis and has always been fond of the water,” Aunt Bentley stated. “Aren’t you, Sophie?”

  “Yes,” Mariah said. “The sound of water is most calming.”

  “Do you have any property in Lyme Regis?” Miss Blacking inquired pointedly.

  Mariah shook her head.

  Aunt Bentley smiled. “Alas, my dear niece is an orphan and has only her great beauty, patient tem
perament, and noble family connections to secure her a place in this world.”

  Mariah felt her cheeks flame with heat.

  I’m for sale to the highest bidder.

  Thankfully, they didn’t stay much longer. Mariah accompanied her aunt on two more visits, both equally awkward. Mr. Herring lived with his widowed mother and looked to be close to fifty years of age. Mr. Westerham was by far the youngest, perhaps in his early thirties. His face was heavily pocked, and he blew his nose at such frequent intervals as to stop all conversation.

  Mariah could hardly muster the strength to get out of the carriage for the last visit. It was a great white house with commanding Roman pillars and was by far the largest residence they had visited so far.

  “The others were expecting our visit,” Aunt Bentley explained, “but not Mrs. Miller. She is Charles’s aunt and therefore no relation of ours. Still, I don’t wish to slight her. Mr. Eustace Miller—Charles’s maternal grandfather—is very much alive and in possession of most of his fortune; I wouldn’t risk Charles’s chance to inherit it for the world.”

  Mariah nodded and followed her aunt into the house. The interior furnishings were as opulent as the exterior suggested. The rooms were as large as the assembly hall in Lyme Regis, and there was enough furniture to comfortably seat at least thirty people. Her aunt chose to sit on a crimson horsehair sofa by the window, and they waited several minutes before a woman entered the room. She had an abundance of blond hair, streaked with white, and wore a deceptively simple blue dress that set off her eyes to perfection.

  “Thomasina, allow me to introduce to you my niece, Miss Carter,” Aunt Bentley said.

  “Miss Sophie Carter?” Mrs. Miller inquired.

  Mariah almost said no but caught herself. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How very knowing you are,” Aunt Bentley said.

  “Named after you, Sophronia, I believe?” Mrs. Miller said.

  “You are positively prescient today.”

  “I have heard tell of your niece,” Mrs. Miller said with a warm smile. “Come to London to seek her fortune.”

  Mariah could not help but return her kind smile.

  “More like to seek a husband,” Aunt Bentley said crisply. “I have already introduced her to several eligible gentlemen of easy means. Let us hope that one may find her suitable.”

  Mariah’s smile faded at this.

  “If only my son were here,” Mrs. Miller said cheerfully. “He is both eligible and of easy means.”

  Aunt Bentley colored slightly. “I am sure you have other plans for your son, as I do for Charles; a lady from a noble family, with a dowry, and excellent business connections. I only wished to make my niece known to you.”

  Mariah could only be thankful that she was sitting through this ordeal and not her sister. What would Sophie have said or done? Mariah almost laughed as she pictured Sophie barking at Aunt Bentley like a fishwife. Sophie had learned several choice words, as she called them, living in the poorest part of a fishing town and was unafraid to use them when vexed.

  “That is thoughtful of you, Sophronia,” Mrs. Miller said, “but I believe Ethan is very interested in meeting your niece. I shall be inviting you all to dinner soon. It has been an age since I have seen Charles. Ethan said he has been much affected by his illness.”

  Aunt Bentley spoke in detail of Charles’s sickness, the doctors they had consulted, and how long he ought to convalesce before returning to social and work duties. When they later departed, Mrs. Miller surprised Mariah by shaking her hand.

  It was nearly dinnertime before they arrived back on Hyde Street. Mariah went to her room to trade places with Sophie, but she was nowhere to be found. She felt guilty that Sophie would miss both lunch and dinner, but someone had to be “Sophie.”

  Adell helped Mariah into her dark blue evening gown, cut low across her shoulders and trimmed with black ribbons. Mariah waited as long as she could before she walked downstairs to dinner.

  Aunt Bentley sat at the end of the table and Mariah was placed on her left. This table is enormous for only the two of us. Just then, Charles entered the room in the same crimson silk robe from the morning.

  “Mr. Taylor, please add another cover,” Charles said. “I shall join the ladies for dinner.”

  “Charles, I’m delighted that you feel strong enough to join us,” Aunt Bentley said. “But really, you shouldn’t wear a house robe to the table.”

  “I must,” Charles said solemnly. “I’ve been informed that I’m much nicer when I wear it.”

  Mariah choked on her white soup and coughed. Charles raised his eyebrows, giving her a quizzical look.

  “I can see you are in a teasing mood,” Aunt Bentley said. “It is your house, after all, and I suppose you can wear whatever you wish in it.”

  “I was thinking of wearing it to my club,” Charles said. “I thought I might start a new fashion.”

  “Insouciant dress is never in fashion,” Aunt Bentley said in mock severity. “But I won’t try to dissuade you further. It will only add to your determination to do it. I remember when you were thirteen years old, I told you that you couldn’t ride Lord Bentley’s horse because it was too strong for you. You waited until the groom was busy and rode out of the stables on it. Do you remember?”

  Charles sipped his wine. “How could I forget? The horse was too strong for me. It threw me and I broke my arm.”

  “Lesson learned,” Mariah said, dabbing her mouth delicately with a napkin.

  “Not at all,” Charles said. “My arm healed, and I got back on that stallion.”

  “More successfully the second time?” Mariah asked.

  “Much,” Charles said, with one of his sudden, transformative smiles.

  “Yes,” Aunt Bentley said, raising her wineglass. “And my late husband was so proud, too. It seems that obstinacy in boys is something to be praised.”

  “It’s always noble to finish what you start,” Mariah said. “If it’s a good thing.”

  “Wise words indeed,” Charles said. “That is why I mean to return to New York as soon as I’m recovered.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Aunt Bentley said, taking a sip of her wine. “But I won’t throw a rub in the way of your American trip or your silk robe.”

  “Even if I wear my sartorial splendor to Aunt Miller’s dinner party next week?” Charles asked.

  “I daresay Miss Penderton-Simpson will find you quite handsome in it.”

  Mariah raised an eyebrow and Charles shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Aunt Bentley had scored a point in their exchange.

  “Who is Miss Penderton-Simpson?” Mariah asked nonchalantly.

  Aunt Bentley smiled, showing all her teeth. “A most accomplished and well-connected young lady with a dowry few could boast. She quite fancied Charles before he left for New York.”

  “Is she beautiful?”

  “Very,” Charles said, standing. “I believe I’m a little done in for the day. I shall excuse myself.” He gave the ladies a small bow and then left the room.

  “I don’t think Miss Penderton-Simpson will allow him to escape a second time,” Aunt Bentley said, and took a large bite of duck. She chewed it slowly with a satisfied look on her face.

  Mariah swallowed her own mouthful too soon and began coughing again.

  FIVE

  SOPHIE QUIETLY TIPTOED DOWN THE hall to see if the grand staircase was clear. Mr. Taylor was touching the railing with a white glove, checking for any speck of dirt or dust; Mariah was already out with Aunt Bentley, making it inadvisable for Sophie to be seen by him or any of the other servants. She dashed down the hall to the servants’ staircase and saw Adell at the bottom, washing the steps, one at a time. There was no way to get past her without being seen.

  “Botheration!” she growled under her breath.

  She heard Mr. Taylor’s firm steps—he was nearly to the top of the grand staircase and he would see her before she could reach her room. There was nowhere else to go but up. She climbed the
staircase by twos, past the servants’ attic apartments, and to the roof. She unlocked the door and stepped out into the sunlight and fresh air. She still felt trapped, but at least she was no longer in that stuffy bedroom.

  For a short while, Sophie amused herself by watching the people on the street down below go about their business. How she longed to go about her own business and find a position so that she could support herself and Mariah. Aunt Bentley had only promised them one season, and it would be over before they knew it. And that was if she didn’t discover their deception first and cast them out of the house.

  Then Sophie saw something out of the corner of her eye: The door on the roof adjacent to hers was open. It was like a miracle; a way out of her fix. She could escape without any of her aunt’s servants seeing her. The only barrier was a two-foot brick wall that separated the two houses, but as she stepped over it, she began to have doubts. What if she were caught and arrested for trespassing? Or as a burglar? Who knew what or whom she would find in a strange house?

  Unsure, she sat on the brick barricade between the two houses. Her shadow cast a long silhouette on the roof—if she didn’t leave soon the day would be wasted and any opportunity to find work would be lost. She stood up and tiptoed to the door and listened. When she couldn’t hear anything, she quietly stepped inside.

  Climbing down the stairs, Sophie saw that the entire level was one large room with several easels and paint cans. A large canvas, nearly as tall as her and four times as wide, stood in the center of the room. It depicted a knoll covered in long, wet grass, and a castle in the distance. But the center was surprisingly blank, as if something was yet to be painted.

  She took a step back from the canvas and bumped into a table—a paint can clattered to the floor. She heard an angry voice using words that would have made even Mr. Ellis blush. The open door had not been a miracle, but a mistake.

  Of all the pigeon-headed things to do!

  Quickly she picked up the paint can and put it back on the table, then ran toward the staircase. But her exit was blocked by a bald, portly, middle-aged man wearing a smock covered with paint splatters.