SIX
MARIAH GOT OUT OF BED QUIETLY, trying not to wake Sophie, who had not gotten home until well after midnight. Mariah had felt a pang of jealousy after her sister had told her every detail of the dinner party with Ethan Miller. How ironic that her sister, who had no interest in men or matrimony, had met a perfect potential suitor, while she had met only older, disagreeable gentlemen.
She thought of Charles but quickly dismissed it. He was young, titled, wealthy, and rather handsome—even when he was ill. Besides, Aunt Bentley had explicitly asked her to not encourage his attentions.
Mariah dressed silently and gathered up her books. Tiptoeing down the stairs, she walked to the library and carefully returned the books to their proper places on the shelves. She noticed a small green magazine on the table entitled David Copperfield, and when she picked it up, she realized it was a book about an orphan that was being published in serial installments. Flipping it open, she read the first pages.
“I didn’t think you would be awake for several hours yet.”
Mariah looked up and saw Charles standing in the doorway, dressed in a black suit. He was frowning slightly, looking more somber than she had previously seen him.
“I was all out of reading material,” she said. “Might I borrow this one? It looks quite intriguing, and I’m also an orphan.”
Charles shrugged indifferently.
“Th-thank you,” Mariah said hesitantly. She sensed he was upset with her, but she could not begin to imagine why. “Did you have a nice time at the party last night?”
“Nice enough,” he said coolly. “My cousin seemed quite taken with you.”
“Did he? I wasn’t sure that you noticed, given how engaged you were with Miss Penderton-Simpson,” Mariah said, piqued. She had no idea whether it was true or not, having only Sophie’s account to go on, but Charles’s pale face colored a little.
“If you’re looking for a wealthy husband,” he said, “you could do no better than to get your claws into my cousin. He’s one of the wealthiest men in England.”
Mariah blushed at his insinuation. “Is Miss Penderton-Simpson not an heiress?”
“Who said I was interested in her dowry?”
“Then why do you think I’m only interested in your cousin’s wealth?” she demanded. “Just because I’m poor that doesn’t make me mercenary.”
“You told me yourself that you were looking for a husband,” Charles said.
“Yes, a husband, not a bank account,” Mariah said, snapping the magazine shut and walking to the door. “Good day, Charles. I hope you have a nice time at your club.”
Charles put his arm out, blocking her exit. “I don’t understand you at all, Sophie. You change faster than the weather.”
Oh dear. He is beginning to see through our charade and notice the differences between us.
“Are you attempting to change the subject to the weather?” Mariah said, forcing herself to smile. “It does look quite fine out.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Charles said. “If I apologize, would you consider going on a walk with me?”
“I don’t go on walks with gentlemen until I know how much they’re worth per year,” Mariah said, folding her arms across her chest. “It saves time.”
Charles snapped his mouth shut like he’d just bitten a lemon. Then he suddenly laughed as if he couldn’t hold it in any longer. Mariah found her anger slipping away. He removed his arm from the doorway and offered it to her.
“I’m not precisely sure how much I’m worth,” he said. “Perhaps I could show you my bank ledger?”
Mariah let out a dramatic sigh and placed her hand in the crook of his arm.
“I suppose that will have to do,” she said, and allowed herself to respond to his smile with one of her own.
They put on their hats, and Mariah blushed as Charles helped her don her shawl. It’s just because I’ve never been helped by a gentleman before, Mariah assured herself. She took his arm and they walked slowly toward the park. The London air smelled of smoke with a hint of sewer.
“I miss the sea,” she said. “The fresh smell of water in the air.”
“My last experience on water was less than pleasant, since I was so unwell,” Charles replied, “but I did enjoy the sea air on my journey out to America.”
“I love the sea because it has endless possibilities,” Mariah said. “If you have but a boat, you could go anywhere … such freedom.”
“Just like reading.”
“Exactly!” she said. “You can be anyone and go anywhere for an afternoon in a book and be yourself again before dinner.”
“What did you think of Jane Eyre?”
“I couldn’t put it down,” Mariah replied warmly. “I adored Jane. Her story reminded me of my own childhood, and I hope someday to have her strength of character.”
“Was your childhood so terrible?”
Embarrassed, Mariah turned her face away from him, staring at the white buildings on her side of the street. “To know every day that you’re unwanted and considered a burden,” she said softly. “I identified with Jane’s feelings of rejection and anger.”
“I’m sorry.”
She glanced back at him and managed a small smile. “But I had quite the advantage over Jane: I have a sister who loves me, and there is nothing that she wouldn’t do for me, or I for her.” And then she tried to lighten the conversation by adding, “I confess it took me entirely by surprise that Mr. Rochester had a mad wife in the attic.”
“I as well,” Charles said. “And I can assure you that I have no wives, mad or otherwise, in my attic.”
“I’ll have to see for myself, of course,” Mariah said. “One can hardly trust men like Mr. Rochester to be truthful after all of his deceiving and manipulation.”
“You didn’t like Mr. Rochester, then?”
“No. Nor the sanctimonious Sinjin,” she said. “I didn’t like that Jane’s options seemed so narrow. I would have preferred that she went to a larger city and found a nice young man who was honest, kind, and loved her.”
“It would have ruined the story! She loved Mr. Rochester.”
“I liked the idea that love could overcome anything, and that no matter what happened to a person, your love would not change,” Mariah said. “I only wish that Mr. Rochester had been worthier of Jane’s regard.”
“Then you believe that the most important attributes in a suitor are honesty and kindness?” Charles asked, his eyebrows raised. “Not money and position?”
Mariah blushed at her own duplicity; how could she be advocating honesty when she was masquerading as her sister?
“Money and position can change, as they did for Mr. Rochester,” she said. “That reminds me of Mary Barton. What are your opinions on Mrs. Gaskell’s writing?”
* * *
“Where have you been all morning?” Sophie asked as she stretched her arms above her head and yawned.
“On a walk with Charles,” Mariah said, in a voice she hoped sounded nonchalant.
“You went on a walk with him?” Sophie repeated incredulously. “Did he actually speak to you or simply frown from a few feet away?”
Mariah toyed with the idea of telling Sophie what Charles had said in the library about her and Mr. Miller, but she decided not to. Sophie was not one to forgive or forget easily.
“We simply talked about books,” Mariah said. “He enjoys reading novels, too, and we gave our different opinions of them … I told him quite pointedly that I was going to take a rest this afternoon after my late night, so I think if we’re quiet, we can go next door and see how your armor is coming along.”
Sophie gave Mariah’s arm a playful push and laughed.
Mariah followed Sophie up to the attic, onto the roof, and over the short brick wall to the roof next door. Sophie knocked on the door before entering, then they climbed down the stairs to the art studio.
“Where have you been?” a man in a splattered paint smock asked loudly. “I can’t be wai
ting all morning!”
“We never said a time,” Sophie said calmly. “Allow me to introduce my sister: Miss Mariah Carter, Sir Thomas Watergate.”
Sir Thomas gave a jerky bow and then walked to the stairs. “Mrs. Spooner, the wretched girls are here!” he bellowed down.
Mariah examined the canvas and was amazed at the intricacy of the details; she could identify each individual blade of grass.
“What intense colors. What exact detail!” Mariah said. “I can’t wait to see your technique.”
Sir Thomas harrumphed and silently waited for Mrs. Spooner to arrive. When she reached the top of the stairs, out of breath but smiling, she shook hands with Mariah. “Ah, you must be Sophie’s sister, just as lovely. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing some papers, a canvas, and paints for you over here.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Spooner.”
Sir Thomas made a guttural sound.
Mrs. Spooner said “Ah” and came over to Sophie.
“I’m still working on your armor, but the face and hair take a great deal of time to paint,” Mrs. Spooner said. “Would you mind if I took down your hair and arranged it for the painting?”
“Of course not, ma’am,” Sophie said.
Mrs. Spooner deftly took out the hairpins and carefully placed each section of Sophie’s hair. She then positioned Sophie with her chin up and her shoulders slightly turned.
“There!” Mrs. Spooner said. “Try not to speak and stay as still as possible. When you get tired, let me know, and we’ll have a break for some tea and cake.”
Sir Thomas didn’t speak as he began to slowly paint the outline of Sophie’s face. Mariah looked to Mrs. Spooner to find out what she was supposed to do. Mrs. Spooner understood the look and came over to Mariah’s side.
“Now watch the great care that Sir Thomas puts into every stroke,” Mrs. Spooner said quietly. “He’s a member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, and they reject the mechanistic approach of Mannerists that followed the Italian painter Raphael. They focus on abundant detail, lively colors, and the complex compositions of classical Italian art.”
“I’m afraid that I haven’t seen any classical Italian art,” Mariah confessed.
“Sir Thomas and I visited Italy a few years back,” Mrs. Spooner said. “I liked it well enough. I particularly liked the paintings on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I tried to get Sir Thomas to paint a mural on the ceiling of the drawing room, but he refused.”
“Michelangelo was just as damaging to the academic teaching of art as Raphael,” Sir Thomas growled.
Mariah gave Mrs. Spooner a bewildered look.
“Michelangelo is the man who painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling,” Mrs. Spooner explained. “Italy may be out of our grasp at the moment, but perhaps a visit to the English Royal Academy of Arts could be arranged?”
“Sir Slousha,” Sir Thomas muttered indignantly.
Again Mariah turned to Mrs. Spooner to translate.
“It is an unkind nickname for Sir Joshua Reynolds, a deceased painter,” Mrs. Spooner told her. “He founded the Academy, but Sir Thomas doesn’t approve of his sloppy technique. Despite its founder, the Academy has many great pieces of art on display. And perhaps this painting of your sister will debut there as well, if Sir Thomas can hold his tongue and not offend anyone he oughtn’t until then.”
Mariah thought she heard Sophie whisper, “Impossible.”
She moved away from Mrs. Spooner and watched every move of Sir Thomas’s paintbrush. Each one was slow and portrayed painstakingly perfect detail. The man might not have any manners, nor could he make civil conversation, but he could paint. Mariah lost track of time as she watched her sister’s face begin to appear in the tiny strokes.
“Let us have some tea before Sophie faints,” Mrs. Spooner said.
Mariah felt as if she had been snapped out of a trance, she had been so absorbed in watching Sir Thomas work.
Sophie flapped her arms and jumped up and down. “It’s hard to stand still for so long!” she exclaimed.
They went downstairs for a hearty tea that was more food than either sister typically ate for luncheon. Mrs. Spooner kept offering them more savories and cakes until Mariah’s corset felt as if it would snap. Afterward, they all went back upstairs to the studio. Sophie stood in the same stance as before, but her eyes blinked frequently as if she were fighting sleep.
Mariah picked up the canvas that Mrs. Spooner had prepared for her. It was a tenth of the size of Sir Thomas’s painting of Sophie—about two-feet by two-feet. But she wasn’t quite ready for it yet. So she put the canvas down and instead picked up a sheet of paper and a pencil. She lightly began to sketch what she knew best of all.
Two faces—Sophie’s and her own.
SEVEN
ON MONDAY, Mrs. Spooner led Sophie to a private dressing room downstairs and helped her out of her dress and crinoline and into a suit of armor. She tied piece after metal piece together until Sophie felt like she weighed more than a carriage.
Mrs. Spooner connected the couter to the vambrace, the last two pieces on Sophie’s right arm, and then she declared, “Your armor is perfect.”
Perfectly monstrous.
“You look fearsome,” Mariah said with an encouraging smile.
Sophie didn’t smile back. She could barely see over the metal gorget on her neck. Thank heavens Sir Thomas didn’t want her to wear a helmet with a visor or she wouldn’t be able to see anything at all.
“Come, dears,” Mrs. Spooner said, flapping her arms at Mariah and Sophie like they were her little ducklings she was trying to shepherd. Mariah followed her out the door and down the hall to the staircase.
Sophie waddled slowly behind them; it was difficult to move at all carrying so much weight. Mrs. Spooner and Mariah walked effortlessly up the stairs, but Sophie was unable to swing her foot high enough for the first step. Holding her breath, she lifted her leg with all her strength, but her toe only bumped against the stair.
“Mariah, come and help me.”
Her sister laughed before skipping down the stairs to assist her. Mariah lifted her arm and Sophie tried again to raise her foot high enough, but she couldn’t quite reach.
“Perhaps if I assist as well,” Mrs. Spooner said.
With Mariah on one side and Mrs. Spooner on the other, they both lifted her arms up. Sophie tried once more to lift her leg high enough and she managed to get one foot on the stair tread, but before she could place her other foot beside it, Mrs. Spooner’s hold on her slipped. Sophie fell to the floor in a heap, her armor clattering loudly. Mariah, still holding on to her arm, fell heavily beside her.
“What is taking so long?” Sir Thomas complained from the top of the stairs. “You three are louder than an entire army regiment.”
“I’ve dropped Joan of Arc,” Mrs. Spooner called.
Sophie felt bruised all over, but she managed to laugh as she tried to get up—a fruitless task. “It appears that I can’t get up.”
Mariah scrambled to her feet and pulled at Sophie’s arm, but the weight of the armor kept her on the floor. Mrs. Spooner tried to lift Sophie up as well, but all she managed to do was press the metal deeper into Sophie’s skin.
Sophie yelped in protest. “This isn’t working. We need to take the armor off first.”
“I believe you’re right, my dear,” Mrs. Spooner said, chewing her lip. “Sir Thomas, go away for a quarter of an hour while we get Sophie decent.”
Sir Thomas passed by them, grumbling in Gaelic. Sophie did not understand the words, but his meaning was entirely clear: He was not happy at the further delay.
Once Sir Thomas had left the hallway, Mrs. Spooner and Mariah began the onerous task of untying and taking off Sophie’s armor. Sophie pulled off the breastplate and got to her feet, able to breathe freely for the first time in a quarter of an hour.
“I’d best get you a robe, dear girl,” Mrs. Spooner said. “We can’t have you scampering around the house in your underclothes. What would Lady
Bentley say?”
Sophie didn’t think Aunt Bentley would say anything—she’d simply faint at the unseemly sight and, upon waking, demand Sophie leave her house.
Mrs. Spooner brought a lovely pink silk robe and Sophie gladly put it on. Then they carried the armor up the stairs and to the studio piece by piece.
Mariah dropped the gorget on the floor with a clank. “Remind me never to become a knight.”
Sophie could not have agreed more, but they needed the money, and if she had to wear armor to get it, she would.
Mrs. Spooner, the only member of their party that was undaunted by their failure, whistled cheerfully as she started putting the armor back on Sophie—piece by heavy metal piece.
* * *
For four days in a row, the sky did nothing but rain, and Sophie posed for Sir Thomas. Her limbs ached from holding still for so long and the armor didn’t feel any lighter. Mariah was making social calls with Aunt Bentley, so Sophie had no one to entertain her as she posed. She desperately wished to know the time; It would be nice to have some sort of bell or alarm to notify her when she was done …
“That’s it!” she exclaimed.
“Don’t talk!” Sir Thomas bellowed.
Sophie stuck her tongue out at him and returned to her position, but her mind whirred with excitement. She would invent a timepiece that could be set to notify one at a certain time. It could wake people up in the morning for work, it could be used in cooking … the uses for a notification clock were endless! And now she had five pounds with which to buy supplies and begin her experiments. She could hardly wait to shed her armor.
“Time for luncheon,” Mrs. Spooner said in her pleasant, cheery voice. “Off you go, Sir Thomas, so Sophie can change.”
Sir Thomas answered with a grunt and slowly put away his painting supplies before going downstairs. Mrs. Spooner assisted Sophie in untying the strings and removing the various metal pieces.
“Ain’t it a wonder that men actually wore these metal suits?” Mrs. Spooner mused.
The Invention of Sophie Carter Page 7
