Romancing the Past

by Darcy Burke

  …“Don’t worry, I’ve found you, everything will be all right.” He folded his cravat and pressed it against her cheek. “Hold this while I summon a doctor, can you do that? Press it tight, like that, you’ll be fine, I’ll be right back, don’t worry.”…

  He’d done just as he said. Sent a groom on horseback to fetch the doctor, whip in hand. Roused the housekeeper, who had some nursing skill, and helped gather supplies.

  Before he could return to Sophie, Malcolm Roe had drawn him aside to deliver the news that had caused her such despair: Sophie’s dowry was gone, reduced to a pittance. Her trustees, Malcolm himself and Clive the Ninth—still plain Mr. Swann then—had been unable to overrule the strict instructions in her father’s will. They’d been helpless to halt the loss.

  …“I feel comfortable telling you this because I know your attachment to Sophie isn’t economic in nature. I hope you’ll stand by her, honor your engagement.”

  “Of course,” Julian replied, unhesitating. “Of course I will.”…

  And he’d meant it. He’d asked Sophie to marry him without condition. He’d been prepared to love her in sickness and in health. As a rich woman or, as Fate should have it, a poor one.

  He’d been that far gone.

  But he hadn’t been allowed to see Sophie again that night. Nor the next day, though Mrs. Roe promised that she just needed a little time to recover. He’d received the same assurance on the following day, and the one after that, and so on, for weeks.

  He’d been increasingly aware that Mr. and Mrs. Roe were desperate for Sophie to admit him. That Sophie herself turned him away. No small feat, since every assurance offered by her aunt and uncle must have represented hours of pressure applied to her.

  Even bedridden and humbled, she’d been stubborn enough to resist their persuasion. He’d admired her grit, but he hadn’t paused his daily visits. Hadn’t even considered it. He’d been glad to have Mr. and Mrs. Roe as allies.

  In the end, their support hadn’t been enough. Malcolm Roe had drawn him aside for another private conversation. Sophie had decided to end the engagement.

  …“We can’t change her mind.” The lines on either side of Malcolm Roe’s thin, patrician mouth deepened joylessly. “But the way things stand now…” Mr. Roe shrugged. “She just needs time. In a month or two, she’ll be ready to wed.”…

  The unspoken message had been clear: she’d stop refusing once the prospect of being poor had sunk deep enough to terrify her properly. Desperation would lead Sophie to reflect on her dwindling choices and give in.

  That was when Julian decided he’d had enough of his alliance with Malcolm Roe.

  He’d counseled himself to patience. How long could a cut on the cheek keep Sophie confined to her bed? Eventually, she’d emerge—and he’d find a way to confront her. They’d talk, face to face, and he’d make everything right.

  He’d been confident. He’d brought her around before, he could do it again. Until he received a package, a plain brown envelope of study cardstock filled with ashes. He’d poured them out and sorted through the debris, charcoal ash and chips of paper with burnt, black edges.

  Enough writing remained on those remnants to know what he’d received. Letters that he’d written to her. She hadn’t just returned them, she’d destroyed them. And he knew her. Those burnt letters weren’t a statement of rage—that could be met, quenched. No. Sophie built up a record of her own life around her soft and shifting memories the same way a sculptor formed a mold around a wax original, preferring the hard bronze copy to the wax that he had touched, and shaped, and allowed to melt away.

  She wasn’t just jilting him. She was trying to erase him from her memories.

  And so he’d withdrawn his suit. He’d withdrawn from Derbyshire. He’d started a new life.

  He finally knew why. He knew that while he’d been racing across the castle, seeking help, someone else had found Sophie. Someone who had hidden his—or her?—identity sufficiently well that, later, Sophie had blamed Julian.

  He took a deep breath, called up the image of Sophie at the desk. The blood, the tangled hair. He searched his memory for clues, details that had been meaningless at the time. The wet gleam of ink, spilled across the polished wood in front of her. Deep black, perfectly consistent in color and texture. Sophie’s home brew, of course, surrounded by shards of the glass inkwell that had once contained it.

  The glass must have cut her when it broke. The spilled ink would have stained the cut, soaked deep into the skin. So the tattoo had been made at High Bend, after he left and before the doctor arrived.

  What else?

  The sharp, savory scent of sherry on her breath.

  She’d been drunk. Even under the best of circumstances, Sophie’s memory scrambled easily. Add alcohol to the mix, and he’d expect her to be confused, a little incoherent about what had happened.

  The problem? Sophie knew her weaknesses better than he did. She compensated. She doubted herself—unnecessarily, as often as not. But this time, despite being wrong, she felt certain.

  Julian opened the door to the small office where the scene had taken place. Vasari Jones sat at the desk where Sophie had bled, a half dozen stacks of paper arrayed before him, a leather-bound book positioned close to his chest.

  “Your Grace.” Jones jumped to his feet and bowed. Shocks of red hair, manhandled every which way, framed his face. He’d accented his brown suit with a purple waistcoat and tomato-red cravat.

  The room itself hadn’t changed much. The upholstery on both armchairs had grown threadbare. The desk, what Julian could glimpse between the papers, still bore the stain of Sophie’s ink. Wood shelves lined the walls and a faded carpet concealed the worn flagstones beneath.

  “It seems I’ve found your base of operations. What am I interrupting?”

  “His Grace—the ninth Duke of Clive, that is—entrusted me with the job of collecting and organizing important family records.” Jones gestured to the piles in front of him. “He was dismayed to discover how many of his predecessors established new systems upon acceding to the title, in the process often failing to incorporate important papers left by previous dukes. I’m bringing order to the chaos.”

  Julian picked up a piece of yellowed parchment. It looked to be a surveyor’s report, describing the boundaries of a piece of property bordering Sparrowtop. “What’s this?”

  “The companion to this deed,” Jones replied, flipping through several sheets in the same pile and extracting another document. “The property has been entailed to the dukedom since 1756, but the seventh Duke of Clive saw fit to keep this deed—and several others—in a hidden safe the secret of whose location and code he carried to his grave. This particular piece of ground suffered more than fifteen years of neglect as a result.”

  “And you found the safe?” Julian asked.

  “No.” Jones smiled tightly. “The ninth Duke of Clive did.”

  Julian cocked his head to the side. What was sly little Ginger Jones hiding? A story worth ferreting out, if he judged aright.

  “I have new information about Miss Roe,” Jones said brightly, extracting a small notebook from his pocket. “She left Broadstone Cottage at dawn, as usual. No bees on the way to town this morning, but a remarkable amount of activity at Iron & Wine after her arrival—”

  Julian interrupted. “No more.”

  Jones paused in his reading. “What do you mean? I haven’t reported my findings in several days and—”

  “I mean enough.” Julian felt suddenly and thoroughly revolted with himself. “I don’t want to hear the report. I don’t want you to observe Miss Roe any more. Please cease all such activities.”

  Jones stood. “Are you certain? But what about—”

  Julian just stared.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace.” Jones dropped back into his seat. “I shall leave Miss Roe in peace from this instant onward.”

  Julian stalked away. Down the hallway, in a hurry, eager to put some distance between hims
elf and his own worst impulses. He turned a corner, and a flash of memory overlaid itself on the dimly lit hall. He’d been in a rush then, too. Looking for help, in no mood to coddle a rival, and he’d walked right past William Allsop without a word of greeting.

  Eureka.

  §

  Sophie walked through the door to find Max Dawe staring at her from behind the counter and, before the bell had finished clanging, Charlotte Dawe peeked out from the threshold of her workshop.

  “Shall we talk about the warehouses?” Charlotte asked. Before Sophie could answer, she rushed on. “I’m sorry I wasn’t in yesterday—I thought you wouldn’t mind after a week away in Derby, and our family wanted to discuss the move. Max and I thought we should have it out with them before we spoke with you.”

  Sophie checked the window. At least for the moment, Halftail Road looked clear. She had a few minutes. “What have you decided?”

  Charlotte began, “We—”

  “—Have to discuss terms.” Max glared at his sister. “You mentioned a promotion, and it will have to be substantial to justify such an upheaval, in addition to taking on more work and more challenging tasks.”

  “You’re quite right.” Sophie rubbed at her eyes. She didn’t have time for this right now. “That will be the next step then—talking about the factory spaces, getting a firm idea about all the expenses, agreeing between the three of us what you require, what I can offer. I’ll need some time to draw up a plan.”

  “The leases on all three factory spaces seemed, to us, quite reasonable,” Charlotte chimed in. “If you want to look over my notes?”

  “I’m expecting Mr. William Allsop at any moment,” Sophie replied, steeling herself against the identical looks of disappointment that shuttered Max and Charlotte’s hopeful expressions. “It will have to wait until tomorrow.”

  Charlotte faded back into her workshop. Max pointed to a stack of letters. “I’ve sorted through the mail.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dawe.”

  Among the stack was a letter from the Head Clerk at the Bank of England, mentioning that several colleagues at other august institutions—he mentioned a name she recognized at the Foreign Office—had convinced him to sample her ink and that he wished to place a significant order, with the goal of switching all record-keeping to her products over the following year.

  Sophie blinked, stunned. A contract with the Bank of England was just what she would need to support her through the move to Derby and beyond. But she’d be hard-pressed to increase the volume she produced in such a short period of time. This dilly-dallying about the move would have to stop; her situation had just become urgent.

  “Miss Roe?”

  Sophie turned around to find William Allsop in the doorway, holding out the very jar of preserves that Laura Tidmarsh had tucked into her basket an hour ago. “Mr. Allsop. What a surprise!”

  “I brought you a small gift.” He set the jar onto the nearest table. “You said you’d had a craving for plum preserves and Mrs. Tidmarsh makes the best. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not! You’re always so thoughtful.”

  “It pleases me to see you happy, Miss Roe.”

  “You’ve succeeded admirably today.” Though not, perhaps, for the reason he thought. Sophie reached for a decorative perfume bottle she’d filled with indigo ink. The batch had come out purple, not what she’d desired at all, so she’d set it aside for gifts. “Will you accept a small token in return? I’m afraid this won’t be of much use to you, but your mother might enjoy it—the ink is rather violet, and I’ve added a matching scent. Wonderful for little notes, or letters amongst close friends. I’ll make sure Mrs. Tidmarsh receives a bottle as well.”

  “Thank you, Miss Roe.” William grabbed the bottle by its neck and twisted the base against its palm. “Though if I have leave to beg a favor in return for this small service, I confess I’d ask for something else entirely.”

  “You know I’m always happy to oblige you, Mr. Allsop.”

  “Save the first dance for me at the Dowager Duchess’s soiree.” William advanced a few steps, dropping his voice. “Mrs. Roe paid my mother a visit and said you’d decided to attend. I’d love to show all of Padley how proud I am to stand at your side, to be favored with your attention.”

  “With pleasure,” Sophie acquiesced. William really was a handsome man. His eyes were small, yes, but dark and liquid. His wide, thin lips might not fuel many daydreams, but they were mobile, masculine, expressive. His appearance might not sweep her away, but she didn’t want to be swept away. She wanted a nice, comfortable life here in Padley. “In the unlikely event that there is any competition, I will reserve the first dance for you, Mr. Allsop.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” William glanced around the cluttered workshop. “You are perhaps eager to get back to work?”

  “I’ve just received a tremendously large new order,” Sophie answered apologetically.

  “Then let me bid you a good day.” William bowed.

  Sophie saw him to the door. Meditatively, she reached for a blank square of sized paper and uncorked a bottle of her washable blue ink. She selected a pen with a particularly fine, narrow nib, dipped it, and began to write in her mother’s hand:

  Dearest Sophie,

  I have been told many times that I was lucky to marry your father. To which I reply: luck had nothing to do with it. I married a good man. Good looks, charm, even enthusiastic wooing obscure rather than reveal man’s character. You will know a good man by his actions, if you pay careful attention.

  Sophie paused. Her mother had said that, hadn’t she? Or something very like it? She glanced at her locked trunk. She’d saved a handful of letters from her parents. So few words in a letter, really. A few hundred, maybe a thousand. Not enough to really know a person. The letters provided an excellent record of the weather in Bath in July of 1822, the recipe for Lady Godrich’s Christmas pudding, but very little about her parents’ innermost thoughts and feelings.

  She’d been writing her ghost letters since she was twelve. Because she couldn’t let go, because it had helped her to survive her mourning. Because sometimes she’d really been able to convince herself they were alive somewhere, and speaking to her.

  Sixteen years later, the “parents” she invoked were imaginary people, characters she’d created. And the change had happened so gradually that she couldn’t tell the difference between the parents she’d known and the ones she’d invented. Her efforts to preserve her parents had ultimately erased them from her memories.

  She finished her letter, blotted and sealed it, then set it aside. When she took it down to the river in a few days, she wouldn’t worry so much about whether or not she could recall her mother’s favorite sayings. She’d feel a brief flicker of surprise, and that would substitute for a real connection.

  It would be better than nothing.

  Chapter 13

  Sophie had never possessed a garment even half so fine as her new red dress. It was not, as Mrs. Purse would have been the first to point out, particularly elaborate. It lacked the ornamentation that most often signaled a garment’s quality. No trims of beadwork or lace, no embroidery or flounces. Yet Sophie had no doubt that every person who laid eyes on her would recognize it as a masterpiece.

  She hated it.

  At the time when Uncle Malcolm had stopped purchasing her clothing, Iron & Wine’s minuscule profits had forced her to dress plainly. But that was years ago. These days, she earned enough to present herself as a proper bourgeoise. To show off a little, if she chose. She had never been of a mind to, and couldn’t imagine that she would ever be.

  Her shabby clothes made her invisible. Beneath notice. Ever since she’d acquired her scar, all attention felt like the bad sort. Mockery, revulsion, or, worst of all, pity. She preferred being ignored.

  Thanks to Mrs. Purse’s perfect tailoring, the gown fit Sophie’s torso like a second skin. Its wide, rounded neckline bared her shoulders and the upper slopes of her
breasts, the whole of her neck. The full sleeves and wide, bell-shaped skirts combined to make her waist appear slender as the stem of a snowdrop. All sewn from silk so thick and supple Sophie wanted to swaddle herself in it and purr. And the color! A deep garnet the color of watered wine or pomegranate rind.

  At Mrs. Purse’s instruction, the lady’s maid had oiled her wild, black hair and pinned it high, looped and braided into a semblance of order. A star-shaped clip of red garnets glittered just above her left ear, matched in color to her dress and in shape to the scar on her cheek.

  Sophie stood in front of the looking glass and watched her wide-eyed reflection raise one limp-fingered hand to the spidery blotch on her cheek, brushed the pads of her fingers across smooth, sensitive skin and slick, sensationless scar tissue.

  The imperfection was all she could see.

  “Hurry up!” Bettina’s muffled cry reached Sophie just before her cousin twisted the knob and flung wide the door to Sophie’s bedroom.

  Bettina looked stunning in a brilliant confection of shimmering blue silk-satin and frothy white lace, the apples of her cheeks pink with excitement. “Mama is almost ready and—” Bettina fell silent and gaped, hanging on the door. “Gracious, Sophie. You look like—”

  Sophie braced herself.

  “—the evil queen in a tale.” Bettina winced. “Was that rude? That was rude. I mean a very young and beautiful evil queen. The sort who eats babies to stay young.”

  “I can’t go,” Sophie blurted. She touched her lower belly and crumpled her face as though in pain. “I feel a bit weak.”

  Bettina laughed. “That’s a lie, Sophie. A very obvious lie. And if I don’t believe it, I promise you nobody else will. Shall we go?”

  “I really think I should just lie down.”

  Bettina cocked her head to the corridor. “I hear Mama’s maid on her way up to her room. She’s done. No more dillydallying.”