Miss Kingsley spoke with such artlessness. The lady was open and free with her words, and Sophie couldn’t help but admire it. Though that did not make her more comfortable with revealing her own truths.
“I doubt you would be interested in it, and I do not wish to bore you,” replied Sophie.
“Nonsense,” said Miss Kingsley. “And whether or not I am interested is immaterial. I simply wish to know you better.”
And so Sophie began speaking of her love for flora, fauna, insects, and all the rest, and though Miss Kingsley was not familiar with the subject (other than as a casual observer), she asked pertinent questions and prodded Sophie into greater depths. She took Sophie by the arm, and the pair strolled along the edge of the drawing room as the others chatted and play cards. Sophie was at a loss to think of a more interesting conversation, for it led to Lily speaking of her own passions, and soon, the subjects were darting here and there, meandering in a manner that made sense only to Sophie and Lily.
“There you are, dearest.”
Sophie froze, taking in a sharp breath as Mama’s salutation halted them in their tracks. They turned to see the lady striding up to them, hands held demurely before her as she smiled at the pair. Sophie made the introductions, and Mama gave Lily a glowing smile.
“Miss Kingsley, how good to meet you,” said Mama. “I’ve wanted to make your acquaintance. It has been so long since I last visited your parents, and I was just catching up with them.”
The young lady grinned. “I had no idea you were at all acquainted with my family, but I am already quite fond of your daughter. It is such a shame we’ve not met before.”
Mama’s eyes traveled the length of Lily, and Sophie stiffened at the glint in Mama’s gaze. “I see you take after your mama.”
Lily merely thanked Mama, but Sophie’s breath caught at the insinuation. Over the years, she’d witnessed those subtle jabs her mother was so skilled at giving, and Sophie did not wish to see sweet Lily as the target. But before she could speak a word in Lily’s defense, Mrs. Kingsley appeared beside her daughter.
“Lily, there you are,” she said with a tightness around her eyes that belied the smile on her face.
“Of course I am, Mama,” replied Lily with a laugh as she motioned to the moderately sized drawing room. “You speak as though I’ve been hiding.”
Mrs. Kingsley stepped forward, taking Lily by the arm, which forced Sophie to drop her hold.
“My dear Mrs. Kingsley,” said Mama with a simpering smile. “I was just remarking how your daughter takes after you in looks. It is as though I am looking at you when we first met. Though I suppose she is quite a bit younger than you were. How old are you, my dear?”
“I shall be five and twenty in a few months,” replied Lily.
“Ah, yes,” said Mama with a nod and turned an innocent look to Mrs. Kingsley. “And we met when you were first married. You were well over thirty at the time if I recall correctly.”
There was the barest hint of emphasis on the word thirty, and Sophie knew Mama well enough to hear the criticism buried in it, as though being so much older was a significant mark against one’s character.
Stiffening, Mrs. Kingsley leveled a falsely warm look on Mama. “Your memory does you credit, Mrs. Banfield. And I do beg your pardon, but I was hoping to steal my daughter away for a hand of cards.”
Lily gave some protest, but Sophie waved it away. Whatever history the two ladies shared, it was better to dispel the situation before it grew worse. Lily sent an apologetic smile in Sophie’s direction as she was led away, and with her work done, Mama sought more diverting entertainment, leaving Sophie once more alone.
*
Forcing her feet to maintain a languid pace, Mina fought the instinct to drag her daughter far from Hardington Hall. Pasting a smile on her face, she donned an affable air and cast a cautious glance at the others, but none paid them any heed except Mrs. and Miss Banfield.
“Is anything amiss, Mama?” asked Lily.
“Not at present,” she replied, giving a grateful smile at the concern in her daughter’s tone. “But I do not wish for you to speak with Mrs. Banfield or her daughter.”
Lily’s brows drew together as the pair halted beside a card table. “You wish me to snub them?”
“Certainly not,” said Mina with a shake of her head. “But you needn’t further an acquaintance with them. We will not be able to avoid them while they are in Bristow, but neither do I wish for you to seek their company.”
Lily’s dark brows drew together. “But I enjoy Sophie. She is interesting, and I feel we can be good friends—”
Every muscle clenched at that declaration, making Mina bark out a quick “no” before she thought better of it. Taking in a calming breath, she forced her body to relax and fixed some semblance of peace on her face.
“The Banfields are not good people, Lily,” said Mina. “Please do not seek Miss Banfield out any further. You needn’t ignore her, but there is no reason for you to speak with her beyond vague pleasantries.”
“But Mama—”
“Lily, please,” said Mina. Taking her daughter’s hand in hers, she squeezed it tight. “I know this may seem strange, but I have good reason for asking it of you. Nothing good will come from you speaking with any of the Banfields.”
Lily’s shoulders drooped, her expression falling, but she gave a nod of her head. “If you think it best.”
Mina could breathe again. Motioning for Lily to take a seat at the table, Mina joined her as Mrs. Thompson took another chair beside her.
Leaning forward, Mrs. Thompson met Mina’s eye and then pointedly glanced at Mrs. Banfield. In a whisper Lily could not parse, she asked, “How are you faring?”
“Well enough,” replied Mina, giving the lady a sad smile. “It will be a long month, but I will manage.”
Mrs. Thompson leaned away, her eyes reading all the disbelief due to that statement, and Mina responded with a faint but earnest smile. With such support and knowing Mrs. Susannah Banfield had no reason to step foot in the Kingsleys’ home again, Mina knew this was a burden she could bear. It was not pleasant, but not as miserable as the last time the Banfields and Kingsleys had mixed.
Only a few weeks and the party would disperse. Oliver would be engaged with the wedding date set. Then the Banfields and Kingsleys would go their separate ways and, hopefully, avoid meeting for another thirty years.
Chapter 9
Hands in his pockets, Oliver strolled through the field. Stopping, he turned his face to the broad azure sky stretching above and sucked in a deep breath of air. The sunlight warmed his cheeks, heating them enough that he wondered if this afternoon’s picnic would be an uncomfortable affair; at present, the temperature was perfect, but the day was still young.
Closing his eyes, he drank in the light and listened to the trill of birdsong and chirp of insects, the rustle of breezes through the grass and leaves. At first blush, one might think this world empty compared to the frenetic movement of London, but the country echoed with the sounds of life.
Oliver ought not to dawdle. As the guests were left to their own devices this morning, he could steal away some time with Miss Caswell, and yet he felt the strongest urge to stretch out in the grass and stare at the lazy puffs of clouds that dotted the sky.
It may be the only solace afforded him for some time.
Pinching his nose, Oliver took in another deep breath that had naught to do with savoring the morning air. How was a fellow supposed to take the matrimonial leap in front of a lady whom he previously courted? Not that he and Miss Sophie had courted. Theirs was hardly an acquaintance. An evening spent together some five years ago. That was all.
And yet…
Oliver shook his head at his folly. There was no “and yet…” There could not be. Even if he were free to pursue Miss Sophie, that would not resolve the objections that had driven them apart five years ago. Father’s feelings had not ebbed in that time, and though they hadn’t enumerated the B
anfields’ sins, there was no mistaking his parents’ dislike of that family. Mother had spent a full hour the night previous and another hour this morning lecturing her children on avoiding “those people.”
Stuffing his hands once more in his pockets, Oliver wove through the fields that separated his family’s estate from Hardington Hall, wondering how the Kingsleys and Banfields had come to such blows; his parents were not ones to hold grudges.
But that was neither here nor there, Oliver reminded himself. The source of the trouble was of no importance. He was courting Miss Caswell. Would marry Miss Caswell. Having Miss Sophie in attendance was of no significance. She was an old acquaintance. That was all.
Besides, Miss Caswell was a fine creature and would make an even finer wife. That dear lady had such strength and confidence that it was impossible to ignore her; Miss Caswell commanded society’s attention not because of birth or fortune (though her family claimed aristocratic lineages on both sides), but through character. She was compelling, charitable, and a dear friend, and Oliver was honored that she wished to build a future with him.
But then a movement seized his attention, pulling his thoughts from Miss Caswell and turning his gaze to a copse of trees to the left of his path.
With a book in one arm and a satchel slung on her shoulder, Miss Sophie waded through the grass, her eyes scanning the greenery around her. She straightened, and then crouched, abandoning her things to brush a hand along a tuft of wildflowers. Miss Sophie wore a gown of rosy hues and an apron of rich green, and from what little Oliver knew of her, he doubted she’d intended to match the landscape so perfectly, but she looked as though she had sprung from the blossoms, which was rather fitting—as was the sight of Miss Sophie’s bonnet dangling by the ribbons from her satchel strap.
Halting in his tracks, Oliver reminded himself that she was Miss Banfield now, but having spent so many years thinking of her as Miss Sophie, it was difficult to make the change now. As he did so only in his thoughts, Oliver supposed it didn’t matter.
His feet moved before he’d made any conscious decision to do so, but Oliver was relieved to find a moment to speak with her without an audience. Likely, Miss Sophie had not given him a second thought in the intervening years, in which case there was no need for him to feel out of sorts wooing Miss Caswell in front of her. If they could meet as friends, the rest of the party mightn’t be uncomfortable.
*
Settling into the grass, Sophie laid aside her watercolor journal and her satchel and examined the rosebay willowherb. The pyramidal stalk was such a beautiful blend of pink and purple, the flowers looking not quite one or the other. It was a tad late in the season to find such splendid blossoms, and Sophie could not believe her luck.
“Miss Banfield—”
Sophie shot to her feet, slapping a hand over her mouth to hold in the startled squeal, and spun around to see Mr. Oliver Kingsley standing just behind her. His hands shot upwards in placation, his eyes wide at her reaction.
“I do apologize, but you startled me,” she said, fighting away the blush threatening to embarrass her even further.
Mr. Kingsley blinked at her, his brows pinching together. “I was not being quiet. I thought you heard me coming.”
The grass around them was near knee-deep and announced every slight movement, and though some part of her wished to hold onto her embarrassment, there was no point in fostering it, so she gave a self-deprecating laugh.
“No doubt you more than adequately announced yourself,” she replied, running her hands along her front and straightening her apron. “But I fear I was far too preoccupied to notice.”
“And what has you so preoccupied?” asked Mr. Kingsley, his gaze turning from her to the empty field. “You are far from Hardington Hall.”
Pushing back a lock of hair that had tumbled free of her chignon, Sophie smiled. “I couldn’t help myself. The others were content to lay about the parlor, but I couldn’t waste such a glorious morning.”
Mr. Kingsley tucked his hands behind him and nodded absently as a smile lit his gaze. “If I recall correctly, you are passionate about naturalism, so I would expect nothing less of you.”
“I am surprised you recall that detail.”
Rocking forward on his feet, Mr. Kingsley replied, “It is impossible to forget such enthusiasm.”
Sophie ignored the thump of her heart at that pronouncement. Luckily, a flutter of movement stole her attention as something moved in a patch of wildflowers just behind Mr. Kingsley. She stiffened and pressed a finger to her lips when Mr. Kingsley opened his mouth. Inching down, Sophie snatched the satchel and journal and crept towards the flowers, and Mr. Kingsley stared but said nothing as he inched alongside her. Stopping beside a vibrant patch of rosebay willowherb, Sophie sat slowly, her eyes fixed on the moth perched among the stalks.
“You beauty,” she whispered, fetching her drawing pencils and opening her watercolor journal to a fresh page.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Kingsley in hushed tones as he sat beside her.
“Deilephila porcellus.” But Sophie paused and rethought that pronouncement. “No, that isn’t correct.” Staring off to the side for a moment, she hunted through her memory. “Deilephila…elpenor. More commonly known as the elephant hawk-moth.”
“Elephant is right.” As though objecting to the tinge of mockery in the fellow’s tone, the moth’s wings buzzed, and Mr. Kingsley grimaced, dropping his voice before continuing, “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen such a large moth before. Though, in truth, I’ve never given moths much thought before.”
“Hawk moths are fascinating creatures,” said Sophie as her pencil scurried across the page to capture the insect. “Unlike most moths and butterflies, they beat their wings like a hummingbird or bee. It allows them to hover and maneuver as other moths cannot.”
The drawing took shape quickly, as her subject had the good sense to hold still. Of course, it helped that this species was nocturnal and the moth was likely to remain where he was unless they disturbed him again. Given the opportunity, Sophie retrieved her paint kit, watercolor brushes, and water jug, and began adding the much-needed color, for that was where the elephant hawk moth truly shined.
Streaks of pink and green covered the creature, blending into the brightly colored blossoms of the rosebay willowherb. Sophie had seen quite a few magnificent butterflies and moths before, but this little beauty was breathtaking. If only she could bring him home with her, but Mama had banned any insect collecting paraphernalia from the house party, leaving Sophie with no other recourse but to satisfy herself with appreciating and recording her find. Nothing more.
Mr. Kingsley shifted, leaning closer, and Sophie’s fingers fumbled with the brush, though she caught herself before she dropped a great splotch of pink in the wrong place.
“That is lovely,” he said. “You have quite the talent.”
Sophie glanced at him from over her shoulder. “I am middling at best.”
“No false modesty,” he replied with his eyes fixed on her creation. “My mother is an avid artist and raised me to appreciate it, and as someone who truly has a middling skill for it, I can attest that you are much better than that.”
Blinking at the compliment, Sophie knew not how to respond. “As you are the first to compliment it, I find it difficult to believe you.”
“That cannot be true,” replied Mr. Kingsley, his brows drawing taut.
Sophie turned her gaze back to her subject, forcing her attention to her painting. “I will concede that my governess praised them, but that is the extent of my fame.”
Mr. Kingsley did not reply, but he stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles, leaning back against his elbow. He gave a grunt that confirmed he’d heard her and did not believe her, but that was of no consequence, for it did not change the truth.
“It’s lucky we stumbled across it,” said Sophie, her brushstrokes moving clear and unflinching across the paper. “I am rarely in the country while butterflies
and moths are most active, and there are not many townhouse gardens sizable enough to attract suitable specimens.”
A weighty silence followed, and Sophie couldn’t fathom why that innocuous statement troubled Mr. Kingsley so.
“And I stole away your opportunity to visit Mackleford Hall’s garden,” he said.
Sophie needn’t ask his meaning, for she knew it well enough. If reliant on her memory alone, she mightn’t have remembered the location of their failed excursion, but his note had kept such details fresh in her mind. If pressed, she could recite every word he’d written, but no one with sense would be so foolhardy as to reveal that little secret.
“A gentleman is hardly a gentleman if he cannot keep his word,” said Mr. Kingsley. “But I am grateful for the opportunity to beg your forgiveness in person.”
Pausing in her work, Sophie met his eyes. His brows were drawn low, and he dropped his gaze away.
“I do not know what kept you from escorting me that day, but I doubt it was a dereliction of duty,” said Sophie. “You do not seem the sort to throw someone over without good reason, so there is no need to harbor guilt over something so small.”
Mr. Kingsley did not meet her eyes again and there was a tension to his jaw and shoulders that belied his lazy posture on the ground, though he gave her a hesitant nod.
Slowly, his gaze rose to meet hers. “Might we continue as friends, then? Though we are not well acquainted, it is awkward to pretend we are strangers.”
Friends. That word held happy expectations Sophie would accept without reservation if not for the person asking it of her. It was foolish for her to harbor romantic fancies towards Mr. Oliver Kingsley, soon-to-be husband of Miss Victoria Caswell. Despite Sophie’s determination to dispel any sentiments greater than friendship, something pulled her towards him. Not love. Not precisely. But attraction and interest were imprudent emotions to feel towards a “friend.”
Hearts Entwined (Victorian Love Book 3) Page 7