“I trust you spent at least some of your time outdoors considering our position, Sophia,” said Lady Cranston a short time later, observing Sophia across the circular mahogany table, her emphasis on the ‘our’ slight but noticeable. “You are aware of course, that Lord Beaumont and I have already agreed to the marriage in principle.”
Sophia swallowed the last of the pale soup Cook had contrived from an aged fowl, lowered her spoon and dabbed her lips with a napkin before responding. Her mother’s features were insubstantial behind the flickering candlelight, but Annabelle leaned forward like a hungry sparrow sighting a worm wriggling away from its thrusting beak.
“You cannot refuse him, Sophia!”
Sophia set down her spoon. “Indeed, I can,” she said, belying the apprehension at the pit of her stomach. “All I need is a little more time.”
“That commodity is rapidly running out.” Lady Cranston’s tone held little compromise, but when Sophia examined her mother’s face, she was struck by the anxiety, even desperation, etched into the normally haughty expression.
Duty, rebelliousness and compunction warred within her at equal measure. She ran her eyes over, and then away from the joint of beef. Just a few moments ago it had looked appetizing; now the sauce had congealed and oozed around the meat like brackish blood.
“If I must be married, surely there are better prospects than Freddy!” She pushed her soup bowl aside. “He’s at least a foot shorter than I. In fact, he would be much more suited to Leila Harrington, as I sometimes think he has the brains of a stick insect.”
Ignoring Annabelle’s stifled giggle, her mother frowned.
“Believe me, brains are not necessarily an advantage in a man. Anyway, Freddy Beaumont’s shortcomings are redeemed by his fortune. Swathes of it, not to mention the seat of Enderby and the titles he will inherit when his father has left this world. When I saw him last week the old man looked near to be on his deathbed—although that did not prevent him from ogling my bosom,” she added, her lips thinning.
Sophia glanced at her mother’s cleavage. “Perhaps you should not wear such revealing gowns, mother. You invite men to gawp.”
“Sophia!” gasped Annabelle, clearly shocked at her sister’s affront.
But Lady Cranston merely glanced down and adjusted the fichu tucked into her low-cut bodice, where the scrap of violet fabric served more to display the swell of her breasts than conceal them.
Once satisfied, she aimed a narrowed gaze at Sophia. “Do not look so disparaging, Sophia—and you should take note of this too Annabelle,” she said, flashing a glance towards her youngest daughter. “You too may reach the age when your bosom is all you have left to commend you. I’m afraid my face is not worth a passing glance. Even I dislike examining it. Believe me, once a woman is past her fourth decade, she becomes invisible. A decent bust may be her only redeeming feature.”
Sophia raised her chin. “That would indeed be a sorry state, Mama. One’s physical attributes are short-lived. And if that is all a woman has to rely on, she will always be on shaky ground.”
Privately, she railed against the very idea of marrying a man who saw only her bosom, a man who considered neither her heart nor her mind. If she could only make a name for herself as an artist, she wouldn’t have to marry anyone she did not choose herself. She could marry for love, and if she could not find such a man, then she need not marry at all. Except for the means to fund her art, her own needs were few.
She strove to harden her heart against the compassion she felt for her mother and sibling. She dearly loved them both, but if she chose the path she longed to, they would have to cut their cloth to fit their suits. At least they would have a roof over their heads and food in their bellies, comfort that was denied many who were born into a less privileged world than their own.
“I might remind you,” her mother said, wagging a finger to make sure she had Sophia’s attention, “that you are not getting any further away from that milestone yourself.”
“Three-and-twenty hardly gives me the status of an old hag, Mama!”
Lady Cranston sniffed. “You are positively aged compared to the young women who will be presented this season.”
“That is true, Sophia,” said Annabelle, spearing a slice of beef despite earlier declaring the soup so rich she could not eat another morsel.
Sophia shrugged, but she could not suppress a touch of remorse when she remembered her first season. She’d deliberately put herself out to be disagreeable, for the only men who came her way were uncouth, dull enough to give her the toothache or ancient beyond belief.
She may have been more amenable when her second season eventuated, but she had taken ill with a fever and was unable to attend a single occasion. By the third season she was in deep mourning for her father’s passing, and in any event, the scandal surrounding Lord Cranston and his outrageous liaison with the local vicar’s wife, along with a coterie of others, had made it impossible for her, Mama and Annabelle to be seen in public.
Since then, as Lord Cranston’s reckless and prolonged extravagance had become more apparent, and the stream of duns at the door seemed never-ending, there had been barely sufficient funds to keep the household running, let alone support a season for herself or Annabelle, who really should have been presented at least twelve months before. And so, they had languished deep in this corner of the Herefordshire countryside, their resources dwindling day-by-day despite Sophia’s best efforts to keep them afloat.
The family’s solvency clearly had not been of paramount concern to Annabelle during her sojourn in Switzerland. For there had been additional costs incurred whilst lodging with Mrs. Aubert, an old acquaintance of their mother’s, who had followed her heart and married a Swiss doctor instead of the suitor selected for her by her family. Evidence, Sophia had privately determined, that such a course of action was indeed possible.
She set aside the niggling reservation that, without her family’s wealth behind her, Mrs. Aubert clearly had to scrutinize her accounts very carefully, for she had dispatched with Annabelle an account detailing each extra service additional to the agreement they had reached during the previous autumn. Sophia had quailed at the additional costs and wondered still how she could meet them.
“Perhaps you should marry Freddy, Mama,” she suggested tartly, fully aware of the absurdity of her proposal, knowing she was merely clutching at straws while she fought to escape her predicament.
“Don’t be silly, Sophia,” said Annabelle, her cheeks pinkening at the exchange, but clearly determined to have her say lest Sophia somehow evade her familial responsibility. “Mama would not be able to bear children, and that is the whole point of marriage.”
“That is what is ridiculous!” Abandoning her dinner along with etiquette, Sophia pushed back her chair, sprang to her feet and marched across to the fireplace where she turned her back to the flames and glared at her mother and sister. “I might as well be a horse or a cow… or a pig! Only of use for breeding.”
Lady Cranston raised her autocratic brows. “A well-bred mare or a healthy sow is provided with comfortable bedding; she is well nourished, and her health is guarded. At least you won’t be served at the dinner table afterwards.”
Sophia clenched her fists. “Mama! Sometimes you go too far!”
Her mother’s expression was without remorse. “Sometimes one has to be cruel to be kind.”
“You are indeed cruel and not very kind at all.” Although her mother’s remark stung, she knew Lady Cranston’s cutting words were often designed to conceal her anxiety about both her own and her daughters’ future, which every day looked more precarious.
As if reading her thoughts, Lady Cranston held out her hand, a supplicating gesture that touched Sophia unbearably.
“I do not wish to harangue you, nor to condemn you to a miserable existence, Sophia. But neither do I wish to see you sentenced to a lifetime’s penury.” Her voice rose, panic picking at its edges. “It is no use hedging around the matt
er. Besides Freddy’s, you have received no other offer. Let us be frank, none are likely to be forthcoming. You must understand, we are on the verge of ruin. You are the only person who can raise us out of this quagmire your father has left us in. Freddy Beaumont might be a dullard, but he is not a bad person. You have the advantage of being well-acquainted with him. I had scarcely met your father before we were betrothed solely at the instigation of our parents.
“I know it’s difficult for you to see it this way, but it is to our great good fortune that Lord Beaumont’s health has deteriorated so greatly since Christmas and he was compelled to command Freddy’s return from London.”
A gust of wind rattled the window frames, introducing a chill draught into the room. Sophia shivered, despite her warm coat and the fire at her back.
“When he visited this morning, Freddy told me his father had ordered him to find a bride forthwith,” she said. “Although I am rather surprised Lord Beaumont condescended that Freddy should offer for me.”
“At least Freddy has demonstrated he has backbone,” remarked Annabelle with uncommon perception.
“That is very true,” said Lady Cranston, sending Annabelle a thankful glance. “He did not, after all, offer for any of the chits herded towards him in London although it is common knowledge his father had commanded him to do so. Perhaps if Lord Beaumont’s first wife had lived, she might have borne a more attractive heir,” she said reflectively. “Isobel Hexham was an extremely striking woman and enjoyed rude health, especially compared to Freddy’s mother. Poor Constance had no looks to speak of and simply did not have the constitution to endure the birth of her first and only child.”
After a short pause she continued, the note in her voice holding a plea Sophia had never heard before. “I know Freddy can be a bit oafish… even a trifle unformed…”
“It is as if he has never grown past the age of twelve, Mama!”
Lady Cranston’s smile did not touch her eyes. “As you grow older you will find many of the male species possess that characteristic, my dear. One grows accustomed to it.”
Sophia lifted her chin. “It seems women must grow accustomed to much that is intrinsically disagreeable. I know you would have preferred I had accepted Freddy’s offer immediately. But must I truly be compelled into this, or any marriage, to live with him, or someone like him for the rest of my life?” She shuddered. “The thought of… of… breeding with Freddy makes me feel ill.”
“One does not think,” said Lady Cranston, ignoring Annabelle’s shocked gasp. “One simply does one’s duty.”
“But surely there must be an alternative?”
Lady Cranston shook her head. “Sadly, my dear, no, at least not for you and me. It is only those very few, fortunate women who have been blessed with independent means who are able to employ such luxuries. We are not only in the back of beyond in the physical sense. Unfortunately for all of us, your father’s feckless behavior and the nature of his demise have put us beyond the pale in the eyes of polite society.”
Sophia saw a possible escape and grasped the opportunity. “You see, Mama? Marriage did not provide you with any security whatsoever. Just look what happened to you and Papa!”
Her mother’s eyes flashed. She sat erect and carved the air with one of her elegant hands. “Do not speak of it! You should not even be aware of what transpired between your father and those odious creatures. While it is true that a wife may be expected to turn a blind eye to certain proclivities, one’s husband has an obligation to practice discretion.”
“Annabelle and I would have to be deaf and blind, Mama, to be unaware of the scandal,” Sophia interrupted. Her cheeks warmed as she remembered the gossiping tongues that had made sure she’d overheard the shocking revelation that her father had expired in the vicar’s own bedchamber, in the vicar’s own bed, with the vicar’s wife very much present and in a state of extreme déshabillé. There had even been mention of another woman in that supposedly chaste vicarage bed, but this had seemed excessively wicked to Sophia’s comparatively innocent ears and she had chosen not to give credence to that particular tittle-tattle.
Lady Cranston looked suddenly stricken, and it was to comfort her that Sophia stepped across and lifted her mother’s hand.
“Mama, I know marriage appears to be our only escape from ruin and I will accept Freddy if I must, but please give me a little more time before we marry. At least until after Vanessa’s picnic in May. We have a roof over our heads and surely that cannot be taken from us overnight. Why, your whole adult life has been spent here at Foxwood.”
Her mother’s expression became embittered. “Unfortunately, you are mistaken, Sophia.” She sat back and held out her hand to Annabelle, who immediately rose and came to stand beside Sophia.
As always, when Annabelle was nearby, Sophia became aware of her own robust frame in contrast to her sister’s slight figure. When Annabelle’s small hand crept into her own, she gripped it tightly, knowing, even while her passionate heart rebelled and desolation gnawed at her ambitions, her pathway in life must always revolve around her sister’s welfare, not her own.
Lady Cranston remained silent for a moment or two, gazing up at her daughters. Sophia knew her mother’s next utterance would be fateful. Something inside her shriveled as she waited for her mother to speak.
“I have tried to spare you the truth, my dears,” Lady Cranston said eventually, “but candor is now my only avenue. We are living here only by the grace and favor of some distant cousin of your father’s. Benedict Cranston has lived abroad since the end of the Peninsular War.” She shuddered and was quiet for a moment before continuing.
“Apparently, he suffered horrific injuries at Toulouse, on top of the wounds he had already sustained at the Battle of Nivelle. He has been undergoing a long period of convalescence but has now decided to return to England.”
Listening to her mother, Sophia’s imagination had been caught by the story of the wounded soldier, weary after years of battle, longing for the healing solitude of the English countryside. And if Foxwood, albeit decrepit and heavily mortgaged, now belonged to this distant cousin whom she had no recollection of ever meeting, then he had every right to assume ownership.
“Is his arrival imminent, Mama?”
“His man of business has not furnished me with specifics, only that the new Lord Cranston expects to assume his seat at least by autumn this year.”
She sighed. “I suppose we should consider ourselves fortunate your father did not sell the estate from under our feet to indulge that… woman, while we moved into the poorhouse. However, as I have told you, the roof over our heads is as precarious as all the chattels we have been selling to keep the bailiff from our door. There is precious little left of my jointure and no dowry to speak of for either of you.”
Sophia closed her eyes. Her stomach tightened as the significance of Mama’s words sank in, each of them landing like a hammer-blow to her ambitions.
She stared into the fire. In her mind’s eye, the spark of hope she had fostered flickered and then was lost to the flames.
“We might just as well be garden debris flung about in the wind,” she said bitterly. “We have so little discretion in the way we live our lives. Sometimes I wish I’d been born a man.”
“I have often had that very same desire,” observed Lady Cranston. “But it is pointless chasing dreams.”
Chasing dreams was something she was rather good at, Sophia considered, for all her life she had dreamed of something other than the existence expected of a well-bred young woman of her class. But it seemed the time had truly come for her to set her dreams aside.
She turned towards her mother and sister, knowing the smile she gave them held little humor. “I know, Mama. Wishes are for fishes.”
Chapter Five
After a restless night, Sophia flung the bedcovers aside. She’d woken in the dawn’s half-light to find Mr. Cavanaugh’s face shockingly vivid in her mind. With a flash of recognition that had eluded
her in the excitement of their meeting yesterday, she realized the features she had found so tantalizingly familiar were Beaumont features! Not Freddy’s, for he resembled the portraits she’d seen of his long-dead mother, but Lord Beaumont, the Earl of Enderby himself!
The jaw, the nose, the brush of hair—all except the darkly-lashed eyes were replicated in the Earl of Enderby’s aged but arresting bone structure. She closed her eyes and Cavanaugh’s lean face appeared instantly, as sharply as if he was in the room with her.
At first she was surprised her artist’s eye, always marking colors and shapes and patterns, had not discerned the likeness immediately. But Mr. Cavanaugh was so unlike Freddy as to be of another species, and she had only ever known Lord Beaumont as an old man whose pallid complexion and sharp gaze did not encourage lengthier observation.
Staring up at the spreading damp on the ceiling, she allowed herself to speculate on what Cavanaugh’s connection to the Beaumont family might be. But only a moment went by before she abandoned her conjecture with a frustrated sigh. While his image had leapt with shocking ease to her mind, quickly on its heels came the recollection of his horrified expression when she’d said her name and how he’d recoiled as if she’d struck him with a firebrand.
She scrambled out of bed and paced over to the casement windows. The thinly-carpeted floor was cold against her bare feet. Outside, daylight had begun to press the dark of night aside. A hedgehog crept from beneath the bedraggled box hedge and Sophia watched it tip-toe across the lawn like a prickly little ghost. A shiver feathered along her spine. She herself felt prickly, agitated by the unfamiliar emotions Mr. Cavanaugh had aroused, and joyless at the prospect of her forthcoming marriage which, after her mother’s revelations the night before, now seemed inevitable. She turned away from the window, splashed her face with cold water from the pitcher on the marble stand beside her bed and dragged an ivory comb through her hair.
What difference did it make anyway, she asked herself irritably, either meeting Mr. Cavanaugh or having him rebuff her? I’m bound to marry Freddy Beaumont, like it or lump it.
The Beaumont Betrothal: Northbridge Bride Series Book 2 Page 4