by Erica Vetsch
An uneasy thump hit behind his sternum. He had the girls’ futures to organize as well, and from the look of the doe eyes Penny was casting toward the first young man to cross her path at Gateshead, he should prioritize that task.
“Who is that?” Sophie stared down the hall as Penny followed in Miles’s wake.
“An employee.” He told her what he knew of young Mr. Enys. “You haven’t met him yet, I take it?”
“No. I’ve been upstairs taking inventory of the linen cupboards.” Her tongue darted out to moisten her lower lip, and he found himself mimicking the gesture. What was wrong with him to be so distracted? Before he knew it, he’d be flitting his lashes like Penny. He’d do better to concentrate on the matter at hand and not let his imagination fly free.
“Oh, the Reverend Dunhill brought a letter for you as well.” He pulled it from behind his own missive. “Good news, I hope.”
“It’s probably Marcus with a scold for being lax in writing to him. The letter I sent yesterday won’t reach him for several days.” She took the envelope, flipping it to study the wax seal. “Oh, it’s from Mother.”
With her thumbnail, she broke the closure and pulled out the pages. It was a fat letter with small, even handwriting.
“I’ll give you some privacy. I must compose a response to the Admiralty. When you’re finished reading, would you come to the study? I need to compile a list of girls’ schools.” He looked toward where Penny and Miles had disappeared. “Quickly.”
But Sophie wasn’t listening. By the time she had finished the first page, she allowed her hands to drop. Her eyes closed, and she shook her head, tentatively at first, but then emphatically.
“What is it? Is something wrong at home?” He took hold of her elbow gently, in case she was feeling faint. The way the color had drained from her face must have made her light-headed.
“My mother is the absolute …” She looked at the coffered ceiling three stories above. “What is she thinking?” Another pause while she raised the letter and shook it, frustration emanating from her tense muscles. “Why can she not leave me alone? I am not a project to be completed or something broken to be fixed. I can take care of myself, make my own decisions, and choose my own path.”
By her challenging glare, she seemed to want him to agree with her.
“Of course you can?” He had meant to be reassuring, but the statement came out as a question. He was in uncharted waters here. “What is the germane issue?”
“My mother.” She flicked the pages with the back of her fingers, holding the letter up before his nose. “She seems to think that the minute my ‘summer of mourning by the sea’ is over, I should hurry back to Haverly Manor because she’s already preparing invitations for a hunting and shooting party. It appears there will be stalking going on outside, but inside as well. She’s listed no less than seven eligible bachelors that she’s inviting for hunting fox, grouse, deer, and spinster daughters.” She stamped her foot and threw the letter onto the floor. As pages floated down like sails ripped from the mast, she subsided onto the bottom stair and fisted her hands on her forehead.
Charles stood still, unsure what to do. Should he commiserate with her? Ask questions? Promise action? She had always behaved with maturity and calm, but at the moment her reaction resembled something more akin to Thea or Betsy.
What he wanted to do was lower himself beside her, take her into his arms, and assure her that everything would be all right.
Before he could tell himself what a terrible idea that was, he had his arm around her, drawing her gently toward his chest and putting his chin on top of her head. And to his surprise, she didn’t shove him away. Instead, she leaned into him.
“Why can’t she understand that I have no desire to fall in love again?”
The words were muffled against his shirtfront, and he closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of her hair. She only spoke the truth he already knew, but it still made his heart heavy. It seemed so wrong for someone as vital and vivid as Sophie to chain herself to the past, to a dead man who would not want her to be forever mourning. Rich would have wanted her to live. Not to forget him, but to find happiness once more.
If he had been going to remain at Gateshead, perhaps she could have someday found that happiness with him.
He shoved that thought aside. It was impossible. Not only was he years too old for her and a virtual stranger, but he had contributed to her greatest loss. She might be gracious enough to be civil to him, or even friendly, but she would never fall in love with him.
He was a naval officer. His life was at sea. She deserved someone far better than he. He didn’t want her to fall in love with him, he lied to himself.
Which didn’t stop him from reveling in the pleasure of having her in his arms, even if it was platonic on her part.
He wished she could stay safely at Gateshead forever.
A spark of an idea crashed through his head, and his arms tightened. No, it was unthinkable. A wisp of a notion that in spite of his best efforts took hold. A way he could perhaps make everyone happy?
Was it possible? It was certainly practical, prosaic at best.
But no. The notion was ridiculous, and he didn’t know what made him think it in the first place. He should enjoy this moment, make his plans as he had intended, and let everyone get on with their lives.
At which moment she sat up, smoothing her hair and gifting him a wobbly smile. “I’m sorry. You must think me a complete ninny, making a cake of myself over something so silly.”
“You’re not silly.” He let his arms fall away, turning to face the front door and putting his elbows on his knees. He still held the letter from the Admiralty, his ticket back to the life for which he longed. “Having met your mother, I can see it would be difficult to tell her to mind her own business.”
Sophie gave a shaky laugh. “She thinks everything is her business, especially her family. I know she means well, but dealing with her is like trying to stuff a draft horse in a reticule. Eventually you’re going to give up because it’s impossible.”
He smiled at her analogy. He knew nothing about horses, but the image of the dowager as a headstrong dray horse tickled him. Trying to remain casual, he put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “You’re a strong, capable woman. You’ve got a few weeks breathing room before you have to confront her. Perhaps something will come up.”
“Why are you hugging Sophie?” Thea hopped from one stair to the next, descending toward them.
They leapt up as if stung by hornets.
“Seems everyone’s making calf eyes at each other. Penny and that new boy, Miles, and now you and Sophie.” Thea made a retching sound. “It’s nasty. Seems only Mrs. Chapman and Lady Richardson have any sense around here.”
Sophie stalked along the path, well back from the cliff edge, trying to walk off her temper. With little success.
A house party at Haverly.
With more than half a dozen “suitable” young men.
God, why don’t You stop her? She’s becoming a positive menace. I am not in the least interested in finding a man to marry.
Sophie stopped, looking out across the sea. Afternoon sunshine winked off the waves in diamond points, and a gentle breeze carried the scents of brine and freshness. Daisies danced on slender stems, and grass blew in ripples that mimicked the water far below.
What a beautiful place. She had never thought anywhere could rival Primrose Cottage in her heart, but if there ever was such a place, it would be Gateshead. The house begged for someone to care for it and bring back its former glory. The wide, gentle, grassy slope that led down to the cliffs spoke to her need for a less-structured landscape. She felt as if she could breathe here, without the formality of Haverly House, without all the memories of Primrose.
For the first time in ages, she felt as if she was returning to her former self, before responsibility and grief and loneliness had stifled her customary exuberance.
She would be sad to leave
Gateshead.
The girls would too. They were already calling the nursery “their room,” and every day they explored some new corner of the house and reported back the treasures and nooks and discoveries. It could be a lovely home for them to grow up in, if only the captain wasn’t bent on sending them away.
And then there was darling Mamie. Since the girls’ arrival, she had enjoyed a clarity of mind and memory that encouraged Sophie to no end. She and Betsy had formed a sweet bond, with the little girl often standing on tiptoe and Mamie bending low as they shared some secret together.
Sophie walked toward the cliff to where a bench had been placed on a patch of gravel. Taking a seat, she turned sideways, raised her knees, and put her feet on the bench, wrapping her arms around her legs in a posture that would give her mother a fit of the vapors if she ever saw it.
But it was how Sophie prayed best.
“God, I don’t know what to do.” She spoke softly, and the breeze blew her words away on a whisper. “The captain is bent on leaving as soon as possible. The girls are going to be miserable shunted away to another boarding school. Mamie will be confused and unsettled when we leave Gateshead for a cottage somewhere for only a few weeks. And as soon as I return to Haverly, Mother has men lined up for inspection.” Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead on her knees. “I don’t see a happy ending for any of us … except the captain, who will get exactly what he wants, which is to be away from all of us, from all of this.”
Could she blame him? He hadn’t asked for any of the things that had happened to him. Being wounded, losing his command, inheriting a title, escorting Sophie and Mamie to Devonshire, three little girls foisted upon him.
She had supplied him with the names of three ladies’ academies that might take the girls. And the entire time, she had felt like a traitor.
Sophie could only imagine the look in Thea’s eyes as she was put on a coach to a destination she didn’t know or want. And Betsy. Sweet Betsy wouldn’t even truly understand what was going on. She would look to her sisters and to Sophie for comfort and assurance. Penny would try to be brave, convincing herself that she could handle the situation, that she was old enough to act as a mother to her sisters, when in reality, she needed a mother’s guiding hand herself.
“God, everything in me wants to offer to become the girls’ guardian myself, but would the courts even allow that? Not to mention what Marcus and Mother would have to say if I took on three motherless children without the support of a husband. They barely agreed to allow us to come on this trip in the first place. I would love to ask the captain if Mamie and I could stay on here instead of looking for a cottage to rent. We could look after the girls, at least for the rest of the summer, and put off them having to leave. But we can’t impose and invite ourselves to stay when he clearly wants to wash his hands of all of us and get back to the career he loves. I feel so helpless. I used to know exactly how my life was going to go, but now everything is turned upside down, and I can’t find my way. If You would just point me in the right direction, I’d really appreciate it.”
She raised her head, wiping away the tears that always came when she and God had a heart-to-heart. Though she had no answers, she felt at peace because she had poured out everything to God. It was up to Him now.
Letting her feet fall to the ground, she straightened her dress and smoothed her hair. Scanning the slope up to the house, her heart popped in a quick extra beat. The captain strode across the grass toward her.
He had comforted her on the stairs, and she had enjoyed it. Strong arms holding her, the steady beat of a heart against her cheek, the warmth of human contact. She had missed that, being able to lean on someone else for a little while.
A twinge of guilt pinched in her chest. Was it wrong of her to have drawn comfort from the captain? She had vowed to love only Rich for the rest of her days. But then again, she didn’t love Captain Wyvern. No, what she felt for him was … regard. Admiration. Perhaps the beginning of friendship?
Did that mean she had forgiven him for whatever part he might have played in Rich’s death? When he had first told her of the events that led to Rich being shot, she had been eager to have somewhere to place the blame. If the captain was willing to bear the burden, she had been more than willing to let him.
But as the days had passed, and as she’d thought about his account of the capture of the enemy ship, her anger had faded. She was coming to a place of acceptance. That somehow, someway, Rich dying in Portugal had been no one’s fault. Death in war had always been a possibility. She had known it even as she had prayed for it never to happen.
In truth, she hadn’t forgiven Charles Wyvern, because there was nothing to forgive.
Charles was her friend, and allowing him to comfort her had not been wrong. There had been nothing romantic in it.
Thea’s claim of everyone making calf eyes at one another was laughable. The child merely hadn’t understood an embrace between friends.
Why was he seeking her out now? To ask her for help in choosing a school for the girls? Or for assistance in hiring staff before he left? She gripped the back of the bench and waited.
But when he reached her, he merely smiled and raised a nautical spyglass to his eye. “I spotted something from the upstairs study, and I thought you might like to see it.”
“What?” She looked out to the water, but nothing seemed different. A wide expanse of sea and sky.
“A ship.” He lowered the glass and handed it to her as she stood. “At your one o’clock.”
The telescope was fine wood and brass and glass, well cared for and heavy in her hands. How many voyages had it been on with the captain? She raised it to her eye, and the horizon swung crazily, blurry and hard to find. He moved behind her, cupping her shoulders and turning her slightly.
“There.” He pointed. She sighted the spyglass along his arm. “Don’t touch the rim to your face. You’ll see better with it held just away from you.”
She followed his instructions, aware of his presence so close to her. If she backed up an inch, her shoulders would brush his chest. The scent of soap and bay rum drifted around her. She swallowed hard and concentrated. In the center of the cylinder, a ship appeared, the sun gleaming off her sails.
“Is it a navy ship?” she asked.
“No.” Humor tinged his voice. “It’s a merchant ship. If you’ll look at her stern, you’ll see she isn’t flying a naval flag.”
At this distance, it didn’t appear as if the ship was making any progress at all, but it must be, because her sails were bellied out.
His sigh skimmed the top of her head.
Lowering the glass, she looked up at him. His three-quarters profile was sharp, his eyes keen as he stared into the distance. The cut on his brow had dried, and the swelling had gone down considerably.
The ship was a mere dot on the horizon, but it grew larger as she watched it. “I wonder who is aboard, and what it’s carrying, and where it’s going.”
“I wonder that with every ship I see. And I hope soon it will be me, carrying men, headed to Elba and the blockade.” He took the spyglass, collapsing the segments into a compact tube.
“What is it about life aboard ship that you yearn for so much?” She crossed her arms, aware of the freshening breeze and the sun making its way toward the west. What must this coast be like in winter?
“Many things. The camaraderie of the crew, the clear-cut mission and chain of command. The loyalty of the men.” He tapped the telescope against his thigh. “It’s the sun and the wind and the waves and the sea. The creaking of the rigging and the cry of seabirds. Porpoises leaping out of the water and the jetting spray of a whale as it blows.”
She turned to him. His words were almost lyrical. Her scrutiny must have discomfited him, for color crept up from his collar, and he cleared his throat, shifting his weight. His hands went behind him, and he straightened his shoulders. Within seconds he had traversed the area in front of the bench.
“I
came to show you the ship, but I also had another reason.” He took measured steps, turning on his heel and repeating the distance. “I know you’ve only been here a few days, but you and Mamie seem to have settled in well. You have been an excellent help with the girls. I don’t know what I would have done without you and Mrs. Chapman to organize them.”
He stopped pacing and stood before her, back to the sea, his eyes intent. “I have a proposition for you to consider.”
Sophie’s breath caught in her throat. It could be anything, but dare she hope he might ask her to stay on at Gateshead for the summer?
“I would like you to stay on at Gateshead. I believe your doing so would solve many of the challenges facing us.” He resumed his pacing—four steps, pivot, four steps, pivot.
“First, it would allow the girls to remain here. They’ve had much upheaval in their lives, and I know you are resistant to sending them away to school. If you are here, they will be able to stay. It’s a lot to take on, but they seem biddable enough, and you have a good way with them.
“Second, while a reliable steward for the estate is a must, I need someone in charge of the household. I am certain your training included how to run a manor, oversee servants, and the like. I trust you completely, which would be essential.
“Third, I believe Lady Richardson is at peace here. She seems happy enough, especially when with the girls. I don’t believe she would be disappointed to remain at Gateshead.
“Fourth, you would not be subjected to your mother’s machinations. She would be forced to cease her plans to matchmake for you.
“And finally,” he paused in his striding about. “If you were to stay here at Gateshead, it would allow me to fulfill Rich’s last request of me. He asked me to take care of you. I cannot think of a better or more permanent way to take care of you than to marry you.”
Sophie wondered if the earth had shifted. She gripped the back of the bench to steady herself. “Marry me?” She had thought he was merely asking her to stay for the summer.
His brows traveled toward his hairline. “Of course. What did you think I meant?” He removed his hands from behind his back, still holding the telescope.