by Julia Quinn
“I am a nobleman’s bastard,” she said harshly, years of anger and resentment pouring forth. “My father was the Earl of Penwood and my mother was a maid. Yes,” she spat out when she saw his face grow pale, “my mother was a lady’s maid. Just as I am a lady’s maid.”
A heavy pause filled the air, and then Sophie said in a low voice, “I won’t be like my mother.”
“And yet, if she’d behaved otherwise,” he said, “you wouldn’t be here to tell me about it.”
“That’s not the point.”
Benedict’s hands, which had been fisted at his sides, began to twitch. “You lied to me,” he said in a low voice.
“There was no need to tell you the truth.”
“Who the hell are you to decide?” he exploded. “Poor little Benedict, he can’t handle the truth. He can’t make up his own mind. He—”
He broke off, disgusted by the whiny edge to his voice. She was turning him into someone he didn’t know, someone he didn’t like.
He had to get out of there. He had to—
“Benedict?” She was looking at him oddly. Her eyes were concerned.
“I have to go,” he muttered. “I can’t see you right now.”
“Why?” she asked, and he could see from her face that she instantly regretted the question.
“I am so angry right now,” he said, each word a slow, staccato beat in the sentence, “that I don’t know myself. I—” He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He wanted to hurt her, he realized. No, he didn’t want to hurt her. He would never want to hurt her. And yet . . .
And yet . . .
It was the first time in his life he’d felt so out of control. It scared him.
“I have to go,” he said again, and he brushed roughly past her as he strode out the door.
Chapter 20
While we are on the topic, Miss Reiling’s mother, the Countess of Penwood, has also been acting very strange of late. According to servants’ gossip (which we all know is always the most reliable sort), the countess threw quite the tantrum last night, hurling no fewer than seventeen shoes at her servants.
One footman sports a bruised eye, but other than that, all remain in good health.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 11 JUNE 1817
Within an hour, Sophie had her bag packed. She didn’t know what else to do. She was gripped—painfully gripped—by nervous energy, and she could not sit still. Her feet kept moving and her hands were shaking, and every few minutes, she found herself taking a big spontaneous gulp of air, as if the extra breath could somehow calm her inside.
She could not imagine that she would be allowed to remain here in Lady Bridgerton’s household after such a horrible falling-out with Benedict. Lady Bridgerton was fond of Sophie, it was true, but Benedict was her son. Blood really was thicker than just about anything else, especially when it was Bridgerton blood.
It was sad, really, she thought as she sat down on her bed, her hands still torturing a hopelessly mangled handkerchief. For all her inner turmoil over Benedict, she’d liked living in the Bridgerton household. Sophie had never before had the honor of living amongst a group of people who truly understood the meaning of the word family.
She would miss them.
She would miss Benedict.
And she would mourn the life she could not have.
Unable to sit still, she jumped back to her feet and walked to the window. “Damn you, Papa,” she said, looking up at the skies. “There. I’ve called you Papa. You never let me do that. You never wanted to be that.” She gasped convulsively, using the back of her hand to wipe at her nose. “I’ve called you Papa. How does it feel?”
But there was no sudden clap of thunder, no gray cloud appearing out of nowhere to cover up the sun. Her father would never know how angry she was with him for leaving her penniless, leaving her with Araminta. Most likely, he wouldn’t have cared.
She felt rather weary, and she leaned against the window frame, rubbing her eyes with her hand. “You gave me a taste of another life,” she whispered, “and then left me in the wind. It would have been so much easier if I’d been raised a servant.
“I wouldn’t have wanted so much. It would have been easier.”
She turned back around, her eyes falling upon her single, meager bag. She hadn’t wanted to take any of the dresses that Lady Bridgerton and her daughters had given her, but she’d had little choice in the matter, as her old dresses had already been relegated to the rag bin. So she’d chosen only two, the same number with which she’d arrived—the one she happened to be wearing when Benedict had discovered her identity, and a spare, which she’d tucked in the bag. The rest had been left hanging, neatly pressed, in the wardrobe.
Sophie sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. It was time to go. Where, she didn’t know, but she couldn’t stay here.
She leaned down and picked up the bag. She had a little money saved. Not much, but if she worked and was frugal, she’d have enough funds for passage to America within a year. She’d heard that things were easier there for those of less-than-respectable birth, that the boundaries of class weren’t quite as strict as they were here in England.
She poked her head out into the hall, which was blessedly vacant. She knew she was a coward, but she didn’t want to have to say good-bye to the Bridgerton daughters. She might do something really stupid, like cry, and then she’d feel even worse. Never in her life had she had the chance to spend time with women of her own age who treated her with respect and affection. She’d once hoped that Rosamund and Posy would be her sisters, but that had never come to pass. Posy might have tried, but Araminta wouldn’t allow it, and Posy, for all her sweetness, had never been strong enough to stand up to her mother.
But she did have to bid farewell to Lady Bridgerton. There was no getting around that. Lady Bridgerton had been kind to her far beyond any expectations, and Sophie would not thank her by sneaking out and disappearing like some criminal. If she was lucky, Lady Bridgerton would not yet have heard of her altercation with Benedict. Sophie could give her notice, bid her farewell, and be off.
It was late afternoon, well past tea time, so Sophie decided to take a chance and see if Lady Bridgerton was in the small office she kept off of her bedchamber. It was a warm and cozy little room, with a writing desk and several bookshelves—a place where Lady Bridgerton penned her correspondence and settled the household accounts.
The door was ajar, so Sophie knocked softly, allowing the door to swing open a few inches as her knuckles connected with the wood.
“Enter!” came Lady Bridgerton’s bidding.
Sophie pushed the door open and poked her head in. “Am I interrupting?” she asked quietly.
Lady Bridgerton set down her quill. “Yes, but it’s a welcome interruption. I’ve never enjoyed balancing the household accounts.”
“I would—” Sophie bit her tongue. She had been about to say that she would have been happy to take over the task; she’d always been good with numbers.
“You were saying?” Lady Bridgerton asked, her eyes warm.
Sophie gave her head a little shake. “Nothing.”
The room lapsed into silence until Lady Bridgerton gave Sophie a slightly amused smile, and asked, “Was there a specific reason you knocked on my door?”
Sophie took a deep breath that was meant to settle her nerves (but didn’t) and said, “Yes.”
Lady Bridgerton looked at her expectantly but didn’t say anything.
“I’m afraid I must resign my position here,” Sophie said.
Lady Bridgerton actually rose out of her seat. “But why? Aren’t you happy? Have any of the girls been mistreating you?”
“No, no,” Sophie hastened to assure her. “That could not be further from the truth. Your daughters are so lovely—in heart as well as in appearance. I’ve never— That is to say, no one has ever—”
“What is it, Sophie?”
Sophie clutched at the doorframe, desperately trying to find
her balance. Her legs felt unsteady, her heart felt unsteady. Any moment now she was going to burst into tears, and why? Because the man she loved would never marry her? Because he hated her for lying to him? Because he’d broken her heart twice—once by asking her to be his mistress, and once by making her love his family and then forcing her to leave?
He might not have demanded that she go, but it couldn’t have been more obvious that she could not stay.
“It’s Benedict, isn’t it?”
Sophie’s head snapped up.
Lady Bridgerton smiled sadly. “It’s obvious that there is some feeling between you,” she said gently, answering the question that Sophie knew must show in her eyes.
“Why didn’t you fire me?” Sophie whispered. She didn’t think that Lady Bridgerton knew that Sophie and Benedict had been intimate, but no one of Lady Bridgerton’s position would want her son pining for a housemaid.
“I don’t know,” Lady Bridgerton replied, looking more conflicted than Sophie could ever have imagined. “I probably should have done.” She shrugged, her eyes strangely helpless. “But I like you.”
The tears Sophie had been working so hard to keep in check began to roll down her face, but beyond that, she somehow managed to keep her composure. She didn’t shake, and she didn’t make a sound. She just stood there, utterly still, as the tears came forth.
When Lady Bridgerton spoke again, her words held a very careful and measured quality, as if she were choosing them with great care, searching for a specific reply. “You are,” she said, her eyes never leaving Sophie’s face, “the sort of woman I would like for my son. Our acquaintance has not been a long one, but I know your character and I know your heart. And I wish—”
A small, choked sob burst forth from Sophie’s mouth, but she swallowed it down as quickly as she could.
“I wish that you were of a different background,” Lady Bridgerton continued, acknowledging Sophie’s cry with a sympathetic tilt of her head and a sad, slow blink of her eyes. “Not that I hold such a thing against you, or think the less of you, but it makes things very difficult.”
“Impossible,” Sophie whispered.
Lady Bridgerton didn’t say anything, and Sophie knew that in her heart she agreed—if not completely, then ninety-eight percent—with her assessment.
“Is it possible,” Lady Bridgerton asked, her words even more measured and careful than before, “that your background is not quite what it seems?”
Sophie said nothing.
“There are things about you that don’t add up, Sophie.” Sophie knew that she expected her to ask what, but she had a fair idea what Lady Bridgerton meant.
“Your accent is impeccable,” Lady Bridgerton said. “I know you told me that you had lessons with the children your mother worked for, but that doesn’t seem like enough of an explanation to me. Those lessons wouldn’t have started until you were a bit older, six at the very earliest, and your speech patterns would have already been rather set by that point.”
Sophie felt her eyes widen. She’d never seen that particular hole in her story, and she was rather surprised that no one else had until now. But then again, Lady Bridgerton was a good deal smarter than most of the people to whom she had told her fabricated history.
“And you know Latin,” Lady Bridgerton said. “Don’t try to deny it. I heard you muttering under your breath the other day when Hyacinth vexed you.”
Sophie kept her gaze fixed firmly on the window just to Lady Bridgerton’s left. She couldn’t quite bring herself to meet her eyes.
“Thank you for not denying it,” Lady Bridgerton said. And then she waited for Sophie to say something, waited so long that finally Sophie had to fill the interminable silence.
“I’m not a suitable match for your son,” was all she said.
“I see.”
“I really have to go.” She had to get the words out quickly, before she changed her mind.
Lady Bridgerton nodded. “If that is your wish, there is nothing I can do to stop you. Where is it you plan to go?”
“I have relatives in the north,” Sophie lied.
Lady Bridgerton clearly didn’t believe her, but she answered, “You will, of course, use one of our carriages.”
“No, I couldn’t possibly.”
“You can’t think I would permit you to do otherwise. I consider you to be my responsibility—at least for the next few days—and it is far too dangerous for you to leave unescorted. It’s not safe for women alone in this world.”
Sophie couldn’t quite suppress a rueful smile. Lady Bridgerton’s tone might be different, but her words were almost exactly those uttered by Benedict a few weeks earlier. And look where that had gotten her. She would never say that she and Lady Bridgerton were close friends, but she knew her well enough to know that she would not be budged on this issue.
“Very well,” Sophie acceded. “Thank you.” She could have the carriage drop her off somewhere, preferably not too far from a port where she could eventually book passage to America, and then decide where to go from there.
Lady Bridgerton offered her a small, sad smile. “I assume you already have your bags packed?”
Sophie nodded. It didn’t seem necessary to point out that she only had one bag, singular.
“Have you made all of your good-byes?”
Sophie shook her head. “I’d rather not,” she admitted.
Lady Bridgerton stood and nodded. “Sometimes that is best,” she agreed. “Why don’t you await me in the front hall? I will see to having a coach brought ’round.”
Sophie turned and started to walk out, but when she reached the doorway, she stopped and turned around. “Lady Bridgerton, I—”
The older lady’s eyes lit up, as if she were expecting some good news. Or if not good, then at least something different. “Yes?”
Sophie swallowed. “I just wanted to thank you.”
The light in Lady Bridgerton’s eyes dimmed a little. “Whatever for?”
“For having me here, for accepting me, and allowing me to pretend I was a part of your family.”
“Don’t be sil—”
“You didn’t have to let me take tea with you and the girls,” Sophie interrupted. If she didn’t get this all out now, she’d lose her courage. “Most women wouldn’t have done. It was lovely . . . and new . . . and . . .” She gulped. “I will miss you all.”
“You don’t have to go,” Lady Bridgerton said softly.
Sophie tried to smile, but it came out all wobbly, and it tasted like tears. “Yes,” she said, almost choking on the word. “I do.”
Lady Bridgerton stared at her for a very long moment, her pale blue eyes filled with compassion and then maybe a touch of realization. “I see,” she said quietly.
And Sophie feared that she did see.
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Lady Bridgerton said. Sophie nodded as she stood aside to let the dowager viscountess pass. Lady Bridgerton paused in the hallway, looking down at Sophie’s well-worn bag. “Is that all you have?” she asked.
“Everything in the world.”
Lady Bridgerton swallowed uncomfortably, and her cheeks took on the slightest hue of pink, almost as if she were actually embarrassed by her riches—and Sophie’s lack thereof.
“But that . . .” Sophie said, motioning to the bag, “that’s not what’s important. What you have . . .” She stopped and swallowed, doing battle with the lump in her throat. “I don’t mean what you own . . .”
“I know what you mean, Sophie.” Lady Bridgerton dabbed at her eyes with her fingers. “Thank you.”
Sophie’s shoulders rose and fell in a tiny shrug. “It’s the truth.”
“Let me give you some money before you go, Sophie,” Lady Bridgerton blurted out.
Sophie shook her head. “I couldn’t. I’ve already taken two of the dresses you gave me. I didn’t want to, but—”
“It’s all right,” Lady Bridgerton assured her. “What else could you do? The ones you came w
ith are gone.” She cleared her throat. “But please, let me give you some money.” She saw Sophie open her mouth to protest and said, “Please. It would make me feel better.”
Lady Bridgerton had a way of looking at a person that truly made one want to do as she asked, and besides that, Sophie really did need the money. Lady Bridgerton was a generous lady; she might even give Sophie enough to book third-class passage across the ocean. Sophie found herself saying, “Thank you,” before her conscience had a chance to grapple with the offer.
Lady Bridgerton gave her a brief nod and disappeared down the hall.
Sophie took a long, shaky breath, then picked up her bag and walked slowly down the stairs. She waited in the foyer for a moment, then decided she might as well wait outside. It was a fine spring day, and Sophie thought that a bit of sun on her nose might be just the thing to make her feel better. Well, at least a little bit better. Besides, she’d be less likely to run into one of the Bridgerton daughters, and much as she was going to miss them, she just didn’t want to have to say good-bye.
Still clutching her bag in one hand, she pushed open the front door and descended the steps.
It shouldn’t take too long for the coach to be brought around. Five minutes, maybe ten, maybe—
“Sophie Beckett!”
Sophie’s stomach dropped right down to her ankles. Araminta. How could she have forgotten?
Frozen into inaction, she looked around and up the stairs, trying to figure out which way to flee. If she ran back into the Bridgerton house, Araminta would know where to find her, and if she took off on foot—
“Constable!” Araminta shrieked. “I want a constable!”
Sophie dropped her bag and took off running.
“Someone stop her!” Araminta screamed. “Stop thief! Stop thief!”
Sophie kept running, even though she knew it would make her look guilty. She ran with every last fiber in her muscles, with every gulp of air she could force into her lungs. She ran and she ran and she ran . . .
Until someone tackled her, thumping into her back and knocking her to the ground.
“I got her!” the man yelled. “I got her for you!”