by Jo Manning
Charles pointed to the crude, hand-lettered sign:
Match Wits With
The Midget Mental Calculator!
Brent peered at the sign, then grinned, slapping Charles on the back. He, too, had witnessed William’s amazing facility with numbers. They ran toward the stall and took up positions at the rear of the small group of villagers. William stood on a small platform, frowning in concentration as John posed a question.
“In a library of ten thousand, three hundred and forty-seven volumes, if the average number of pages in each be three hundred and fifty-nine, how many pages are there altogether?” William closed his eyes.
The crowd held its breath as Charles counted thirty seconds. Then the boy opened his eyes and stated in a firm voice, “Three million, seven hundred and fourteen thousand, five hundred and seventy-three.”
Behind him, two men were furiously computing the sums. “More time!” they called out. John nodded, waiting before posing another mathematical problem. When the previous answer had been verified after some minutes, a country lad in the audience stepped forward.
“Can you take my question?” Both boys nodded as the audience grew still. “I am now fourteen years old, and suppose…suppose I spend two shillings and six farthings every day of my life, and I live…oh, say fifty years more. How many farthings shall I spend during my life?” He stepped back.
Charles had barely begun to count out the seconds when the answer came: “Two million, eight hundred and five thousand, one hundred twenty farthings.”
Behind the platform, the adults computing the answer called, “He’s correct again, the little bugger!” The crowd cheered at the amazing swiftness and accuracy of William’s calculations.
The “midget mental calculator” blushed, and the crowd began to disperse. Charles and Brent moved forward.
“Mr. Heywood!” John cried out. “You have found us!”
A wrinkle-faced farmwife paused, hearing John’s exclamation. “Thanks be to our good St. Stamia, lad! She sees to it that the lost are found!”
“Indeed, madam, indeed,” Charles agreed. “She has led us to these boys.”
William ran up to Lord Brent. “We meant to ride home with a farmer in a hay wagon who was to be bound for Rowley Village, sir, but he left before we could ask him. You see, Arthur deposited us here, and we had no money, and no way to get home.”
Lord Brent squatted in the grass. “Whoa, boy, whoa! Take a breath, now! Who is Arthur? And what happened after your carriage was stopped by the highwaymen?”
John, holding tightly to the vicar’s hand, answered for his excited younger brother. “There were two highwaymen, sir, two scurvy rogues! They tied us up with rope and left us in a barn, but one of them, the less scurvy, I reckon, returned to release us. His name was Arthur, he said. He dropped us here during the night and we didn’t know where we were until morning.”
Lord Brent looked up. “You are all right, then? No physical harm? You have been fed?” The boys’ clothes looked a bit ragged and dusty, but they were alert and cheerful, for all that.
William nodded. “We are fine, sir. We have been having a grand time. Joseph and Jacob”—he pointed towards the two men who had been computing the answers to the problems posed by John—“gave us half of the money the crowd threw and food to eat.”
Brent rose and opened his purse. “How much do we owe you, sirs, for taking care of these two young men?”
Joseph pulled his forelock. “It were our pleasure, sir, to keep the lads safe.” He grinned. “Brought good business to our little booth, they did.” Jacob, behind him, nodded in assent. Then Joseph turned to John. “Why did ye not tell us who ye were?”
“We were afraid that if you knew…” John began, then hung his head, ashamed to admit his lack of faith in the men who’d been so kind to them, but Joseph nodded kindly.
“Take this as a reward, please,” Brent insisted, passing a shiny gold guinea to the duo.
“Thankee, sir,” they cried in delighted unison.
“Now, boys”—Brent turned to the Rowley brothers—“I think your mama is looking forward to your return!”
Rowley Hall was full of strangers. They continued arriving, much to the consternation of Bromley and the serving staff, who had just begun to return to their normal schedule after the upheaval caused by the outbreak of putrid sore throat and the mysterious flight of Lady Sophia’s father. A Ramsbotham retainer brought the news that the Earl of Dunhaven had been seen consorting with two unsavory characters at the Cock and Bull Inn some days previously. The landlord of that establishment, when questioned and threatened by the magistrate, had supplied their names. Unfortunately, Bert and Arthur Coats could not be found; they, too, had left for parts unknown.
Chapter Sixteen
For aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth…
—William Shakespeare, A Mid-Summer’s Night Dream,
Act I, Scene 1
Lady Sophia hosted a joyful open house to celebrate the safe return of her sons and to thank those who had searched for them and had sought news of the earl. She had been overwhelmed by the generosity of her neighbors and the outpouring of genuine affection for John and William. Her guests included a party from the Lake Country. After receiving her letter concerning the children’s kidnapping, Sir James Mainwaring and his grown son Percy had traveled posthaste to Rowley Hall. They were accompanied by Viscount Ashley—Charles Heywood’s father—and Harry, the vicar’s elder brother, all come to lend their aid and support.
Sophia cornered Charles on the lawn, where tables groaned under the weight of the food and drink that had been laid out. “Charles, I can never thank you enough for your great kindness. All of this generosity…Well, I am quite overwhelmed.” She could barely speak, her heart was so full.
“My lady,” the vicar replied, “George was respected by all who knew him as a fine man and neighbor, ready to assist whenever he was called upon, and you have shown yourself to be a good neighbor as well. The boys are highly thought of by your tenants, the villagers, and the local gentry. And I…I pledged to George that I would do all in my power for you and his sons.”
Sophia shook her head. “You do not realize, Charles, how little kindness I have known in my life.” She squeezed his hand. “No one in London cared if I lived or died. And I, alas, could also have shown more concern for others. Now…now I am affected by Sarah’s broken wrist, by the gunshot wounds suffered by my footmen, by the deaths of those poor folk from the putrid sore throat.”
She gave a wry laugh. “It was as if all of their misfortunes were my own. I have never felt this way before. It is unsettling, I must say. It is…it is quite startling to me.”
“Sophia—” Alone at the edge of the great lawn, they were openly calling each other by their Christian names. “Sophia, you have been accepted by the people of this community, and, more important, you have accepted them.”
She nodded. “I shall have to become accustomed to this. It is all so very new to me.” She turned the full force of her brilliant blue eyes on him. “Charles, about us—”
William approached running, careening into the vicar and almost bowling him over. Sophia reached out a hand to steady him. “William! Take care, my dear,” she quietly admonished her son.
“Sorry, Mama! Sir James wanted to know if we still intend to visit Hal and Thaddeus. He says we can return with him in their carriage, as ours has been damaged. May we, Mama, may we?” William turned imploring eyes up at her. Sophia smiled, ruffling his hair. She moved her hand to the side of his face, feeling his warm cheek. He was alive, safe. Hers.
“I see no reason why not, William, but allow me to consult with your guardian.” She turned in mock-serious fashion toward the Reverend Mr. Heywood. “Sir, what do you think of this proposition?”
Following her lead, Charles frowned, hand on chin, as if seriously considering the request. “Wel
l…I suppose…”
“Say yes, Mr. Heywood, sir, please, say yes!” William begged.
Charles laughed. “Of course, you imp! Did your brother put you up to this?”
The boy lowered his head. “Well—”
“Off with you!” Charles chuckled, and Sophia saw him nearly knock John over as he ran to him with the good news.
“The trouble with children so near in age, my lady, is that they often plot together against their parents,” he informed her.
“I am beginning to see that, sir.” She smiled. “I was my parents’ only offspring, and had few playmates, so I had no one with whom to conspire.”
She added, “I find your brother Harry quite charming, Charles. Your father, also. The family resemblance is very marked; I knew them at once.” They were handsome men, Sophia thought, though Charles was perhaps the most well-favored. At least in her eyes…
“Everyone says we are much alike, my lady, but not so much as John and William, who could be twins except for the difference in their sizes.”
Sophia’s eyes flickered to where little Chloe Brown was amusing both John and William with her antics. She was blindfolded and attempting to catch hold of them with her pudgy arms, in a game of blindman’s bluff. John had just pushed William right up to her, so she could grab her quarry. She laughed as she took hold of his coat, and he groaned in mock dismay as she pulled him toward her.
Joan, who was talented with her needle, had fashioned a frock for the child from an old sprigged muslin of Sophia’s, with enough remaining for two more dresses. Chloe was now, without doubt, the best garbed little girl in all of Rowley Village. The wide green riband trim at the neckline brought out her leaf green eyes. “I will hate having to return that sweet child to her parents,” she averred. “I long for a little girl of my own.”
Charles Heywood’s cravat felt very tight, of a sudden. “You are thinking of marrying again, my lady?”
Lady Sophia closed her eyes demurely, the long golden lashes fanning her cheeks. “Only if I find the right man, Charles,” she whispered.
“Wh…what kind of man…would this fellow be?” he stammered.
“Not a man who would marry me only for my fortune, sir,” she replied. “Nor a man who could not love my boys. Also, we should have to suit in temperament and in beliefs, I think. We should be of like minds, though not necessarily holding the same opinion on all things. For, if so”—she smiled prettily—“I might as well marry myself.”
“And…have you found this man yet, my lady?” Charles stared into her lovely face.
So engrossed were they in conversation, they had not heard Lord Brent’s approach; the nobleman cleared his throat loudly to make the two aware of his presence. Sophia smiled at him now as he joined them.
Was Brent her ideal man, her putative husband? Charles wondered, glowering at his rival and excusing himself with the comment that he must have a word with his father.
“Ah, yes,” Brent chuckled, “the matchmaking is underway.”
Sophia was perplexed. “The matchmaking, sir? I’m afraid I do not understand.…”
Brent elaborated on his comment. “I was speaking with Percy Mainwaring, Sir James’s son. He told me that it has long been understood that your vicar and the youngest Mainwaring daughter, Charlotte Anne, would someday wed.”
Sophia recoiled as though suddenly doused with cold water. “What are you saying, Brent?”
“That it is all but done, my lady. Mr. Heywood was reluctant to agree to the marriage this past year, using the excuse of your late husband’s declining health, but now it seems he has no further excuse for delay. The Mainwarings are hoping for late fall nuptials, if not before.”
Sophia felt as if she had taken root where she stood. She could not move any of her limbs. It was an effort to force words through her lips. “I…I have not been led to believe that…that Char…that Mr. Heywood’s affections were otherwise engaged, my lord.”
Sympathy reflected from Lord Brent’s warm brown eyes. “Otherwise, my lady? Does that mean, then, that they are engaged at this moment?”
Sophia could not meet his direct, questioning gaze. “You ask too much, sir.”
Gently taking her hands in his, he asked, “You are in love with him, are you not?”
She would not answer and attempted to turn away, but Brent held her hands. “My lady, he is a fine young man. If you and he—”
Now Sophia did turn, fixing Brent with a stare. “He is younger than I, and the rector of this parish.” Unflinching, she enumerated the list of obstacles that, of late, had been much in her thoughts. “I am a woman of somewhat dubious reputation. I have been married and widowed thrice. My father plotted to kidnap—and likely to kill—my sons. My mother died under mysterious circumstances. Could any greater scandal be connected with my name?” She laughed ruefully.
Brent’s voice was soft. “What, my lady, does any of this have to do with the love you and Mr. Heywood may have for each other?”
“His father would never agree to such a match, Brent, and he is a good and obedient son. As you have just described, they favor another for his future wife and are even now in the midst of solidifying a marriage contract. And though I tell you, my friend, that my notorious reputation is somewhat exaggerated, it still clings to me and damages me.”
Sophia shook her head. “I am no fool. If Charles Heywood has any ambitions in the church, any inclination to rise further in that hierarchy, they would be better served by marrying a pure young woman like the Mainwaring daughter, a girl untainted by the slightest breath, the merest whisper, of scandal.” She raised her head. “I am considered damaged goods, Brent, certainly in the eyes of a young man of the church.”
“Nonsense!” Brent’s voice was firm. “You are an exemplary female, my lady, intelligent, brave, loving…No one would dare—”
Sophia released her hands from the nobleman’s grasp and placed two fingers over his mouth. “Shush, my lord, shush. I appreciate your words more than you can know, but my reputation would compromise Mr. Heywood’s future. That is the plain truth.”
“And, yet,” Brent teased her, “you have kissed him in your rose garden, my dear lady.”
Sophia smiled. “More than once, my lord! Yes, I have kissed him, with great enjoyment. And though I blush to tell it, even to such a good friend as yourself, I would bed him with greater enjoyment. I would not lie to you about that! But marry him? That is out of the question.” She looked to where her sons were still playing with Chloe Brown, imagining another child, a little girl, hers and the vicar’s. A fairy tale! She was too old for such stories.
She hooked her arm in Brent’s. “I was engaging in some fantasies earlier, my lord, pretending it would be possible for someone such as I to marry Mr. Heywood, but such perfect endings are for little girls like Chloe, there.” She indicated the child, turning her head. “It is past time that I grew up and accepted my fate. I shall never marry again, sir.”
“You do not give that gentleman enough credit, Sophia Rowley. He is, I believe, enamored of you. I have often been the recipient of his murderous looks, proving that he thinks me a potential rival!” Brent laughed. “He may not accept so easily his family’s wedding plans, and you must have faith in your rector. He has shown me that he is a man with his own mind.”
Brent leaned over and pressed a feathery kiss on Sophia’s temple. “I never thought you faint of heart, my lady,” he whispered. “Now, as never before, you should be bold and dare much.”
“You are a wretch, my lord, to say these things,” Sophia complained, slapping his forearm.
“Perhaps, but a truthful wretch, for all that.” They shared a comradely laugh as they made their way to the tables.
“I have never said no to you, Father, but in this particular instance, I am adamant.” Charles ran a hand through his hair. “I will not marry Charlotte Anne Mainwaring.”
Benedict Heywood, Viscount Ashley, fixed a puzzled look on his son. “You have known Charlott
e Anne all your life. It was always assumed…”
“By you and Sir James, perhaps, but not by me,” Charles interrupted.
“What objection could you make to marrying that demure, pretty, devout young miss? She would make an ideal vicar’s wife. ’Tis the consensus of our families…”
Charles shook his head. “Charlotte Anne is sweet and lovely, I agree, but she is also the veriest simpleton. Father, the girl is hen-witted.”
Lord Ashley was visibly perplexed. “What difference does that make in a wife? She will manage your household, bear your children, be steadfast and loyal…”
“No, Father. I prefer someone with whom I can hold intelligent discourse, someone whose wit challenges me. I could not abide a sweet peagoose, no matter how pretty.”
The viscount fixed his youngest son with a frown. “Let me understand what you are saying. You would prefer a bluestocking, then? Is that the sort of wife you seek?”
Charles was not looking at his father. He had just caught a glimpse of Sophia and Brent, arm in arm, walking across the lush green grass. A look of dawning comprehension replaced the frown on his father’s face.
“Or is it, my son, that you are more intimately involved with the widow of your late, good friend? I understood that you were carrying out the baron’s wishes in looking after his wife, and that he named you guardian of his sons, but is there something more?”
When Charles replied, his voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “And if there was?”
Viscount Ashley shook his head. “Then I would say you were a fool, my son, a great fool. Taking up with this lady would be most inappropriate. If you are contemplating marriage to such a woman, my boy, you must think of the consequences for your future in the church!”
Charles raised his chin, defiant. “You misjudge the lady, sir.” He lowered his voice. “As does everyone, I fear. She has been more sinned against than sinning, I assure you.”
Ashley ran his hand through his thick brown hair, the gesture reminiscent of his son’s nervous habit. “She is a glorious creature, I grant you that, and any man would…But, my dear boy, she is older than you are, and infinitely more experienced in ways that you—” He bit his lower lip, unwilling to be more explicit.