“Of course, you did, my dear,” said Lady Corby, her gentle heart moved. “I never knew a happier marriage.” She hugged Sadie impulsively, but that lady shrugged off her sad reminiscences with an embarrassed laugh.
“Let’s not get started on that, Clarissa, or we shall spoil Sophie’s party. She’s already startled to see her Aunt Sadie lapse into the sentimental. Never you mind, dear. I’m not like to weep into my handkerchief and miss talking to all your young men.” She laughed and seemed fully restored to equanimity.
Sophie was indeed staring, but not because of Sadie’s rare tears. She had never questioned the essential tenderness of her aunt’s heart. There was another question in her mind, and that was the importance of female beauty to making a happy marriage. It was something she had always been led to believe essential, for her father had frequently thanked his luck for giving him only daughters who had the sense to favour their lovely mother and so, would find it easy to catch husbands.
But Sadie had been truly happy. Much more so than Sophie’s mother, despite her beauty. Perhaps, Sophie thought, a marriage with the proper gentleman, one whose enthusiasms matched one’s own, was something greatly to be wished.
Sadie’s loud laughter had restored the celebratory mood of the occasion, and Lady Corby turned her attention to Sophie, telling her aunt about her daughter’s success at the assemblies at Almack’s. It came as no surprise to Sadie, though, and she clapped Sophie on the back with such strong approbation that it threatened to undo the carefully achieved row of short curls which circled her niece’s head.
“Just what I expected,” exclaimed Sadie to accompany the gesture. “But what I want to know is if there is any particular beau you fancy.”
Sophie was spared answering by her mother who, fearing another blow would seriously damage Sophie’s appearance, ushered her sister-in-law to a chair while saying hastily, “It is really too early to tell, Sadie. Although Sophie has been rather distinguished by one or two gentlemen.”
“I wouldn’t say that, Clarissa,” said Sir John with an air of possessing a secret. He had stayed out of the earlier part of the conversation, which had not interested him. “I would say that there is one gentleman, at least, who seems very anxious to make himself agreeable to Sophie.” He waited teasingly for his sister to beg him to reveal the name.
But Sadie disappointed him for she turned to Sophie with a knowledgeable smile. “And I’ll bet I know who that is. Sir Tony Farnham! Am I right, gel?”
A blush spread quickly over Sophie’s cheeks, which could have been considered answer enough, but Sir John recalled Sadie’s attention with an angry snort. “Farnham? Nonsense! He is nothing of the sort. I was speaking, if you must know, of a new acquaintance of mine, a Mr. Rollo. A very superior young man. Nothing of the jack o’dandy about him.”
“Nor is there about Tony, as I’ve already told you, John,” retorted Sadie. But she showed immediate interest in his pronouncement. ‘“You say that Rollo is hanging out for Sophie, do you? I know the boy. Keeps good company, they say, and there’s no denying his talents. Has a good seat and shows exceptional riding skill in the field, I’m told.” She glanced at Sophie, but found her niece’s face expressionless.
Sir John smiled and gestured to his daughter. “There, Sophie, haven’t I been telling you just that.”
But his sister’s next remark held a note of caution. “I am a bit surprised to hear it, John, nevertheless. I would have expected Rollo to be looking out for a richer wife.”
Sir John responded huffily, “Sophie’s portion is quite decent enough, Sadie. You should know me better than to think I would not have provided for my own daughter.”
“Oh, it’s not that, John,” she said swiftly. “It is just that I had heard Rollo’s estates were in none too good repair. And he does live expensively.”
Sir John growled his rejection of the idea. “Nonsense, Sadie. Perhaps you have not heard that the boy stands to inherit a considerable fortune from his aunt. Any day so, in fact, if rumours of her poor health are accurate. I have counselled him against post-obiting, and he accepted my advice with admirable attentiveness. The case cannot be as bad as you say.”
Sadie accepted the information reservedly. “In that case, I apologize, John. Perhaps it is not so bad, as you say. I only mention it because I would not want Sophie to find herself without enough blunt for her own comfort.”
Sir John was appeased, but he changed the subject with a haste that suggested he was not disposed to delve further into the topic. “No need to fear that, Sadie. Well, at any rate, you will be seeing the boy later. He tells me he has a special surprise for Sophie.”
At these words, his daughter squirmed uncomfortably. In fact, the whole previous conversation had distressed her in the extreme. She could not, in all politeness, dispute her father’s reading of the situation in front of his sister, but she resolved to try her utmost to convince Sir John privately that she had no particular fondness for Mr. Rollo.
At that moment, however, the first of the guests was announced, and she was kept busy accepting the happy wishes and flowers that the small but continuous stream of visitors brought with them. Tony was among the earliest arrivals, but he carried no flowers with him. However, he did ask for the pleasure of taking her in to dinner. Sophie agreed, happily relieved that Tony had made the request before Mr. Rollo appeared. That young man, however, was the last to arrive, with a confident expectation of welcome which Sophie’s father did nothing to belie.
“Ah, there you are, Rollo, my boy,” said Sir John heartily. “We had almost given up on you. I understand you are acquainted with my sister, Sarah Brewster.”
“Of course,” answered Rollo with suave courtesy. “Delighted to see you again, Mrs. Brewster. I believe the last time we met was at a race meeting outside Tonbridge Wells. At that time, though, I had no expectation of becoming so happily acquainted with your brother’s family.”
“I remember,” Sadie said, nodding. “You lost rather a handsome purse that day as I recall.” She looked up at him quizzically.
“Ah, yes,” he said with seemingly little concern. “A mistake in judgement on my part. But even the best of sportsmen are given to occasional errors. I have been more careful in placing my bets since then.”
“Excellent boy!” said Sir John. “But we should not keep you talking here. You will want to pay your respects to Sophie. Here she is now.” Sophie had stepped forward to greet her new guest as she had done for all the others, but Mr. Rollo took her extended hand with an air of having received a special distinction.
“Miss Corby, my felicitations on this notable occasion. I had scarcely hoped for such a warm welcome in the midst of your friends, except that you are always so particularly generous.” Ever at a loss at how to react properly to such unwelcome insinuations, Sophie murmured something unintelligible in reply and was relieved when Tony appeared at her elbow.
“Good day to you, Mr. Rollo,” he said heartily. “What a delightful surprise to see you again.” His whole face radiated true bonhomie, and the goodwill of his smile completely overcame the unflattering implication of his words. Mr. Rollo was overcome by the distinction.
“Farnham, my dear fellow, the pleasure is all mine,” he protested. Then looking Tony over admiringly he added, “I say, I do like the cut of your coat. Who suffers?”
Tony’s smile flickered briefly, but then reappeared slightly altered, giving the impression that Mr. Rollo had somehow fulfilled his dearest expectations. “No one,” he said bluntly. “You see, Rollo, I pay my tailor.” He waited for his words to sink in, but his listener took no notice.
“Pay him?” he asked laughing incredulously. “Why, whatever for? Mine will clothe me completely merely for the honour of doing so. He receives considerable business as a result of my mentioning his name, you see. It is a beautiful arrangement. You should try it. Certainly with your sporting reputation you could escape a dun for months at a time.”
Sophie thought that Tony
’s smile was beginning to show signs of strain, but his attention to Mr. Rollo was undiminished. “It is a peculiar particularity of mine, I suppose. I rather like to pay the tradesmen who render me their good service.”
Rollo looked momentarily perplexed, but soon a light of comprehension dawned on his face. “Ah, I get it, old fellow. Pay the ones who matter the most. I do that myself. With me, it’s my wine merchant. The beggar threatens to cut me off if his bill isn’t the first one settled. Most unpleasant, but I cannot afford to do without him. I understand completely.” He grimaced sympathetically as he recalled the strident complaints of his wine merchant. Tony grinned broadly, but Sophie noted that his eyes lacked their customary warmth.
Sir John joined them at that moment and reminded Mr. Rollo that he had promised a special surprise for Sophie and that the family was anxiously awaiting his pleasure. That gentleman, recalled to the occasion, smirked at Sophie suggestively and withdrew from his pocket a piece of parchment paper which had been rolled up elegantly and tied with a pink ribbon.
“Ah, yes, Miss Corby. Here it is, as I promised your father. I can see you were just as expectant as he said you would be, and I hope you will not be disappointed in my efforts. It is an ode in honour of your birthday and, if you will permit, I shall read it before the assembled company.”
Sophie flushed with annoyance. No one had ever written a poem for her, and certainly no one had ever read one to her in public. She anticipated an uncomfortable few minutes, but she could not refuse her guest’s gesture. Nodding her head and thanking Mr. Rollo politely, she took a chair while her father called the attention of the others to Mr. Rollo’s imminent performance. Tony took a place behind Sophie’s chair and folded his arms in expectation of some private delight.
The company were soon gathered in a rough semicircle about the parlour with Mr. Rollo placed in the centre. He waited, still smirking, for their voices to die down and was not at all offended by a shy titter from an elderly romantic in the audience. Once they were quieted, he untied the pink ribbon, unrolled the small parchment and cleared his throat before beginning.
“To Miss Corby, In Honour of Her Birthday,” he read, looking up one last time to assure himself of their attention. Then he resumed in a more projecting tone.
“ ‘All hail’ rings forth this glorious morn’ In honour of Miss Corby’s nineteenth year. To her I dedicate this ode. So, pray, my earnest muse to hear.”
Mr. Rollo threw Sophie a glance over the top of his paper to gauge her reaction to his introduction, managing to include Sir John in its scope. If Sophie’s polite smile was not enough to encourage him onward, Sir John’s hearty, “Hear, hear,” and vigorous nod of the head clearly were. Mr. Rollo puffed out his chest and continued.
“As gentle Hestia tends the hearth
For mighty Zeus’s Olympian throne,
So Miss Corby takes her place beside
The fireplace of her father’s home.
“As Artemis was well endowed
With Zeus’s pack of lop-eared hounds
So chance has blessed Miss Corby with
A glorious hunt of world renown.”
Mr. Rollo darted a glance at Sir John to measure his approval, and behind Sophie’s chair, Tony emitted a discreet cough which threatened to disturb her gravity. But Mr. Rollo returned to his reading, and she lost all sense of amusement as she listened to the remaining verses.
“Fair as Io, warm as Gaea,
Blessed by Eos’ dewy hand,
All applaud your wondrous beauty
Among the fairest in the land.
“Thus, I beseech the playful Cupid,
Harken to my earnest plea
Release thy shaft on this fair maiden
Win her favour now for me.”
The ode was ended. But to Sophie’s intense mortification, as Mr. Rollo reached the end, he looked at her once again with more than a hint of a suggestion. His last words could only have one meaning, and this had not escaped the rest of the company. There was much applause following the reading of the poem and much laughter of an approving sort.
Sir John, leaping to his feet at the end, hastened to declare Mr. Rollo’s poem the best birthday ode he had ever heard, as good as the Poet Laureate’s ode to the Queen the previous year, he was certain. He clapped the young man on the back and ushered him over to receive Sophie’s thanks.
The birthday girl found herself unable to express her gratitude to Mr. Rollo with any degree of sincerity. She did not wish to encourage him in his obvious pursuit of her hand, nor did she want her father to feel encouraged in his misguided matchmaking. She could do no more than extend her hand as impersonally as possible under the circumstances and thank him for the kindness of his intentions.
Sir John, however, was not wholly satisfied with this response. Hoping for something warmer, he prompted her by saying, “I told Rollo here about your own poetry, Sophie. And I knew it would please you to have him write a sonnet to your eyes or some such thing. It has, hasn’t it now?” His tone did not invite an answer so much as an affirmation.
But Sophie was spared the difficulty of answering by Tony, who stepped quickly from behind her to shake Mr. Rollo’s hand vigorously.
“My dear Rollo, an excellent ode! It puts the rest of us in the shade. I confess I had written my own little something on the occasion, but it pales in the shadow of your composition. I shall not have the courage to read it now. I will not subject myself to ridicule. But may I commend yours,” he added obliquely.
Mr. Rollo was beaming from the collective praises of the two gentlemen and did not solicit any more from Miss Corby. Like many sportsmen, he valued the opinion of his peers far more than those of the ladies, believing members of the fair sex to have few firm ideas of their own, anyway. But his well-cultivated good manners prompted him to respond in like fashion, and he begged to hear Tony’s poem.
“Yes, you must let us hear it, dear fellow,” he persisted when Tony refused. “You must not let my own performance discourage you. You may not realize it, but I am not in the habit of writing poetry and I, at least, shall appreciate your efforts. Devilish tricky!”
Tony’s lips twitched, but he did not let on that Mr. Rollo’s appreciation would not be the object of his recitation. Instead he drew out of his coat pocket a small parcel neatly done up in paper with a ribbon, saying as he turned toward Sophie, “Thank you, Rollo, but no. I hope that Miss Corby will accept a small birthday gift in place of my own poem, and that she will give me credit for having the sense to yield to a master.”
As he handed her the parcel, his eyes met Sophie’s with a look that was suddenly so intense that her own fell before it. She smiled shyly, and Tony watched delightedly as a deep dimple appeared in each cheek. But before Sophie could reply, Mr. Rollo spoke again with strong emotion.
“Dear fellow!” From the number of times he had addressed Tony in this manner, Sophie had to conclude that Tony had become very dear to Mr. Rollo, indeed. “You flatter me beyond words.” He seemed overcome by Tony’s last remarks and clearly thought them a direct compliment to himself.
But Sophie had by now untied the ribbon and unwrapped the thin paper to the parcel, and had found the small book of Shakespeare’s sonnets inside. It was a beautifully bound volume with a soft leather backing, deeply set letters and pages edged in gold.
Breathing a gentle “oh,” she cradled the book reverently in her hands. Its contents were very familiar to her, but Sophie had never owned such a precious volume. And she now understood the significance of Sir Tony’s last words. Looking up to thank him, she was disappointed to find that Mr. Rollo was still claiming his attention. But, she thought, at least she had been able to open it without that gentleman’s eyes upon her. She tucked the small book into the folds of her gown, planning to hide it there until she could take a moment to run up to her room.
The two gentlemen’s conversation had by now turned to hunting, and Sophie’s father had joined in it as a thirsty animal draws nea
r a water hole. Sophie could hear Tony’s voice posing an occasional intelligent question, and she smiled, recalling his similar behaviour at the Royal Academy. Promising herself to charge him later with affecting his guileless demeanor and to thank him for his lovely gift, she turned to the task of entertaining her other guests until dinner was announced. But as soon as the Corbys’ butler concluded his invitation to the company at large, Sophie felt a touch upon her arm and, smiling, she turned to find Tony there.
“You have not forgotten your promise to take dinner with me, I hope, Miss Corby,” he said.
“Not at all, sir,” she replied. She glanced over in the direction where she had just seen him and found that her father and Mr. Rollo were eagerly conversing in loud tones, oblivious to the movement toward the dining room.
“I see that you have left a rather interesting discussion,” she said, nodding her head in their direction. “I hope you were not forced to abandon it on my account.” She smiled accusingly at him.
But Tony appeared quite unconcerned. “Oh, no. Indeed not. Sir John and Mr. Rollo are having a rather technical discussion about how to keep their hunters fit in the off-season. It is too complex for me—I really could not follow it.” He smiled down at her so broadly that she could see how pleased he was to have her to himself.
Sophie felt a quickening response inside her breast, but she was not ready to thank him for his gift, and she had no intention of letting him off so easily.
“I wonder how the discussion began,’’ she said, having a fairly good idea of the answer.
“Now let me see,” said Tony with a frown of concentration. “I believe that I may have mentioned something inadvertently which might have opened the subject. Something about something a friend of mine once said. But I was only trying to make conversation, you know. I really care very little about it.”
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