Lady Corby, with a strangely scrupulous honesty, did occupy her morning as she had said she would, and with Sophie’s help the dress was trimmed by noon. Tony arrived, and the three set out as before, but this time in the direction of Kensington. The weather was again propitious, which had the result of making Sophie think that her fears had been for nothing. And before she could entertain them again, they had left the turnpike road and were on a curving drive which cut through Lord Holland’s trees. At the gate house, Tony did nothing more than wave to a guard with a familiar gesture before negotiating the remaining yards of the circular drive to the house.
One view of Holland House and Sophie could understand the attraction it held for both the Fox family who occupied it and its visitors from all over the world. Its style was a mixture of both classic and Gothic, reality and fantasy. The south side, which they now approached, was in the shape of a perfectly symmetrical “U,” but was at the same time adorned with a magnificent Gothic arcade the entire length of the ground floor and a balcony on the first floor. The main portal was located dead centre in an imposing bay structure, flanked with rows of Gothic windows and surmounted by a dome. Twin towers topped the northern corners of the central wing. All this Sophie saw quickly as they drove past, but the whole of the fabulous structure was more than her mind could absorb in one brief glance.
Once inside, they were taken upstairs and greeted by a stout, strong man with a large head and thick, round spectacles. His legs were thick and his accent Scotch, but Tony greeted him with sincere respect and introduced him to the ladies as Mr. Allen. The gentleman welcomed them with the air of a trusted member of the family, without pretension but with great goodwill, and conversed with them congenially for a moment. He carried about with him a sort of diary which he explained was one of Lady Holland’s “Dinner Books” into which he would add their names as her ladyship’s guests. Sophie was curious to see that Tony seemed to accept Mr. Allen as a manner of host, and she would have thought him Lord Holland’s personal secretary if it had not been for the extreme respect Tony seemed to accord him.
Mr. Allen explained that the guests were gathering in the Sir Joshua Room, and he directed them through the Gilt Room where, surrounded by the magnificence of an ornate ceiling, marble busts on pillars and rectangular wall compartments with the fleur de lis argent of the original owner, a rather small table had been set for ten. With the certainty of habit, Tony led them to the next room where a much larger crowd was standing in various groups, each lively with conversation.
Lady Corby had taken Tony’s arm and entered the room first, for Sophie had stopped for a moment to stare up at the ceiling of the Gilt Room and had lagged slightly behind. As she entered, she saw that the others had been approached by a distinguished-looking gentleman with a limp, and she quickened her step to join them. But she was stopped suddenly by an imperious voice calling out, “Have the goodness to close the door!”
Looking about her to discover its source and fearful that the command was intended for herself, Sophie spied an elegant woman seated at the end of the room. Her chair was elevated slightly, and her feet rested on a small stool, which somehow gave her the appearance of being upon a throne. She stared at Sophie and then beckoned to her, although mercifully she did not seem to expect Sophie to close the enormous doors. Darting one quick look back at Tony for support, Sophie found that he was still speaking to the gentleman, but he smiled encouragement, so she straightened her shoulders and moved forward. Rightfully assuming that the seated lady was Lady Holland, she curtsied and received a nod of welcome.
“You are Miss Corby, are you not?” asked her hostess. “I saw you enter with Sir Tony, and he did promise to bring you to us today. And that lady on his arm is your mother?”
Sophie affirmed it. Lady Holland paused for a moment and gazed at Sophie’s mother, but her look was neither unkind nor unfriendly. She turned back to Sophie and, with an enigmatic expression, spoke one sentence as if in explanation of her curiosity. “Your father’s name is not unknown to me.”
Sophie was uncertain whether to respond with a polite “oh?” or just a smile, but before she could decide, Lady Holland had moved on to another topic.
“Tony tells us that you write poetry, my child. Is this true? He seems not to have heard any of it, but is remarkably confident of its being good.”
Sophie’s all but forgotten nervousness now returned full force, but Lady Holland’s last words were more disconcerting than the recollection of her poetry. Sophie blushed and replied truthfully, “Yes, I do write some. But as to its being any good or not, Lady Holland, I cannot vouch. Sir Tony is extraordinarily kind and perhaps has let his sense of kindness mislead him.”
She had hoped that these words would satisfy Lady Holland’s obligation to enquire about her poems, but to her horror, they seemed to have no such effect. With no apparent awareness of Sophie’s embarrassment, her hostess replied simply, “Well, let us see,” and, clapping her hands together in a regal gesture, called for her guests’ attention.
“Everyone please be silent now,” she commanded. “Miss Corby is going to favour us with a poetry reading.”
Sophie felt her knees fail beneath her as the heads in the enormous room turned to listen. It did not matter that not a face among them looked unfriendly. All she could think was that this room was often filled, perhaps three times a week, with the greatest names in all Europe, from Byron to Tallyrand, and she was now about to expose herself to them. She fumbled in her reticule for the papers she had brought, but her brain was seething with anger against Tony for getting her into this fix. And at the same time, she could think of no other who could save her. Her eyes darted about, searching for his face amongst the crowd, but found that he was the only person not watching her. He was speaking in a low voice to a small, dark man, whose bright eyes stared at her while he knitted his brows.
Hopeless now, she opened the pages in her hand and looked through them for the poem she thought her best. Her hands had begun to shake, and she feared that her voice would die inside her throat if she tried to speak. She cleared it once or twice and was about to begin in a tremulous squeak, when a voice spoke at her elbow.
“May I, your ladyship?” She looked up and found the gentleman to whom Tony had been speaking. She had assumed that he must be addressing Lady Holland, but his eyes were on her, and in spite of his mode of address, there was no mockery in them. Instead, smiling kindly, he held out his hand for the papers. Dumbly, she relinquished them, wondering weakly what he intended, but knowing that whatever he chose to do would be more merciful than allowing her to read it herself.
The gentleman looked the poem over briefly and then, with a smile of pleasure, began to read. His voice, though he did not strain to raise it, filled the room with clear, beautiful tones.
“Wilt though begin my life, my love, My leaves unfurl with warmth above, My roots draw forth like arms below, Thy gentle heart my seed to sow.”
The room was silent as he read on. Sophie stared at him, mesmerized by the sound of her own words on this stranger’s lips. The words themselves, she knew, were not the greatest that this room had heard, and would not likely be heard in public again. It should have hurt to hear her most private thoughts revealed unsparingly, but the beauty of his voice carried them up and raised them to a level of universal feeling. The silence in the room confirmed that the others present, though not so nearly touched as Sophie by the words themselves, were experiencing the same hypnosis and the wrench on the emotions that she felt as he read her final couplet.
“Until my wounded heart shall mend, I’ll wait, love’s fallow field to tend.”
There was silence for a moment more, and then applause filled the room. Sophie found herself clapping along with them, although soon she realized that part of the applause was for her. The gentleman who had read her poem accepted the acclaim as though accustomed to it and turned to bow to her as the authoress.
Unable to acknowledge it with the same degr
ee of confidence that he had shown, she was grateful to be saved by the approach of some of the guests, who greeted her with enthusiasm and clapped her unknown saviour upon the back. At a word from Lady Holland, who was still seated beside her, Sophie turned to find that lady smiling.
“Delightful, my dear,” she said, obviously pleased with the success of her guests. “And what a treat! He will not perform at my request, I assure you. I can only assume that he makes exceptions when the poet is sufficiently young and beautiful to gain his attention. But I do not mean to diminish your own accomplishments. It was a lovely poem, and you should be told that I am no poor critic. Wasn’t it lovely, Henry?”
Sophie found that the distinguished-looking gentleman with a limp who had first greeted Tony and her mother had now joined them. It was Lord Holland.
“Yes, it was,” he agreed kindly, presenting himself to her. “You must allow me to thank you for giving us such a treat. And, my wife is being quite truthful. I would be embarrassed to recount the number of times she has tried to persuade Mr. Kean to give us a reading, but he will not oblige. She has had to stop for fear he will no longer come to see us.”
Sophie’s jaw relaxed with astonishment and she hoped her mouth had not fallen open. Edmund Kean had read her poem! Edmund Kean, the great Shakespearian actor! She searched for him and meeting his eye, smiled her gratitude. He bowed in return, and the gesture betrayed no sense of grandeur. And now she understood why he had called her “your ladyship,” for this man, for all his greatness, was not of the nobility. He moved in aristocratic circles as a man of talent, but as a social inferior, and titles of distinction would not be a clear matter to him. A question leapt to her mind, but just as quickly she found the answer.
Tony! It was Tony who had got him to read the poem for her. And suddenly she realized that he was near. He was by her side speaking to Lord Holland, who was thanking him for bringing her to their gathering.
“Perhaps Miss Corby would care to be shown some of the house, Tony,” their host was saying. “It is a fine day for a walk in the Southern Arcades, although I must caution you about the balustrades. They are in need of repair. You will forgive me for not taking you round myself, Miss Corby, but this leg of mine is crippled with gout. And Tony knows the way. He will not lose you.”
Lord Holland smiled with genuine cordiality, and Sophie found herself leaving the scene which had caused her such anxiety on the safety of Tony’s arm. They did not speak until they had passed again through the Gilt Room and were descending the Grand Staircase. Sophie realized that she was holding on to Tony with a closeness that was directly related to all that had passed before. Now, with the sound of voices far in the distance, she breathed a sigh and loosened her hold slightly.
“Lord Holland is most congenial,” she said presently, all the while feeling the inadequacy of her words to describe the overwhelming kindness that a man in possession of such influence had shown to a person of no consequence like herself.
“There is not a man better liked in all England,” said Tony gently, “nor will there ever be.”
Sophie was happy to hear him express himself so seriously. For all the gaiety that surrounded him habitually, she had always sensed the more serious depth inside him. She ought, she realized, to call him to account for having placed her in such a horrid position, but the result had been so unexpectedly gratifying that she could not be angry. She had been shaken though, so for a moment, she had no wish to talk about what had happened and asked about the house instead.
Tony obliged her, seeming to understand her reluctance. They strolled about a few of the public rooms, talking about the paintings, tapestries and objets d’art until Tony suggested walking in the arcades.
“Who is Mr. Allen?” Sophie asked as they stepped outdoors. The lawn sloped down in front of them until it reached the hay fields below. A mild breeze blew over them from the south and softly stirred the curls at her temples.
“Allen?” said Tony, evidently pleased by her question. “Allen is, or perhaps I should say was, a doctor who was engaged to take care of the Hollands’ first son. Their children have not been strong. But his true calling is as an historical scholar, and he now tends the library. He’s a man of enormous talent. Lady Holland orders him about like a dog, but they are both sincerely attached to him and would find it difficult to get along without him.”
“She is rather imperious, is she not?” asked Sophie.
Tony chuckled. “Yes,” he stated baldly. “But the Hollands’ friends keep coming. There is no other place which so warmly encourages talent in all its forms. And perhaps they all understand. She is not received at court, you see, because of her divorce, so this is her own little court. And rather more congenial than the other, I should say.”
“I see,” said Sophie pensively. She paused for a moment and then added, “I should be very angry with you, Sir Tony, for exposing me so dreadfully.”
“But you are not?” he asked with a smile.
She smiled and shook her head. “No. But only because you sent Mr. Kean to save me. How did you persuade him to do it?”
“He’s my friend,” said Tony, shrugging. “He needed no persuasion.”
Sophie regarded him quizzically. “Yet he will not perform for Lady Holland, and she might be thought to be a friend.”
Tony shook his head. “Not really. Kean is careful to distinguish between friends and patrons. He gives of his art freely to his friends, but he will not perform for his patrons, no matter how much they implore him. His talent is all he has, you see, and if he allowed that to be ordered about like a common street show he should be left with nothing.”
“Then how did you come to be his friend?”
Tony’s mouth curled upwards at the recollection of a memory. “Remember that I told you I sometimes enjoyed the pleasures of Town late at night?” She nodded. “Well, while I was at Eton, I was taken by one of the masters to a dinner at Hummums Hotel in Covent Garden to meet Kean. It was there that I became aware of his great tolerance for drink and his ability to perform beautifully when he is three sheets to the wind.”
She giggled. “Well, I cannot tell you how grateful I was to see him, although if I had known who he was I would likely have swooned.”
They had walked out onto the porch now, and Tony stopped to sit upon the low stone railings. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, her dimples appearing suddenly beneath the ribbons to her bonnet. As they looked at each other, Tony’s smile faded gently, and he began to gaze earnestly in a manner which Sophie found most disconcerting. She dropped her eyelids before his searching look, but could do nothing to hide her dimples.
“I liked your poem, Sophie,” he said softly. She felt a thrill as he spoke her first name. It had never sounded so much like a caress. “Is that how you feel about love?”
She was conscious in her confusion of his eyes upon her, but she did not turn away. “Yes,” she said, not daring to look up.
“And yet you do not wish to be married?”
Sophie did not know how to answer. She realized suddenly that she did very much wish to be married, that the yearnings she had to love and be loved could thus be fulfilled. But only if her husband could also be her lover.
Remembering the talk they had had on their first carriage ride together, she knew that her feelings for Tony had undergone a rapid development, but she could not overcome her present shyness to contradict the things she had told him that day. She kept her head lowered and did not answer, hoping he would understand that her silence was a denial of those earlier feelings.
When she did not answer, Tony spoke again in a lighter tone. “I still have not recited for you the poem I wrote for your birthday.”
Sophie’s head came up with eagerness. “Did you really write one?”
“Of course, didn’t I say so?”
She dimpled again. “Yes, you did. But I assumed that you would conveniently forget about it.”
Tony grinned at this accusation, but there was
a challenge in his expression. “Then I see that I shall have to prove my veracity. Would you care to hear it now?”
“Yes,” Sophie said, placing herself beside him on the railing and folding her hands as though ready to be entertained. “I await your pleasure.” She felt extraordinarily light-hearted and had more or less forgotten where they were.
“All right,” said Tony, an assessing glint in his eye. “Here goes.” He placed his hand upon his heart, and Sophie giggled again before he started. With no paper in hand to remind him of the words, he began. His voice was slightly teasing.
“Though I ought to write a sonnet
On your face, your eyes, your bonnet,
Citing queens or goddesses recalled to mind from ancient lore,
Still my muse can’t be relied on,
Simple words I’m now tongue-tied on,
Fearing to be thought a silly fool, a pest or crushing bore.
“For no words describe your beauty.
Birthday odes seem but a duty
When they try to take the place of gazing with adoring eyes.
Odes may laudify your meekness,
Ignorant of your uniqueness,
Sounding with a ring of falseness, something that I do despise.”
Sophie’s eyes had twinkled throughout his recital, but as the words of this verse sank in, she lowered her lashes and started to blush. And now, as he began the last verse, Tony’s voice slowed. He took her hand in his and turned it palm upwards, stroking it gently. She could feel strange waves of heat running through her as she listened to his final words.
“So though I ought to speak of Hestia,
Artemis and Hypermnestra,
Any thought of these beside you strikes me as a bit amiss.
My thoughts turn to Aphrodite
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