The Arrangement: Number 2 in series (Survivors' Club)

by Mary Balogh

  “Not many women are astonishingly pretty,” Lady Trentham said. “Even fewer are ravishingly beautiful. But we women are experts at making the most of what we have. I will do my best tomorrow to show Miss Fry how to make the most of her assets. Her hair is a lovely color, and she has the eyes to go with it. She has a wide mouth and a lovely smile, though I have seen it only once. And she has a slight figure that will look light and dainty when she is wearing the right clothes. But I understand, Lord Darleigh, that you have already discovered one of her finest assets. She does indeed have a pretty voice, low and a little husky. I may not have noticed if she had not mentioned that you had told her so. We sighted people are often neglectful of the power of sound.”

  Vincent smiled at her.

  “If you are trying to reassure me, ma’am,” he said, “I thank you. But there is no need. I do not care what Sophia looks like. I like her.”

  “It is she who needs the reassurance,” she told him. “And you should care what she looks like, Lord Darleigh. Every member of your family and all your friends will see her and respond to her appearance. And she will respond to what she sees in her glass and in the eyes of those who behold her. You need to care. But of course, you are already doing so, for you have brought her here to shop. She looks like the veriest waif, you know. Her aunt should be thoroughly ashamed of herself for passing on clothes even her servants would scorn to wear. And she cuts her own hair and has made a horrid mess of it. And she looks somewhat undernourished. Her eyes are too large for her face. You need to care how she looks.”

  Vincent frowned. She was right, he decided. It was all very well for him to assure Sophia that he did not care. But she probably did.

  “Will you stay here tonight?” Hugo asked. “You will be very welcome.”

  “I’ll take a room at a hotel if you can recommend one,” Vincent said.

  “We will go over to George’s after dinner,” Hugo suggested. “He is in town for a week or two. And Imogen is staying with him. She came for the wedding, to my eternal surprise and gratification. Flavian is here somewhere too—he was my best man, in fact. And Ralph is in town. George will no doubt persuade you to stay with him. You were always his special pet.”

  When Vincent had first arrived at Penderris Hall, deaf as well as blind, it was George Crabbe, the Duke of Stanbrook himself, who had spent almost every minute of every hour of every day in his room with him, stroking his hand and his head, often cradling him in his arms for hours on end so that he would know the only human contact he could experience—touch. He had fought those cradling arms like a madman on more than one occasion, lashing out with all the strength of his terror, but the arms had never fought back or tensed or tried to imprison him. They had never abandoned him.

  Vincent doubted he would have survived without George. Or if he had, he would have been a raving lunatic long before his hearing returned.

  “It will be good to see him again so soon. And Imogen,” he said. Imogen Hayes, Lady Barclay, was the only woman member of the Survivors’ Club, having lost her husband to torture in the Peninsula, a torture she had witnessed. “And you too, Hugo. I have wondered if you went after Lady Muir when you left Penderris. I am so glad you did.”

  “Well, I am too, lad,” Hugo said, “though she did not make it easy for me.”

  “If you had heard his first proposal to me, Lord Darleigh,” Lady Trentham said, “you would not wonder at it.”

  Vincent grinned. They sounded very pleased with themselves, the two of them. He could hear the smile in both their voices.

  9

  Sophia was having her hair cut, an absurdity, she had thought when Lady Trentham first suggested it to her, for her hair was very short already. But here she was, at the mercy of Mr. Welland and his scissors and his flying fingers.

  “He cuts my hair when I am in town,” Lady Trentham had explained. “I chose him, as I chose my dressmaker, because he does not speak with a French accent. I have no objection whatsoever to a French accent on the lips of a Frenchman or -woman, but you would not believe, Miss Fry, how many Englishmen and -women affect one in the belief that it will suggest superior skill and draw superior customers.”

  Like Sir Clarence and Lady March, Sophia had thought.

  Mr. Welland had clucked over Sophia’s hair and declared in a distinctly cockney accent that her last stylist ought to be flogged to within an inch of his life at the very least.

  “The last stylist was me,” Sophia had confessed rather sheepishly.

  He had clucked once more and gone to work.

  They were not alone in his workroom. Lady Trentham sat facing them and watching with apparent interest. So did the Countess of Kilbourne, her sister-in-law, who had sent a note last evening to ask if Lady Trentham would be at home for a call this morning and who had been invited to join the shopping trip instead.

  “You must not be overawed by her title,” Lady Trentham had assured Sophia. “There is no one less high in the instep than Lily. She grew up in the tail of an army as a sergeant’s daughter and married my brother when her father died. A long, long saga followed that event, but I will not trouble you with the full story now. May I invite her to accompany us?”

  “Yes, of course,” Sophia had said, awed anyway.

  And this morning after she had arrived at Lord Trentham’s house and greeted her sister-in-law with a hug and bidden Mrs. and Miss Emes a good morning with a beaming smile, the countess had been introduced to Sophia and had looked her over frankly from head to toe. Sophia was wearing one of her own dresses, having declined Lady Trentham’s offer of one of hers.

  “You are to be Viscount Darleigh’s bride?” she had asked. “Oh, my dear, we are going to have such fun this morning. Are we not, Gwen?”

  And she had startled Sophia by darting forward and hugging her. She was herself exquisitely lovely, with a face that looked as if it always smiled.

  Finally Mr. Welland seemed to be finished. Sophia was alarmed at the amount of hair that had fallen to the floor about her feet. Was there any left on her head? He had not placed her before a mirror, as she had expected.

  “I have shaped your hair and thinned out the bulk, you will understand,” he told her now, handing her a glass and inviting her to hold it up before her face. “That does not mean I wished to cut your hair shorter. It ought to be longer.”

  Sophia gazed at her image in some astonishment. Her hair hugged her head in soft curls and framed her face with wispy waves. It looked neat and tame and not at all its usual wild bush.

  “It is very chic,” Lady Kilbourne said. “It shows up your heart-shaped face. And the color is adorable.”

  Lord Darleigh had explored her face with his hands when they were on their way to the river and had said, when he came to her chin, that her face was heart-shaped. Sophia had always thought it was round.

  “If the lady wishes to look like a cherub, she will keep her hair this way,” Mr. Welland said. “But she will not show off the best feature of her face if she does. I will show you what I mean.”

  And as Sophia watched in the glass, he pressed his fingers through her hair at the sides and held it back from her face so that it looked smooth over her temples and ears.

  “See the classic lines of the cheekbones?” he said. “If the lady wears her hair back like this and piled on top, these cheekbones will be cast into prominence and her neck will look more elegant and her eyes will be more alluring. So will her mouth.”

  Sophia stared at herself in the glass and saw someone who looked, by some illusion, if not actually pretty, at least womanly.

  “Oh, goodness, you are quite right, Mr. Welland,” Lady Trentham said. “But it is for Miss Fry to decide if she will grow her hair. Even if she does not, there is a great deal to be said for cherubs.”

  “Especially well-dressed cherubs,” Lady Kilbourne added, getting to her feet, “which is what Miss Fry will be by the time the three of us have finished with her today. Shall we move on?”

  The bill
was to be sent to Lord Darleigh, Sophia knew. She had no idea how large that bill would be, but if Mr. Welland had a titled lady for a client, it probably would not be insignificant. She felt uncomfortable about it, but what choice did she have? Being wealthy was something she would have to grow accustomed to. Perhaps it would be easier after she was married.

  There followed hours of shopping for everything under the sun, or so it seemed to Sophia. There were stays and other undergarments and nightgowns and stockings and shoes and bonnets and gloves and garters and parasols and reticules and fans and cloaks and spencers, among other things. And, of course, there were the dresses, which fell into two categories, those that were ready-made and needed only minor alterations, all of which must be done today or tomorrow at the latest, and those that were to be made from patterns and sent on to Middlebury Park at a later date.

  “I cannot possibly need so many,” she protested when Lady Trentham listed all she would need to start with.

  “But they are not just for your personal comfort and pleasure,” Lady Kilbourne reminded her gently, a hand on her arm as they sat in the carriage, moving from one shop to the next. “They are for your husband’s pride and pleasure too. Oh, I know he is blind and will not see any of your dresses and other finery. But he has hands and will feel them.”

  Sophia felt herself blushing.

  “And other people will see you,” the countess added. “You are going to be Lady Darleigh, you must remember. Your appearance will reflect upon your husband.”

  “They will think I married him for his title and money,” Sophia protested. “They will think I trapped him because he is blind.”

  Lady Trentham looked assessingly at her.

  “But of course they will,” she surprised Sophia by saying. “I must confess that for the merest moment yesterday, I thought it too. And what are you going to do about it, Miss Fry?”

  Sophia stared at her wide-eyed, waiting for the answer to be provided for her. Had Lady Kilbourne thought it too? Did she still? Did Lady Trentham still have doubts about her? Unconsciously she lifted her chin.

  The countess exchanged a glance with her sister-in-law, and her eyes danced with merriment.

  “Precisely,” she said. “That is exactly what you must do.”

  “I like him,” Sophia said fiercely. “And I am enormously grateful to him. I am going to make his life so comfortable that he will not even miss his sight. I am going to—Oh, people may say what they wish. I will not care. And he will not care. He will be too busy enjoying the comfortable life I will provide for him.”

  For one year.

  And he did not want yet another woman fussing over him.

  “Oh, bravo,” Lady Trentham said, laughing. “Lily, we must stop provoking the poor lady.”

  “But we got the answer we expected,” Lady Kilbourne said, laughing too. “Little people are often more fierce than their larger counterparts, and you are very little, Miss Fry. Even smaller than Gwen and me. We should perhaps form a league of little people. We would terrify the world. And then rule it.”

  And, surprisingly, Sophia laughed too. Oh, how good it felt to share laughter and absurdities with other people.

  “I shall sketch a picture,” she said, “and we will use it as a banner when we march upon … What shall we march upon?”

  “White’s Club,” Lady Kilbourne said without hesitation. “That bastion of male pride and supposed male superiority that no respectable woman dares walk near. The Little League will march on it and demand equal rights.”

  They all enjoyed a gleeful laugh.

  Sophia endured being measured and poked for what seemed like hours, and she looked through pattern books until all the designs began to look alike. She selected fabrics and colors and trims until she felt she could do it no more. And all the time she listened to the advice and opinions of her companions, though they were never domineering and always deferred to her final judgment. They did quite firmly steer her away from vivid colors, however, which she was inclined to choose at first since it seemed to her that every garment she had owned in the last five years was faded and near colorless. But bright colors, Lady Trentham explained, would swallow her up and make her invisible within them.

  “And I believe,” she said, “you have been invisible long enough, Miss Fry.”

  And they steered her away from heavy fabrics, like brocades and some velvets, which she would have chosen for several garments, for it seemed to her that she had been cold most of her life. But heavy fabrics would drag her down, Lady Kilbourne told her, and her smallness and daintiness were assets she ought to emphasize. She discovered that fine wool, thin of texture and light of weight, was just as warm as some of the heavier fabrics. And shawls and stoles—ah, there were so many pretty ones, she discovered—were marvelous for warmth and could look attractive and dress up an otherwise plain gown.

  She bought ready-made day dresses and one evening gown and a walking dress and a traveling outfit. All had to be shortened and taken in at the waist and bosom. And she ordered so many different dresses to be made to suit so many different types of occasions that she simply lost count and relied upon the judgment of her two companions, whom she trusted, little as she knew them. Afterward, she did remember one outfit more than any other simply because it had made the dressmaker raise her eyebrows almost to her hairline and had had Lady Kilbourne smiling in such a way that it would be more accurate to say she grinned. Sophia ordered a riding outfit that included breeches as well as a skirt.

  “You ride?” Lady Trentham asked her. “Astride?”

  “Neither,” Sophia admitted. “But Lord Darleigh has told me I may do whatever I wish to do when we are married, and I have always wanted to ride. He must have horses in his stables.”

  “I think he must,” Lady Trentham agreed.

  And then there was the one outfit that was bought ready-made and had to be altered before anything else so that it could be delivered to Lord Trentham’s house before evening today.

  Her wedding outfit.

  “But it is to be just Lord Darleigh and me and the clergyman,” she had protested at first. “By special license.”

  “It is to be your wedding day nonetheless,” Lady Trentham said. “It is the day you will remember most vividly for the rest of your life, Miss Fry. And you will always remember what you wore. You are to be a bride.”

  Sophia blinked back the tears that had sprung to her eyes and protested no more.

  “Lord Darleigh stayed at the home of the Duke of Stanbrook last night,” Lady Trentham said. “Lady Barclay is staying there too. She came to London for our wedding. I would not be at all surprised if after Lord Darleigh has obtained the special license today he will find a few other members of the Survivors’ Club at the duke’s house too waiting to greet him. Hugo has gone there. You know about the Survivors, I suppose?”

  Sophia nodded.

  “I am sure they will all want to attend Lord Darleigh’s wedding,” Lady Trentham said. “They all adore him, you know. He is the youngest among them, and the sweetest. And I know Hugo’s stepmother and half sister would love to attend. So would I. And from the way Lily is looking at me, I would guess that she would like to be there too with my brother. I would like to put on a wedding breakfast for you after the ceremony. Will you allow it, Miss Fry? I do not wish to bully you into anything you do not want. You must say if you would prefer to have a completely private wedding. And of course, Lord Darleigh’s wishes must be consulted too. But … will you allow it?”

  “Please?” Lady Kilbourne added. “It is ages since I was last at a wedding. It is three days since Gwen’s.”

  Sophia sat in the carriage staring from one to the other of them. She was the mouse. No one ever saw her or spoke to her. She had never had friends—well, almost never. No one had ever loved her, except her father in his own careless way, though he had never been more demonstrative about it than to ruffle her hair occasionally as he told her that they would have to tighten their belts ag
ain for a while as he had just had a run of bad luck at the tables or the race track.

  Yet now about ten people wished to attend her wedding? One of them wanted to put on a wedding breakfast for her? It was all for Lord Darleigh’s sake, of course. She understood that. But Lady Kilbourne, as far as Sophia knew, had never even met him. Mrs. Emes and her daughter had met him only briefly yesterday while they had spent all evening with her and part of this morning too.

  Lord Darleigh had sacrificed a wedding with his family about him for her sake, she knew. Now he had a chance to have a few of his very closest friends with him for the occasion. And she had a chance to have with her at her wedding some ladies who appeared to like her. It seemed incredible. Did her new hairstyle have something to do with it? But Mrs. Emes and Constance Emes had not seen it yet, and they had been kind and amiable both last evening and at breakfast this morning.

  Was it possible to have friends at last? She bit her lower lip.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, “if it is what Lord Darleigh wishes.”

  The two ladies exchanged identically satisfied smiles.

  The shopping expedition was over at last and they returned home. She would need to get busy, Lady Trentham declared. She had a wedding breakfast to organize. Though she must write a note to Lord Darleigh first to send over to Stanbrook House.

  The Survivors’ Club had only ever met as a body at Penderris Hall in Cornwall during the spring. It seemed strange and wonderful to be together here in London, which was such an unknown to Vincent. Only Ben—Sir Benedict Harper—was absent. He was in the north of England, staying with his sister.

  Vincent had spent the evening at Stanbrook House on Grosvenor Square with the Duke of Stanbrook and Imogen, Lady Barclay, his distant cousin, and they had sat up late talking before going to bed. And today, after spending the morning procuring a special license from Doctors’ Commons in company with George, and then making arrangements for the nuptials to be solemnized the next morning at St. George’s on Hanover Square, they had returned to Stanbrook House to find Hugo and Ralph—Ralph Stockwood, Earl of Berwick—there too as well as Flavian Arnott, Viscount Ponsonby.