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

by Mary Balogh

  “It is going well?” she asked. “With Shep?”

  “Croft thinks his job here is at an end, my lady,” he said. “His lordship went all the way to the lake and back just now without anyone except the dog and without touching the handrail even once.”

  “The handrail is unnecessary, then?” she asked him.

  “No, my lady,” he said. “Anything that can help his lordship to a greater bit of freedom is worth having, and it is not wise for him to depend fully upon just one person or thing. People can die. So can dogs. Fences can fall down.”

  “I wanted to ask your advice,” she said.

  He looked at her a little warily.

  “Now that the path has been finished,” she said, “work will soon begin on clearing the wilderness walk and making it safe for my husband and fragrant too for his pleasure. The head gardener has suggested planting herbs as well as suitable trees and shrubbery. But I have another scheme in my head that may be utterly foolish and impractical. Anyone who hears it may well laugh at me. But you will know if it is foolish.”

  She bit her lower lip, but he said nothing. He just looked steadily back at her. He was intimidatingly large and broad.

  “There is nothing much inside the wall along the east side of the park,” she said. “Just grass, really, for the full two-mile stretch. And on the south side, the woods do not stretch all the way to the east wall. There is at least half a mile of bare land. In the north too the hills do not extend back all the way to the wall. There is a wide band of level land behind them. Altogether, you could walk along inside the wall, starting in the south, all the way around to the northwest corner without meeting any significant obstacle. That is almost five miles.”

  She knew. She had walked the whole distance one drizzly afternoon when Vincent was busy with his steward and none of his sisters fancied exercise in the outdoors.

  “My lady?” He was looking mystified.

  “Race tracks curve, do they not?” she asked him. “When horses race, they do not usually run a straight course from start to finish. They would run around curves without guidance, would they not, if none was given? Rather than keep running straight ahead, I mean, and crashing into the guard rail.”

  “If the curve was gentle enough.” He was frowning. “Is that what you are thinking of, my lady?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Is it possible, do you think, Mr. Fisk? He could ride there without danger and for a considerable distance. He could even gallop. And if there is a rail on either side of the course, as there would have to be, he could run there too. He could run five miles if he wanted without stopping. Ten if he ran both ways.”

  He was looking full into her face, full into her eyes. She could not read his expression. He was a typical servant in that way.

  “Is it a foolish idea?” She bit her lip again.

  “Have you asked him?” he wanted to know.

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “The gardeners could not do it on their own,” he said, frowning. “A whole lot more workers would have to be hired. It would cost a fortune.”

  “He has a fortune.”

  For a moment his lips twitched and he almost smiled.

  He surprised her then.

  “You love him?” he asked, his voice abrupt, even harsh.

  It was an impertinent question, but it did not occur to her to reprimand him or even feel offended. She opened her mouth to reply and closed it again.

  “He is my husband, Mr. Fisk,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “It sounds possible to me,” he said. “But what do I know? It also sounds like a huge project. It would be a dream come true for him, though, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

  She turned sharply in the direction of the stables, leaving him standing there, staring after her. She felt flustered. He would think her an idiot. But—

  It would be a dream come true for him, though, wouldn’t it?

  The training session was over, it seemed. Vincent and Mr. Croft were standing at the far side of the stable block, talking. Shep, the black and white sheepdog, was sitting quiet but alert beside Vincent, who held the short leash in his hand. Mr. Croft was just out of sight beyond the buildings.

  “…with its handrail was all your lady’s idea,” he was saying. “As well as the dog. And now the wilderness walk to be smoothed out and railed for you too?”

  “I am very fortunate,” Vincent said as Sophia slowed her footsteps, smiling.

  “You have a whole houseful of ladies to look after your every need,” Mr. Croft said. “What man would not envy you, my lord?” He laughed heartily.

  “Yes.” Vincent laughed with him. “Always women to look after me. And now my wife too. But gradually I am freeing myself. Or, to be fair, my wife is devising ways to free me.”

  And then Sophia wished she had not slowed down in order to hear good things about herself.

  And now my wife too.

  But gradually I am freeing myself.

  He had not said he resented her. Quite the contrary. He had given her credit for helping give him more freedom of movement.

  And she had done it deliberately. At the start, she had set out to repay him for all he had done for her by finding ways to make his blindness less irksome.

  Had she succeeded all too well?

  Oh, she did not want to think about that wretched arrangement they had made. And he had told her not to. But that did not mean it did not exist, did it? He very obviously still longed for freedom.

  “Good afternoon, my lady,” Mr. Croft said as she came into sight. He raised his hat to her and smiled and inclined his head.

  Vincent turned his face to her and smiled warmly.

  “Sophie?” he said. “Did you enjoy your sewing group?”

  “I did,” she told him. “Julia Stockwell brought her new baby, and we spent as much time cooing over her as we did sewing. Why do babies always have that effect upon people, do you think? Is it nature’s way of ensuring that they are never neglected? How do you do, Mr. Croft? Has Mrs. Croft recovered from her scalded hand?”

  “The marks are still there, my lady,” he told her, “but the worst of the pain seems to have gone. Thank you. I shall tell her you asked. I think you had a winning idea here, my lady. This dog took my lord all the way to the lake and back just now without any mishap. And him still very young.”

  “I believe, Mr. Croft,” she said, “that when you described yourself as the best dog trainer in the county, you did not exaggerate.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” he said. “And today the dog stops here.”

  “He does,” Vincent said. “You will not be taking my eyes home with you any longer, Croft. I need them with me.”

  Mr. Croft went into the stable block to retrieve his horse and gig, and Sophia and Vincent began the walk back to the house. There was no cane in sight. Only Shep beside his master. Sophia did not take his arm as she usually did.

  My eyes.

  “Sophie,” he said, reaching for her hand, “how can I ever thank you?”

  “For telling you about Lizzie and her dog?” she said. “But why would I keep it a secret?”

  “And there is the path to the lake,” he said. “And soon there will be the wilderness walk. There are to be herbs there, are there, and fragrant trees? Whose idea was that?”

  “The trees were mine. I did not think of herbs, but they will work marvelously well. I think you will enjoy strolling there. And I have another idea,” she added with a heavy heart. “I shall tell you about it later.”

  “The grand secret?” he said. “The one you mentioned at the lake?”

  “Mr. Fisk thinks it is a good idea,” she told him.

  “Martin?” He turned his head her way. “You have spoken to him?”

  “Just now.”

  “I am glad.” He smiled. “He thinks you are good for me, you know. The first time or two he said it, he sounded almost grudging. Now he does not. He app
roves of you and admits that I made a good choice.”

  “Oh,” she said, but the praise did not lift her spirits.

  She was just another woman in his life. He loved his mother and grandmother and sisters, and she believed he was fond of her. But even so—just another woman to come between him and the independence he craved.

  Shep stopped by the steps, and when Vincent stopped too, the dog turned in front of him, led him to the bottom step and stopped again, and then led him up.

  “We will go to the drawing room, will we?” Vincent asked when they were inside. “Is it teatime? We have not missed it, have we?”

  “No,” Sophia assured him. “I was careful to return in time. Everyone is at home today. We will miss everyone when they leave.”

  “I think they are all relieved and disappointed in equal measure,” he told her. “Relieved that you are the wife they have always wanted for me, and disappointed that they are no longer needed to organize my life for me.”

  No. There was Sophia to do it for them.

  Mr. Croft had spent the past two days in the house with Shep, training him to take Vincent to all the rooms he most frequented. He led them now through the hall and up the staircase and into the drawing room, where they were met with a chorus of boisterous greetings. Everyone was there, including all five children, all between the ages of two and five. Ellen’s Caroline and Ursula’s Percival were playing with Tab—Sophia had given permission earlier for them to fetch him from her sitting room since he never seemed to mind being hugged and mauled and lugged about like a prized toy.

  He sat up and eyed Shep warily, arching his back and preparing to hiss. Shep looked disdainfully back and an understanding was struck, as it had been yesterday when the two animals had met for the first time—you stay clear of my space, and I will stay clear of yours.

  Sophia seated herself on a love seat, and Vincent sat beside her.

  His mother had been horrified at the idea of a dog leading him about without any other assistance, and she had been quite vocal in her opposition. She thought Sophia rather reckless of her son’s safety. But she had seen the dog in action inside the house yesterday, and she had probably watched out of the window this afternoon with Vincent’s grandmother.

  Young Ivy, Ellen’s two-year-old, came to climb onto Vincent’s lap, and he gave her his pocket watch on a chain to play with. Sophia found it rather touching that he wore it when he could not see it to know the time, but he always did.

  “Oh,” Vincent’s mother said just after the tea tray had been brought in, “there is a letter for you, Sophia. I had it put in your sitting room.”

  It always thrilled Sophia to have a letter. It was something that had never happened before her marriage and did not happen often now. But she had heard from Mrs. Parsons at Barton Coombs—her aunt and Sir Clarence and Henrietta had apparently gone back to London for what remained of the Season. And she had heard a number of times from Lady Trentham and once from Lady Kilbourne and even from the rather austere Lady Barclay, who was back in Cornwall, where she lived.

  “Thank you.” She smiled. She would read it later and then have all the pleasure of sitting at the small escritoire in the sitting room and replying.

  “Tab has put on weight,” she said as she drank her tea. “And his coat is perfectly sleek and shiny.”

  “You have put on weight too, Sophia,” Anthony remarked.

  “Anthony!” Amy tossed her glance at the ceiling. “That is just what every woman longs to be told.”

  “No, no,” he said. “I did not mean that you are getting fat, Sophia. Just that you have lost that almost gaunt look you had when you came here. Your face has filled out to fit your features. The extra weight is becoming. I am going to button my lips now before Amy does it for me.”

  Vincent grinned her way, and his grandmother smiled and nodded and even half winked at Sophia. His mother smiled and nodded too.

  Was it so obvious to them, then, even though she had not detected any weight gain yet? How could she? She had been married less than two months. But it was undoubtedly true. She had listened to the women talk at the sewing circle, and she had all the right symptoms, if symptoms was the correct word for what was not an illness.

  She looked down at her hands and hoped she was not blushing too noticeably. And she felt suddenly miserable. For though Vincent would surely be pleased at the possibility of having an heir, he did not really want to be saddled with either wife or child. He had never wanted it. Not yet, anyway. And there was one thing they had not considered. If they should decide when the time came that they would live apart, who would have the child?

  She suspected they would remain together after all, but not with any degree of happiness. Not that happiness had been part of their bargain. Contentment, then. They would not live in perfect contentment.

  Tab had come to curl up on the love seat beside Sophia, and Percival came to sit on her lap so that he could smooth one small hand over the cat’s coat.

  Sophia smiled at him and felt the soreness of unshed tears at the back of her throat.

  18

  Vincent’s sisters and their families were soon to return to their own homes, and his grandmother was going to move back to Bath in the autumn. She was missing her friends and her life there. For a similar reason, his mother was seriously considering returning to Barton Coombs and Covington House. Mrs. Plunkett could be persuaded to join her there, she was sure.

  Vincent would be sad to see them all go. He was genuinely fond of his family, and even more so now when they no longer hovered over his every move and insisted upon doing everything for him that was within their power.

  They had accepted Sophia and even grown fond of her, he believed. His mother spoke approvingly of what she had done for him during two short months, even though she had had her doubts about the dog.

  He would be sad to see them all go, but he would be happy too. They would be able to relax into their own lives without having to worry every moment about his, and he would be alone with Sophia. He had told her even before they married that he thought they could be comfortable together, and they were. At least he was, and he thought she was enjoying her life with him too.

  He hoped they could be comfortable together for a lifetime. He very much hoped it. Although he was becoming more and more independent—thanks in many ways to his wife’s efforts—he could not quite imagine his life without Sophia. Indeed, the thought was too terrible to contemplate.

  They were seated side by side on the love seat in their private sitting room on the evening of the day Croft had declared Shep’s training complete. The cat was lying at his wife’s feet, its tail curled over Vincent’s foot. Shep was beside the love seat, close to him. He could trail his arm over the side and touch the dog’s head. He could hear the dog heave a great sigh and settle to sleep. He could still not fully comprehend the wonder of it. It was almost like having his eyes back. Well, not quite, perhaps, but it was certainly going to restore a great deal of his freedom of movement.

  He was not really thinking about either the dog or his independence, though, at the moment. He was listening to Sophia reading aloud from Henry Fielding’s Joseph Andrews, a book they had both been enjoying for the last couple of weeks. She set it aside after she had finished a chapter.

  “Living in a house with a large library,” she said, “is a little like living in heaven.”

  “I might feel that I was in heaven,” he said, “if I were not being tormented by an undisclosed secret.”

  “Oh, that.” She hesitated. “You may think it very foolish or intrusive of me. I thought we might have half a race track built inside the east and north walls of the park and inside the walls on part of the south side too where there are no trees. It would be properly surfaced and railed on both sides and curved gradually at the corners so that a horse would round them without any particular guidance. It would be almost five miles long, and you would be able to ride along it and even gallop. And you would be able to use
it as a running track too if you wished, your hand on the rail. Or even with Shep. He would undoubtedly enjoy the run. You could have a great deal of freedom there.”

  His first instinct was to laugh. It was a preposterously grandiose idea. Only Sophie…

  He did not laugh. Instead, he visualized such a track in his mind’s eye. Almost five miles long. Without obstacles. Shaped in such a way that a horse could walk it or run it with no real guidance. Shaped in such a way that he could run it. Uninhibited forward movement for miles. Fresh air rushing against his face.

  Freedom.

  “It would be too big a task for the gardeners,” she said. “Workers would have to be hired. And a designer. It would probably take a long time to design and construct and would be costly.”

  He swallowed and licked his lips.

  He could almost feel himself riding—alone. Taking his horse to a canter. To a gallop. For five miles. He could almost feel himself running, stretching his muscles, falling into a rhythm of movement, exhausting himself over five miles. Perhaps ten if he ran back again. Or just walking, striding briskly along with no fear of where his next step would take him.

  He had been blind for six years. Why was it that only now…

  It was because he had not met Sophia before now. That vivid imagination of hers was not just for fantasy.

  “Mr. Fisk thinks it is a good idea,” she said. Her voice was curiously flat, and he realized he had not spoken any of his thoughts aloud. “Perhaps you do not. Perhaps you think I am managing your life just a little too much.”

  He turned his head to smile at her.

  “Will you ride there with me, Sophie?” he asked her. “We could take a picnic luncheon with us, for we would need to stop halfway to sustain ourselves.”

  “Oh,” she said. “How horrid of you. I am not that slow on horseback.”

  “I will teach you to ride like the wind,” he promised her.

  “Do you think it is a ridiculous idea?” she asked. “Or one too many ideas? Should I mind my own business more?”

  She was sounding strangely uncertain of herself. He thought she had got past that.