by Mary Balogh
“I am in awe,” he said. “Where do all these ideas come from?”
“I think from a lifetime of only being able to observe and never being able to do,” she said. “I have twenty years of inaction to make up for.”
“Heaven help me, then,” he said. “You will be building me a flying machine next that will guide itself through the skies and find its way home again.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, Vincent, that would be one idea too many. But we could create some marvelous stories around the idea. We could—”
But he was laughing, and she stopped talking to join him.
“I think your idea is brilliant,” he told her. “I think you are brilliant. Have you read your letter?”
“My—oh, my letter. I had forgotten it.” She got to her feet. “It has been there on the mantelpiece staring me in the eye all the time we have been sitting here.”
He heard her cross the room.
“I do not recognize the hand,” she said. “I wonder—”
“There is a way of satisfying your curiosity, you know,” he pointed out.
He heard a seal breaking and the rustle of paper.
“Perhaps,” she said, “it is from one of your friends, Vincent, writing to you for me to read aloud.”
It had happened a few times. There had been letters from George and Ralph.
There was a rather lengthy silence.
“What?” he asked.
“My uncle,” she said. “It is from Sir Terrence Fry.”
He felt instantly angry.
“He is back in England,” she said, “and has heard of my marriage.”
There was another lengthy silence.
“Come,” he said at last, reaching out one hand.
She came to sit beside him again, though she did not take his hand.
“Is he congratulating you?” he asked. “Or commiserating?”
He could feel her hesitation.
“A bit of both, I suppose,” she said. “He is happy that socially and financially I am secure for life.”
And sorry that she had married a blind man. She did not say it aloud. She did not need to.
“He has no right.” Her voice was trembling. “He has no right.”
No, he most certainly did not. Vincent lifted a hand, found the back of her neck, and rubbed his fingers soothingly over it.
“He has spoken with Aunt Martha,” she said. “Or, rather, she has spoken with him. She explained how I snared you.”
“Did she, by Jove?” he said.
“But he is not sure he believes her,” she said. “He wants to hear the story from my own lips.”
“He expects you to go to London to wait on him?”
“No,” she said. “He wishes to come here.”
He opened his mouth to tell her exactly what he thought of that brazen idea. But he closed it again, the words unspoken. Sir Terrence Fry was her relative, one of the very few.
“Does he have a wife?” he asked.
“She died many years ago,” she told him.
“Any children?”
“None that survived infancy,” she said. “Only Sebastian.”
“Sebastian?”
“His stepson,” she explained. “His wife was a widow when he married her.”
“And he has never communicated with you before now?” he asked her. “He never came to visit your father? He did not attend his funeral? Or your aunt’s, his sister’s?”
“He was out of the country,” she told him. “He is a diplomat. And no, I have never met him or heard from him directly. Until now.”
“Directly,” he said, frowning. “And indirectly?”
“He wrote to Sebastian and asked him to call on me when I went to live with Aunt Mary,” she said. “He wanted to know that I was well cared for there and happy.”
“Did he?” He was still frowning. “And did his stepson call on you?” But he must have if she knew about the request.
“Yes,” she said. “A number of times.”
And for some reason he remembered asking if her Aunt Mary had any children, if she had any cousins in London. She had answered no, but there had been some hesitation, and he had noticed it then. Sometimes there was a world of meaning in hesitation.
“He is older than you?” he asked her.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Eight years older.”
She had been fifteen when her father died. The step-cousin would have been twenty-three. Vincent’s age now.
He massaged the back of her neck and could tell that her head was lowered farther than a reading of the letter made necessary. He guessed that her chin was against her chest and that perhaps her eyes were closed.
“Tell me about him,” he said. “Tell me about those visits.”
“He was very handsome,” she said, “and amiable and full of vitality and confidence.”
He waited.
“He was very kind,” she said. “He befriended me and we talked and talked. He took me walking and driving in his curricle. He took me to galleries and old churches and once to Gunter’s for an ice. I was terribly broken up over my father’s death. He helped ease the pain.”
He waited again. The air about them was charged with some terrible pain. He hoped it was not what he suspected it might be.
“I was very silly,” she said. “I fell in love with him. It was hardly surprising, I suppose. Indeed, it would have been surprising if I had not. But I told him. In my foolishness I thought he had fallen in love with me too. I told him.”
“You were fifteen, Sophie,” he said, his hand pausing at her neck.
“He laughed at me.”
Ah, Sophie. So young and fragile. At that age she would have been vulnerable even if the rest of her life had been as solid as a rock.
“He laughed and told me I was a silly, ungrateful little chit. Which I was. I would have been heartbroken anyway. I would also have been wounded and humiliated by his laughter and would have squirmed at the memory of my own naïveté. But I would have recovered. I think I would. I suppose it is not uncommon for young girls to fall hopelessly in love with handsome men and then to have their hopes and dreams dashed.”
“Why did you not recover?” he asked when she did not continue.
“We were in the sitting room at Aunt Mary’s,” she said, “and there was a mirror. A long one. He took me to stand in front of it while he stood behind me explaining to me why it was absurd and even a little insulting of me to fall in love with him and expect him to return my regard. He made me look at my figure and my face and my hair, which was in a great bush about my head and down over my shoulders because I never could manage it. He told me I was a scrawny, ugly little thing. He told me he liked me well enough, but only as a little cousin he had promised his stepfather to keep an eye on. He laughed as he said it. It was an affectionate sort of laugh, I think, but it sounded grotesque to me. After he had left, I went to my room and found my scissors and hacked my hair off. He did not come ever again, and I would not have seen him if he had.”
He wrapped both arms about her and drew her against him until her head was resting on his shoulder.
“Pardon my language, Sophie,” he said, “but the bastard. I just wish I could have five minutes alone with him.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“He was my age,” he said. “Your father had just died. Your aunt was neglecting you. You were fifteen. You were not even fully grown. And even apart from all that, you were a human being. And he was a gentleman. Oh, Sophie. My sweet Sophie. Even then you must have been beautiful. I know you are now.”
She laughed against his neck and then cried.
And cried and cried.
That bastard. That … bloody bastard.
He fumbled for his handkerchief and put it into her hand.
“Sophie,” he said when her sobs had quieted to the occasional hiccup. “You are beautiful. Take a blind man’s word for it. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”
She laughed and hiccupped, and he laughed softly into her hair and fought back the urge to weep with her. She blew her nose and set aside the handkerchief.
“Your shirt and cravat are all wet,” she said.
“They will dry.” He kept an arm about her shoulders. “Your uncle has not completely ignored you, then.”
“No, I suppose not,” she said.
“He is your family,” he said. “Your father’s brother.”
“Yes.”
“Let us invite him to come here, then,” he suggested. “Meet each other at last, Sophie, and decide if you want to see him again after that. Do it in your own home and on your own terms. Let him see for himself if I have been entrapped by a wicked schemer and if you are trapped in a dismal marriage with half a man.”
“He would not have taken any notice of me if I had not married,” she said. “And a viscount at that.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “Or perhaps he always meant to check up on you himself once he was back in this country for some length of time. You were with one aunt, his sister, and then with another, and also with a female cousin that time, a young lady close to you in age. Perhaps he assumed you were where you ought to be and where you wished to be. Perhaps he thought he had done his duty by you simply by ascertaining that you were being well cared for by relatives.”
“He never thought to ask me,” she said.
“No, he did not.”
He could hear her folding the letter.
“You have felt your lack of a family,” he said, drawing her closer. “When you have been with mine, you have felt it. I am not wrong, am I?”
“No,” she admitted after a short hesitation. “It is dreadful to be all alone in the world. Your family has been kind to me, and I have grown to love them. But—Sometimes there is an emptiness. Perhaps it would not weigh as heavily if I were truly without family, if they were all dead.”
“Let your uncle come,” he said. “Maybe it will not be a happy visit. But maybe it will. You will not know either way if you do not allow him to come.”
He knew he would dread it with every fiber of his being. He did not feel kindly toward any member of his wife’s family. But he had to remember that a few weeks ago she had to come here to meet all his family, knowing that the circumstances surrounding their wedding would predispose them to judge her harshly. But she had done it. And she had won them over even though he knew it had not been easy for her. She had been a quiet mouse for most of her life and had had to assert herself in order to be accepted here.
She sighed.
“I shall write to him tomorrow,” she said. “I shall invite him to come in time for the harvest reception and ball. It is not very far in the future, is it?”
She had not given up on that idea, then? No, of course she had not. She had told too many people about it to back down now. Besides, Sophia was not the backing-down sort.
“Yes,” he said. “Ask him to come for the ball. My family will all be back here for it. It will be fitting for yours to come too. It will be like a belated wedding reception. Perhaps we may even describe it as such. Perhaps you can even invite the Marches. They will probably say no, though I would not wager a fortune on it.”
“Are you mad?” She drew a sharp breath.
“Probably,” he conceded. “I have a distinct feeling they would not refuse. Their niece, Viscountess Darleigh, and all that.”
“You are mad,” she told him and laughed with what sounded like watery merriment.
He turned her head and kissed her.
“It must be bedtime,” he said. “Am I right?”
“You are right,” she said without turning her head to consult the clock.
His very favorite time of the day.
Sophia was sitting at the escritoire in the private sitting room the following morning. She was brushing the feather of the quill pen back and forth across her chin, thinking of how she would word the letter to her uncle. So far she had got as far as “Dear Uncle,” having rejected “Dear Sir Terrence,” “Dear Sir,” and “Dear Uncle Terrence.” She had achieved just the right balance between formality and informality.
Tab was lying across one of her feet, having abandoned his perch on the east-facing windowsill when she sat down.
She had not yet decided if she would also invite Aunt Martha and Sir Clarence and Henrietta to Middlebury Park. She was not sure what her motive would be for doing it. Holding out an olive branch? Taking an opportunity to gloat? Making a forlorn attempt to create a family of her own?
Forlorn, indeed. But quite impossible? She had grown truly fond of Vincent’s family. But seeing their closeness, being a part of it, only made the emptiness of her own lack of family all the emptier.
And Vincent, bless his heart, understood that.
For a few moments she was distracted by memories of last night. He was always a vigorous, satisfying lover, especially since that afternoon on the island—she still thought of it every single day. It had been wonderful, and he had been wonderful, and ever since then…
Well.
But last night had been a little different from any other time. Last night he had touched her and loved her with what she could only describe as tenderness.
Perhaps when he had spoken to Mr. Croft he had not meant quite what she thought he had meant. And perhaps he had. Perhaps…
Oh, she wished she could stop thinking.
“I received your letter yesterday,” she wrote.
Progress indeed.
I was delighted to receive it?
“It was kind of you to write,” she wrote instead.
Was it? Was it kind? It did not really matter, though, did it? There were certain courtesies that must be observed.
Why exactly had he written to her? Just because she was a viscountess now and her husband was a wealthy man? Because he cared just a little bit and feared that she was unhappy with a blind man? Because talking with Aunt Martha had made him suspect something of what her life with her aunt must really have been like?
Vincent was right. She really did need to see him and discover the answers to all her questions. But she did not want to see him. And yet she longed for him. He was Papa’s brother. Sometimes Papa had used to tell stories from his childhood. Not often, it was true, but sometimes. And Uncle Terrence had always figured in those stories. They had been close friends as boys.
“I would be happy to see you,” she wrote and then frowned down at the words. They would have to do. She did not want to start all over again.
And then she heard footsteps approaching the door from the outside. Firm, sure footsteps. Mr. Fisk’s? A footman’s? But whoever it was did not stop to knock on the door. Instead, the knob turned, the door opened, and Vincent came right in, with Shep panting at his side.
“Sophie?” he said.
“I am here,” she told him. “At the escritoire. I am writing to my uncle.”
“Good.” He came closer and set a hand on her shoulder. There was a glow of color in his cheeks, and his lovely blue eyes were sparkling. “We walked to the lake—Shep and I, that is—and about it and along the alley to the summerhouse. We sat there for a while before coming back. I would have asked you to come too, but I wanted to prove something to myself.”
“And you did,” she said. “You do not look wet. You did not tumble into the lake, then?”
“Or fall and break my nose,” he said. “You were still sleeping when I came up from exercising. Mama says you were late to breakfast. Are you feeling unwell?”
“Not at all.” She set down her pen and got to her feet. “I am quite well. Indeed, I am more than well.”
He raised his eyebrows.
She took his free hand in both of hers and kissed the back of it.
“We are going to have a child,” she said. “I have not consulted a physician yet, but I am as sure as I can be.”
He seemed to gaze very directly into her eyes, his own wide. His hand tightened in hers as she looked back warily.
“Sophie?” He smiled slowly and then laughed.
“Yes.” She kissed his hand again.
He dropped Shep’s leash, drew his hand free of hers, and reached for her. He wrapped her in his arms and tightened them so that she was pressed to him from shoulders to knees.
“Sophie,” he whispered. “Really? A child?”
“Yes. Really.”
She heard him swallow.
“But you are so small.” He was still whispering.
“Even small people can have babies quite safely,” she said.
She hoped she was right. There were never any guarantees in childbirth. But it was too late now for worries and fears.
He rested one cheek against the top of her head.
“A child,” he said and laughed again. “Oh, Sophie, a child!”
They stood hugging each other for a long time. Her letter to her uncle was forgotten. Shep settled for a sleep at Vincent’s feet. Tab was back on the windowsill, sunning himself.
19
And then, of course, only a few hours later, he had to have an attack of panic.
Sophia had gone off to the village with Ursula and Ellen. His sisters wanted something at the village shop, and Sophia was going to call on Agnes Keeping to show her some illustrations she had done for a new Bertha and Dan story they had concocted a week or so ago—about a chimney sweep’s boy who got stuck inside the top of a tall chimney perched on top of a very tall building. One of her drawings apparently showed Bertha rescuing him from above, only her bottom and her legs visible, the rest of her hidden inside the chimney.
They were expecting Andy Harrison and his wife for tea later. In the meanwhile, he had a free couple of hours since his steward was away for the day on business. He decided to explore the wilderness walk even though work on it had only recently begun. No one had gone before him in the Lake District to smooth out the hills, after all. But then he had never tried walking those alone.
He did not walk alone today either. He felt that he had neglected Martin of late. Which was foolish of him, of course, since Martin was probably enjoying a bit more time to himself anyway. Vincent had heard a whisper that Martin was romancing the young daughter of the village blacksmith—it seemed appropriate.