The Midnight Queen
Page 43
“A moment, Sophie. Sir,” said Gray quietly, standing fast despite her, and turning back to the King—who had risen from his seat and stood looking at Sophie in an agony of indecision. “You have one last opportunity, I think, to begin to undo the damage you have done. Were I you, I should not waste it.”
The King cast him a glance in which opposing impulses were strangely mingled—hope and fear, gratitude and resentment. Then both turned their eyes to Sophie, who had halted on the threshold, staring at the floor.
“Sophia,” said the King, in a choked voice. “The name your mother gave you. You are so very like her, my dear.” He swallowed, then drew breath. “I would not repeat my errors. Sophia, do you indeed love this man?”
Sophie turned to look at Gray, and her furious eyes softened. “I do,” she said firmly.
“And it is your determination to continue in this marriage, even if it should condemn you to penury? Yes, Mr. Marshall,” he added, his gaze still on Sophie, “you see I know all about you.”
“It is,” said Sophie.
“I am not altogether destitute, Your Majesty,” said Gray stiffly. “I have—”
“I should not care if you were,” Sophie interrupted, catching his hands in hers, and holding his gaze.
“To say true, cariad, I had rather be your husband and a pauper than the richest man in the kingdom.”
“That is all very finely spoken,” said the King dryly. Gray gave a guilty start and tore his attention away from Sophie’s luminous brown eyes. “I should find you singing a different tune, I fancy, after a year’s trial. However: you have both been punished enough through your involvement in this business; I think we shall not undertake the trial, for the present.”
They stood, hands clasped, and regarded him in puzzlement. What could this mean?
“Mr. Marshall, your erstwhile tutor’s property being forfeit for his treason, as you know, I have it in mind to grant you his Breton estate, in recognition of your service to your kingdom. It is not the very finest in the kingdom, to be sure,” he added, “nor even in the country, but its possession certainly must serve to hedge you against, as you put it, destitution.”
It was a bewitching vision: to live amidst the beauties of that country, Sophie’s country, almost within sight of the sea—to have that library for their own, and the pleasure of improving it—and surely such lands and wealth must win even Edmond Marshall’s respect. But—
“But what of Miss Callender, and Jo—and Miss Joanna?”
“You know very well that they cannot be permitted to inherit, given their father’s crime,” the King said. “That does not mean, of course, that your house may not welcome what friends you choose, to live in it with you, or even in your stead.”
“I—I thank you, Your Majesty. Very much.”
“We both thank you, Your Majesty,” Sophie added in a small voice, “for my sisters’ sake.”
Gray understood her: How could she desire to be mistress of that house, where she had so long been a prisoner? “I think, however,” he said, “that we had rather not make our home there for the present. If—if I may make free, Your Majesty, to propose an alternative?”
The King sighed. “By all means, name your price, Mr. Marshall,” he said dryly.
Gray imagined the newly named Chief Privy Counsellor casting up his eyes.
“Recent events, as you know, have interrupted my studies,” he began, “and Sophie has seen almost nothing of the world beyond the Pr— beyond our small corner of Breizh. Nor has she had opportunities to study as she ought. I should very much like to have my former place at Merlin College restored to me; but . . .” He hesitated a moment, very much aware of Sophie’s hand in his; she had not authorised, not directly, the request he was about to make on her behalf, but if he did not press their joint victory now, would Fortune grant him another chance to do so?
“But Sophie must have a place also,” he said at last, and, ignoring her quick indrawn breath, hurried on: “She has earned it, a thousand times over—besides her talent, she has all the makings of a thorough scholar—and though the Senior Fellows would refuse her at her own request, or mine, surely they cannot refuse an admission by royal fiat. I understand, Your Majesty, that it is not—”
But the King was waving a hand to quiet him. “Of course, of course you are right,” he said. Gray could not conceal his astonishment. “Your mother would have wished it,” His Majesty added, to Sophie. “She was a scholar herself, you know, and dreamed of being another Lady Morgan one day, the sponsor of a college for clever young ladies. Perhaps you shall be her heiress in this as well. But, Sophia—Sophie—you will come and see your old father now and again, will you not?”
Sophie was pressed close against Gray’s side; he could feel her pulse racing.
“I . . .” she began. She looked up at Gray, her face mirroring his own disbelief. Could it be? Such a gift to them both—to make a place for them—for both of them, together—where they most longed to be?
At last, squaring her shoulders, Sophie turned back to address the King. “Yes,” she said, more firmly. “Yes, Father, I shall.”