Pamela Sherwood
Page 11
For a moment she thought he might smile, but the shadow crossed his face again. “It’s bad enough, I assure you. And while I’m deeply grateful for your family’s friendship, I can’t imagine your mother or Harry would want you to—form an attachment to a divorced man.”
“Mother and Harry would know that you’re far more than that. You’re a friend, a neighbor. You’re Harry’s business partner. And,” she took a breath, then recklessly cast all maidenly reservations aside, “the man I happen to love—and wish to spend my life with!”
The words seemed to echo through the quiet clearing. No turning back now; she’d crossed the Rubicon. Had Caesar himself felt the same mingling of fear, excitement, and destiny, she wondered.
His face was ashen but resolute. “I’ve said it all before. You should go to London, have your Season. Find a young man without this sort of—muddle in his past, and let him court you.”
Sophie took a step toward him, holding his gaze with her own. “Tell me you don’t want me, Robin. Tell me so I’ll believe it—and then I will go.”
“Sophie—”
“Make me believe you feel nothing when I do this.” She laid her hand on his arm, felt it harden like iron beneath her touch. “Or this.” She brought up her other hand to cup his cheek, drew close until their bodies were separated by no more than a whisper. “Look at me, Robin—and then send me away, if you can.”
The breath went out of him in a shuddering groan. “Oh, God.”
She knew she’d won then. That he would fight her no longer—and she pressed her advantage shamelessly, slipping her arms about his neck and drawing his head down to hers. For a moment longer he resisted, then suddenly his arms closed around her and his mouth fastened on hers with a desperate hunger.
She kissed him back just as ardently, triumph surging through her veins. Hers at last, deny it how he would! And she was his, without question, and for all time.
When he raised his head at last, his eyes held the same dazed expression she’d seen that day in the pavilion. “Witchcraft,” he murmured, freeing a hand to cup her cheek. “It must be. How else could you override all my scruples and common sense?”
Sophie nestled her cheek into his gloved palm. “I had a great-grandmother who claimed we were directly descended from Morgan Le Fay—she was a Cornishwoman, you know. But Great-Granny Trevethan was known to be something of an eccentric so we don’t take that claim too seriously. I would simply call it love, myself.”
Robin exhaled, his breath stirring her hair. “In your case, I have no trouble believing in a Fay ancestress.” He dropped his hand and pulled away, studying her with anxious eyes. “My dear, you could do so much better for yourself. Half the cream of Society would be eating out of your hand, especially once they heard you sing.”
“Well, that’s very flattering, but I think I’m old enough to know my own mind. And my own heart.” The certainty of what she felt rang like a bell in the deepest part of her soul. And it was with that certainty that she smiled up at him now.
“I will go to London—that’s already in the cards. And I will have a Season, and possibly study at the Royal College of Music as well. But in the end, I will be coming home. To Cornwall, and to you.” She touched his cheek and counted it a victory when he did not refuse the caress. “Swans and Tresilians mate for life, Robin. I’m not about to let you go.”
In his face she could see the struggle between longing and stubborn self-denial. Foolish man, she thought fondly.
“Sophie… just think about what I’ve said.”
“As long as you do the same.” She glanced at the sky, noting that the sun had climbed higher since they’d stopped to speak of this. “It’s getting on toward noon, I think. Shall we ride down to the beach today?”
“I think, perhaps, I should return to the Hall. There is—much work to be done before I can begin to call it a hotel. But pray don’t let me spoil your outing.”
He was distancing himself from her again, she noted with an inner sigh. Only to be expected, given what he’d told her, but what a relief it would be when he finally accepted the inevitable. Well, she could be patient a while longer. As long as it took, until he was free.
“Fair enough,” she said brightly, refusing to show discouragement or disappointment. “I’ll be on my way, then. Might I trouble you for a leg up?”
Ever the gentleman, he helped her remount Tregony, and Sophie took care not to cling to him overmuch as he did so. Once in the saddle, she looked down into his troubled face.
“Thank you for confiding in me, Robin.” She kept her voice level, calm, and kind, knowing that was what he needed now. “I appreciate knowing what has been haunting you these last few months. But as far as I’m concerned, it changes nothing.”
She touched her heel to Tregony’s flank and rode away.
Eight
Journeys end in lovers’ meeting.
—William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
21 September 1891
Dear Robin,
I understand what a concession I have won by persuading you to let me write to you while I am in London. But I faithfully promise to include nothing that will cause you discomfort or place undue pressure upon you. I value our friendship too highly to risk it by demanding more than you feel you can give, just as I appreciate the encouragement you have always shown me regarding my music. Pray do not feel obliged even to respond to my letters unless you wish to.
So here I am, lodging with James’s aunt, Lady Talbot, and studying at the Royal College of Music. It’s not as large as might be expected, though there’s a fine view of the Albert Hall from the west side—only eighteen practice rooms and no concert hall on the premises. And since there are nearly a hundred of us studying here, you can imagine how crowded things get! I heard there’s to be a larger conservatory built, but I shall probably be finished studying here long before it’s completed.
Still, it’s the teachers who make a school, and mine are all wonderful, though very demanding—even more than my governess or my music master in Cornwall. I have heard that Jenny Lind—the Swedish Nightingale—once taught here, some ten years ago…
***
1 October 1891
Dear Sophie,
I assure you, I would never be so discourteous as to ignore your letters or fail to reply. As you have said, we are still friends, and I take a keen interest in your progress as a musician, so I would be pleased to hear of your studies at the College. I have had the opportunity of seeing the place while I was working in London. A not unhandsome edifice, but I agree, rather too small for its intended purpose. A larger institution could only benefit the students and the staff.
But I am glad, though not surprised, that you’ve settled in comfortably and are taking to your training like a duck to water. Given your natural talents and your diligence, you will surely go far. Indeed, I suspect we may be calling you “The Cornish Nightingale” someday…
***
9 October 1891
The Cornish Nightingale? Flattery will get you everywhere, dear friend! I don’t know that I’ll ever achieve the same success as Miss Lind, but there seems to be a consensus among my teachers that I would make a better singer than a violinist. So I am to concentrate mostly on the singing from now on, though I shan’t give up the violin by any means and I will continue to perform with the College orchestra, at least for now. But enough about me. I should love to know how progress is going on the hotel. Harry mentioned something in his last letter about having the plasterers in?
Sophie
***
20 October 1891
The hotel is gradually taking shape, my dear, though I must emphasize the word “gradually.” The plasterers and the plumbers have both been in to clear out the drains and install the additional water closets I mentioned during your tour of the Hall. There were a few minor mishaps in the process, but fortunately, nothing irreparable, and the commodes appear to be in good working order. I hesitate to continue with this topic,
which might be considered dull at best and indelicate at worst. Sadly, my epistolary style tends to the practical rather than the poetic. Although you may have cause to be grateful for that, as you might otherwise be subject to my attempts at verse. A sonnet composed to your eyebrow, or more appropriately, to your voice, which I still seem to hear whenever I enter the ballroom now…
Robin
***
1 November 1891
…A sonnet to my eyebrow? Believe me, sir, I am a small matter curious…
Sophie
***
7 November 1891
…I fear your curiosity on that score is destined to remain unsatisfied.
Robin
***
15 November 1891
…Spoilsport. Still, perhaps I should be relieved. I certainly wouldn’t want to prove Jane Austen’s theory that poetry drives away love, rather than nourishes it…
Sophie
***
23 November 1891
…Talking of nourishment, Shakespeare claims that music is the food of love. And as of this writing, I find I have come to agree with him…
Robin
***
28 November 1891
…I have read your latest letter over several times, hoping I have not mistaken your meaning. That it is neither girlish fancy nor wishful thinking that imbues your words with more significance than they actually possess. But dare I hope that you have perhaps grown more receptive to the thought of a future together?
Sophie
***
6 December 1891
Like you, I have thought over what to say in response to your last letter. My dear, I do not wish to give you false hope. You are aware of my circumstances—I must inform you that they have not altered, although I am exploring possible solutions in order to change that. But if I can offer you no promises, neither will I deny the depth of my attachment to you. I can grant you that much honesty, at least. And yet I do not wish you to feel constrained or bound by such an admission. You have a London Season before you, and may yet meet a worthier man who may lay greater claim to your affections and offer you far more in the way of material advantages than I…
Robin
***
11 December 1891
I never knew it was possible to receive a letter that could fill me with such deep happiness and profound exasperation at the same time. Have I not said before that I am of an age to know my own mind and my own heart? And I hope I do not number inconstancy among my faults—whatever happens or whomever I meet during my Season, my head is not likely to be turned by these “material advantages” to which you refer!
But I am determined not to quarrel with you, my dearest friend—not when I am to come home for Christmas. We will speak more of this then. Until that time, I am and always shall be
Yours,
Sophie
***
Cornwall, June 1892
Spring. Sophie’s favorite season in Cornwall, when the cliffs were lush and green, the gardens in full bloom, and the woods carpeted in bluebells. Robin had been up with the dawn to pick a sheaf of the flowers, knowing how she loved them.
Because, at long last, Sophie was home. Had been home since yesterday, in fact, and Robin had nearly vaulted onto a horse to ride over and see her at once. But her family had a prior claim on her, so he’d restrained himself with some difficulty and instead sent her a brief note inquiring as to whether she would meet him for a ride the following morning. Her reply had been an equally brief but affirmative “Yes!”
Now he stood in their special clearing beneath the flowering may trees—and waited, shifting the sheaf of bluebells from arm to arm and vainly trying not to fidget. Gorlois cropped the grass beside him, and he found himself envying the horse’s unshakable placidity.
Nearly six months since he’d last seen her, when she’d come home for Christmas. Perhaps a finger’s width taller than when she’d left for London but still slender, though her form was becoming more womanly. The Tresilians had invited Robin to spend Christmas Day with them, and after only a brief hesitation, he had accepted. Sophie had been at the heart of it all, radiant with the joy of being back with her beloved family and, he dared hope, pleased to see him as well. She had refused the idea of a musicale, saying she did not wish to show off, but she had sung carols with her sister and he could hear the new maturity in her voice, though it had remained as pure as ever.
As the evening wore on, they had gravitated toward each other, taking care to be discreet. Robin had still been shaken about his confession of love, amazed to have made that leap over what had initially seemed an unbridgeable chasm. But Sophie, smiling and newly soignée, had not let him succumb to panic. She was his, she’d told him, and as far as she was concerned, that was that—even with the London Season ahead of her in the spring.
And somehow, against all expectation, Robin had begun to believe her. Why should they not be happy, after all? He hadn’t robbed or murdered anyone—he’d married unwisely and too young. Surely that was no cause for eternal damnation or a lifetime sentence of loneliness. He was trying to obtain a divorce. Perhaps there would be a flutter of gossip and speculation when the news got out, but his neighbors would soon find more salacious fodder elsewhere. Once things had calmed down, after a lengthy engagement—he would insist on that, at least—he and Sophie could marry.
He’d held on to that dream throughout the dreary months of winter and into spring, even as Sophie was making her curtsy to Society, sponsored by Lady Talbot, with some assistance from the fashionable young hostess Mrs. Thomas Sheridan, née Miss Amelia Newbold from New York. A small voice in his head had insinuated from time to time that Sophie was bound to be a great success and attract many eligible suitors, but he’d done his best to ignore that voice. If—knowing what she knew of his life before her—Sophie could have faith in him and their future together, surely he could do no less.
And so hope had taken root and continued to flourish, albeit quietly in the shadows. And Robin had gone on working. As renovations on the hotel had progressed, the Hall had taken on new life, like an aging beauty who had fallen on hard times and was now being revived with loving care, constant attention, and the generous application of money. More than a year after embarking on this mad scheme, Robin would be welcoming his first guests within a month.
Only time would tell whether his venture would succeed on the scale for which he hoped. He would work like a Trojan, all hours of the day and night, to make sure that it did. But whatever the outcome, nothing could dim the luster of the achievement itself or a future that now seemed bright with promise.
Then he heard his name being called and looked up to see his future riding toward him.
She’d grown still taller in her time away, or perhaps she just carried herself as though she had. And there was a new poise in the set of her head and shoulders, the sort one sees in a woman who has realized she is good to look upon. And her habit of navy blue broadcloth was definitely of a more modish cut than the one he’d seen her wearing before, and an equally stylish hat perched upon her head. But the smile that lit her face when she saw him was the same as it had always been, the smile he’d seen in his mind’s eye for the last six months, and the faint chill of apprehension about his heart melted away like the last traces of snow beneath the sun.
She was home. Sophie was home.
Then she was alighting from the horse and coming toward him, catching up her skirts as she went.
Smiling, Robin held out his flowers. “Welcome home, my dear.”
“Bluebells!” Sophie cradled the sheaf in her arms and bowed her head to inhale their fragrance. “So beautiful! You can find some lovely blooms in Covent Garden, but nothing like these! But then, some flowers really are best in the wild.” She looked up at him, those enchanting dimples flashing into play. “And of course, these flowers just happen to be the color of your eyes.”
“Good God, really?” Robin did not know whether to be flattered
or appalled by the comparison. “Well, call me old-fashioned, but I think it’s the gentleman’s place to compare his lady’s eyes to flowers. Although”—he gazed into her eyes, still sea green and as gorgeous as ever—“I think jewels might be more appropriate in your case—emeralds, particularly.”
“Very pretty. Although I would much rather have had a letter from you than compliments—or jewels, for that matter. Why did you not write to me in the spring?” she reproached. “Since April, I could count the number of letters I received on the fingers of one hand, with digits to spare.”
“I wished you to have an—unfettered Season,” Robin confessed somewhat sheepishly. “The freedom to meet—other people, without feeling you were under any obligation to me.”
Sophie sighed. “Other men, you mean.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “I see I’ve become an open book to you.”
She smiled back. “After months of correspondence, surely that does not surprise you.”
“Well, I am given to understand that a number of young men found you enchanting. Your mother and sister have been keeping track of your success, and Lady Trevenan as well, since her sister was helping to sponsor your debut. I gather you were quite the success in town.”
Sophie bent over her flowers again. “Oh, I did well enough.”
Robin recognized evasion when he saw it. “No need for false modesty, my dear. I read the London papers. All about how you danced no less than three times with the Earl of K—”
“Kelmswood?” She looked up, her eyes twinkling. “Oh, he dances with everyone. Amy told me all about him. Kelmswood devotes himself to one lady per season, then once the season’s over—poof! He’s away and off to his next conquest. Amy said she was foolish enough herself to believe him halfway in earnest. Fortunately, I knew better—and in any case, I was not his chosen prey this spring.”