She’d received her first offer of that nature several years ago, when her star had just begun to rise, and in retrospect, she’d been almost too astonished to take offense. What had that to do with singing, after all? Surely there were others more desirable and adept at such things than a provincial Cornish girl, green as grass and just beginning to spread her wings? Much to her relief, an older singer on the tour had seen her agitation and guided her through a polite refusal of the gentleman’s terms. Sophie had adhered to that position ever since, declining subsequent offers with as much tact and delicacy as possible. She might no longer be the innocent she’d been at seventeen, but there were some lines she would not cross. She’d offered, out of love, to be Robin’s mistress. Becoming anyone else’s, for material gain, was unthinkable.
Calm, Sophie told herself. Whatever happened, she must maintain her composure and not succumb to vapors or dithering. She’d bathe, practice her technique—the work would steady her, as it always did—and then head over to the Sheridans’; her engagement there had to be her first priority. Putting thoughts of Robin and their tryst aside as best she could, she asked Letty to prepare her a bath.
***
“Darling Sophie!” Amy, exquisite in apricot silk, kissed her guest lightly on the cheek. “So glad you’ve come. Welcome to Sheridan House. Are you quite recovered from last night?”
“Perfectly,” Sophie assured her, returning the kiss. “Although rather relieved to have the luxury of a day off.”
“You’ve earned it, after that wonderful performance.” Taking Sophie’s hand, Amy led her to a sofa brocaded in soft greens and blues. “So, what do you think of the new house?”
“What I’ve seen of it is quite lovely. And you have a bit of private garden too.”
“That was one of its main attractions,” Amy told her. “Along with not being sandwiched between two other houses. And Thomas is very pleased with his new studio. It’s on this floor, facing east, so he gets the morning light, which he prefers. He’s been there for hours working, but he’ll be down to luncheon shortly. It’s to be just the three of us,” she added. “Mrs. Herbert has had to substitute at a garden party today for an accompanist who was suddenly taken ill. But she says if you’ll write out the list of your songs for her, she’ll come with the music tomorrow afternoon and you can go over the programme together before the soiree.”
“That should work out reasonably well,” Sophie conceded. Fortunately, she and Mrs. Herbert had worked together before and had developed a fairly good understanding of each other as performers. “Is there anything you particularly wish me to sing tomorrow evening?”
“Well, I always love it when you perform anything by Mozart,” Amy began, then broke off at the sound of approaching voices and footsteps in the passage. Much to Sophie’s astonishment, she sprang up from the sofa and closed the drawing room doors, holding a finger significantly to her lips. Baffled but obedient, Sophie remained silent as the voices came nearer.
“Straighten up, Marianne!” a rich, dark contralto admonished severely. “Really, Thomas! I can’t think why you are letting her slouch like that in her portrait. She’ll have to spend at least an hour at the backboard today to counteract the damage.”
“Miss Daventry feels most at ease in a reclining position, Charlotte. Additionally, she and I both prefer that she appear natural rather than overly stiff.” Sheridan’s cool, refined tones betrayed no sign of the irritation he must certainly be feeling. “It is, after all, her portrait.”
“A portrait that will be hanging in her uncle’s house and mine. On public display.”
“Well, then, if Guy wishes to view my sketches and approve Miss Daventry’s pose before I set paint to canvas, he is welcome to do so.”
“Guy happens to be fully occupied with his Parliamentary duties at present. There is to be an important bill presented in the House.” Sophie could picture the unseen Charlotte drawing herself up haughtily. “However, I shall tender him your invitation, and he may find occasion to call upon you as soon as he finds himself less busy. And speaking of callers, is this not Amelia’s At Home day? Perhaps I should stop in for a few minutes and give her my regards.”
Amy’s eyes widened with almost comical dismay.
“I believe my wife is presently conferring with the singer who is to perform here tomorrow night. She would prefer not to be disturbed at this time. But I will convey your greetings to her when she is available, Charlotte. Now, Miss Daventry,” Sheridan’s tone grew warmer, “shall we say the same time, two days hence, for your next sitting?”
A lighter, much softer feminine voice murmured an inaudible reply, which must have been an affirmative, because Sheridan responded briskly, “Very well, Miss Daventry—until then. Ladies, allow me to see you to your carriage.”
As footsteps receded down the passage, Amy breathed out an undignified “whew!” and returned to the sofa.
“Dear life, who is that Tartar?” Sophie inquired, sotto voce.
“Lady Charlotte Daventry. Thomas has been commissioned to paint her niece and ward, Miss Marianne Daventry. And while Marianne is complaisant enough, Lady Charlotte tends to be… domineering.” Amy pulled a slight face. “Worse, she’s a distant cousin of Thomas’s on his mother’s side, and her husband, who’s an MP, is a favored protégé of his father, so he’s obliged to tolerate her presence—and occasional interference—while he works.”
Sophie grimaced in sympathy. “He must find that very trying indeed!”
“He tends to swear the air blue after she and Marianne are gone,” Amy confessed with a giggle. “Not in front of me, of course, but I’ve eavesdropped a time or two. He’s also trying to come up with some acceptable way to get her out of the studio so he can persuade Marianne to relax and appear less like a frightened rabbit during her sittings. Which isn’t easy—she’s just seventeen and thoroughly cowed by her aunt.”
“I’d be thoroughly cowed with such an aunt!” Sophie said fervently.
Amy rolled her eyes. “So would I! She means well, I suppose. And perhaps she can’t help being the way she is, and telling everyone what to do and how to do it. Her father is the Marquess of Dowbridge, who’s rather overpowering himself, according to Thomas. I find Lady Charlotte easiest to tolerate in small doses—like medicine.”
Sophie smiled at the comparison. “She does have a lovely speaking voice, though. I do notice that sort of thing in my profession,” she explained at Amy’s incredulous look.
“I suppose she does,” her friend conceded reluctantly. “And considerable presence too. Thomas says that she used to play breeches parts when they put on amateur theatricals as children—the big parts, like Hamlet and Romeo. I can almost picture her doing them.”
“Perhaps she’s a frustrated actress at heart,” Sophie suggested lightly. “I should think it would be far more interesting to play Hamlet than a political wife.”
“Oh, no doubt. It’s a pity women cannot stand for Parliament,” Amy mused. “Guy Daventry is very charming, but Lady Charlotte has twice the push and all the connections. I wonder if she ever tires of being the woman behind the man. I know I would.”
“Which is why I insist on your standing beside me instead,” Sheridan remarked from the doorway. “Lovely to see you again, Sophie,” he added, with a nod and a smile in her direction.
“Likewise,” she replied, smiling back.
Sheridan turned back to his wife. “I have seen the Daventrys off in their carriage, my dear, so you may now leave the drawing room with impunity.”
Amy flew to his side and kissed him soundly. “You are the very best of husbands!”
He returned the salute, cocking an ironic eyebrow. “Better love hath no man than to shield his wife from his most annoying relations?”
Amy pulled a face. “She calls me Amelia.”
“I call you Amelia,” he reminded her.
“Yes, but in an entirely different tone, which I don’t mind at all. When your cousin does it, I feel like a s
choolgirl being scolded by my governess. In any event,” she added, “I am grateful to be spared Lady Charlotte’s company until tomorrow night’s soiree. Talking of which, Sophie, shall we discuss your programme further, over luncheon?”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Sophie replied, accepting Thomas’s proffered arm.
***
Luncheon was delicious, a selection of exquisitely prepared hot and cold dishes that made Sophie understand why her hostess was so envied and her chef so assiduously courted. A creamy tomato bisque was followed by poached salmon with chilled asparagus, chicken in béchamel sauce, and a salad of tender greens. Sophie, who’d eaten little at breakfast, found herself famished and did full justice to the meal, though she took care not to overindulge.
The conversation was as good as the food. Although Amy was strictly an amateur performer, she had a deep appreciation of music and a good instinct regarding what was most likely to please her guests. By the time the dessert course of peach galette and lemon ice had been brought, Sophie had selected most of the songs that would be on her programme, not only the classical compositions for which she was best known, but some lighter, popular works that would be familiar to the audience—including a smattering of Gilbert and Sullivan.
Afterward, the Sheridans led her to the music room, an airy salon furnished in white and ice blue that would look and feel cool on even the muggiest summer night. On a low dais stood an Érard grand piano. Amy seated herself at the instrument—she could play a bit, though not as well as her sister Aurelia—and provided an accompaniment to the simple folk song Sophie performed to test the sound capabilities of the room. Sheridan sat in the front row of chairs where the audience would be seated the following evening and offered a few suggestions of his own.
It was close to four o’clock when they returned to the drawing room. While they were all enjoying a restorative cup of tea, Isabella Beatrice Sheridan, aged nine months, was brought down by her nurse to be properly introduced and admired. Much to Sophie’s amusement and delight, both parents immediately set their tea aside to dote upon their daughter. Like her mother, she was fair, with pale gold down crowning her head, but her eyes were the same brilliant green as her father’s. Best of all, she appeared to have been blessed with a sunny disposition, gurgling and cooing at all and sundry while waving a tiny fist in either greeting or emphasis.
Amy kissed the top of Bella’s head as she dandled the baby on her lap. “I was afraid Thomas would be disappointed at first, because I did not have a boy, but he absolutely dotes on Bella. He’s got a sketchbook full of drawings of her alone.”
“It pains me to contradict you, my love, but it’s actually two sketchbooks.” Sheridan leaned over the back of the sofa to stroke Bella’s downy hair. “Or it will be soon enough, once I add more drawings of her in the bath.”
Amy giggled. “Take care she doesn’t drench the pages the way she did last time!”
“I underestimated the range and magnitude of her splashing ability,” Sheridan explained with a crooked smile. “Not to mention her enthusiasm for making as large a mess as possible.”
Sophie laughed. “Perhaps she has a natural affinity for water? You should bring her to Cornwall sometime.”
The Sheridans exchanged a glance. “As a matter-of-fact, we’re planning to do just that later this summer,” Amy replied. “Relia’s very eager to have us visit, and I want Bella to spend time with her cousins. Alexandra is just a few months younger than she, and I’m determined for them to be great friends. Jared too.”
“And nothing stands in the way of Amelia’s determination,” Sheridan remarked fondly.
“Which should come as no surprise to you after five years,” she retorted.
“No surprise, but a constant source of entertainment. We’ll be heading off to Cornwall in August, as soon as the Season ends,” he added to Sophie.
“I thought everyone in Society raced off to shoot grouse on the Glorious Twelfth.”
“Not everyone,” Amy corrected. “We’ve had our share of invitations, but Thomas would rather paint grouse than shoot them. And I’ve never felt much enthusiasm for tramping about the moors in the damp, either. The seaside strikes me as a much pleasanter place to be, and the company far more congenial.”
“So you’re a convert to Cornwall at last?” Sophie teased, masking a brief pang of what might have been envy. During the last four years, she’d made only flying visits to the county she’d formerly called home. Her family had never questioned the brevity of those visits, but she knew they all wished she would stay longer, especially her mother.
“In moderate doses,” Amy admitted, smiling. “I’m still a city girl at heart, but everyone benefits from a change now and then. The sea air will doubtless do us all some good.”
“Mr. Sheridan, Lady Thornley has arrived,” the butler announced from the doorway.
“Thank you, Marsdon. A new commission,” Sheridan explained to his companions. “I’ll be in my studio for the next hour, at least.”
“I’ll have dinner put back until seven, then,” Amy told him.
“Excellent.” Sheridan kissed his wife and daughter, touched Sophie’s shoulder, and strode from the room, with the abstracted air Sophie had often observed in artists and musicians.
Amy watched after him fondly for a moment, then turned back as Bella’s questing fingers seized upon her mother’s cameo pendant, which she promptly tried to convey to her mouth.
“No, no, my love.” Amy pried her necklace loose from the child’s fist. “You wouldn’t like the taste at all.”
Bella squawked a protest, clearly holding a different opinion.
“Shall I take her for you?” Sophie asked. “Just until you tuck that away.” She nodded toward the pendant. “I’d love to hold her in any case.”
“Then of course you may.” Amy yielded up her daughter with a smile.
It had been several years since Sophie’s nieces and nephew had been small enough to hold like this, but some things the body did not forget. Bella squirmed for a moment in Sophie’s unfamiliar arms, but calmed down almost at once and lay smiling up at her newest admirer. Sophie cradled the baby close, marveling at the warm, light weight in her arms. Not for the first time, she felt a wistful ache about her heart. Sometimes, especially on tour, when she was lonely and weary from travel, she would find herself imagining another life: a home, a husband, children. And then, almost instantly, she would shut the door on that fantasy—because the husband of her imaginings too often wore Robin’s face…
As he did now, so she pushed the idea away determinedly, almost angrily, and summoned a smile for Bella’s mother. “Amy, she’s an absolute darling.”
“We think so.” The necklace now safely out of reach, Amy leaned over her daughter. “Thomas, especially. Sometimes he takes her into the studio with him and tries to show her how to hold a brush properly, though she usually tries to gnaw on them instead. Your daddy spoils you rotten, doesn’t he, precious?” she crooned as Bella gurgled agreement. “Do you know, Sophie, I wasn’t sure I was ready to become a mother? But now that she’s here”—her smile grew tremulous—“well, I can’t imagine our lives without her. And Thomas feels just the same way. Mama once told me there’s nothing like sharing a child to bring two people closer. I think I’m even more in love with him now than I was five years ago—” She broke off, her eyes widening in dismay. “Sophie, are you all right? You’ve gone white as a sheet!”
The memory conjured by Amy’s words had taken Sophie unawares, as sharp and painful as a dagger thrust between her ribs: Nathalie standing on the ballroom threshold, Cyril in her arms, Sara clinging to her skirts. And Robin’s face with its mixture of shock, disbelief, and—when he looked at Sara—longing.
Those children… he’d wanted them. He’d chosen them and Nathalie over her and the life they might have had together. Or so the nineteen-year-old girl inside of her tearfully insisted.
Shut up. You know it wasn’t as simple as that.
And you know that if he could have divorced her without risking the children’s welfare, he would have. Blame the law, not Robin. And not Sara and Cyril. She used their names deliberately, making them real, not abstractions.
“It’s nothing,” she managed at last. “I’m fine.”
“Well, you certainly don’t look fine!” Amy retorted, reclaiming Bella. “You look like you’re about to cry—or possibly be sick! And don’t tell me you’ve got stage fright about tomorrow or some such nonsense like that. You’re usually as cool as a cucumber when it comes to my soirees. So you might as well come out with it. You know I’ll give you absolutely no peace until you do!”
Sophie choked out a laugh that sounded and felt more like a sob. And the confession spilled out of her, a gush of blood from an open wound. “Robin Pendarvis is in London. And I’ve spoken to him.”
Amy grew very still, registering all the implications of that news. “I think, my dear, you had best tell me everything,” she said.
***
“You must think me such a fool,” Sophie said shakily, dabbing at her eyes.
They sat on the sofa together, another half-empty teapot before them, several damp handkerchiefs crumpled around them. The nursemaid had long since borne Bella back to the nursery for her afternoon nap.
Amy, her own eyes wet with sympathy, shook her head. “Never a fool, dearest. Just young—and very much in love. Because you do still love Mr. Pendarvis… don’t you?”
Sophie tucked her handkerchief away, avoiding her friend’s gaze—and her question. “I’m not nineteen anymore. I no longer expect love to solve everything.”
“Of course not. But in my experience, love can simplify as well as complicate matters.”
“How can love simplify anything?”
Amy smiled. “Well, either you still care for Mr. Pendarvis enough to wait for him to divorce his wife, or your feelings have changed to the point where you no longer desire a life with him. If you know the answer to either question, then you also know what course to take.”
Pamela Sherwood Page 17