Pamela Sherwood

by A Song at Twilight

  Sophie stared down at her hands, lying clenched in her lap. Like Aurelia, Amy had become family—and Thomas as well. Four years ago, they had provided a safe haven when her world had fallen apart. Only her mother had borne closer witness to her heartache then.

  “Whatever your choice, I am always on your side,” Amy continued. “I want whatever makes you happy, my dear. That includes keeping Mr. Pendarvis at bay should you choose not to see him again and he fails to respect that.”

  “He wouldn’t do that!” The protest was automatic. “Robin’s never been one to intrude where he’s not wanted.” Sophie mustered a wan smile. “He’s punctilious to a fault that way.”

  Amy smiled back. “I remember you saying something like that about him when you were here for your Season. About his insisting that you find a worthier man.”

  Sophie gave a watery laugh. “And, of course, I insisted there was no worthier man. At least, not for me!”

  “And do you feel the same way now?” Amy asked.

  “I don’t know—perhaps. I do know that I’ve never stopped caring for him. I’m just not sure that’s enough. I’ve learned to be… content, Amy. Even happy, at times.” She paused, swallowing painfully. “I remember how much it hurt, four years ago. To love someone that much, and have it end the way it did. I don’t know if I have the courage to do it again.”

  “Understood.” Amy squeezed her hand. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Sophie took a breath before she spoke. What came out surprised them both.

  “I realize this is short notice, but… would you consider adding one more person to the guest list for tomorrow night?”

  ***

  The dolls stood on the shelf, immaculately dressed and erect as a line of soldiers on parade. Robin stared up into innumerable pairs of glass eyes in various shades of blue, brown, grey, and, in one case, a brilliant green that reminded him painfully of Sophie.

  “Which one did you fancy, sir?” the shopgirl asked brightly.

  Robin started, then indicated a very pretty doll with soft golden-brown hair and slate blue eyes, wearing a dress and pinafore reminiscent of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, currently Sara’s favorite book. “That one.”

  “An excellent choice, sir,” she approved, taking it down for him.

  The doll boasted a jointed body and eyes that opened and shut. She also came with several changes of clothes, and in a fit of extravagance, Robin selected them as well, along with a toy steamer trunk to contain them. Sara did have other dolls, but this one would be the most fashionable by far.

  His purchases accruing on the counter behind him, he made one last circuit of the shop. Spying a toy sailboat on a nearby shelf, he automatically began to reach for it, when the memory of Cyril caught him by the throat.

  “Let’s be sailors, Papa—let’s run away to sea! I’ll be better there.”

  Even after six months, even after knowing how peaceful the boy’s end had been after his long illness, the grief was sharp enough to steal his breath. He closed his eyes until the pain subsided, and then took down the sailboat anyway. Sara had shared her brother’s fondness for boats and the sea. They could sail it in his memory, perhaps on the lily pond on the hotel grounds. Or the bathtub, should the craft prove less than seaworthy.

  Lastly, from a curio cabinet toward the back of the shop, he chose a music box shaped like a harpsichord, which played a lilting minuet when one lifted the lid. According to Miss Polgreen, Sara’s former governess, the girl loved music even more than her dolls. He paid for his items, then arranged to have them sent to Miss Sara Pendarvis, care of Lord and Lady Trevenan at Pentreath. His daughter loved receiving things by post. Just a few days ago, he’d sent her some books from Hatchards, including Through the Looking-Glass, which she hadn’t yet read, and a book of Andrew Lang’s fairy tales. According to a telegram from James and Aurelia, they had already arrived and Sara was enjoying them immensely. Aurelia had taken to reading a fairy tale to the children every night before bedtime, rationing them out like sweets.

  Robin left the shop with his resources slightly depleted but his spirits more elevated. Imagining Sara’s pleasure when she opened her parcels was almost enough to dispel the cloud over his head. His meeting with his solicitor had left him in a somber mood… and there had been that matter of seeing Sophie again.

  Sophie. Robin’s footsteps faltered momentarily. Impossible not to think of her, and their strained meeting this morning. Even knowing their complicated history, even recognizing how much time had passed and how tortuous the road ahead was likely to be for them, he’d still found himself wanting… more than he probably had any right to expect.

  Well, what had he thought would happen? That she would cry, “Yes, of course I’ll wait for you!” and fall into his arms straightaway? Conceit, my boy, pure conceit, Robin told himself sternly. Sophie could have anyone she wanted, just as she had in Cornwall. Only it was still more likely now, because of what she had become. It was sheer happenstance that she was presently unattached. Otherwise, he doubted he’d have had the nerve even to speak of a reunion. That, and the sheer panic that had gripped him at the thought of losing her again, just when he was reclaiming his life and freedom at last.

  He remembered that shining young girl who’d enchanted him at their first meeting, not least because she seemed the embodiment of everything he desired and had denied himself since his ill-starred marriage. Coming to know her better, as a person rather than an ideal, had deepened rather than diminished the attraction for him. A goddess was meant to be worshipped, but a woman like Sophie was meant to be loved. And so he’d loved her, reluctantly, almost unwillingly at first, and with heedless, whole-hearted abandon—as she had loved him.

  Correction. As the younger Sophie had loved him.

  Because the woman he’d met today—still lovely, compassionate, and generous—was so much warier and more guarded than the girl he remembered. And a large part of that was his doing. He’d promised her a future together, a future for which she’d been willing to wait, to stand by him through gossip and scandal, and then reneged on it. That he’d been convinced it was the right and only thing to do didn’t negate that he’d let her down. She might still care for him—he hoped to God she still cared for him—but the absolute trust she’d had in him was gone.

  Robin sighed sharply and rubbed his aching temples. The right and only thing to do… More and more he’d come to question the wisdom of his decision. It couldn’t have been wrong, ever, to protect the innocents, but when the price was remaining in a loveless marriage, with a spouse for whom you felt indifference at best and contempt at worst…

  Perhaps there was no right thing to do in this situation. Perhaps there was only the least wrong thing. And he’d chosen that course four years ago. He’d no business whining about it now just because it had proven more difficult to live with than he’d anticipated. For Nathalie too, he suspected. Because he hadn’t given her what she wanted, either. Not in Rouen, or in Cornwall.

  Unbidden, the memory rose to the forefront of his mind, in all its stomach-turning detail.

  It had happened a few months after his break with Sophie—in autumn, when even Cornwall’s mild climate held a slight chill in the air. When days were shorter, nights longer, and everything seemed to be drawing to a close. While he was reeling from the news that the girl he’d loved and renounced had embarked upon her tour, leaving him behind. As he’d wanted and intended, but the loss still dragged at his soul. He’d sat up long into the night, drinking brandy by the fire, and, despite his efforts, brooding over the way things might have been, if only. If only.

  Finally, disgusted with his maudlin mood, he’d gone to bed, where he’d dreamed, not unexpectedly, of Sophie: the taste of her kiss, the delicate heart of her face, the scent of violets wafting from her satiny skin.

  Even in sleep, he’d felt the mattress dipping beneath him and registered the added warmth and weight of someone climbing into bed beside him. Sara, perha
ps? Once or twice, his daughter had slipped out of the nursery to seek comfort she could not find from her nurse or her mother. But some instinct had prompted him to pull away rather than draw close, even as he’d struggled back toward consciousness, fighting to raise his heavy eyelids.

  It had been the scent that finally roused him: not essence of violet but something muskier, more exotic. Opening his eyes at last, he’d seen the female silhouette beside him in the darkness. As his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, he’d seen that the hair cascading over the pillow was moonlight-pale, not dark chestnut. And Nathalie had smiled at him in blatant invitation, drawn back the sheet to show him her naked body. Confident to the point of insolence in her charms—after all, they’d caught him once before, hadn’t they?

  He’d got up at once, without a word, pulling on his robe, and walked into his dressing room, where he’d shut the door and lain down upon the couch there. He’d made no reference to what had happened the following morning at breakfast, and Nathalie, slightly to his surprise, had not mentioned the incident either. But then, it did not exactly reflect well on her that she’d attempted this in the first place. Toward the end of the meal, however, she had lifted her gaze briefly from her plate, and the anger and affront in her eyes had startled him.

  Had she really thought him so enamored of her, so easily manipulated, that one glimpse of her unclad form would have brought him into her toils once again? He could not believe that she truly desired him as a lover—she’d tired of that soon enough in Rouen—so it was most likely mastery and power over him that she craved. Either way, he had no intention of cooperating.

  From that night on, he locked his chamber door on retiring. While he trusted the restraints of his own body, he was less confident of Nathalie’s scruples. At that point he’d not have put it past her to spike his food and drink with Spanish fly, or some other such substance. He’d taught the children a special knock, though, in case they should want Papa at night.

  Not long after, Nathalie had apparently taken her next lover, though she had respected their original agreement and conducted the liaison with discretion, away from the Pendarvis Hotel and the eyes of the children. For his part, Robin had poured his energies into work and fatherhood… and occasionally indulged in brief interludes of his own.

  One could always find some way to assuage one’s appetites, if necessary. So, a few times when he’d come up to London on business, he’d availed himself of a courtesan. But those excursions into bought pleasure only left him feeling emptier and lonelier than ever.

  He’d known love, real love, and without it, the physical act was meaningless. Better to devote himself to other things—his work, the children… Strangely enough, he’d found it less difficult than expected to lead a celibate life. Better abstinence than this grotesque travesty of love. It had been almost two years since his last assignation, but he’d felt no desire to change that. Not even now, with his marriage finally, indisputably done.

  Standing in the empty passage, hearing the sound of Nathalie’s laughter, tinkling and bright, but always now with that hard, almost mechanical note to it. A chamber door opening, and the sight of her lying there, pale hair outspread upon the pillow, the diamond necklace gleaming about her throat. And the man starting up beside her, every bit as naked.

  And a feeling, deep inside, of a last link sundering. An obligation ending.

  He supposed he should have felt outraged, humiliated. The wronged husband, cuckolded again, this time under his own roof. Instead, he had felt mainly relief and emptiness.

  It was over. It had been over for a long time. And now even the pretense was over as well. The divorce would be just a formality. Granted, there was Sara to consider, and he did not delude himself that her parents’ divorce would be easy for her. But he would do his best to shield her from the worst of it. And selfish though Nathalie was, he did not believe she would do anything to deliberately harm or distress their daughter.

  The past was the past. Time he stopped living in it, trying to make amends for the foolish youth he’d been and that foolish youth’s foolish choices. The present was what mattered, and the future, even if—he steeled himself—Sophie ultimately chose not to be a part of his.

  Squaring his shoulders, Robin paused to take stock of his present surroundings, which had gone unnoticed for a good twenty minutes. And a short, sharp laugh broke from his throat when he saw the print shop window almost directly in front of him.

  Flanked by photographs of the reigning professional beauties, Sophie, in costume as Cherubino, smiled winsomely out at the world.

  Fate had a perverse sense of humor, Robin reflected. But after only a brief hesitation, he entered the shop and bought the picture, along with a silver filigree frame. The clerk tried to persuade him to purchase a second photograph—of Rosamund Langley, a striking young widow who was the current beauty of the Season—but Robin politely declined.

  Leaving the shop, he turned his steps in the direction of Brown’s Hotel, studying Sophie’s photograph as he walked. The face he loved and had pictured so often in his mind. She looked radiant here, her dark hair pulled back into a queue, her eyes bright, her dimples bracketing a mischievous, even slightly roguish smile. Perfectly in character, for Cherubino was an enchanting young rogue, forever falling into love and into scrapes with equal abandon. Sophie had received glowing reviews in the part from the London papers, all of which Robin had clipped and kept. And she regularly performed “Voi che sapete,” Cherubino’s best-known aria, as part of her programme.

  Robin tried not to think too much about the very real possibility that newspaper clippings and this photograph might be all that he would ever have of her now. A great singer belongs to the world, after all. With a sigh, he tucked the photograph away into his breast pocket and turned onto Albemarle Street.

  Late afternoon, and Brown’s Hotel was doing a brisk business serving tea. Robin considered the tearoom for a moment as he’d not eaten for some hours, but decided to go up to his room and order sandwiches instead.

  He paused at the concierge desk to ask, though not with any real hope, if any messages had come for him. Much to his surprise, the attendant on duty handed him a single envelope, sealed with deep red sealing wax. Delivered by hand that very afternoon, he informed his guest.

  Robin’s heart bounded in his chest at the news—until he looked more closely at the writing on the envelope. Not Sophie’s. After their year of correspondence, he’d come to know her handwriting intimately. Unless that too had changed, along with everything else. For a moment, he wondered if he’d received someone else’s message by mistake, but the name and direction were indisputably his own. Walking away from the desk, he located a convenient wing chair in the lobby and sat down to open the envelope.

  Breaking the seal, he extracted a gilt-edged invitation… requesting his presence at a soiree at eight o’clock the following evening, to be held at the Park Lane residence of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Sheridan. Musical entertainment would be provided.

  Robin’s mouth went dry, and his heart began to beat in slow, painful strokes. But it wasn’t the invitation itself that provoked that response, but the short note that accompanied it—penned, almost certainly, by his hostess.

  For reasons of her own, Sophie wishes you to attend. I hope you will not disappoint her.

  Warning as well as cautious acceptance in that brief communication.

  Robin closed his stinging eyes and silently thanked whatever gods existed for the mercy of a second chance.

  Thirteen

  Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.

  —William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

  Will he or won’t he?

  Sophie stared into the glass, and her reflection—perfectly tinted, not a hair out of place—stared serenely back. But it was another face she saw: a lean, angular face dominated by intense blue eyes, a face she’d tried for four long years to forget…

  Is there any hope at all for us?

/>   She closed her eyes, hearing that question echo over and over in her mind. And no nearer to an answer than she had been when he first asked her.

  He’d promised her all the time she needed. But how much did she need, truly, to make up her mind on this? Did she already know, deep down, the answer she wanted to give? Might it be something else that was holding her back?

  At her request, Amy had sent the invitation to Brown’s Hotel. Short notice… but all the same, Sophie did not yet know how Robin had responded. Amy had dozens of other things to attend to regarding her soiree for Sophie to want to trouble her about one particular guest. Her friend had already done more than her share over the last four years. Besides, even if Robin had sent an acceptance, he might still change his mind at the last minute and not attend. Convince himself that it was in her best interest for him to stay away.

  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d thought that way. But it might be the last time she was prepared to accept it. Because if he was serious about their having a future together, he had to commit to it fully. She would accept nothing less.

  This evening, then, would tell the tale.

  She did not like that she was thinking of tonight as a test. In general, she had little use for women who continually demanded proof of devotion. But after the lonely years they’d both endured, the hopes that had been raised so high, then dashed so cruelly, the broken promises…

  She needed to know, for once and for all, if he was prepared to fight for them. As he had not fought four years ago.

  Come to me. Take a chance on being seen with me. At least some of my life will be lived in the public eye. Are you willing to join me there, and let the world know you mean to be a part of it?

  A small test—nothing as dangerous as tossing one’s glove into a pit of rampaging lions and expecting him to retrieve it, as a lady had done in a poem she’d read as a schoolgirl. But a test, all the same. He loves me, he loves me not…