Moriah Densley

by Song For Sophia

  Wilhelm tried not to crush the bones in Sophia’s hand and measured the others’ reactions. They purposefully scurried about, anxious, but the desperation seemed to fade. Sophia grasped the side of the bed, her arms shaking with strain. Wilhelm climbed behind her, holding her up, ignoring a chorus of protests from the doctor and self-proclaimed nurses.

  Louisa and Helena uttered delightedly as Mr. Greyes held up a wet froglike baby; it wailed angrily. “Your son!” Greyes announced as Louisa and Helena rushed to help. Sophia laughed weakly and fell back against Wilhelm’s chest. She breathed in heavy gusts, which he supposed she wouldn’t do if she were waning in her last moments. The first relief he had felt in weeks.

  Sophia panted and raised a shaky hand to move the hair from her face. Wilhelm brushed the strands behind her shoulders and stroked his thumbs over her jaw. She already looked a little better, not quite as drained.

  She raised her chin and looked at him for the first time since he had entered the room. “You are a mess,” she accused, her eyes bloodshot, her skin ashen and clammy. Her robe clung to her skin, soaked with sweat and blood.

  He erupted in shaky laughter and kissed her temple. “I was — I thought … ” he trailed, abandoning the unwelcome thought. “Are you all right, love? How do you feel?”

  Sophia delivered the most exasperated, cross glower he had ever seen. “Brilliant. Now quit fussing, Wil.”

  Greyes passed the tiny pink baby to Lady Chauncey, who bundled him in linen. She came around the side of the bed and presented a dark-haired, round-faced little boy. Louisa joined them with Elise, holding the little girl.

  “Oh,” sighed Sophia, “He has a little dimple in his chin!” Helena put the baby boy in Wilhelm’s arms. The others swooned, saying how beautiful the baby was, and Wilhelm kept silent, watching for Sophia’s reaction. He handed the baby to her and Louisa placed the other in her opposite arm.

  “I am a mother,” she whispered. Sophia laughed, blinking back tears, and warmth engulfed him from head to toe. He could watch her all day like this; she looked happy. The shadow haunting her eyes was not merely absent; she seemed to shine. “Thank you, Wil.”

  He started to quip something about how it appeared she had done all the work, but then she looked him in the eye and flashed her glorious siren smile, her eyes misty. She mouthed, I love you.

  That did it; he wept like a baby with his face buried in her hair. He heard the others leave the room, heard Sophia talking quietly to the babies in a ridiculous flirty voice. She made no comment, allowing him a moment to fall apart.

  Months ago when he thought he lay dying in her arms, he remembered a bone-deep cold with the sensation of sinking deep under water. Her voice sounded through the darkness and he held tight to it, welcoming the pain, knowing it meant there was still hope. Even when death came for him he resisted — fought like hell.

  He had stayed with her instead of succumbing to the relief of death for the same reason he chose her over the allure of vengeance. It was why he dumped out a bottle of cognac instead of drinking it. She was better than a soul mate. That she loved him in return represented balance: reward for every injustice ever served him, satiation for his every appetite intellectual or physical, sublime light to contrast his darkness.

  Beauty, music, laughter, and now children. She gave him everything, and his heart couldn’t hold the joy. He held her, basking in an elysium so intense it bordered on pain.

  His maudlin mood faded when Sophia muttered, “That was awful.” She spoke in a cheery voice, probably for the benefit of the babies. “I did not expect such force. I am sorry to have frightened you.” She added seriously, “I think I shall try the Queen’s way next time.” At his silence she explained, “Chloroform.”

  “Next time?” He stuttered, then managed, “I don’t think I can do that again.”

  “Then I shall ask the doctor to drug you as well.”

  “Knock me out cold.”

  • • •

  Sophia hummed a Sicilian lullaby to little Rose, who fought her drooping eyelids. After a few months of fastidious growing, she was delightfully stout, her head covered in a riot of honey curls. Baby Richard curled against her back, sleeping soundly. A shock of dark hair twisted around his temples. His peaceful face resembled his father’s, including the detail of the slightly dimpled chin. Difficult to tell with his fat cheeks, but he seemed to have his own pair of adorable Cavendish dimples.

  Almost midnight. Sophia slept uneasily when Wilhelm traveled without her. He was overdue at Rougemont, and she didn’t like the look of the stormy winter skies. He had been gone to London a fortnight, their longest parting. She didn’t care for it.

  Humming in the dark, she rocked the cradle with her foot, every moment more aware of her longing. She slept on his pillow every night, but his scent had faded. She thought of how he made faces at the babies while they cooed; he had been the one to make them laugh when it first happened. He joked to baby Richard, Look sharp, mate — we are outnumbered by all these frightening women.

  Despite his teasing, Wilhelm managed to make a family out of the people at Rougemont; Aunt Louisa like a mother and the Cavendish siblings adopted children. Everyone seemed so happy, at times she had to convince herself it was real.

  She sighed out loud. Baby Rosalie had finally drifted asleep. Huddled next to Richard, the pair should sleep through the night … with some luck.

  Sophia lost patience with the four walls of the room and indulged in a bit of restless wandering. She let Fritz in; he missed Wilhelm too and seemed pleased to tag along. She went to the music room and lit a lamp by the piano. No need to fish through the box for sheet music; Mendelssohn was perfect for pining and worrying, and she had several such pieces memorized.

  Sophia scolded herself for being so dejected over Wilhelm’s absence. A man of consequence had duties. A request for a meeting from the Secretary of State for War? A good reason to go. Wilhelm had explained that the newly elected Sir Cardwell planned to reform the army based on the events of the Russian War and requested Wilhelm’s advice. Of course she supported it, believing there was no better man for the job than her husband, and she had told him so.

  The lamp flickered as Fritz got up and wandered away. She hoped Wilhelm’s impatience had not gotten the better of him, that he had not been traveling through the storm rather than waiting for the train. She could imagine him irritably pacing around the railway station in Torquay, daring the weather to defy him.

  She heard a faint click, the lock on the door.

  “Sophie, my love,” he whispered from behind her ear, “Play a little longer. That is lovely.” He kissed her temple and inhaled deeply, resting his face in her hair a moment.

  She couldn’t keep her eyes on the keys; she watched Wilhelm set his gloves, jacket and necktie on the lid of the piano. She became distracted as he pulled apart the sides of his shirt. Ah, but he had locked the door … .

  A sigh escaped her lips as he brushed the hair from her neck and dotted kisses along her shoulder, moving away the sleeve of her nightdress with one hand and sliding the other across her ribs. “Hmm, yes. My Thursday mix,” he breathed in her ear.

  How had she forgotten the way his voice made her stomach drop? Never mind Mendelssohn.

  Sophia turned on the bench and caught his lips with hers. He still kissed her eagerly, as though he feared it might be their last. Tender and fervent, with a contagious hint of aggression. He set her on fire from the inside out.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I followed your music.”

  Sophia took in his exhausted, weather-beaten appearance. “You have been riding in the rain,” she accused.

  “My siren called me. I must obey.” He tossed his shirt onto the pile of discarded clothing. Only his trousers remained. He teased her by lowering the fastener part way then paused as though distracted.

  “I sincerely hope you do not catch ill.” Her appreciative gaze belied her scolding words.

  He wi
nked and looked at her from under his eyebrows. “You spoiled my romantic musings. I wasn’t finished.”

  “Oh. I apologize, Wil.” She reached for his trousers and pulled the fastener down. The zip sounded inordinately loud in the room. She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. “You may be pleased to hear I have been pining over you since the moment you left.”

  He knelt to rest between her knees and unlaced the satin ribbon tied at her neckline. “I can’t sleep without you,” he muttered.

  She stroked across his chest, wondering if she should admit to restless nights in a cold empty bed. What a mooning silly old pair they were. He caught her hand and kissed it slowly, then her wrist, closing his eyes.

  “You should not have come, but I am glad you did.” She rubbed her hands over his stiff shoulders. He moaned, leaning to angle her hands where he wanted them. “Did it go well in London?”

  “Yes, thank you. But can we discuss it in the morning?” He rose and lifted her by the waist then dropped onto the sofa with her lying over him.

  She grazed her fingernails along his jaw, tickling whiskers he hadn’t shaved for a day or so. Surprisingly, he wasn’t dirty; he smelled fresh and wild from being out in the rain, intensifying his musky pine and leather scent. She tousled his wet hair as she rested on his shoulder. Ah, it was good to have him back.

  “Welcome home, Wil.” She held his face and kissed him the way she wanted it, demanding he follow her pace.

  She wanted to remind him why it was worth riding through a storm to come home.

  About the Author

  Moriah Densley sees nothing odd at all about keeping both a violin case and a range bag stuffed with pistols in the back seat of her car. They hold up the stack of books in the middle, of course. She enjoys writing about Victorians, assassins, and geeks. Her muses are summoned by the smell of chocolate, usually at odd hours of the night. By day her alter ego is your friendly neighborhood music teacher. Moriah lives in Las Vegas with her husband and four children. Visit her website at www.moriahdensley.com.

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