The Mercers did not, after all, carry out John’s last wishes, whatever they were. As Mrs. Mercer had said, if John had truly intended those documents to reflect his last wishes, then he’d had ample time in which to sign them into effect. And he hadn’t. Surely, the woman said when Sophie brought herself to inquire, that counted for something. And weren’t they allowing her to live at Havenwood? What more did a single woman alone need?
She hadn’t, in her heart, expected them to carry out John’s wishes, but she had expected them to do something. The idea of staying at Havenwood was intolerable, yet there was nothing she could do. She had no money of her own and nothing valuable enough to sell for money to make her escape from the Mercers. It might be weeks, possibly months, before she was able to remove. Until she completed and sold her story, she hadn’t the funds necessary to let a flat. She had once supported herself on her writing; it seemed she must do so again.
Twenty-four
Havenwood,
MAY 3, 1815
“MR. TALLBOYS,” SOPHIE SAID WHEN SHE CAME INTO THE parlor where he was waiting. His timing was impeccable. The Mercers were out making a call, and for once she had the house to herself. This meant Mrs. Mercer would not be coming in to monitor her conversation or drive away her visitor with her inane conversation. She smiled, because she was genuinely pleased to see someone from their circle in London. She crossed the room to give her hand to Mr. Tallboys. “How pleasant to see you.”
He stood and bowed to her. He held a bouquet of roses in his hands. “Mrs. Evans.” Having bent over her hand, he looked her up and down. Doubtless he thought her black clothes drab indeed. She was thinner now than she had been in London, while Tallboys was as hale and handsome as ever. “You’re well, I hope, ma’am.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Here.” He held out the roses with an awkward grin.
Sophie took them and breathed in the fragrance. The bloodred blooms were just beginning to open. “They’re lovely, Mr. Tallboys. How kind of you to think of me.” Mrs. Mercer would certainly have a thing or two to say about this. Let her, she thought with a surprisingly vicious satisfaction. She would leave the flowers here for anyone to see and admire. She called for a servant to put them in water. When she was done with her instructions, she seated herself on a chair near the fire, legs crossed at her ankles. She was aware that Tallboys’s gaze had followed her the entire time. She gestured. “Do sit, Mr. Tallboys. Please.”
“Thank you.” He tugged on his coat and did sit. On a chair nearer to her than his last. His lovely brown eyes stayed on her. They were the color of cognac, she thought idly. “Allow me to tell you how sorry I was to hear of your brother. His loss was tragic.”
“You are very kind to say so.” She glanced toward the door. A maid brought in the roses, now in a crystal vase, and set them on a side table. “Thank you, Susan,” she told the maid, and Tallboys beamed. She went to the roses and rearranged the blooms, leaning over to breathe in their scent again. “They’re really lovely.”
Tallboys, naturally, stood when she got up to smell the roses. He seemed ill at ease to her. Charles came in with tea, and they were quiet while the servant set the table for them. Sophie poured the tea while Tallboys selected a cucumber sandwich and put it on a plate.
“How is everyone in London?” she asked. She wanted to ask about Banallt but didn’t know how to bring the subject around to him without seeming overly interested in the answer. He’d written her four times. All four letters remained unopened, tucked away in a box. She hadn’t wanted to know anything. She didn’t want the regret or the hurt or longing or any of the other emotions that would come with her reading his letters. News and gossip reached Duke’s Head whether she read his letters or not. Drake had been sentenced to hang for the murder of her brother. Miss George and her family had left London, because of an illness in the family, an elderly relative they said, at whose side they must be. Banallt was rumored to be having an affair with, well, any number of ladies. A certain Mrs. P— had been mentioned more than once. Mrs. Llewellyn had written once. That letter, too, remained unopened. She did write to Miss Llewellyn, though. She’d loved John, too, after all.
Until Tallboys, she hadn’t wanted anything to do with reminders of London, but now that he was here, she found herself anxious to know more.
“Ah. Well.” He bobbed his head. “London. A very great city.” She smiled encouragingly. “We’re getting on well enough, I think. These are excellent,” Tallboys said of his sandwich. “My compliments to the cook.”
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to tell her. What of Napoleon? Will there be war, Mr. Tallboys? Is there any news you are able to share?” He wore his hair longer now. Nowhere near as long as Banallt’s, but he no longer had the close-cut head she recalled. There was a touch of red in his hair.
“None that would settle your mind, Mrs. Evans.” He crossed one leg over the other and eyed the cucumber sandwiches. Sophie passed him the plate. “Thank you. We miss you dreadfully at Charlotte Row,” he said. “Without you there to keep us shipshape, we’ve gotten all out of sorts with one another. Vedaelin snaps at the least little thing, and nothing’s where we expect to find it. Banallt says we’re going to have to hire two secretaries to do the work of one Mrs. Evans.”
Sophie made sure she didn’t react, and then realized that no reaction would seem peculiar to him, and indeed, Tallboys was watching her thoughtfully. “I should have thought to hire myself out,” she said. She could use the money.
“And of course, we are without your brother’s fine mind. That is a great loss for us. We miss his voice in the House.”
Her heart contracted. “You’re kind to say so.”
“Not just kind. It’s true.” Tallboys leaned forward to squeeze her hand. “He’s greatly missed, Mrs. Evans.”
“Thank you.” She pressed his hand in return.
He sat back again, tea in hand. “The Duke of Portland held a masquerade ball t’other day. You never saw so many Roman centurions in your life.”
She smiled, glad to be diverted. “That must have been quite a sight.”
“There was a deluge of Athenas and shepardesses as well.” He sipped from his tea. “This will amuse you.” He grinned at her. “Mrs. Peters continues her pursuit of Banallt, and I’m sure it won’t surprise you to know—”
Sophie jumped to her feet. Tallboys stood, too. “Oh good heavens,” she said with a sharp gesture. “Do sit down. It’s just, I must pace. It is a habit of mine, I’m afraid. I’m rarely still.” What had she expected? That he would tell her Banallt was pining away for love of her? Tallboys slowly sat and picked up his tea again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You were telling me about the Duke of Portland’s masquerade.”
“Yes.” He frowned. Then put down his cup and rose. “Perhaps, Mrs. Evans, it would be best if I brought myself up to the mark rather than drag matters out indefinitely.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sure you must suspect why I’ve called.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I know you’ve been overcome with grief, but I cannot stop myself wondering if you love me as violently as I love you. Mrs. Evans, will you marry me? I understand if you cannot discuss the subject just now. You’ve only to tell me so. We will leave the matter for another time.”
“Mr. Tallboys.” She stopped pacing. Marrying was the perfect solution to her increasingly intolerable situation here. And if she must marry someone, why not Reginald Tallboys? He was a decent man. He would be faithful to his marriage vows. Even Banallt thought Tallboys would make her happy. They would be comfortable together. Something in her chest broke. It’s not that he wasn’t handsome. He was. His eyes were lovely, and she liked the red in his hair. They would get on well. She wasn’t as numb as she’d been when John first passed away, yet she’d felt no spark of anything when she first saw him. No giddiness. No pounding heart. Until he mentioned Banallt. “I—”
“Is there any chance you might say yes?”
“Banallt—”
“Never mind Banallt,” she said. “Banallt does not signify.” She drew a deep breath through her nose, well aware that her voice trembled. “I had rather not talk about Lord Banallt, if you please!”
Tallboys fell silent and fiddled with his trouser leg. “Forgive me, Mrs. Evans, but I only meant to say that Banallt told me once I ought not give up on my hopes for you.”
Her emotions clamored in her chest so that she hardly knew what she felt. “Did he tell you to come here?” Was that why Banallt wasn’t here? Because he’d sent Tallboys instead? “Was this his idea?”
“No!” His cheeks flushed. “Not in the least.”
“He’s interfering.” She was close to tears, and she could not stop the tumult in her. “I won’t have any man interfere in my life. Particularly him. Let him chase Mrs. Peters.” Her voice rose and she couldn’t make herself stop. “I hope he catches her. They deserve each other.”
“Mrs. Evans.” Tallboys looked uncomfortable. “You seem to have misunderstood me. This is why one ought never gossip. I only meant to amuse you. Mrs. Peters is making a fool of herself over Banallt. Not t’other way round. It’s plain to everyone but her he has no interest in her. It’s his cousin’s daughter everyone expects him to marry. It’s all but announced from what I hear.”
“Miss Llewellyn, you mean?”
“Yes. Miss Fidelia Llewellyn.”
She sat down hard and held her head in her hands. Her heart crashed to her toes.
Banallt was going to marry Fidelia.
Of course. Of course he was. Why would he not? He must marry. A man like him must. Their affair was over. She had declined him and then sent him away, and she had ignored all his letters. He knew nothing of her life here. He was free to pursue any woman he wanted.
“Mrs. Evans?”
She lifted her head. “John was in love with her,” she said brokenly. “And Miss Llewellyn was in love with John. And I was—” She scrabbled in her pocket for a handkerchief but didn’t find it before Tallboys handed over his. “He was so desperately in love with her,” she whispered.
“I never meant to distress you,” he said. “Forgive me. I had no idea. None at all.”
“You haven’t.” She squeezed his handkerchief. “We would have heard the news here eventually.” Somehow she managed to get control of herself. “There is Castle Darmead, you see. Not even two miles from here. Owned by the earls of Banallt, so everyone in Duke’s Head pays especial attention to him. The earl’s father was married here. No doubt we will have a celebration of our own when the news is official.”
“And what of you, Mrs. Evans?” Tallboys asked. “Will you remarry?” He took a step forward. “Will you marry me?”
Twenty-five
St. Crispin’s Church, Duke’s Head,
MAY 7, 1815
A BUZZ OF WHISPERED CONVERSATION BROUGHT SOPHIE out of her contemplation of the hymnal on her lap. She always flipped through the pages when she arrived in church. It saved her from making conversation with anyone if she feigned absorption in the book. Reverend Carson entered, splendid in his robes, but rather than the parishioners quieting down in preparation for his sermon, they craned their necks and turned in their seats to stare at the door behind them. What on earth for? The Mercers did the same. Sophie twisted to see around the stone column between her and the door. Her stomach dropped a mile.
Lord Banallt had just come in.
That could mean only one thing. He was having the banns read for his marriage to Fidelia. The earls of Banallt were parish residents, after all. He’d had the banns read here for his first marriage, as had all the earls before him. Her fingers tightened around the hymnal. She remembered the jolt she’d felt all those years ago when she’d heard the banns called for Banallt’s first marriage.
She saw him nod in the direction of Reverend Carson then walk along the center aisle, his hat in hand. His destination was the pew reserved in perpetuity for the master and mistress of Castle Darmead. Sophie faced front and kept her head down. Banallt. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Banallt was here. He came even with the pew where she sat with the Mercers. She looked because she could not help but do so. He nodded in her direction, barely a recognition. His eyes were cold and his posture haughty to the core. Every living soul in the church knew that here was a man who would never be swayed from his purpose.
Sophie, sitting with the Mercers on one side of her and the Misses Quinn on the other, was trapped. There was no way for her to slip out without being noticed.
St. Crispin’s wasn’t large; at most seventy people could comfortably sit inside. The population of Duke’s Head had long outgrown the church, hence the second, larger church on the other side of town. But Mercers had always attended services at St. Crispin’s, as did most of the landowners. To her knowledge there hadn’t been an Earl of Banallt in the church since Banallt’s father, and that was well before she was born.
Banallt sat in the front pew. Sophie wondered if he knew the statues flanking the Gothic entrance to the church were the viscount and viscountess who had built Darmead. The present Earl of Banallt hadn’t come to church when he was here before, which occasioned a great deal of gossip about the state of his soul.
Beside her, Mrs. Mercer clutched Sophie’s arm. “The Earl of Banallt? Here, at St. Crispin’s!”
“Yes, Mrs. Mercer,” she said with a calm she didn’t feel. “That is the earl.” How could such a proud man be anyone else? Mrs. Mercer knew he’d written to her, a correspondence Sophie had explained as related to Drake’s trial. She dreamed of him often. Ever since Tallboys’s call, she’d begun to dream he was married to Fidelia. And why would he not be? He’d told her himself his relatives hoped for the union.
“Handsome as the very devil, isn’t he?” Mrs. Mercer whispered. She snapped open her fan and waved it vigorously under her chin.
Reverend Carson mounted the pulpit and greeted the congregation. Sophie registered barely a word he said. From where she sat, if she tipped her head just so, she could watch Banallt’s profile. He looked every inch the aristocrat. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, back straight. His hair gleamed black in the light coming through the stained glass window commissioned by one of his ancestors. He wore dark blue today, and though she couldn’t see his eyes from this distance, she knew the color made his eyes gleam unnaturally. He kept his prayer book open, one hand holding the spine. She saw his mouth move whenever the congregation was exhorted to reply.
Well. He’d not yet been struck dead. She smiled to herself. Lord Banallt in church and no lightning. Nor angels singing hallelujah, either.
Mrs. Mercer openly stared at Banallt, and the Misses Quinn sitting to Sophie’s right kept up a constant whispered conversation. “Why do you think he’s here? I heard Mama say he’s in want of a wife. Papa says he’s wicked.” And then they’d giggle and their mother would hush them and five minutes later they’d start all over again. “Perhaps you’ll be a countess, Alice. What if he chooses you?” More giggles. “Papa would never allow it.”
The time came for the reading of the banns, and Sophie slipped into a state of dread as Reverend Carson began to read them off. Her palms sweated in her gloves. Miss Moore and Mr. Allen, for the third and final time; Miss Baker and Mr. Roberts for the first. But no more. As the services concluded, Sophie wondered if she’d deliberately blanked out the reading of Banallt and Miss Llewellyn’s names.
She looked in the direction of his pew, but he wasn’t there. She didn’t see him anywhere in the church. As the parishioners filed out, the Misses Quinn bombarded everyone with the same question: Was that really the Earl of Banallt? Why ever was he here? When the questions were directed at her, Sophie answered with either a nod or something banal.
Her c
hest felt tight, and the longer she stayed inside the church, the more aware she became that six of the eleven stained glassed windows had been endowed by the earls of Banallt, and that Banallt himself had just ten minutes ago been sitting in the ornate pew near the nave. Mr. and Mrs. Mercer had gone outside already, expecting, one imagined, that Sophie would follow. She extricated herself from the young ladies—and it was mostly young ladies, dizzyingly eager for any morsel of information about the Earl of Banallt—and went outside.
By the time she came out into the morning sun and had given Reverend Carson her hand, she didn’t see Banallt anywhere. Nor the Mercers, for that matter.
“Mrs. Evans,” the reverend said. He clasped her hand between his. “Good morning to you, my dear.”
“Reverend.” The sun was in her face, and she had to shade her eyes to see him. “Good morning to you, too.”
He pressed her hand once more then released her. Sophie walked down the flagstone path to where she expected the Mercers would be waiting for her, impatient at her delay. Another crowd gathered at the gate, young men this time, all of them admiring the phaeton in the street. A man in a home-spun wool suit held the head of the gray gelding in the traces.
Banallt stood there on the street side of the gate. He’d just shaken the hand of silver-haired Mr. Jenkins, who raised horses and owned the land abutting Darmead to the north. There was no other exit to the street. The Mercers were nowhere to be seen. She fancied herself Catherine Parr, walking her final steps at Windsor.
The earl’s attention left Mr. Jenkins, and his eyes found hers, and for one exquisite moment, Sophie believed everything would come right. Foolish, foolish woman, she thought. She continued to the gate. Today, for some reason, it was harder to stop herself from feeling. Banallt turned his back to the crowd of young men and held out a hand. Mr. Jenkins beamed at her.
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