by Wendy Vella
“Sophie,” he called as he walked into her room, but she was not in there either. He knew she had to be safe. How something could have happened to her here with him lying beside her and every door and window in the place locked tight was inconceivable. He knew all this, but he still felt terrified. His heart pounded and the blood in his veins had turned to ice at the prospect of Jack Spode getting his hands on his wife.
Walking through the house, Patrick tried to find signs of Sophie, anything to alleviate the tension that was gripping him, and then he saw it—the door that led down to the kitchens was open. Quietly, he made his way down the stairs. If Jack Spode had somehow gotten into his house, he wanted to surprise him. And then kill him, Patrick vowed silently.
“Well as to that, my lady, Mr. Gumbrill and I were married for near enough thirty years before he was taken from me. We were blessed with three children; they all live in the village except for Billy, who works for a doctor and his family in London.”
Patrick slumped against the wall as he heard Mrs. Gumbrill’s voice and then Sophie ask another question. She was safe and sitting in the kitchens.
“Do you have any grandchildren, Mrs. Gumbrill?” Sophie asked, although her words sounded muffled, almost like she was talking with her mouth full of food.
“Five, my lady, three boys and two girls, sweet young things they are, too. I see them as often as I’m able.”
“Did you not think that perhaps I might wake and find you gone?” Patrick said, walking further into the kitchens. Now that he knew Sophie was safe, he could feel the bite of anger.
“Patrick!”
“My lord!”
She was sitting in a chair with her feet curled underneath her and a glass of milk in her hand and a plate sprinkled with crumbs on the table before her. With tousled curls around her shoulders, she looked like a sweet little girl who had slipped from her bed to sneak food from the kitchen. At least she was wearing the bloody sling, Patrick thought.
“I was hungry,” Sophie said defensively, as she noted her husband’s clenched jaw.
“I would have got you some food,” Patrick said.
“Well, if that will be all, my lady,” Mrs. Gumbrill said as she regained her feet and left the room with a remarkable turn of speed, considering her bulk.
“Thank you,” Sophie called after her.
“Hell, Sophie! Have you any idea what I thought when I woke to find you gone?”
“You were rude to Mrs. Gumbrill,” Sophie said, still looking toward the now empty doorway.
“She’ll get over it,” Patrick snapped. “I, however, would like your assurance that you will never scare me like this again.”
“I was hungry, my lord, and felt that waking you was unnecessary as I knew my way to the kitchens,” Sophie said calmly, as her husband was obviously in the grip of a strong emotion.
“Promise me, Sophie.”
“Patrick, you’re being unreasonable. Surely I can find myself a snack without rousing the entire household?” Sophie said, exasperated at his stubbornness.
Jaw set, he stood before her, determined.
“Promise me, Sophie.”
“I will not promise you,” Sophie said, feeling her own anger rise at his high-handed manner. “You are being unreasonable, my lord. I am surely able to walk around my own house at whatever time of the day or night I choose.” Standing, Sophie tried to walk around him.
“Unreasonable!” Patrick roared. “You have a bullet hole in your arm, for Christ’s sake woman.”
“Do not curse at me!”
“I would not have to if you weren’t so bloody foolish!”
“I’m in my own house, Patrick, surely I am safe here?” Sophie’s voice had risen to meet his now.
For some reason, hearing Sophie say she should be safe in her own house enraged Patrick further, because she should be and he had failed to make it so.
“You are safe when I tell you so and not before, and you will do as I damn well say, is that understood!”
Defiant, Sophie lifted her chin but remained silent.
He stepped forward until his nose was almost pressed to hers. “I would think, given your previous line of work, you would understand how to follow orders, madam.”
Sophie felt as if he had kicked her. Tucked away deep inside her there had always been a small kernel of fear that he could never forget her past, and his last words had confirmed just that. Using her good arm, she tried to push his stomach, but the muscles beneath her fingers merely tensed and he remained unmoving. She would not cry now, not in front of him.
“I am your husband and it is my duty to protect you, wife, and it is your duty to obey me.” Silence filled the kitchen as he finished speaking; not a nice companionable silence, but a tension-filled one. Closing his eyes, Patrick squeezed the bridge of his nose hard. When had he ever spoken without thought, spoken in anger? And to do so to his wife, the woman he cared about, was inexcusable. “Sophie,” Patrick said gently, as he reached for her.
“Please do not touch me, my lord. I now understand my position in your life and will see that in the future I fulfill it.”
“Let me explain, love. I never meant to say …”
She walked away from him, head high, and marching up the stairs she disappeared before he could say another word. Disgusted with himself, Patrick went to his study and filled a glass with brandy, then sat contemplating the unlit fire. The problem was that he was terrified of something else happening to Sophie. Terrified that she would be taken from him and he would be forced to live without her, his love, his life. Swallowing the last of his drink, he once again climbed the stairs, hopeful that Sophie would be in his bed.
His bed was empty and the connecting door between their rooms was locked. Climbing between his cold sheets, Patrick lay for a long time wondering how he could fix what he had just broken, because life without Sophie in his arms, Patrick realized, would be no life at all.
* * *
“I think you should wait to tell your husband before we go to the fete, Sophie.”
“Patrick will not mind, Mellie. He has ridden over to Stephen’s; one of his horses has had a baby.”
“Foal, Sophie.”
“Foal,” Sophie repeated dutifully, then smiled as Amelia rolled her eyes.
“Letty has taken Timmy to visit with Lord Bates and his wife; they have been friends of hers for many years, but are now retired from society. According to Letty, he has a fine garden that she is eager to cast her eye over and several children who Timmy will love to play with,” Sophie added, picking up her gloves. “Then she will meet us at the fete.”
“Yes, but your arm, Sophie. Lord Coulter will be most displeased if you tire yourself.”
“It is a small village fete, Mellie. I am sure there will be somewhere to sit if I tire, and it is highly likely that we will return before Patrick.”
Soon they were in the carriage and Sophie pretended interest in the countryside. In truth, she had wanted to get away from Plentiful. She had overheard Patrick telling Stephen yesterday that they had believed the bullet hole in her arm was the result of a poacher, therefore Sophie believed she was now safe from Jack Spode. Perhaps now that she was married to a powerful peer, he knew she was out of his reach? Whatever the reason, it had been close to two months since Jack Spode had last made contact with her, so Sophie felt the danger was over.
It had been two days since she and Patrick had argued in the kitchen. She had woken alone the following morning to find her husband had turned into a rigidly polite gentleman. Almost too polite, she thought, remembering this morning as he bowed over her hand and asked after her arm. There had been no warmth or wicked twinkle in the dark depths of his eyes and Sophie did not know how to bridge the gap she had made in their marriage. In two days he had not touched her unless necessary and she missed his touch, the brush of his hand on her nape or the caress of his fingers on her chin. Most of all, she missed him in her bed, his warm arms surrounding her. Sophie knew he wa
s angry with her, but he had promised to always share her bed, and here they were after only a few weeks of marriage and already sleeping apart.
His pride had not allowed him to take the first step; she had taken his worry for her and thrust it back in his face. How could she have accused Patrick of being a tyrant when it could not be further from the truth? He was a kind, gentle man who cared for her and his people and she loved him. Sophie should have tried to understand his motives instead of getting angry over his high-handed ways. She needed to apologize and she needed to do it as soon as she and Amelia returned from the fete, before it was too late.
“That is three sighs in just three minutes, Sophie,” Amelia said.
“Sorry, it is just so nice to be out in the sunshine.”
“Really, and here I was thinking they were sad sighs.”
Ignoring Amelia, Sophie asked a question of her own. “Do you want to tell me what is going on between you and Stephen?”
“No,” Amelia said, looking out of the other window. “Do you want to tell me what is going on between you and the Dark Lord?”
“Dark Lord?” Sophie queried.
“I gave him that name the first time I met him; he was all brooding and quiet and … well … dark.” Amelia laughed at Sophie’s puzzled expression. “It is only with you that he smiles, Sophie. It is obvious that he loves you, because when you are in the room, quite simply everyone else ceases to exist and his eyes follow your every move.”
“Oh, Mellie,” Sophie whispered, then looked down at her gloves. Was it true; did Patrick really love her? “Well, um … as to that … I … I …”
“He loves you, Sophie. Why would he have married you otherwise?” Amelia cut off Sophie’s next words. “So whatever is going on between you two, I suggest you fix it.”
“Yes,” Sophie said. “I will speak to him upon our return to Plentiful, I promise. And as we are confiding in each other,” Sophie added, “then I must say that Stephen cannot take his eyes off of you either, he seems quite taken.”
Amelia sighed. “Hmm … well, it is merely that I cannot think of Stephen or what he makes me feel until I have sorted out my relationship with mother.”
“She will come around, Mellie,” Sophie said firmly, and then she silently prayed for just that miracle.
Minutes later, they pulled up in the small village, which was a few miles from Patrick’s home. The fete was held on a large square of grass opposite the church. As the ladies stepped down, they were bombarded with sights and smells that made their mouths water. People milled around a group of stalls displaying a variety of items. There were smiles and laughter and small children running in several different directions.
Sophie thought it was a beautiful place, and was enjoying this new home of hers. The countryside seemed to roll in green undulating pastures as far as the eye could see. There were flowers and trees and streams and that was just on Patrick’s land. She was sure it looked miserable when it rained, like any other place, but right here and now it was beautiful. Sophie’s happiness would have been complete if Patrick had been at her side.
“I must have some of those,” Amelia said, towing Sophie toward the stall that had sweets on display.
Letty soon arrived with Timmy, who squealed in delight at all the new sights, his hands reaching for anything that came in range. Sophie took one hand and Amelia the other and together they all strolled, looked, and laughed for over an hour. Timmy found a ball made of rags that he would not be parted from and Sophie some wool she would give to Mrs Gumbrill so she could knit something for her grandchildren. Amelia, like Timmy, spent most of the time with her mouth full of pastry or sweets.
“Don’t you dare moan to me this evening, Mellie, if your stomach starts to hurt.”
“How could anything so delicious be harmful to a person,” Amelia said around a mouthful of sweets.
Timmy was overwhelmed and quite often had to be coaxed out from behind his sister’s skirts to go and play with the other children.
Sophie introduced herself to most of the people she spoke to, knowing that Patrick was landlord to some of them and employer to others; she felt it was important. Most responded with a shy smile, but all said that the earl was a wonderful landlord and they had little to complain of. As she reached the end of the stalls, her arm began to ache and she was more than ready to find a seat.
“If I may have a word, my lady?”
Sophie turned to find a large rotund man behind her. Round rosy cheeks, heavily jowled, with not a hair on his head, he was a most unusual looking man, but it was his clothes that drew Sophie’s eye. He wore a startling puce and navy waistcoat embroidered with gold threads and teamed with primrose yellow pantaloons.
“I am Squire Pickles, my lady, and we would be honored if you would judge the pie contest,” he said, sinking into a bow that seemed to take a long time and a huge amount of effort. Just when Sophie feared he was cast, he righted himself with a loud bark of laughter.
“Lord Coulter, it seems, is running behind schedule,” Squire Pickles boomed as he looked at his gold pocket watch.
Sophie was not overly fond of pies and had already eaten her fair share of Amelia’s sweets, yet surely it would be churlish to refuse, especially as she had a feeling that Patrick’s absence was in some way due to her.
“A Coulter has judged the pie contest at the annual fete for as long as I can remember,” Squire Pickles prompted.
Well, that sealed it Sophie thought. It would be wrong of her to refuse now. “Of course, Mr. Pickles, I would be delighted.”
“Excellent, excellent! If you will follow me, my lady, we shall begin.”
“Sophie! You are tired and surely it is time to rest your arm,” Letty said, as they followed the squire toward the stage.
“Yes, Sophie, I am sure his lordship will be most displeased with all of us if you come home looking wan,” Mellie said. Timmy was clasped in her arms, his sticky fingers were wrapped around her neck, and his eyes were almost closed as he fought sleep.
“It will not take long I am sure, and I am wearing my sling,” Sophie added. She was indeed sore and tired, but this was important to the townspeople; surely a few more minutes would cause her no further harm.
“I will take Timmy home then, Sophie, and you and Amelia will follow shortly,” Letty said, taking the sleeping boy from Amelia.
“I will sit here to wait for you, Sophie.” Amelia pointed to a group of seats close to the small stage, upon which were several trestles filled with pies. “We will be leaving as soon as you have finished,” she said, giving Sophie a determined look.
“And to think that when I first met you, I thought you were a sweet-tempered young lady,” Sophie said, smiling sweetly at her grim-faced friend. Kissing Timmy and Letty good-bye, she climbed onto the stage.
* * *
“At least you get to try a piece of them all; I have to buy one of each if I want the same privilege.”
Patrick snorted at Stephen’s words, but kept riding. The village was deserted, which meant everyone had assembled for the prize-giving. He was late—the judging for the pie contest should have started ten minutes ago, and for as long as he remembered, a Coulter had awarded the winner her prize.
It was Sophie’s fault; she had robbed him of his usual ability to think. Lifting his hat, he ruffled his hair. How the hell had everything turned on its head in just a few hours and, more importantly, how did he correct it? Patrick knew he had hurt her with his words and didn’t know how to soothe that hurt. He also knew that it had been inexcusable of him to bring up her past to strengthen his argument. God, how he ached for her. Every time he saw the hurt in her eyes, he wanted to hold her. Every time she winced in pain, he wanted to yell at her for moving. If this was love, someone had played a foul trick on him. All those prettily worded odes and sonnets were lies—love was bloody torture.
“If you just told her you were sorry and that you loved her, then all the sighing and wringing of hands would cease,” Step
hen drawled from beside him.
Patrick pulled his mount to a halt and looked at Stephen. “I have never once in my life wrung my hands,” he snarled.
“You never sighed before either, and let us not forget the fact that you did not dispute the love claim,” Stephen said, moving a couple of paces from Patrick’s whip, which was twitching in his large hand. Throwing his horse’s reins to a waiting boy, he dismounted.
“Shut up, Sumner, and sort out your own love life before you start venturing an opinion on mine,” Patrick said, doing the same.
“Do you know, Colt, I just might do that,” Stephen said, following his large friend as he stomped toward the pies.
Patrick walked to the village green where everyone had gathered. He acknowledged people as they moved aside to let him and Stephen through. Being taller, he was able to look over the heads of the crowd that had gathered to oversee the judging. He saw her before she saw him, nibbling on a pie.
“Is that Sophie judging?”
“Yes,” Patrick said. The day suddenly seemed brighter just because she was here.
“She looks tired, but at least she’s wearing her sling,” Stephen added.
She did look tired, and sad; the smile she was giving old Mrs. Luttice did not reach her eyes.
“Good lord, did you see that, Colt? Mr. Luttice just blushed, and Sophie was merely smiling at his wife. Lord, that woman could charm the warts off a toad,” Stephen laughed.
Patrick snorted. He had been the recipient of Sophie’s smiles and knew their effect. He forgot everything then. He forgot to be angry because she was here. He quickly forgot why they were fighting. Suddenly he just wanted to hold her and tell her everything would be all right again. His wife, he thought as he jumped onto the stage in one leap, reaching her side in seconds. Nothing mattered except that she was here with him. Slipping an arm around her waist as she turned to face him, Patrick kissed her cheek, whispering “Sorry” into her ear.
“No, it is I who am sorry,” Sophie said, looking up at him with her heart in her eyes.
“We will talk later, love,” he said, giving her a gentle smile. “Will you let me help you with the judging?”