Holly and Hopeful Hearts

by Caroline Warfield

  No smile greeted James, just a peremptory demand. “Well? Married?”

  “Not yet, Your Grace, but I have hopes.”

  “Hopes!” His Grace’s hoarse shout prompted a fit of coughing that had Ruth and her assistants hurrying for basins and towels and waving James and his father from the room. They left, but not before the duke managed to wheeze after them, “Marry Charlotte. You hear?”

  In the duke’s sitting room, Drew waited with a glass of brandy for each of them.

  “What do the doctors say, Papa?” James asked as he took his.

  The earl sipped his brandy before he replied. “They do not know how the old man clings to life. His Grace took exception to the news and sent them away. He will allow only Ruth near him, now.”

  James could see his sister through the open door, bending over the bed soothing the irascible old man. “And Ruth? What does she say?”

  “The end could come any time. I am sorry to have sent for you, my son. I take it that your wooing has not been successful?”

  I cannot give you an answer, she had said. And had run down the steps for a final farewell. That was promising, surely? “Not entirely unsuccessful. Not complete, either, Papa. But I shall not marry Lady Charlotte, for all of that. Or Lady Sarah, either.”

  His father laughed. “So say both my nieces, James. No need to bristle. The old man cannot force you the altar.”

  James relaxed a little. He would stand against his father if he must, but it went against the grain.

  “She will have him in the end, Papa,” Drew offered. “She looks at him as if he is the source of the sunlight.”

  James felt his heart lift. “She does?”

  “And James gets all moon-faced even thinking about her.”

  James’s impulse to throw something at his impertinent brother died when Ruth came through from the bedroom. “He is unconscious again,” she said, crossing to give her brothers a welcoming kiss. “Rosemary is going to sit with him for a while. I will wash and catch some sleep. The end could come at any time, my dears. I suggest you rest while you may.”

  Papa declared his intention of keeping his youngest daughter company in the sick room, and James went off to bed. He was not as tired as Drew, who had made the trip twice, but he was tired enough, though when he was in bed, with the lamps doused, thoughts of Sophia kept him awake and restless.

  She looked at him as if he were the source of sunlight, did she? But she was in Buckinghamshire with the charming and sophisticated Lord Jonathan Grenford, and he was stuck here in London.

  But she had not said no. She had asked for time. She had called him by his name. Twice. She had wished him a safe return.

  Weasel was there, spilling his poison. But she was a clever woman, his Sophia. She would see right through the nasty vermin’s lies.

  She loved her brother, and her brother was against him. But she looked at him as if he were the source of sunlight.

  At some point, he must have drifted off to sleep, for he woke with a start at a knock on the door.

  “My lord, it is the duke. You are to come quickly, my lord.”

  The clock in the duke’s sitting room showed that James had been in bed for around five hours. It would do. It was just after three in the morning, and the duke was failing, his breath stopping and then starting again almost a minute later after the watchers had given up waiting for it.

  The family stayed, keeping the death vigil in the duke’s sitting room. James. His father. His Aunt Grace, the dowager Countess of Sutton, and her two daughters. His Aunt Georgiana, the duke’s daughter, and her friend and companion, Miss Matthewes. His brothers and whichever sister was not supervising the nursing. They all took turns sitting at the bedside, though the duke showed no signs of returning consciousness. Otherwise, they sat together in the next room talking quietly, praying, leaving to attend to the business of running the household and the duchy, but always returning.

  All of that day, through the night, and on into the next day, the interrupted pattern of breathing continued, and so did the vigil. Surely the old man must soon surrender to the implacable summons to that final journey?

  * * *

  * * *

  With James gone, the house party was sadly flat. Lord and Lady Somerton carried an aura of honeymoon wherever they went, and it seemed to be infecting half the guests.

  Sophia was thrilled for Esther and her Mr. Halevy. Of course she was, and for Lady Anna and her Lord Pershore, and Miss Sedgely and Mr. Durand. And for Grace, who would surely resolve whatever had come between her and Lord Nicholas Lacey. But so many happy couples sharing tender smiles in every corner of the house made Sophia want to throw herself onto the carpet and drum her heels, while screaming.

  When first Weasel and then Hythe congratulated Sophia for not being taken in by “that barbarian,” she was furious. Weasel, she brought to a stammering halt with a cold stare she had copied from the Marquis of Aldridge, but she told Hythe what she thought.

  “I have not refused Lord Elfingham, Hythe. And it is beyond enough to hear him called a barbarian by those who are far less gentlemanly than he is.”

  “I say, Sophia!” Hythe protested.

  “I do not mean you, Hythe, but that cousin of his! And Major Whitemann, who pinches the maids. Yes, and worse, when he is drunk.”

  Hythe shifted restlessly. “I would not say… That is, I do not take my opinions from Whitemann, Sophia.”

  “I am glad to hear it. I would not trust that man with the wellbeing of a… a… a goat.”

  “I want only to keep you safe. You know that.”

  “Safe and alone, Hythe? Do you know anything to Lord Elfingham’s discredit? Anything that is not rumor and innuendo? If you do, tell me. For in the months I have known him, I have seen nothing but honorable behavior. He is a loyal son, a hard-working steward to his father, a fine conversationalist, respectful toward women, fond of children. Yes, and he is, or will be, heir to a dukedom, and I understand the family to be ridiculously wealthy. So what, apart from prejudice, makes him an ineligible suitor? Tell me, for I will make my own decision, Hythe. I am of age, and you cannot prevent me. If you know anything that would make me reject him, tell me now. Does he drink to excess? Gamble? Keep a mistress? Frequent houses of ill-repute?”

  Hythe opened his mouth and then closed it again, a small crease forming between his eyebrows as he thought about how to answer her. “I know nothing,” he said at last. “And if there were anything, you can be sure Weasel would have told the world by now. And what do you know about such houses? Really, Sophia. You should not be saying such things.”

  “Really, Hythe. I am not in the nursery. So you agree that Lord Elfingham is unexceptionable?”

  “In himself, yes. You are right. But, Sophia, there will always be those who will reject him for his birth, even if his parents were married. I cannot want that for you, for your children.”

  “People can be fools and scoundrels if they wish, Hythe. I cannot prevent it, but nor need I allow it to stand between me and my happiness.”

  “Sophia, he is barely English.”

  “Hythe, he has more English ancestors than you and I. And our children…” Her tongue hesitated lovingly over the words, and she repeated them, “Our children shall be English nobles, our eldest son an English duke.”

  “At least our ancestors were French,” Hythe groused. “Sophia, will you wait until the Lords have pronounced on the marriage? At least until then.”

  No earlier than February, and by then, James would be in his second month of mourning. She intended to wait, did she not? She had asked for time, and James had said she could take all she needed. Why, then, did she refuse Hythe the assurance he sought?

  “We shall see. I am going to ask Cedrica whether she needs my help with anything, Hythe. What are your plans for the day?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Hythe told her. “I might come along too. Miss Grenford might have a job for me.”

  Sophia looked at the colo
r rising under his fair skin and hid a smile. Should she tell him that she suspected her friend of having more than a passing interest in the French chef? No. Perhaps not. “Yes,” she agreed. “You do that.”

  After dinner, Sophia joined several of the other women in Esther’s room, to help her decide what to wear the following day when she and her Mr. Halevy gave their formal consent to marry.

  “Your betrothal,” Felicity said, prompting a whole discussion about how a consent to marry differed from a betrothal, and the differences and similarities between betrothals and weddings in the Church of England, and those in Jewish tradition. Sophia found herself wondering how the Assyrian Christians managed such things.

  The consent to marry ceremony the following morning was held in the gold drawing room, with all the couple’s well-wishers in attendance.

  The duchess had offered her own lap desk and quill for the signing and watched all with a benign smile.

  Sophia envied Esther and her Adam, who lit the room with their smiles, eyes only for one another, and wished devoutly that she had gone with James.

  Before they could sit down to the celebratory lunch that the duchess had ordered and Cedrica had organized, another commotion in the hall disturbed the assembly.

  “See who is making such a fuss, Jonathan, please,” the duchess said. “Poor Stanley sounds out of his depth.”

  A moment later, the shouting in the hall rose still louder, and Gren was shouting back, though both the visitor and Gren were speaking a language Sophia did not understand. Lord Aldridge hurried out without waiting for his mother’s signal, and his own voice sounded sharply. Silence fell. The guests exchanged glances, and the duchess hurried to fill the void.

  “There. Aldridge is handling the matter, whatever it is. Now, Miss Baumann, explain to me what you and the chef have managed to produce for us.”

  Esther began awkwardly and then with increasing enthusiasm to describe the dishes on offer, and one by one, the guests began to serve themselves. Sophia, though, caught the duchess sneaking glances the door until eventually Aldridge reentered the room and hurried to his mother’s side.

  The duchess excused herself and left, to return after a few moments. “A messenger has come to fetch my son Jonathan. If you will excuse me, my friends, I will go and help him prepare for his trip. Please. Continue the celebrations. I will join you again as soon as I can.”

  Sophia followed her into the hall in time to hear Aldridge say, “If you must go, use my yacht. It stands off Margate, but we can be there in two days, and she is faster than anything you’ll pick up in London. You will not have to wait for the Thames tide, either.”

  “What you propose is not safe, my darling boy. The Grand Army is in your way. You could be shot as a spy,” the duchess said. “Why, this friend of yours cannot even give you assurance the grand duchess will not behead you on sight. It is possible that…”

  “Mama, all things are possible.” Gren was lit from within, bouncing on the balls of his feet as if his joy were too big to contain. “All things but one. I have tried living without the woman I love, Mama, and that, that is impossible. Anything else, I can do. Wait and see.”

  “I have sent a message to the stables,” Aldridge said, “and another to my valet telling him to pack for us both. Mama, we shall rest overnight in London then leave at first light for Margate. If you have any messages, write them now.”

  “Take me.” Sophia did not know she was going to speak until the words were from her mouth.

  “Lady Sophia?” Lord Aldridge was frowning.

  “You are right,” Sophia told Gren. “Only one thing is impossible, and that is living without the man I love. I should have said yes. I will say yes. Take me to London, Gren, and to James.”

  Gren looked at his brother and then back at Sophia. “We shall be travelling fast,” he warned.

  “All the better.”

  “What shall Hythe say?” the duchess asked.

  “I hope he shall wish me well, but I am going, Aunt Eleanor. If Lord Aldridge will not take me, then I shall catch a mail coach.” The decision made, she would not let anything stand in her way.

  Lord Aldridge spread his hands in surrender. “Say your farewells, then, Lady Sophia. We leave in thirty minutes.” He turned to his brother. “I’ll speak to Baumann. You’ll need money, Gren. He’ll know who can supply it on New Year’s Eve.”

  Hythe was not happy. “Sophia, you cannot mean to go chasing after Elfingham. Why, he might already be wed to Lady Charlotte.”

  “He is waiting for me, Hythe. He needs me at his side, and that is where I want to be.”

  “I can take you to London after the New Year’s Eve ball,” he suggested. “In just a few days.”

  “Aldridge and Gren can take me now, today. In a few days, the duke may be dead, and James will be in mourning.”

  “The duke might be dead now, Sophia. This is a mad start, running off with two of England’s worst rakes. What of your reputation?” He frowned. “At least take your maid.”

  “Theodosia gets sick in a fast coach. Besides, Felicity will need her.”

  “Felicity. What of Felicity? You cannot just race off and abandon her.”

  Cedrica spoke up. “Do not be silly, Lord Hythe. Her Grace will chaperone Felicity, you will protect her, her maid will take care of her, and I will make sure she behaves. Sophia, Her Grace will have a maid she can send with you to give you countenance. Let me speak to the housekeeper while you set Theodosia packing a bag for you.”

  After one astonished look, Hythe subsided, and almost before she knew it, Sophia was on her way out the door. Felicity hugged her and wept a little on her shoulder. The duchess gave her an absent peck on the cheek, most of her attention on her own sons, but then had a sudden thought.

  “Wait!” she said. “Stanley, fetch me paper, ink, and a quill. You will find some in the Gold Drawing Room on the library table.”

  While the duchess wrote a letter in neat copperplate using her finest paper, others of the party, Cedrica among them, gave their best wishes for a safe journey, “and a happy arrival,” Cedrica whispered.

  Then the duchess handed her the sealed and folded letter. “The Archbishop of Canterbury is an old friend of mine, dear Sophia. This letter will get your James in to see him. You will need a license, my dear.” She kissed Sophia again then went to kiss Gren and weep a little onto his shoulder.

  At the last moment, Hythe caught Sophia up into a fierce hug. “Tell him from me that he is to treat you well, or he will have me to deal with. And you can always come home, Sophia.”

  She hugged him back and allowed Aldridge to hand her up into the carriage. Gren introduced her to the travel-weary messenger who had come to fetch him. ‘My friend Karl’ had taken the opportunity to wash and eat at Hollystone Hall, but his beard was in sore need of a trim, and his clothes looked as if he had slept in them.

  They left before noon and slowed only for the toll booths, stopped only to change teams. Money sped them through each halt. Money and Aldridge’s assumption that the world turned in tune to his desires. They grabbed what comfort they could in the brief pauses as one team was unharnessed and another put to—food, drink, the use of the facilities, coal for the small coach brazier that kept out the chill—but otherwise they pushed on.

  At first, Sophia was buoyed by the conviction that had filled her when she heard Gren’s reasons for crossing war-torn Europe, but as the miles unrolled, doubts replaced that certainty. The maid Cedrica had sent curled in her corner and slept, and Karl slept in his. Sophia talked with Aldridge and Gren for a while. Then Karl woke, and he and Gren started conversing in a language that sounded only a little like German, and Aldridge pulled out a lap desk and box of papers, and began working his way through them.

  Sophia sat in her own corner, looking out at the countryside rushing by and worrying about her reception at the Winshire mansion in London.

  Chapter 13

  The sun set, and still they hurried on, buying p
ies at one of the post houses so they could eat while travelling. Their pace slowed as the light faded, and they were forced to rely on lamps to light the road ahead. But this close to the capital, the roads were in good repair and—even in the growing dark—traffic still rumbled toward the great city.

  More than seven hours after they left Hollystone Hall, Sophia woke from a fitful sleep to find they were pulling up before the Winshire front door. She did her best to straighten her bonnet and her redingote, and pulled her warm shawl over her shoulders as much to cover the worst of the rumples as to protect her from the cold.

  Straw on the road muffled the horses’ hoof beats. Sophia peered anxiously up at the front door as Aldridge handed her down then turned to perform the same office for the maid. No black wreath hung on the door, though the knocker was wrapped in cloth to muffle it. All these precautions against noise hinted that the duke still lived.

  “I can manage now,” she said.

  “We will just check Elfingham is at home,” Aldridge assured her. “We can take you on to your own townhouse if there is a problem.”

  Sophia wilted under a fresh cascade of doubt.

  Aldridge bounded up the steps, disgustingly agile for someone who had jolted in a carriage for seven hours, while Gren descended beside her and offered an arm. Both Grenford brothers had somehow managed to weather the journey uncreased.

  Sophia blushed at her own disarray and almost turned and climbed back into the carriage.

  “Courage, Sophia,” Gren whispered. “He loves you.”

  Aldridge was arguing with the servant who had opened the door, insisting that a message be taken to Lord Elfingham, that the viscount would wish to be advised immediately about the delivery Lord Aldridge had brought. Reluctantly, the servant let the four of them into the entry hall while he went upstairs with the message, but only after treating Sophia and her maid to a superior sneer that clearly showed his opinion of bedraggled wenches who turned up after dark in the company of such men.