Miss Lattimore's Letter

by Suzanne Allain

  However, he was married now, so there was nothing to worry about, she told herself, calmed by the thought that had once pierced her through. She was surprised she didn’t see a woman accompanying him, but no doubt she was nearby. Sophie began looking around for the lady who could be his wife, and so missed his expression when he first saw her. He started with surprise and delight and walked a few paces forward for a closer look. Having satisfied himself as to her identity he moved even closer.

  “Sophie!” he said happily as he approached, but then, noticing her aunt Foster’s affronted look, amended his greeting. “Miss Lattimore! Fancy meeting you here after all these years.” He bowed to her but then looked a little conscious. “I beg your pardon, perhaps it’s no longer Miss Lattimore. You are more than likely to have married since we last met . . .” He let the sentence trail off, in an obvious question, and Sophie, having overcome her initial shock and discomfort, smiled coolly at him.

  “Good evening, Mr. Maitland. You are correct in addressing me as Miss Lattimore.” She hoped he understood that to mean he should not be addressing her as Sophie, though it was true she had granted him that liberty ten long years ago. “Aunt Foster, may I introduce Mr. Maitland? Mr. Maitland, my aunt, Mrs. Foster.”

  Mrs. Foster, confused by Sophie’s cold reception of the man as well as his boldness in addressing her niece by her Christian name, gave him a slight nod and even slighter smile. But even she was not proof against his charm.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Foster, though I must beg your pardon for addressing Miss Lattimore with such familiarity. I was accustomed to feeling myself quite one of the family a number of years ago, before my marriage and before Mr. Lattimore’s untimely death.” Having received a warmer response from Mrs. Foster and an assurance that his apology was accepted, he turned to Sophie. “You must allow me to express my condolences, Miss Lattimore, as belated as they are. I wasn’t able to do so at the time, from circumstances beyond my control. But I am no stranger to that terrible thief, death. You might wonder why you do not see Mrs. Maitland here with me. I am very sorry to say . . .” He paused, apparently overcome by his feelings, and even Sophie’s heart could not remain hardened against him in the face of his tragic loss.

  “Oh! I am so sorry, Mr. Maitland. When . . . ?”

  “It has been a little over a year. I just put off mourning. She left me with two fine children, a boy and a girl.”

  Sophie did not know what else to say, and there was a short silence before Mr. Maitland’s somber expression lightened and he smiled bravely. “But now is not the time to speak of such things. It has been a long time since we danced together, Soph—Miss Lattimore. May I have the honor?”

  Sophie was appalled. She’d had no time to assimilate her feelings at seeing Mr. Maitland again so unexpectedly and learning of his wife’s death. Mixed with anger and resentment were pity and that fascination she’d always felt for him. The attraction between them was as strong as it had ever been, and she wanted to protect herself, to raise the guards around her heart before interacting too much with him. She scrambled for an excuse.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Maitland, but I do not dance this evening—” she began, before being interrupted by Mrs. Foster.

  “Nonsense, Sophronia, you are not to worry about me or Cecilia.” Mrs. Foster turned to Mr. Maitland. “Sophronia is so conscientious of her duty toward her relations. However, I see an acquaintance of mine, Mrs. Walker,” she said, nodding in that lady’s direction, “and I will speak to her while you have your dance.”

  As Sophie still hesitated to place her hand on the one that Mr. Maitland was holding out to her, Mrs. Foster made a little shooing gesture and said, “Go, now. Dance.” Sophie felt she had no choice, and tentatively laid her hand on his, touching him as lightly as possible. As soon as she did so he looked ardently into her eyes, as he always used to, and Sophie felt her poor, fragile heart flutter in response.

  The set Cecilia had danced with Mr. Hartwell had ended, and she returned to her mother’s side just as Sophie took her place on the floor. Sophie could see Cecilia’s eyes widen in amazement, but then the music began and Sophie could spare no thought for Cecilia or Aunt Foster, or anyone other than herself and her partner.

  It’s the dance, she told herself. You know how you love to dance. And it was true. She dearly loved to dance, and she’d been missing it all these years. Unfortunately, the person she’d enjoyed dancing with the most was the partner she now had, the man who had humiliated her by his very pointed attentions and then his hasty marriage to another woman. He had captured her heart before breaking it, and she felt that he had to have done so knowingly, such a naïve, unsophisticated young girl she’d been.

  “You have not changed at all, you know,” he said. “You’re still as lovely as you ever were.”

  “But I have changed,” Sophie replied, before the steps of the dance took her away from him.

  * * *

  Cecilia watched in shock as Sophie took to the floor with a handsome gentleman she’d never before seen.

  “Mama, who is Sophie dancing with?” Cecilia asked as soon as she reached her side. Mrs. Foster had not yet begun a conversation with Mrs. Walker, so only Mr. Hartwell was present.

  “A friend of her father’s, a Mr. Maitland.”

  “Are you acquainted with him?” Cecilia asked.

  “He was just presented to me. He’s a widower with two children.”

  Cecilia, Mrs. Foster, and Mr. Hartwell turned to watch Sophie and Mr. Maitland as they danced, and Cecilia was heartened to discover that he was older than she’d first thought, probably twice Cecilia’s own age, and a widower as well. Actually, quite a good match for Sophie, despite his startling good looks and obvious allure.

  Mrs. Foster thought the same, though she at least wanted to inquire as to Mr. Maitland’s fortune before consigning her niece to his care. It would be no good at all if he must marry for money, as Sophie had none, but if he was independently situated it was the perfect match for her niece. Mr. Maitland was charming and handsome and seemed to already possess some fondness for Sophie, and as she was practically a spinster, she could not quibble at taking on a few motherless children as part of the bargain. Mrs. Foster was rather proud of herself for tying up her niece’s future so neatly. This talent for matchmaking appears to be a family trait, she thought with a little chuckle, conveniently forgetting that she and Sophie shared no blood ties, and that she had done nothing to promote the match other than urge a reluctant Sophie to dance.

  While the two women watched Sophie and Mr. Maitland, Mr. Hartwell saw a familiar face in the crowd. “By Jove, I do believe it’s Sir Edmund,” he said, before hailing him.

  Greetings had barely been exchanged before Sir Edmund was inquiring after Miss Lattimore, to Cecilia’s secret annoyance.

  “My niece is dancing with Mr. Maitland,” Mrs. Foster announced proudly, nodding in their direction. “They make a handsome couple, wouldn’t you agree, Sir Edmund? But my daughter has only been able to dance once thus far, as we have so few acquaintances here in Bath,” she said, with all the subtlety of a hatchet.

  Sir Edmund perforce offered his arm to Cecilia, requested the honor of a dance, and was promptly accepted.

  So it was that Sophie, upon finishing her dance, saw Sir Edmund preparing to dance with Cecilia. She smiled and nodded at him, happier to see him than she’d even anticipated, but either he did not see her or she had overestimated the degree of rapport she thought they had achieved with each other, as he did not respond. Sophie was returned to her aunt by Mr. Maitland and promptly led onto the floor by Mr. Hartwell. She did not see Sir Edmund again after he finished his dance with Cecilia and assumed he must have left the assembly rooms. Their party also left very shortly afterward, as their acquaintance was so slight and Cecilia had danced with all of the gentlemen she knew. They all could not help but feel that Bath had let them down t
o some degree, after raising their expectations so shamelessly.

  5

  There was an indisputable grande dame of Bath, a lady whom Mrs. Foster desired to meet more than any other. This was Lady Smallpeace, the Dowager Countess of Ebrington. Lady Smallpeace (who it was said more than lived up to her name) had an unmarried daughter of two-and-thirty, Lady Mary, who lived with her. Lady Smallpeace’s son the earl rarely visited Bath, but she was distinguished at present by the visit of her grandnephew, Lord Courtney. The three members of this one household were the most highly ranked of the nobility residing in Bath at present and, almost entirely on this account, were enthusiastically welcomed at every event.

  Mrs. Foster, after a quick perusal of Debrett’s Peerage, was able to trace a tenuous connection to Lady Smallpeace through a second cousin once removed. If Mrs. Foster was unable to achieve an introduction through a mutual acquaintance, she intended to write a letter to Lady Smallpeace informing her of the relationship before calling on her.

  It would have surprised Mrs. Foster to know that Lady Smallpeace was also desirous of making her family’s acquaintance. Lady Smallpeace had heard from another matron the story of Miss Lattimore’s matchmaking, and as she had her own very decided opinions on the subject, she was eager to share them with this upstart who appeared to be in need of a set down. (Lady Mary and Lord Courtney were also quite anxious for Lady Smallpeace to meet Miss Lattimore, so that they would not have to listen repeatedly to what she intended to say to her once she did so.)

  Lord Courtney had just turned two-and-twenty and was an entirely inoffensive young man. Which is to say he had only a trifling amount of conversation, looks, or charm, but was acknowledged, solely based on his title and material prospects, to be “a very fine gentleman.” One of his great-aunt’s foremost goals in life was to ensure no undeserving young woman was granted Lord Courtney’s attentions. It was presumed by some of the small-minded that she would try to browbeat him into offering for her own (much older) daughter, but such a thought had never occurred to Lady Smallpeace, who had no desire to see her daughter wed. It would serve absolutely no purpose for Lady Smallpeace to lose Lady Mary to another household, as she proved to be a very convenient audience for her mother’s many rants; and as for grandchildren, Lady Smallpeace had enough of them to plague her already and could see no profit in having any more.

  It was the morning after the assembly that this meeting, greatly desired by all involved, with the exception of Miss Lattimore, finally took place.

  Sophie was still reeling from her meeting with Mr. Maitland the evening before and was unable to decide what attitude she should take toward him. She couldn’t very well refuse his company after her acceptance of his offer to dance, as to do so now would provoke the very talk she desperately wanted to avoid. She was so confused, her feelings alternating between exhilaration and trepidation, and the one thing she was sure of was that she wanted more time to consider the matter before seeing him again. She greatly feared he intended to pay a call on her that very morning, so when Cecilia and Mrs. Foster expressed a desire to take the waters at the Pump Room, Sophie readily accepted their offer to join them.

  Cecilia was very curious about this heretofore unmentioned man in her cousin’s life. It was obvious that Mr. Maitland was something more than just a friend of Sophie’s father and that he clearly admired Sophie, yet she seemed strangely reticent about him. Mrs. Foster had managed to discover through avid questioning that Mr. Maitland was of independent means and had served in the East India Company in his younger years, where he had made Mr. Lattimore’s acquaintance. She had also discovered, through further prodding of a taciturn Sophie, that Maitland’s late wife was a woman of fortune. Sophie had not seen Maitland since his betrothal, was unsure where he had settled after his marriage, and had not thought to inquire last night while they were dancing. (Such dilatoriness on her niece’s part caused Mrs. Foster to wonder, not for the first time, if her niece’s matchmaking ability was highly exaggerated.) Still, Mrs. Foster had learned enough to settle her niece’s future for her. Sophie would marry Mr. Maitland and Cecilia would marry Sir Edmund, unless an even more eligible suitor came upon the scene or if Sir Edmund did not come up to scratch.

  The more eligible suitor Mrs. Foster had in mind was the viscount currently residing with his great-aunt. While Sir Edmund, as a baronet, ranked higher than a plain Mister Hartwell, a member of the peerage obviously trumped both.

  So when Mrs. Walker greeted Mrs. Foster excitedly upon her group’s entry into the Pump Room, asking that they accompany her to meet Lady Smallpeace, who had requested the introduction, Mrs. Foster gladly acquiesced, sweeping Cecilia and Sophie along with her.

  Not that the girls had any objection to the meeting, as Cecilia, especially, was eager to enlarge her acquaintance. She didn’t want a repeat of her first experience at a Bath assembly, where she’d been made to feel practically a wallflower. Sophie, too, was not averse to making new friends, though she soon became aware that once again she should have lowered her expectations.

  Lady Mary and Lord Courtney were assessed and almost as quickly dismissed; both of them had such little animation and spoke such inanities when they did open their mouths that Sophie had a difficult time remembering to accord them any attention, and had to force herself to look politely at them when they did venture a sentence or two. As Lady Smallpeace would often speak at exactly the same time, Sophie found this way of conversing very difficult indeed, and wondered if the countess was so accustomed to ignoring her daughter and grandnephew that she wasn’t even aware they were talking. Because of their manner of conversing it took Sophie a few minutes to realize that she was the subject under discussion, though it could not really be termed a discussion but more of a diatribe. And Lady Mary’s jovial reaction to her mother’s speech was so opposite of what one might expect that Sophie continued to wonder for a few minutes if she were being reprimanded or praised.

  “Miss Lattimore,” said Lady Smallpeace loudly, “your circumstances in life are such that I am amazed you took it upon yourself to meddle in the parental rights of those of a much higher situation.”

  Halfway through this sentence, while her mother was still speaking, Lady Mary tittered and said: “Such a pretty spencer Miss Lattimore is wearing. The trimming, especially, is so very nice. Don’t you agree, Miss Foster? But Miss Foster, your spencer is very attractive, too. What a lovely shade of blue! Probably London-made, and yours, too, Miss Lattimore. Yours is just as pretty as Miss Foster’s, though not the same style, of course. Not the same style or color, but both very attractive.”

  In the middle of her daughter’s discourse on the young ladies’ jackets, Lady Smallpeace launched into another ringing criticism of Sophie’s audacity in interfering with the marital prospects of a gentleman of Lord Fitzwalter’s standing, interrupting herself to ask Sophie: “And your parents, Miss Lattimore? Who exactly are they? Deceased, both of them, I’ve heard.”

  Lady Smallpeace made this seem like a grave fault on Sophie’s part, and Sophie wondered if she had never been taught that you ought to express condolences, not condemnation, when one had lost one’s relatives.

  But this was the opening Mrs. Foster, undaunted by Lady Smallpeace’s unfriendly demeanor, had been waiting for. “Actually, Lady Smallpeace, our families are distantly connected. My husband’s grandmother’s sister was Lady Vickery, née Miss Amelia Fortescue, whose granddaughter, Miss Elizabeth Brandon, married—”

  “My second cousin, Lord Tidmarsh, Marquis of Mount Edgecombe!” Lady Smallpeace finished triumphantly. After making this pronouncement her face shifted into some kind of strange contortion that Sophie and the Foster ladies were finally able to determine (after some consideration) was an expression of pleasure, though none would go so far as to describe it as a smile.

  It was at this point that Lady Smallpeace actually took notice of Cecilia, who was looking especially pretty in a color that Lady Mary h
ad already mentioned was very flattering. “You’re to be congratulated on your daughter, Mrs. Foster,” Lady Smallpeace said, as she stared at Cecilia. “She seems to be a very modest young woman.” This remark was punctuated with a glance of disapproval at Sophie, as if to make obvious the contrast between the cousins. However, Lady Smallpeace’s glare was only half as scathing as the ones she’d been directing at Sophie before she’d learned of the connection between their families.

  “Sit here, Mrs. Foster, beside me. I would learn more of your relations. The young people will go take the waters.” Lady Smallpeace turned to her daughter. “Make sure your cousin takes his, Mary. I’ve seen him pouring it out when he thinks I’m not looking.” Then, when Lord Courtney scoffed at such an accusation and protested that he was in perfect health and not in need of such a cure, Lady Smallpeace said: “Nonsense! It is especially beneficial for a young man in the prime of life. It fortifies the blood and strengthens your masculine vitality.”

  No one knew what Lady Smallpeace was referencing when she mentioned Lord Courtney’s “masculine vitality,” but they all felt that it was probably something that should not be discussed in public. (Sophie actually feared she meant to say “virility” but got the words confused.) So the young people were quick to obey the dowager countess’ command to go, and leave her and Mrs. Foster to their discussion. As they left they could hear Lady Smallpeace asking: “The Fosters are a Northumberland family, I believe? Established there before the Battle of Hastings, were they not?”