Miss Lattimore's Letter

by Suzanne Allain

  She’d just had that thought when he became extremely serious indeed. Toward the end of their dance together his smile faded and he asked abruptly, “What is Sir Edmund to you? Is he a suitor?”

  And Sophie, annoyed that he felt he had the right to ask her such a question, replied, “I do not know. You would have to ask him. I’ve made it a point not to assume anything where a gentleman is concerned.”

  She was pleased to see that he appeared to understand her; he looked self-conscious for a moment, but then quickly recovered his usual urbane demeanor. “You are very modest, Sophie. It is obvious the gentleman is smitten with you. How could he not be? You’re absolutely adorable.”

  And she reacted to his admiring gaze and the compliment he’d delivered in a low, seductive tone exactly as he’d probably intended her to: blushing and dropping the subject and not demanding an explanation for his own behavior. She was disconcerted, too, to feel that treacherous ache in her stomach, the physical manifestation of that absurd longing she still had for him.

  When they returned to Mrs. Foster they found her in conversation (if it could be called that) with Lady Mary and Lady Smallpeace. Sophie wished she’d noticed them earlier so that she could have avoided them, but since she hadn’t she was forced to introduce Mr. Maitland.

  He made a very attractive picture as he smiled at the two ladies, and Sophie thought that even Lady Smallpeace could not withstand his charm. And indeed, she had just made that crooked grimace of hers that denoted pleasure when Mr. Maitland made a critical error.

  Turning to a strangely silent Lady Mary, he asked if he could have the pleasure of the next dance.

  Lady Mary flushed red and her mouth dropped open in surprise, but before she could say aye or nay, Lady Smallpeace had an even more violent reaction. “How impudent! What gall! My daughter, sir, does not dance the waltz!” It was obvious that Lady Smallpeace was of that faction of society who considered the waltz a debased and immoral dance.

  “I beg your pardon,” Mr. Maitland said, still smiling broadly. “I should have realized she did not, or she would have already been on the floor.”

  Neither Lady Smallpeace nor Lady Mary knew how to reply to this, and both stared at Mr. Maitland as if he were some strange species they had never encountered before. Mr. Maitland merely bowed his goodbyes to the ladies, with a special smile at Sophie, and left them. Sophie then saw him taking the floor with Priscilla Beswick, who looked delighted with her partner, as well she should, for he was undeniably the handsomest and most charming man in the room.

  8

  Priscilla Beswick called on Sophie the next morning, as she’d promised, and Sophie could only regret she had not made a more definite appointment with Miss Woodford. Still, she realized she could not avoid Priscilla indefinitely, and agreed to walk with her to a nearby milliner’s shop. So distracted was Priscilla with all of the wares on display that she almost forgot her objective in calling on Sophie, and Sophie had to remind her. On their way back from the shop they passed some gardens, and Sophie suggested to Priscilla that they walk there.

  “I am quite tired of walking, Sophie, but if you do wish to walk more, there’s a linen draper I wouldn’t mind visiting—” Priscilla started to turn back in that direction when Sophie stopped her.

  “I just felt we’d have more privacy in the gardens. For our discussion.”

  “Oh! Oh, of course! Yes! Our discussion. I am so glad you reminded me of it. Let us walk in the gardens.” Priscilla turned first to her maid, however, asking her to proceed to Miss Lattimore’s lodgings on Rivers Street and await her there. Sophie added that she should tell Jonas that Miss Lattimore said to take her to the kitchen and give her whatever she would like.

  The maid left and Priscilla went through the gate into the gardens, full of energy now that she’d been reminded of her purpose, and Sophie had to hasten to catch up with her. Priscilla spotted a bench shortly after walking through the gate, and Sophie followed her in that direction.

  “Do you think it too dirty to sit?” she asked Sophie, looking suspiciously between her pristine skirts and the bench. Sophie promptly removed a handkerchief from her reticule and dusted off the seat. But when Priscilla still looked at it with a furrowed brow and did not sit, Sophie carefully placed the handkerchief itself on the bench before motioning Priscilla to sit upon it.

  “You are so smart, Sophie! You think of everything! Indeed, that is why I thought you were the very one to help me.”

  Sophie thought it was because she had “ruined” Priscilla’s life that she’d been deputized into this unwanted assignment, but she did not intend to remind Priscilla of that. So she merely asked what help Pricilla wanted from her.

  “Since you are so good at writing letters, I thought you could write one to Charles.” She must have sensed Sophie’s immediate negative reaction, because she hurried to add: “Oh, don’t worry, he would never have to know it came from you. It would be an anonymous letter, like you’re so very fond of writing.”

  “But why do you not just write Mr. Beswick yourself if you have a message for him?” Sophie asked.

  “I could not write to Charles. We are not exactly on speaking terms. In our last conversation he told me not to come to Bath.”

  “And you came anyway?”

  “How could I not after he expressly forbade me to do so? I could not let him think he could order me around.” At Sophie’s expression of disbelief, Priscilla began to look at her a little skeptically. “I must say, Sophie, I’m beginning to doubt you know as much about dealing with gentlemen as you’ve been rumored to.”

  “You’re absolutely right. My expertise has been highly exaggerated,” Sophie assured her.

  Priscilla was stymied, but just for a moment. “Oh, well, between the two of us we can manage it, I’m sure. I can give you the general idea to convey, and then you can write it up in your elegant manner. Of that I have no doubt you’re capable, as I’ve seen an example of your work,” Priscilla said a little grimly, and Sophie realized this would be a bone of contention between them for some time yet.

  “What is the ‘general idea’ you want to convey?” Sophie asked, deciding to avoid the bigger question for the moment of whether or not she would be participating.

  “Well, I thought if you explained to him how popular I was here, that all of the gentlemen were lining up to dance with me . . . You know,” Priscilla said, “paint a picture of why he should come to Bath as soon as possible.”

  “Make him jealous, in other words,” Sophie suggested.

  “Exactly!” Priscilla said, pleased. “Perhaps you are not as ignorant as I thought.” She said this as if she were conveying a great compliment, and Sophie supposed a woman who thought being compared to a cow was romantic probably considered telling someone they were not completely ignorant was high praise indeed. “So you will write the letter?” Priscilla asked.

  “I think we should reconsider your strategy,” Sophie said, then continued before Priscilla could voice a protest. “If Charles has half a brain he already knows all that you intend me to say. I do not think receiving an anonymous letter telling him his wife is popular with other gentlemen will motivate him to race to your side. Either he’ll be angry that you continue to defy him or he’ll suspect you of being the anonymous letter-writer. Whichever he believes, it will make him even more determined to stay away.”

  Priscilla’s disappointed expression changed to one of awed respect. “I believe the rumors are correct after all. You do understand gentlemen.”

  Sophie thought a more ironic statement had never been made, yet she wasn’t about to contradict Priscilla and have her doubting her again. “I am older than you and have spent much of that time in observation. I know more than a little about human behavior. This is what you should do . . .”

  * * *

  They returned to the house on Rivers Street and, finding that the Foster ladies had l
eft for the Pump Room, decided to write the letter there. By this time Sophie had convinced Priscilla that there was no point in Sophie writing the letter; it had to come from Priscilla herself. Although Priscilla ostensibly agreed to this, after she’d ruined two sheets of paper and complained loudly and at length of the possibility of staining her clothes or hands with ink, Sophie ended up writing the letter for her. However, once Sophie announced she was finished, Priscilla willingly put down the copy of The Lady’s Magazine she had been perusing while Sophie labored over the letter and signed her name to it with a flourish.

  Priscilla looked at it with satisfaction. “I think we have done quite a good job of this, Sophie,” she said, though she’d actually contributed very little, if anything at all. “Charles cannot fail to come now.”

  “And I expressed your feelings correctly? You do miss him and long for his company, and regret that you parted in anger?”

  “Oh, of course. Everything you said sounded marvelous. Though I do wonder—”

  Sophie leaned forward and took the letter from Priscilla, hoping it wasn’t going to be too difficult to edit. “Yes?” she prompted.

  “Do you think Charles would have preferred the bonnet with the embroidered net? Perhaps I should have purchased it instead of the Cambridge hat with ostrich feathers.”

  And that’s when Sophie began to realize this letter was going to cause her just as many problems as the original.

  * * *

  Though Priscilla might annoy her at times, Sophie was developing a fondness for her. She thought Priscilla was rather like a mischievous kitten: you never knew if it was more likely to hiss or purr at you if you reached out to pet it, but it was adorable in either attitude. However, the next morning Sophie had an outing with Miss Woodford and had to admit to herself that she enjoyed it far more. They, too, went for a walk, but to the circulating library rather than the milliner, and instead of an unhappy marriage, they discussed books and plays and music. Sophie learned a lot about Miss Woodford’s brothers and sisters and envied her greatly, as it sounded as if life in a country house with four siblings had much to recommend it, even if it did mean there was less money to go around.

  So caught up did they become in each other’s conversation that they were taken completely by surprise when it began to rain as they were walking up and down Milsom Street, peering unseeingly into the shop windows. Neither had brought an umbrella and the rain had grown quite heavy, so by unspoken consent they rushed in through the nearest shop door, taking no notice of what it might be. They were surprised to find themselves inside a bootmaker’s, and one that served a primarily masculine clientele, or at least was doing so at the moment that they ran in breathless and damp, to the delight of the gentlemen shopping there.

  Sophie and Emily (as they had begun calling each other) stood for a moment as if paralyzed, while one of the bolder men made a jest that it was raining lovely young ladies. The two women turned to leave but were dismayed when they looked out at the sheets of rain that now appeared to be falling at an intensity that made any thought of venturing out almost impossible.

  Then Sophie heard a familiar voice. “Miss Lattimore, may I be of assistance?”

  She turned to find Mr. Hartwell there, looking more angelic than ever in the dark and humid shop, an expression of concern on his face.

  “Oh, Mr. Hartwell! How very good to see you,” Sophie said enthusiastically, and Mr. Hartwell blushed a little, something he was prone to do since his coloring was so fair. “Are you acquainted with Miss Woodford?”

  And Sophie was once again brought to a realization of her complete and total ignorance of that strange alchemy that was physical attraction. For while Emily had met Sir Edmund two evenings before with no change of manner at all, an introduction to the less dashing Mr. Hartwell appeared to discompose her greatly.

  Emily started to give him her hand, then withdrew it before he could take it, curtsying instead and nearly losing her balance, so that Sophie reached out a hand to steady her. But Mr. Hartwell was faster, taking Emily’s arm and saying, “Careful, Miss Woodford. The floor is slippery from the rain.”

  An expression of adoration suffused Emily’s face and she said, “Thank you, Mr. Hartwell. It is such a pleasure to meet you.”

  Sophie, who had just been speaking with her for hours, was quite alarmed to hear this response uttered in a soft, gushing tone she’d never once heard during any of their prior conversations. Mr. Hartwell turned even redder and cleared his throat. He carefully removed his hand from Emily’s arm and took a few steps back before turning to address Sophie. “Perhaps if I found you ladies a chair?” he suggested.

  “Oh, could you?” Sophie asked. “But I’d hate for you to have to go out in this—” She finished the sentence with a gesture toward the window.

  “I think my hat can withstand the elements far more easily than yours,” Mr. Hartwell said with a grin. And indeed, Sophie had just that moment blown at a bedraggled piece of lace that had fallen from her bonnet into her face. “You ladies wait here.” He then looked around at the gentlemen who were watching the scene with great interest. “No one will bother you,” he said in a menacing tone, and the men immediately shifted their gazes away from the ladies and tried to appear busy.

  “Should you not wait a moment or two, until the rain lets up a trifle?” Emily asked Mr. Hartwell.

  But in the few minutes they had been talking the rain had lessened, at least enough so that it no longer resembled a deluge of biblical proportions. “Thank you for your concern, Miss Woodford. I believe that it has improved somewhat,” Mr. Hartwell said, smiling at her. Miss Emily Woodford was quite tall, and Mr. Hartwell was only an inch or two taller, so Sophie wondered if that was why Emily seemed able to stare so intently into his eyes. Sophie was actually growing more than a little uncomfortable, but it might have been the heated and crowded interior of the shop that made her so, and not the warmth emanating from her friend.

  Sophie could not tell if Mr. Hartwell was experiencing a reciprocal attraction; he was acting in the same gentlemanly and courteous manner he always did. Sophie also knew him to be genuinely enamored of Cecilia and did not think he was the type to lightly transfer his affections to another lady. In fact, she felt she should warn Emily before her attraction grew into something more or she embarrassed herself by displaying too obvious a partiality in public. So when Mr. Hartwell finally left and Emily turned to her and said, “What a kind gentleman!” Sophie agreed, telling her, “Yes, he is always extremely accommodating. He is one of my cousin Cecilia’s suitors.”

  But Emily appeared more confused than disappointed. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I thought your cousin was entertaining Lord Courtney’s suit.”

  “Yes, well, my cousin is still quite young,” Sophie began, before realizing there was really no explanation she could offer for Cecilia’s behavior, and that all of the gentlemen appeared to have stopped what they were doing to eavesdrop on her conversation with Emily. Sophie decided a change of subject was in order and began a discussion about needlework, which was sure to be of little interest to the men who surrounded them, and was of hardly any interest to her or Emily, either, but served to pass the time until the chairs arrived.

  * * *

  The next evening Sophie’s aunt and cousin had plans to attend a concert in the company of Lady Smallpeace and her family. Since Mrs. Foster was going, Sophie was not needed in the role of chaperone, but as a single relation her choice was either to accompany her relatives or stay at home, and so she chose to attend the event in the hope of finding more congenial company there.

  She purposely hung back as seats were found for the members of their party. Cecilia was flanked by Lord Courtney and her mother, who sat next to Lady Smallpeace. Lady Mary was next to Lord Courtney, so Sophie chose the seat on the side of Lady Mary, which did not have the best view of the musicians, but was on the end of a bench so made for an e
asy escape, if necessary. There was also enough room there for someone to sit next to her; if someone desired to, that is. Sophie was not sure who it was she desired to sit there until, while looking up from the printed program, she spotted Sir Edmund strolling into the room.

  She could not prevent the sudden look of delight that crossed her face and hoped that she could compose herself before he saw it, but as if drawn by her gaze he immediately looked in her direction. He smiled and started walking toward her, then hesitated and looked to see with whom she was seated. She decided some encouragement would not be amiss, as at that moment she made the firm decision that there was no one she desired to take the place next to her more than Sir Edmund. So she nodded eagerly at him, in a gesture she hoped would make it obvious she was inviting him to come speak to her.

  He started forward again and bowed as he reached her, saying, “Good evening. Is this seat available?”

  “Indeed it is. You are welcome to take it,” Sophie replied, and Sir Edmund sat down. Lady Mary noticed his presence and he nodded to her, but Sophie was relieved when she turned back to her conversation with Lord Courtney after merely returning Sir Edmund’s nod.

  “You do not think there will be . . . talk, if I sit here with you?” Sir Edmund asked, in such a low tone that Sophie was forced to incline her head toward him a little in order to hear him. When she realized what he’d said and how close she was to him, she hastily moved back, accidentally jostling Lady Mary and having to beg her pardon.