Miss Lattimore's Letter

by Suzanne Allain

  She had no doubt that it was Cecilia, come to talk to her about her own relationship troubles, as it was quite apparent to Sophie that something momentous had occurred between her and Mr. Hartwell in the gardens. Sophie wished that she had an older confidant whom she could rely on for solace and support as Cecilia did with her, but then told herself that helping Cecilia would at least take her mind off her own problems, and she had no doubt that whatever had occurred between the young couple could easily be rectified, unlike her own situation, which appeared bleak indeed.

  So she willingly opened the door for Cecilia and they both settled in comfortably for a long talk, though Cecilia seemed hesitant to begin. Sophie had to prompt her by asking, “Cecilia, what happened between you and Mr. Hartwell at Newbrooke?”

  “He kissed me, and now he’s going to marry Emily Woodford!” After this pronouncement Cecilia looked as if she was about to cry, and so Sophie had to wait some time for an explanation of this highly unlikely description of Mr. Hartwell’s behavior, which Sophie found she could not quite believe.

  Finally, Cecilia composed herself enough to explain how she had hurt her foot, and how Mr. Hartwell had kindly picked her up so that she would not injure herself further. The part where she ended up in his lap with them passionately kissing each other was glossed over, so that Sophie received a highly edited and more proper account than what had actually occurred, but there were enough details for her to realize that Newbrooke’s gardens were more potent than one of Cupid’s arrows in inciting romantic behavior.

  Cecilia then came to the crux of her and Mr. Hartwell’s disagreement, which was that she had not allowed Mr. Hartwell to approach her mother to ask permission to propose and he had become angry with her and accused her of leading him on. “And indeed I did, but I had no idea; I mean, I had never been kissed before and had not expected it to be quite so . . . exhilarating,” Cecilia said, her brow wrinkled in confusion at her own behavior.

  “And that was when he announced that he was going to marry Emily Woodford instead?” Sophie asked, still flummoxed by this part of the story.

  “That is not what he said, exactly,” Cecilia admitted. “In fact, I think I was the one who introduced her into the conversation. But he then said that at least she appreciated him and that she would not hesitate for one second to accept him. I think I may have driven him into her arms,” Cecilia said sadly, before finishing with the obscure remark, “And he even fixed my hair!”

  Sophie did not demand an explanation for this non sequitur, instead focusing on what she felt was the heart of the matter. “Cecilia, are you still unsure whether or not you wish to marry Mr. Hartwell? Because I think if you permitted him to speak to your mother this entire disagreement could be happily resolved. And I thought you had decided you loved him and wanted to marry him.”

  “I had, but that was when I thought he was lost to me. Now that I’m faced with accepting his proposal I find myself terrified at committing myself irrevocably. I am very fond of him and I missed him dreadfully when he stopped calling, but I also hate the thought of having all my options taken away. What if I’ve mistaken my feelings and Mr. Hartwell is not the right one? It’s such an important decision, Sophie. It’s for forever.”

  Sophie couldn’t deny the truth of Cecilia’s words. It was an important decision, one of the most important of a person’s life. And even more so for a woman than a man, because a woman had no rights other than those her husband granted her. If he wished, he could make her life miserable indeed.

  Not that Cecilia need fear Mr. Hartwell would be an overly demanding husband. His kindness and gentleness shone through everything he said and did. Still, if Cecilia did not feel, at eighteen, that she was ready to take such an irrevocable step, then Sophie felt she probably shouldn’t.

  Cecilia broke the thoughtful silence the two girls had fallen into. “There is one thing, however, that I have not the slightest doubt of: I am very sure that I do not want him marrying anyone else.”

  This statement caused Sophie to suddenly feel far more sympathy for Mr. Hartwell than for her cousin.

  * * *

  Now that Cecilia had recovered from her indisposition, the ladies could not continue to spend their time locked inside their town house, even though they had little desire to socialize. Still, appearances must be kept, and Mrs. Foster had announced they were all to attend the assembly rooms that evening.

  Sophie consoled herself with the fact that Sir Edmund was unlikely to be present, as she very much doubted he would have so quickly left his estate to return to Bath. But she found that, instead of providing consolation, such a conclusion depressed her even further.

  Cecilia was in a worse state than Sophie; not only was she unsure if she would encounter Mr. Hartwell that evening but she feared that if she did see him, he would be paying court to Emily Woodford. This would also be her first meeting with Lord Courtney since she had decided against marrying him, and she had no idea how to tactfully convey a rejection to a suitor she had so willingly encouraged little more than a week ago.

  And Mrs. Foster, who was the one to insist upon their attendance in the first place, was perhaps the most apprehensive of the three women. For she had to somehow back away from her chummy behavior with Lady Smallpeace and her tacit acceptance of Lord Courtney as a husband for her daughter without alienating the noblewoman completely and committing social suicide.

  As matters turned out, when they entered the assembly rooms Lady Smallpeace spied them almost immediately, and inquired very loudly and tactlessly about Cecilia’s health.

  “How is your daughter, Mrs. Foster? Has she recovered from her indisposition? Looks a little pale, if you ask me,” Lady Smallpeace said, raising her lorgnette to her eyes and looking Cecilia up and down.

  “She is much improved, thank you,” Mrs. Foster responded.

  “Positively blooming,” Lord Courtney said, with a smirk. “Mustn’t come too close or I might sneeze,” he said, and his aunt dropped her lorgnette.

  “Is she still contagious, do you think?” Lady Smallpeace asked, horrified.

  “No, Aunt, it was just a small jest, a play on words. Flowers make me sneeze and Miss Foster is blooming, like a daisy, though maybe not a daisy, as she’s wearing blue. Perhaps a bluebell? Don’t know much about flowers, other than the fact my nose itches around them. That reminds me, hope you liked that bouquet I sent you, Miss Foster. Had my man select it for you especially—”

  His great-aunt interrupted before Cecilia could thank Lord Courtney for his servant’s gift. “Is your daughter prone to infections, Mrs. Foster?” Lady Smallpeace asked, an expression of revulsion on her face.

  And Mrs. Foster was suddenly overcome by a notion so brilliant, she felt as if light should be radiating from her head. “I am afraid so, Lady Smallpeace,” she said. Cecilia jumped in surprise and looked as if she was about to protest, but Sophie, who had figured out her aunt’s clever scheme, squeezed Cecilia’s arm in warning. “She has been in delicate health since a particularly bad case of a putrid sore throat when she was fourteen. A surgeon was called in and he said it was likely that her constitution was permanently weakened.” Mrs. Foster managed to look quite woebegone as she said this, and Sophie and Cecilia composed their features into suitably serious expressions as well.

  “Upon my word!” Lady Smallpeace said, looking at Cecilia with a strange mixture of pity, disgust, and relief. “I am very glad I learned of this! Very glad! I am sorry, young lady, but I must ask you to keep your distance until we are quite sure you are recovered from this latest infectious illness. I know my nephew will be quite disappointed not to be able to dance with you this evening, won’t you, Courtney?”

  “Devastated,” he said, smiling. “Perhaps tomorrow—”

  “Courtney!” Lady Smallpeace shouted. “Your arm!”

  And as the ladies watched in amazement, Lady Smallpeace heaved herself out of her c
hair and got up to leave the room. Sophie realized that this was the first time she’d actually seen Lady Smallpeace walk. Lady Mary took her mother’s other arm, offering excuses and apologies as they walked away.

  “So sorry, but my mother, quite a dread of illness, though her constitution is quite strong. Like a horse. Is that the correct expression? Or is it a mule? I am not much of a horsewoman myself, though I do ride in the country. No need for it here in Bath, of course, much easier to get a chair, and so many hills, a horse would need a strong constitution if one were to ride here . . .”

  The three ladies stood silently for a moment longer after Lady Mary’s voice had trailed away, and then Sophie began laughing.

  “That was brilliant, Aunt Foster!” Sophie congratulated her aunt. “What quick thinking!”

  “Mama, how did you think of such a thing? Now we needn’t avoid them; they will avoid us!”

  “It just came to me,” Mrs. Foster said happily.

  * * *

  Mr. Hartwell was not present that evening, though Emily Woodford was. Cecilia nodded very graciously and even smiled at Emily when she approached them, but was engaged for a set and left soon afterward. After Cecilia was gone, Emily turned eagerly to speak to Sophie.

  “Sophie! It’s been an age since we’ve last talked. I heard your cousin was ill.”

  “Yes, but it was only a cold. She’s fine now.”

  “That’s not what I heard. There’s a rumor going around that she’s . . . consumptive,” Emily said, her voice dropping down to a whisper on the last word.

  “Nonsense! Why, Cecilia is as healthy as a horse,” Sophie said, chuckling a little as she thought of Lady Mary’s use of that expression. Emily looked at Sophie strangely, as if she felt her cousin’s health was no laughing matter, but let the subject drop.

  “Well, I’m happy that Miss Foster is better. Perhaps now her suitors will resume calling on her,” Emily said, trying to look as if she were casually introducing the subject of Cecilia’s suitors into the conversation, and not as if it were the entire reason she’d approached Sophie in the first place. “Have you seen anything of Mr. Hartwell recently?”

  Sophie was torn. She did like Emily, and for all she knew she would make Mr. Hartwell a wonderful wife. That is, if Cecilia ever decided she didn’t want him for herself. But Sophie felt that should be resolved before he became involved with someone else. “Yes, Emily, we have seen Mr. Hartwell recently. As I mentioned before, he and Cecilia—”

  “What about them? Did he propose? Are they engaged?” Emily asked urgently.

  “They are not engaged yet,” Sophie said, thinking perhaps this conversation was a mistake after all. The ordinarily docile Emily seemed quite the opposite of her usual calm self.

  “If they are not engaged, there’s still hope for me,” Emily said, and Sophie’s heart sank.

  “But Emily, if he is in love with Cecilia—”

  “Perhaps he is infatuated with your cousin, but she does not deserve him,” Emily said.

  “And you do?” Sophie asked.

  “Why not? You, of all people, should understand. Mr. Hartwell is young and handsome and comfortably well-off and has no need to marry a lady of fortune. Such men do not grow on trees, Sophie, as you very well know. Yet your cousin hadn’t the wit to recognize the gift that had fallen into her lap! She deserves Lord Courtney; she obviously cares more for the title than the man. And as I do suitably appreciate Mr. Hartwell, I mean to have him.”

  Sophie found herself bereft of speech. She could merely blink at her erstwhile friend and rue the day she’d introduced her to Mr. Hartwell. For if Cecilia eventually came to her senses and decided she did want him, it could very well be too late.

  * * *

  Priscilla Beswick had also come to the assembly rooms that evening, and Sophie ran into her in the tea room. She greeted Priscilla with a smile, completely forgetting that the last time she’d seen Priscilla she’d treated her less than cordially.

  “I am surprised to find you here. You did not seem to be in the best of moods after our visit to Newbrooke,” Priscilla said, frowning.

  “Oh, yes, I apologize. I had the headache. I am better now.”

  “Cecilia seems to have made a remarkable recovery as well,” Priscilla mentioned, looking past Sophie to where Cecilia sat chatting with an admirer.

  “It was only a cold—” Sophie began, wondering how often she was going to have to discuss her cousin’s health.

  “I meant her foot. She had injured herself, had she not?”

  “Oh, that! Yes, she is much better.”

  “Well, I am glad you are here, because I must discuss something with you,” Priscilla said, looking to see who was seated around them before lowering her voice. “Charles is absolutely impossible! I tell you, Sophie, I am tempted to do something desperate!”

  Sophie sighed, wishing she could have at least a few minutes to enjoy her tea without having to discuss men or marriage. “Priscilla, I do believe Charles has reason to complain about you as well. He told me he misses the time you used to spend together in outdoor pursuits. And now, when he does spend time with you, you’re always fretting about doing anything that might muss your clothes. Why is it that you no longer participate in any of those activities that you used to enjoy together?”

  Priscilla blinked in surprise. “I told you, it’s because I discovered that it’s inappropriate behavior for a young lady of quality. And indeed, when I went to London for my season and became more involved in ladylike pursuits, the gentlemen admired me more than ever. And I enjoy fashion, Sophie. I had no idea, until I made my debut, what fun it was. There is an . . . art to it, you know. I have even tried my hand at my own designs. In fact, the hat I wore to Sydney Gardens was one I had designed myself. That’s why I was particularly upset when it was destroyed.” Priscilla suddenly seemed unsure and hesitant; an attitude Sophie had never before seen her display. “Perhaps,” she suggested tentatively, “you might like to see some of my sketches.”

  “I would very much like to see your sketches! It’s obvious you have a talent for design; one can tell that by looking at you.” Priscilla beamed at this remark and Sophie began to wonder if Priscilla sought compliments on her appearance not because of personal vanity, but because she wanted reassurance about the designs she created. “But don’t you miss those activities you and Charles used to do together? It sounded as if you enjoyed them.”

  Priscilla thought for a moment and then a reminiscent smile appeared. “Yes, I did enjoy riding, and cricket, and bowls—oh, we used to have such fun! I even enjoyed when Charles would show me the animals on the farm. But that was before I was out. Surely behavior like that, which is acceptable for a very young woman, is not acceptable for a married lady.”

  “Certainly it is, if that’s what she and her husband enjoy doing together! Priscilla, you can be ladylike and fashionable and still engage in sports. I promise you, if you were to enter more into your husband’s interests, he would respond positively.”

  “That might be true, and when we return to the country I will be sure to do so, but if Charles loves me, why can’t he be supportive of my interests as well? He has not been to one ball with me since we were married. He even refused to accompany me tonight; Mr. Maitland escorted me here. Surely, if he expects me to ride with him, he could dance with me occasionally!”

  Sophie could not deny this was true and vowed to herself to counsel Charles Beswick on this matter at the next opportunity. For now, she encouraged Priscilla to be patient. “Mr. Beswick is a very attractive, intelligent gentleman, Priscilla, and he loves you very much. Indeed, he told me so himself.”

  “He did?” Priscilla asked, clapping her hands together in delight. “What exactly did he say?” she demanded.

  “That he loved you very much,” Sophie repeated, thinking that she was very ill-equipped for this role she’d reluctantly as
sumed. She should have read poetry or romance novels to prepare herself.

  “Was he wearing his blue coat?” Priscilla asked, a dreamy expression on her face.

  “Yes,” Sophie said, and took a sip of tea.

  * * *

  Sophie had not been aware that Mr. Maitland was Priscilla’s escort that evening until Priscilla told her so. She really hoped when Priscilla mentioned doing something “desperate” it did not involve him. But Sophie strongly believed that Priscilla really did love her husband, and though she might be a little immature, she wasn’t immoral. If she felt it was socially unacceptable for a lady to dirty her hem visiting the stables, certainly she knew it was far worse to leave your husband and elope with another man.

  Mr. Maitland was strangely reticent with Sophie that evening, giving Priscilla Beswick most of his attention while casting significant glances in Sophie’s direction. She could only assume he was trying to make her jealous, though perhaps she was flattering herself. But she could not muster the energy to feel any outrage, as she had apparently expended it all on Sir Edmund earlier that day. She’d had quite enough of men for the present, and as Cecilia felt the same, the ladies decided to leave after tea. They all felt they’d accomplished their purpose that evening, which was to show their faces and discourage Lord Courtney’s suit without becoming social outcasts in the process.

  It was only after they returned home that Mrs. Foster told Sophie Mr. Maitland had spoken to her and asked permission to pay his addresses to Sophie the following day.

  “Pay his addresses!” Cecilia repeated, shocked. “Sophie, he means to propose!”

  Sophie was no less shocked, even though she realized she should not be. Certainly Mr. Maitland had courted her so assiduously that if he had drawn back again he would not have been able to retain his standing as a gentleman.