by Sara Bennett
Sophy loved Harry. She thought he loved her. Perhaps those two things, physical and emotional love, did not go together. Should she pretend she hadn’t heard and didn’t know about that part of his life? Maybe that was what he was expecting of her—pretending to be deaf. Gentlemen like Sir Arbuthnot always had mistresses tucked away. Even when they were married, they could compartmentalise their lives, and expected their wives to turn a blind eye.
Harry had said he wanted to marry her, but perhaps that did not mean she would be the only one in his bed.
Anxiety twisted in her belly as she set about her daily tasks. During the past months he hadn’t written to her. Perhaps he had better things to do. She didn’t expect him to spend every moment thinking of her, but the distance that was growing between them worried her. Now he was home and she waited for him to come to her as he’d promised. And waited. Until she could wait no more.
The setting up of Christmas decorations was underway at the manor. Servants darted about and climbed up ladders, cleaning and polishing and hanging all manner of pretty things. Cook oversaw meal preparations for the family and their friends, as well as the feast that was always put on for the estate workers and their families in the barn. Sophy had always loved Christmas at Pendleton Manor. It was her home, and she couldn’t imagine celebrating the festive season anywhere else.
And as long as her father’s job as Estate Manager was secure—and Sir Arbuthnot had never given any indication that he wasn’t happy with the arrangement—they would remain. Sophy felt safe here at Pendleton and hoped her father would resist whatever her aunt was whispering to him.
A group of servant girls were giggling in the drawing room. Sophy didn’t want to ask them where Harry was. She shouldn’t really be in here, and anyway, what if one of them was the girl involved in the sowing of the wild oats? What if it was more than one girl? The maidservants were daughters of villagers and tenants, and Sophy did not mix with them. Her father might have slipped low on the social scale, but he still believed his family to be far above Sir Arbuthnot’s domestic servants. Sophy felt quite isolated sometimes, neither one thing nor another. Through family misfortune and misplaced pride, she was trapped between two worlds.
Sophy spied a footman striding by, as if he was in a great hurry, and moved to intercept him.
“Can you tell me if Master Henry is at home?” she said, pretending she had every right to ask the question. “My father, Mr Harcourt, sent me with a message.”
It was a lie, but Sophy wasn’t sure how else to get the information she wanted without raising the wrong kind of suspicions. The footman stared at her. She recognised him; she knew most of the servants by sight despite not fraternizing with them.
“Master Henry?” he repeated.
Sophy nodded, her cheeks growing a little pink.
He pointed toward the glass doors that led to the terrace, before leaving her to carry on with his own business.
The sky outside was grey and there was a hint of snow in the air, but Sophy barely noticed. As she slipped through the doors and hurried down the stone steps, she was too focussed on finding Harry.
She reached the end of the lawn and approached the tall clipped hedges that divided the terrace from the white garden, where she finally found Harry and his friend, the Honourable Digby. The two of them had set up an archery target in the wide terrace between the flower beds, and were taking turns firing arrows at it. Their voices rose and fell, interspersed with laughter.
She hovered, wondering whether she should wait until Harry was alone. Surely, she told herself, he wouldn’t mind being interrupted, not if it was her? She had come this far and to go back seemed like failure. This was Harry, her Harry.
Sophy set off again, head up, pretending a confidence she didn’t feel.
Digby raised a silver flask to his mouth, tipping down the contents and staggering a little. They both cackled with laughter.
Sophy’s steps faltered. Perhaps she really should leave them alone. Not that she was afraid, but she could see now that they were inebriated. Her father never drank to excess, but she had seen Sir Arbuthnot deep in his cups, loud and obnoxious. She had also seen some of the patrons outside The Black Sheep, when she was in the village, hooting and staggering around. And this time of year, with the Christmas festivities at Pendleton, there were sure to be many sore heads come the morning after. Harry drunk was something she hadn’t experienced before and was not sure she wanted to now.
As if he had read her mind, he turned and spotted her. He stared as if he didn’t recognise her and for a moment her heart sank. Then his face lit up. Relieved, Sophy began to walk toward them.
“Sophy!” he called out enthusiastically. “There you are!” As if it was she and not he who had neglected to pay her a visit. All the same she couldn’t help but smile.
Digby, who had been trying to notch his arrow into the bow, turned to see who Harry was calling to, his weapon wavering about dangerously in his unsteady hands.
“Sophy?” he repeated. His eyes widened and he gave her a toothy grin. “She’s a beauty, Harry! You never said your little Sophy was a beauty.”
He’d spoken of her to his friends? Her steps faltered as she tried to take that in, tried to decide whether she was pleased or dismayed by that fact. Before she could make up her mind, Harry was in front of her, reaching out to clasp her shoulders in his big hands, and smiling down at her as if she was the best thing in his world. He did smell strongly of brandy, but she tried not to wrinkle her nose.
“I was coming to visit you,” he said, brown eyes searching hers, as if it was important that she believe him.
“I was tired of waiting,” she retorted, pretending to scold, though her heart refused to be anything but light and bubbly. She smiled back at him. “What are you doing?” she said, even though it was obvious.
“You should be asking who’s winning,” Harry responded, with a note of Baillieu arrogance. “It’s me.”
She laughed and shook her head. Harry liked to win, it was true, but this was a side of him she didn’t see very often and she suspected it was the Harry he turned into when he was with his friends.
Behind him, Digby was scowling, his reddish hair and green eyes making him look like one of the foxes Sir Arbuthnot cursed when they took the pheasants he raised for his shooting parties. He could have been a handsome boy but something in the set of his features made him deceitful. “I’m letting you win,” he sneered. “It’s impolite to beat one’s host. Don’t you know that, Harry?”
Harry turned his head to stare back at him, and Sophy felt the sudden tension in the air between them. For two people who were supposed to be friends they were very competitive. Harry and Adam were always trying to come out on top, but Adam was more inclined to laugh and shrug things off when they didn’t go his way. Or walk away to find something better to do and leave Harry to his hollow victory. Digby seemed to be cut of a different cloth.
“I’ll wager you my ebony cane,” the boy added.
Harry eyed him narrowly. He swayed as if there was a strong wind blowing him despite the still air. “Shoot then,” he ordered. “Best out of three takes all.”
“Is she part of the deal?” Digby nodded at Sophy, his eyes sweeping over her from head to toe, lingering on her bosom. “Or are you scared you’ll lose?”
Wide eyed, she took a step closer to Harry and he leaned in protectively, his shoulder bumping against her when he lost his balance. “Don’t worry,” he said in a brandy fumed whisper. “I won’t let him near you. Besides, I am going to win. Do you trust me?”
Of course Sophy trusted him. She nodded.
“Very well. Sophy is part of the deal,” Harry announced, and if Sophy felt her heart sink, she tried not to show it. This was Harry, after all, her Harry. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her. All the same she really didn’t like being used as a trophy.
Over the next few minutes both boys fired at the target, impeded as they were by alcohol, but Harry w
as still the better shot. On his turn he focussed as if everything in the world depended upon him winning, and a few times he glanced at her with a reassuring smile. She felt a surge of pride.
When the final arrow had hit the target, Digby threw down his weapon, his fox face sullen and angry. Harry gave him a grin and a shrug, and taking Sophy’s hand, led her down the broad walk through the white garden, as if nothing else in the world mattered.
HARRY
I wish I’d never invited Digby here.
He knew Sophy was giving him curious glances, her long lashes shielding her summer sky eyes. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind of the brandy-fuelled fog.
Harry wasn’t much of a drinker and it had been a stupid idea to start tippling so early in the day. Digby had been the one to suggest it, but Harry had gone along, mainly because he felt the need to entertain his guest and Digby’s idea of fun was getting drunk and trying his luck with the servant girls. Harry had learned Digby’s predilection for drinking and tupping on the occasions when he’d been a guest at Digby’s home.
He didn’t want Digby anywhere near Sophy, which was why he had been avoiding her. During one long drunken afternoon, Harry had told him about Sophy. Digby had seemed intrigued, asking questions, wondering aloud why Harry didn’t just take Sophy into the woods and have her there. Harry had hoped Digby would have forgotten their conversation, but it seemed not.
So he’d stayed away, and yet, when he saw her walking toward him just now, his heart had soared like a hawk.
She was his, whether he deserved her or not—and he was beginning to think not—and seeing Digby look at her had only made him more possessive. It crossed his mind that he might beat to a pulp any man who tried to take her from him. Sometimes the strength of these feelings made him wonder if he was quite sane.
He’d been reckless wagering Sophy’s virtue like that. Even though he knew he would win, it had been thoughtless of him to risk her. He had wanted to stamp his claim on her in front of Digby, in a way the other boy could understand. Mine.
“Your friend …?” Sophy said now, looking over her shoulder. “Is he all right?”
Digby had drunk far more than him and when he glanced back, Harry wasn’t surprised to see him lying on the ground. Had he passed out?
“You can’t just leave him there.”
“Why not?”
She glanced at him and giggled. “Because it’s going to snow and he’ll freeze to death.”
Harry shrugged, and then leaned in to rest his head against hers, gently, feeling the soft silk of her hair. “I won’t let that happen, Soph. I’ll bring him inside as soon as we’re finished our walk. You know,” with a warning look, “he wouldn’t be so tender of your wellbeing as you are of his.”
“But he is your friend,” she reminded him.
Was Digby his friend? Harry supposed he was more of an ally. Harry didn’t have many close friends, apart from Adam, and knowing that he would not be going on to university meant he had become somewhat isolated. Digby was of a good family, with plenty of blunt, and Sir Arbuthnot had been pleased with the connection. Harry was pleased too, because Digby and he had become a team when it came to the bullies who liked to throw their weight around at school. Digby had even saved Adam from a thrashing on one occasion, although as far as Harry could tell his brother was indifferent to the favour.
Harry remembered Adam lying on the ground, blood staining his teeth, laughing hysterically. It was as if nothing mattered to his brother at times, not even his own well-being. When Harry thought about the regimental life their father had chosen for Adam, he wondered if his brother might become a better man for such discipline. Would it straighten him out, or would he remain in the irresponsible and lecherous world he seemed to inhabit so effortlessly?
But he didn’t want to think about that. Right now he didn’t want to think about anything but Sophy.
“You’re coming to Pendleton for Christmas dinner, aren’t you?” he asked abruptly. “I would like to dance with you.”
She smiled and her pale skin flushed. She was so sweet, he told himself, so innocent. He wanted her. Wanted her in a way that made him feel raw and dirty. Surely a girl like Sophy wasn’t made for the sort of things he wanted to do to her. Women, in Harry’s mind, came in two forms. The ones you took to bed and used well, and the ones you set upon a pedestal and married. That was why, according to his father, men took mistresses. To soothe that savage beast that all men had inside them, and not inflict such things upon their precious spouses.
“What are you thinking about?” Her soft voice interrupted his thoughts and he pushed them away, forced himself to smile and be gentle with her.
“Only that I missed you.”
“Well I’m here now,” she said, and leaned up to kiss his cheek.
He felt the brush of her lips, and the sensation travelled all the way down to his groin. He tried not to groan, but the ache only reminded him yet again why she was not, would never be, safe around him.
“And I will dance with you,” she went on, oblivious to his raging desires. “Twice, if your father doesn’t notice.”
“Then let us hope he doesn’t notice.”
He let her hand slip from his elbow and reached down to clasp her fingers in his. He stumbled a little but regained his balance easily enough. She raised an eyebrow. “How much have had to drink, Harry?”
Not nearly enough to stop him thinking of all of the things he wanted to do to her, he thought. Aloud he said, “I want all our Christmases from now on to be spent together. All our days too, Sophy.”
Her expression softened and she leaned her head against his shoulder. “So do I, Harry,” she whispered.
Chapter 5
SOPHY
Sophy, her father and Aunt Anna were quickly swept into the noisy group of Christmas guests at Pendleton Manor. As usual, there were Baillieu cousins and aunts and uncles in every corner of the building, and even some of the more ancient relatives who were trotted out just for the occasion. It was at times like this Sophy wished she had a bigger family, but apart from Arnold and Anna, there was only her grandmother, Susan Jamieson. Her mother had had a brother, but he had gone to America to make his fortune and had not been heard of since.
Her father considered Grandma Jamieson too unsuitable to invite to occasions like this. She lived in London and Sophy could not remember ever seeing Grandma Jamieson’s home, and the one time she had suggested going to stay her father had refused outright.
“She is not respectable,” he had said. “Not the sort of influence I want in your life.” Did that mean Arnold was? Several times now Aunt Anna had mentioned her son in connection with Sophy, as if they were a couple. Or could be. She wasn’t sure whether to draw her father’s attention to it, and gently point out to him that if she married anyone it would be through choice and not because it was a comfortable prospect for her relatives. Until her aunt arrived she could not remember her father ever mentioning what he thought was an acceptable future for Sophy. Marriage? Well he still hadn’t mentioned that but she had an uncomfortable feeling that under Anna’s prompting he was thinking about it.
Sophy blinked and her gaze landed on Digby, twirling one of the young women about in time to the music, making her squeal. Several disapproving glances were cast their way by older guests who were still digesting their turkey. The room was too warm and several of the more ancient cousins had already dozed off.
“Sophy.”
She turned and found Adam grinning at her, his dark hair tousled and his face flushed. He was holding a glass of punch in his hand and swaying slightly.
“Adam.” Her smile faded and she eyed him with concern. The gleam in his eyes told her he had been imbibing more than good cheer. When she had seen Harry under the influence of brandy earlier today, she had been surprised. As far as she knew, Harry rarely drank strong liquor. But Adam was a different matter altogether. He seemed to have no sense of self preservation, and she had often seen him und
er the influence of his father’s liquor like this. Far more than she believed was healthy.
“It’s a wonder Harry isn’t glued to your side,” he said, slurring his words slightly. “He believes you’re his, after all.”
Sophy glared. Although Adam was the same age as her and she felt comfortable with him most of the time, when he had been imbibing like this he became unpredictable. “I’m not his!” she said, then quickly lowered her voice, and glancing about her. Thankfully, no one seemed to be listening.
“He treats you as if you are.” Adam sniggered, taking another gulp of his punch. He held up the glass, nearly sloshing it over her. “Father has watered down our Christmas spirit this year, so I had to find something extra to lift mine up.”
Sophy groaned. “Perhaps you should stop now, Adam. Sir Arbuthnot is going to notice.”
Adam stared at her solemnly, all humour draining from his face. He suddenly looked a lot older. “Do you think he cares?” he asked, leaning in closer. “Harry is the golden boy. Always was. I’m just the spare.”
Sophy tried to read his expression but he had turned his face away. “I’m sure you’re more than that to him,” she said at last.
When he looked back at her he was grinning, but the smile didn’t transfer to his hazel eyes. “Harry gets everything, you know that, Soph. The house, the land, the money. I’m the second son, so it’s the army for me. If there had been a third, he’d go into the church. My father is nothing if not a traditionalist.”
“I can picture you in a uniform,” she teased, trying to lighten his dark mood. “All the ladies will swoon.”
He cocked his head to the side and his next words surprised her. “You’re a nice girl, Sophy.” Then he leaned close again, bringing a gust of alcohol with him, “Be careful around Digby. He’s not like Harry and me.” And then he was gone, weaving back into the crowd.