Mariah opened her mouth and then shut it. Finally she managed to sputter, “B-but do you n-not want love, stability … and someday, children?”
“What is love?” Sophie asked coldly, shrugging her shoulders. “Mrs. Trenton only had love enough for one child—first you and then her son. And once he came, we were discarded like yesterday’s fish.”
She heard Mariah come up from behind and place her hands on her shoulders. “If you don’t tell Mr. Miller that you want him to stay, he might go. Will you be happy then?”
Sophie brushed off her sister’s hands and walked away from her. “You’re one to talk. Since we arrived, you’ve done nothing but live in a world of fictional characters. What do you know about love in real life? And what are your brilliant plans for the future?”
“I … I hadn’t thought…”
“Perhaps you should worry more about yourself and spend less time telling me what to do with my life.”
There was a knock at the door and Mariah jumped in surprise.
“Your turn,” Sophie said, and scurried into the wardrobe, pulling the door closed with the loop of wire she’d found in the gutter and repurposed as an interior handle. She tried to ignore the battle wounds she’d received—and the deeper ones she’d inflicted.
TEN
“MISS CARTER,” Adell said with a quick curtsy. “Is somebody else in here? I thought I heard voices.”
“I was only reading aloud,” Mariah said, glancing at the corner of Sophie’s skirt poking out between the wardrobe doors. “I like to use different voices for the characters. It really brings the story to life.”
She stepped toward Adell, blocking her view of the wardrobe. “Does my aunt need something?”
“Yes, miss. Lady Bentley would like to talk to you in the parlor.”
“Very good,” Mariah said. “Thank you, Adell.”
She waited for the maid to leave the room before she followed her out. When Mariah opened the door to the parlor, she was filled with anxiety. Her aunt usually left her well enough alone except for morning calls or dinner, and it was much too early in the day for either of those.
Aunt Bentley sat rigidly straight in a wingback chair. Not a dark hair was out of place, and not a wrinkle was to be found on her floral dress. Mariah turned sideways to walk through the door in her crinoline.
“Sophie, thank you for being prompt,” Aunt Bentley said in a tight voice. “I would like to speak to you about a most serious offense.”
She knows about my walks with Charles?!
Aunt Bentley took a letter out of her skirt pocket and brandished it like a highwayman’s pistol.
“This will not be permitted in my home,” she said sternly. “Whatever your rearing was, you are now presented to the world as my niece, and I will not have you bringing shame upon me like my sister did.”
Mariah stared at the letter, baffled. “I don’t understand.”
“A man has written to you,” Aunt Bentley snapped. “A ‘Mr. Ruskin.’ For you to receive correspondence from a man in my house reflects badly upon us both. Do you have an understanding with him? If so, you have played Mr. Miller very false, and there is already gossip about the two of you.”
Mariah let out a sigh of relief. “Aunt Bentley, there is no need for you to be upset,” she explained. “This is all a misunderstanding. Mr. John Ruskin is a famous art critic and he is giving me drawing lessons via letter. Open it and read it. I’m sure its contents will relieve your mind of all concern.”
Aunt Bentley cut the letter open with a swift slice of her letter knife and read all four pages intently before setting them down on the coffee table.
“How well are you acquainted with Mr. Ruskin?”
“I’ve only met him once, and I believe him to be married,” Mariah said carefully. “He looked at a few of my sketches and offered some advice.”
Aunt Bentley stared at her silently, as if trying to detect a lie.
“I would like to see your artwork,” she said stiffly.
“I have a few sketches with me,” Mariah replied. “But mostly I painted miniatures for my neighbors, and they kept them. And Mrs. Ellis kept all my paints and brushes, because she had paid for them.”
“Perhaps you might consider painting a miniature of me?” Aunt Bentley asked, though her tone made it sound more like a command. “I would like to give it as a gift to Charles before he sets sail for America.”
“It would be my honor,” Mariah said. “I’ll go collect my pencils. May I put the letter in my room?”
Aunt Bentley reluctantly nodded. Mariah scooped the pages off the coffee table and took the stairs by twos. She placed the letter on the bureau and picked up a paper and a pencil, moving quietly so as not to wake Sophie, who was napping on the bed. Mariah brought her supplies to the parlor, where her aunt still sat as straight as a wrought iron gate.
“I will sketch you if I may, Aunt Bentley,” she said. “And from the sketch I’ll create the miniature. I’m afraid that I don’t have the materials—”
“I shall have Mr. Taylor see that they are purchased.”
“Thank you.”
Mariah carefully began to draw the shape of her aunt’s face and was surprised to realize that it was the same shape as her own. She continued to sketch for a quarter of an hour.
The silence between them felt oppressive.
“Aunt Bentley,” Mariah asked when she couldn’t bear it any longer, “could you tell me about my mother or her family? Mrs. Trenton had only known my mother a few months before she … died.”
Aunt Bentley breathed in slowly and exhaled. “I don’t wish to adversely affect your sketching by movement.”
Mariah shook her head. “It won’t make a difference at this point.”
Aunt Bentley nodded regally but continued to be silent for several more moments. At last she spoke: “My sister Susan and I were very close, although I was nearly six years her senior. She was always a little wild and loved to pick strawberries. She used to pretend to be me and put on my hats and dresses. She wanted so badly to be as big as me, but she never was. Even all grown, I was still several inches taller … The smallest things still remind me of her: a skein of blue yarn the color of her eyes, someone singing one of her favorite songs. She was always singing. It was rather irksome while I lived with her, but once she left … I missed it.”
Mariah soaked up every word and committed them to memory to share with Sophie.
“Are your parents—my grandparents—still alive?” Mariah asked gently.
Aunt Bentley sat up even straighter, if that were possible. “My father died when your mother was four years of age. My mother died two months after Susan’s elopement. Mother was always sickly, and the shock and shame of Susan’s behavior … I believe it killed her. I’ve never forgiven my sister for her selfishness and stupidity. I never will.”
Or us, Mariah thought as she continued to sketch. “May I ask about your home?”
Aunt Bentley sniffed. “Turnberry Manor is a small estate, but a very pretty one. My mother used to say that there was no rose garden in all of England to compare with hers.”
“I hope to see it someday.”
“I’m afraid that is not possible,” Aunt Bentley said stiffly. “I inherited the house when my mother died, but once I married, my property belonged to my late husband. And he left it all to Charles.”
“But it was your house!” Mariah protested. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Sophie, sometimes I forget how young and naive you are,” Aunt Bentley said with a dignified sniff. “By law, once a woman marries, her property and her dowry belong to her husband. So, besides some dresses and this London season, there is nothing more financially I can do for you or your sister. That is why it is imperative that you find a husband with enough money to keep you both.”
Mariah nodded and continued sketching for several minutes. The resumed silence made her feel physically uncomfortable, so she had to break it. “You said my mother liked
to sing. Do you remember any of the songs she favored?”
Aunt Bentley again was silent for several moments, before she began to softly sing:
“I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming
Where the meadow-dew is sweet,
And like a queen I’m coming
With its pearls upon my feet.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming
O’er red rose and lily fair,
And like a sylph I’m coming
With their blossoms in my hair.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming
Where the honeysuckle creeps,
And like a bee I’m coming
With its kisses on my lips.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming
Over hill and over plain,
And like a bird I’m coming
To my bower back again.”
Mariah put down her sketch and sat listening, enthralled. Aunt Bentley’s singing voice was breathy and quiet, but Mariah sat transfixed. She felt as if she was given a small piece of memory to keep for herself. When Aunt Bentley sang the last word, it was as if she had snapped out of a trance. She colored and coughed.
“Oh, do look at the time,” she said, gesturing at the clock on the mantel. “I must go get dressed for dinner, and so must you. I was lucky enough to secure Miss Penderton-Simpson and her parents for our company tonight.”
Mariah stood up at the same time as her aunt. Aunt Bentley walked beside her, looking down at the sketch.
“I can already recognize myself,” Aunt Bentley said, and attempted something akin to a smile.
* * *
Mariah entered their bedroom with trepidation. She saw Sophie lying on the bed, her face turned toward the window. She didn’t even glance Mariah’s way. Sophie was obviously still angry with her and Mariah’s own feelings were wounded, but she didn’t want to end up like Aunt Bentley and her mother—estranged. Mariah walked to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. Sophie continued to stare obstinately the other way.
“Aunt Bentley told me about our mother.”
Sophie turned over to look at Mariah. “What did she say?”
“That she liked to pick strawberries and that she sang all the time … I’ve never felt more sympathy toward Aunt Bentley,” Mariah explained to Sophie. “I think she did genuinely care for our mother.”
“Not enough to forgive her,” Sophie scoffed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
“No,” Mariah agreed. “Aunt Bentley still blames our mother for our grandmother’s death.”
“There is nothing you could do that I would not forgive you for, and I certainly would not abandon your children to strangers. No matter what the circumstances.”
Mariah’s eyes filled up with tears. “I know.”
“I’m sorry for my harsh words.”
“They weren’t entirely without truth.”
“Which makes them even crueler,” Sophie said, kicking one foot and then the other.
Mariah leaned her head against her sister’s shoulder. “I haven’t planned for my future at all. I’d still be at the Ellises’ if it weren’t for you.”
“I understand why you like to read—I prefer books to people, too. But I’m not a heroine in one of your novels. Love is not the answer to all of my problems.”
“You’d more likely be the villainess of the book.”
“I’d actually prefer that. They’re always more interesting than the saintly heroine,” Sophie said with a laugh and tugged on one of Mariah’s curls. “Come on, you have a dinner party to attend. I’ll help you change and dress your hair.”
The tension between them seemed to dissolve in the air like steam. Sophie helped Mariah change her gown and then stabbed hairpins into her curls with deadly precision. “Now, don’t forget to call Miss Penderton-Simpson ‘Adaline.’”
“Is she very elegant?”
“She’s beautiful and wealthy and will no doubt be seated next to Charles.”
“Will I like her?”
Sophie shrugged one shoulder. “Why wouldn’t you? I like everyone when I first meet them. Except Charles.”
Mariah blushed and said nothing. She liked Charles, and she hoped Sophie’s opinion of him would approve. But if he preferred Miss Penderton-Simpson, there was very little purpose in improving Sophie’s opinion. With these less-than-happy thoughts, Mariah walked down to dinner.
* * *
When Mariah first saw Miss Adaline Penderton-Simpson, she held her breath—Sophie had not exaggerated her perfection. She stood there without a mahogany curl out of place and wearing the most elegant gown of yellow silk Mariah had ever seen. Her parents stood behind her and were as expensively dressed, but the expressions on their faces were not as welcoming. Coming toward her with a gracious smile, Adaline outstretched her hands to take Mariah’s.
“Why, Sophie, how lovely you look tonight!” Adaline said as she squeezed Mariah’s hands.
“Thank you, Ad-Adaline,” she mumbled.
Adaline took her by the arm and introduced her to her parents, who favored Mariah with a mere nod.
“My parents are pretentious snobs,” Adaline whispered in her ear after they stepped away. “Ah, Lord Bentley, you’re looking quite recovered and very handsome this evening.”
Mariah thought so, too. His smile was dazzling.
“I’m pleased you think so,” Charles replied.
The butler announced that it was time for dinner. Mr. Penderton-Simpson held out an arm for his wife and one for Lady Bentley. Charles offered his arms to both young ladies. Adaline eagerly took it.
“I ought to have had a brother and an uncle so our numbers would be the same at dinner,” Adaline joked.
“I don’t mind walking into the dining room by myself,” Mariah said. “You two are so charmingly coupled.”
Charles tried to catch her eye, but Mariah would not look at him—not once during dinner, either. She realized as she ate her York ham that she was stupid, silly, and a little heartbroken. Real life was not as pleasant as the imaginary world of books. Sophie was right. Mariah had been foolish and fanciful, waiting for love to solve all her problems.
Mariah was forced to make conversation with Mrs. Penderton-Simpson, who clearly thought it beneath her dignity to speak to a dependent. Meanwhile, watching Adaline and Charles talk and laugh together made it the longest and most miserable dinner of her life.
After the final course was cleared, the ladies returned to the drawing room so the gentlemen could drink port and smoke cigars. Adaline took Mariah’s arm again and they sat next to each other on a chaise—it was suffocating for Mariah. She longed to pull her arm away from Adaline, but instead she sat stiffly beside her.
“I’m distressed to learn that Lord Bentley means to return to America so soon,” Adaline confided. “I was hoping to be married this year—I’ll be twenty in December. But to be engaged to a lord is nothing to sneeze at.”
“Has he … has he offered?” Mariah managed to ask.
Adaline shook her head. “But I still have more than a fortnight to convince him to throw his name and title at my feet. Dearest Sophie, you were quiet during dinner and you don’t seem to be at all yourself. Are you feeling unwell?”
“Oh,” Mariah murmured, and then lied, “I have a headache. I’m sorry if I’m poor company for you.”
“You must go to bed at once,” Adaline insisted. “I shall not keep you. Go on, I’ll make your excuses to your aunt.”
Mariah thanked her and quietly left the room, her misery complete. Charles was going to marry a beautiful heiress who was so nice that Mariah liked Adaline in spite of herself. She walked slowly up the grand staircase, one foot and then the other.
“Where are you going, Sophie?” Charles asked.
Mariah glanced back and saw that he was standing on the bottom stair. “I am not So—” she began to say but stopped herself with a frustrated sigh. “I’m going to bed.”
“In the middle of a
dinner party?” he asked, climbing the stairs and taking her gloved hand in his. Mariah tried to pull her hand away, but he held on to hers firmly. His closeness made her heart ache.
“Tell me what is wrong?” he asked in a gentle voice that nearly undid her.
“I’ve been pretending I’m a heroine in a novel and that anything can happen,” Mariah said softly. “And now it’s time to live in reality. Goodnight, Lord Bentley.”
Mariah pulled her hand from Charles’s and, picking up her skirts, dashed up the stairs to her room, slamming the door behind her.
“Back already?” Sophie said. She sat at their table taking apart the clock she’d purchased.
“Bit of a headache,” Mariah lied again. “I’ll just go to bed.”
Sophie set down the metal piece she was handling and helped her sister undress. Mariah slipped on her nightdress and climbed into bed, turning to face the wall.
For the first time in her life, she didn’t want to tell Sophie what was wrong. She couldn’t bear her sympathy or her scorn.
ELEVEN
“AND WHAT ARE YOUR QUALIFICATIONS for an apprenticeship, Miss Carter?” Mr. Packer asked in a nasally, high-pitched voice.
Although he was a prominent London inventor, Sophie thought Mr. Packer looked more like a magician. His long black mustache curled on both sides and was so wide that it nearly reached his thick sideburns. His nose was long and pointy, and his eyes blinked incessantly.
“Well, for the last eight years, I’ve worked in a clock shop,” Sophie replied. “And I can repair almost anything that ticks.”
“Clockwork is centuries old. I’m interested in current innovations powered by steam or gas,” Mr. Packer said, twisting one side of his mustache around his pointer finger. “What is your educational background, Miss Carter?”
The Invention of Sophie Carter Page 10