Romancing the Past

by Darcy Burke

  Sophie sighed and followed Bettina to the front salon, where Uncle Malcolm and Peter waited. They stood when Bettina opened the door and began murmuring compliments—“What angel is this?” wondered her uncle. “Pretty as a picture, little sister,” added Peter—but fell silent when Bettina stepped aside to reveal Sophie.

  “Sophie?” Peter looked to Bettina. “Is that really Sophie?”

  “You don’t recognize her?” Malcolm teased, his eyes crinkling merrily.

  “Well, I don’t know but—” Peter flailed his arms and then, perhaps without meaning to, touched his left cheek. “Who else could it be?”

  “Peter, may I introduce you to a charming lady who hasn’t graced us with her presence in far too long?” Malcolm winked at Sophie. “I think you’ll be very fond of her.”

  Sophie let her uncle draw her into a hug. By the time he let go, Jenny had arrived. Her aunt’s dress of layered silver tissue shone so brilliantly it truly resembled metal, with fabric draped around the bosom and waist to give Jenny’s figure a girlish softness.

  “Betty.” Aunt Jenny wrapped her arm around her daughter and held her close. She smiled fondly at Sophie, still sheltered by her uncle’s arm. “Sophie. My girls. You both look beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so proud.”

  The wedding took place just before noon at Wirksworth Church. Only close family attended the ceremony, though Lady Honoria’s transcendent joy could have lit all of Derbyshire with its brilliance, if there had been some way to spread it—like a flame, candle to candle, wick to wick.

  Peter squinted mightily while the vicar read the vows, and when it came time to kiss his bride he wasn’t satisfied with a genteel peck on the lips. He picked Lady Honoria up and twirled her in the air, making her shriek with laughter that spread infectiously among the witnesses.

  Sophie couldn’t wipe the smile from her lips as she filed out of the building. At the wedding breakfast, an intimate gathering at High Bend, Peter and Honoria continued to hold court. As though the afternoon were a tune played in a key of their temper, the chord of their combined moods.

  “Congratulations, Lady Honoria,” said Sophie, kissing her new cousin on the cheek.

  “Call me Honoria, silly,” replied the girl. “We’re family now!”

  “Honoria,” Sophie repeated. “Then you shall call me Sophie?”

  “You look wonderful, Sophie.”

  To reinforce the illusion that Julian alone had arranged the festivities which were, at least in principle, unrelated to the untimely marriage of a young woman in deep mourning, he went alone to greet guests in the high-ceilinged front hall. Dozens of painted paper lanterns flickered over the faded tapestries on the walls. In the wavering light the woven horses seemed to prance, the armored knights to glower down at Julian, defenseless in black wool and white linen.

  Peter and Honoria, the true guests of honor, sat side by side on a sofa in the drawing room. The attendees, not fooled at all by the ruse, proceeded directly to the couple upon entering the room, offering greetings and congratulations in muted whispers.

  Both Honoria and the Dowager wore mourning. Yards of black fabric washed out Honoria’s pale skin and highlighted her freckles, but she shone in spite of it—every bit the new bride. “I can’t believe it’s real,” she said, over and over, as though each time the observation were fresh and surprising. “I’m the happiest man in the world,” Peter would echo, but each time he gave the phrase a new inflection—grateful, proud, astonished.

  The Dowager Duchess had never looked better. She wore a simple black gown that enhanced her severe beauty, the sheen of silk satin mirroring the gloss of her smooth black hair, the bright glint in her obsidian eyes. She glided up to the guests after Peter and Honoria released them; it wasn’t in her nature even to play at grief-stricken withdrawal, to hover in a corner and invite a bit of coaxing.

  She sidled up to Sophie, stroked the silk of her sleeves. “Same fabric as my gown,” she observed. “But a different color. Mrs. Purse has outdone herself for you, Miss Roe.”

  Sophie grimaced. “She did indeed.”

  The Dowager raised her eyebrows, perfect arches that gave her face an expansive, owlish cast. “I should think you would be grateful. Her skills are in much demand—she turns away more customers than she accepts.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Sophie replied, burning with shame and unable to respond with more grace. “I know she offered us the benefit of her skills as a special favor to you.”

  “Welcome to the family,” murmured the Dowager Duchess, with a languid stroke to Sophie’s arm as she locked eyes with someone else and moved on.

  Sophie recognized everyone but for an arrestingly handsome stranger. He leaned against the wall, remarkably tall and lean despite his pronounced slouch, hair black and shiny as wet India ink tumbling over his forehead.

  “Ignore that man,” murmured Julian at her ear.

  Sophie jumped. She hadn’t marked Julian’s approach but he stood at her shoulder. He could have been made from ivory and gold, a chryselephantine man, if it weren’t for his eyes, warm and blue as the heart of a flame.

  Sophie shuddered and looked away. “Why?”

  “He is indecent and dangerous.” Julian spoke lowly, his breath warm on her neck, but he’d focused his sharp, narrow-eyed gaze on the handsome stranger. “And he preys upon women. Keep your distance.”

  “Why did you invite him?”

  “He is the Dowager’s special guest,” Julian replied, his tone just flat enough to indicate contempt. “As she plans to depart for London in the near future, I chose the path of least resistance where he is concerned.”

  The stranger’s pale, ice-chip blue eyes rested briefly on Julian before landing on Sophie. A strange smile played about his too-pink lips, half mocking, half invitation.

  “He’s almost as handsome as you,” Sophie observed.

  Julian went still beside her. Then, slowly, muscle by muscle, he relaxed. “Then tonight, at least, I’ll be grateful that my appearance was always an impediment to gaining your affection.”

  “Not your appearance.”

  “No?” Julian took a deep breath, visibly suppressing the urge to contradict her. “I stand corrected.”

  Just then, Laura Tidmarsh separated from her mother, with whom she’d been speaking, and began heading in their direction. Julian nodded briefly at Sophie and drifted away while Laura was still halfway across the room.

  “Miss Roe! What an astonishing transformation!” Laura touched silk-gloved fingertips ever so lightly to Sophie’s arms and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “You’re the most beautiful girl here, and for once I’m not the least bit jealous.”

  “Because it’s not true.” Sophie leaned back to admire Laura’s gown of rose pink, the perfect complement to her blond perfection. “Though you’re kind to say so. You look divine, Laura. A vision of spring.”

  “I am not kind,” Laura replied, hooking her arm around Sophie’s. “Though you’re making me think I should practice a bit of humility. It pairs so well with that lovely dress.”

  Sophie frowned.

  “Now that I think on it, all those lessons must have been rather painful,” Laura continued. “Death and…” She shuddered. “Employment. Mayhap I’ll keep on as I am. Make do with a nod in the general direction of humility and leave it at that.”

  “Oh, best to maintain a safe distance, if you can.” Irony colored Sophie’s voice, but she spoke from the bottom of her heart. “Some virtues aren’t worth the trouble.”

  “There’s the Dowager Duchess. All the guests must have arrived.” Laura unlocked their arms and flexed her fingers at Sophie. “Remember to applaud when I play!”

  Threading her way through the guests, the Dowager paused to match Sophie with a dinner partner. The assembled company formed up into twin columns of alternating genders and advanced into the dining room, the long table laid with a pristine white cloth and decked with bouquets of spring flowers. Honoria’s hand at wo
rk, no doubt.

  Once all the guests had settled into their chairs, Julian stood. The table quieted without any urging, which he acknowledged with a gracious nod. “Thank you all for accepting my invitation. Seeing so many familiar faces makes me feel that I’ve come home, welcomed as I never expected to be. Though I know the circumstances of my return must trouble us all, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  Mr. Tidmarsh, halfway down the table, began clapping loudly. The other guests followed suit with an enthusiasm that appeared to be genuine. Julian had made such an impression as a young man that, even ten years down the line, he was remembered. Beloved, even.

  Julian made gentle shushing gestures. The company responded at first by clapping all the louder, only gradually falling silent.

  “By a happy coincidence, my lovely cousin, Lady Honoria Swann, also chose this morning to marry the inimitable Mr. Peter Roe before the eyes of God and man at Wirksworth Church. Having witnessed her deep grief in the weeks since I arrived here at High Bend, I can only admire the resilient spirit she’s exhibited today, tempering her sorrow with hope, her mourning with the promise of new life. I hope you’ll all join me in wishing her happy.”

  Honoria burst into tears.

  “If you don’t mind,” Julian continued, drawing attention away from the girl’s outburst, “Mr. Malcolm Roe has also asked to say a few words.”

  Her uncle stood and raised his glass, extending it in some perverted mix of a toast with a funerary ritual. “My dearest friend, Lady Honoria’s father, the late Duke of Clive, ought to be leading this toast,” he began.

  Bile rose up in Sophie’s throat. Lead this toast? Over his dead body, Clive would have said, and meant it.

  “It grieves me to celebrate without him,” her uncle continued, his plummy, richly melancholy voice raising the fine hairs on the back of Sophie’s neck. To hear her uncle speaking of grief on the heels of such a lie…

  Malcolm swirled the wine in his glass. “Just as it grieves me to see Lady Honoria seated before us in the black of mourning, far too young to have lost both her parents.”

  Malcolm cast a somber glance from one end of the table to the other. “I cannot take away the pain of her loss, but I promise her, with all of you to witness, that she will never lack the comfort of a loving family. Our loving family. Welcome, Lady Honoria. On this bittersweet occasion, too long in the coming, I wish you and my son great joy.”

  The assembled guests raised their glasses. Some of the women had to dab away tears with their handkerchiefs. Sophie felt sick at heart. What streak of ill-taste had driven her uncle to invoke Clive’s name, here, in the house where he had died?

  “To my wife!” Peter cried, raising his glass high. His dark eyes shone with love, polished all the brighter when reflected through the moisture of his tears. “Who has been so brave.”

  Murmurs of approval rose up on all sides; glasses clinked again. Honoria alternated her sobs with smiles, her blond ringlets trembling. Sophie remembered being in her place—orphaned, needy, terrifyingly naive.

  May you fare better than I did, Sophie thought, finally raising her glass and taking a drink. She locked eyes with Julian, slouching back in his chair with his glass dangling between two forked fingers, but swung her gaze around the table to Peter. May you treat her better than he treated me, she thought at her cousin, earning an inquiring squint from Peter as she drank again.

  “It’s been some time since we’ve crossed paths, Miss Roe,” said Mr. Tidmarsh. “May I say, you look ravishing?”

  She acknowledged her dinner companion’s compliment and spent the rest of the meal catching up with acquaintances that, as her neighbor suggested, she’d seen but little these last years.

  One they’d eaten, a pair of matched footmen opened up the double doors to the courtyard.

  Torches lit the rough-hewn stone walls, their orange reflections flickering on the glass overhead. Most of the furniture, and even the plants, had been cleared away and elegant, gilt-backed chairs with pearl-gray cushions brought in to line the walls. Some sort of smooth surface suitable for dancing covered the flagstones, chalked with images of fruit and flowers—fertility symbols, in honor of the wedding. From one of the arched alcoves above a chamber orchestra played.

  “Would you care to dance, Miss Roe?” asked Mr. Tidmarsh.

  “I would, thank you,” Sophie replied, glancing left and right, “during any set but this one. I’m afraid I’ve already promised the first dance…”

  Right on cue, William Allsop detached from his own dinner partner and advanced on Sophie. He wore his short hair oiled tight against his rounded skull, kitted out in a black tailcoat and trousers that puffed oddly about his narrow hips but clung to his skinny calves.

  Evening clothes made him look as amphibian as possible. Always had.

  “May I claim this dance, Miss Roe?” William bowed with a courtly flourish.

  Sophie held out her lace-mittened hand. “I wouldn’t forget, Mr. Allsop.”

  “Your kind words are sweeter than spring flowers.” William shifted her hand to the crook of his elbow, directing her onto the chalked dance floor. “You are as ravishing as I’ve ever seen you.”

  “It’s a new set of clothes,” Sophie murmured. “That’s all.”

  They stood opposite one another in the parallel lines forming down the center of the dance floor, six couples in all with Peter and Honoria leading the lines. The musicians struck up a lively tune, no doubt at Peter and Honoria’s request—they loved country dances.

  Another half dozen or so guests milled about the sidelines or took seats in the gilt chairs, most of them no longer spry enough for vigorous dancing. Ordinarily they might clump together, gossiping, or hie off to the refreshment table—set up in another room, no doubt—but with Peter and Honoria cutting capers, they stayed to clap and call out encouragement.

  During one of the heys, Peter mugged at Sophie with every pass. Mouth open and eyes bugged out first, then solemn and frowning comically. She burst into giggles and couldn’t keep a straight face when William reclaimed her for a set. Like everyone else, she found herself watching Peter and Honoria, unexpectedly moved to witness their exuberance, now that they no longer had to fear Clive the Ninth’s disapproval.

  They were having such fun and so happy to share it around.

  When the musicians finally fell silent, Sophie began to clap. Soon enough, all the other guests had followed suit. Peter and Honoria, paired again, held hands and bowed in unison, both wearing silly grins.

  “I hope they’re always as happy as they are tonight,” Sophie said to William. She couldn’t imagine a greater blessing. “They’re a joy to see.”

  “Your uncle was right. We waited too long for this day,” murmured William. He squeezed her hand. “So often those events longest in their making turn out to be the most satisfying.”

  Sophie bit her tongue. Clive the Ninth’s disapproval had delayed Peter and Honoria’s nuptials. The only obstacle to a marriage between herself and William these last ten years had been William’s determined avoidance of her.

  “A charming sentiment, Old Frogger,” said Julian, clapping his hand on William’s shoulder. “I’d like to put it to the test. The next dance is a waltz. Miss Roe? Do you think we can outdo Peter Roe and Lady Honoria’s performance?”

  Sophie hesitated.

  “You’re not required to accept, Miss Roe,” William cautioned, shrugging away from Julian’s grip. “Perhaps you would prefer to rest? I could fetch you some refreshment.”

  It might have been William’s warning, a poor spice to his dishonesty. It might have been the lingering effluvia of Peter and Honoria’s joy. Either way, Sophie let go of William and held her hand out to Julian.

  “I’m grateful to our host,” Sophie said. “I’d be honored to dance a waltz.”

  “The honor is mine.” Julian bowed and tucked her hand around his arm, just as William had done. “I like this,” he added, touching the jeweled clip over her ear
before Sophie could jerk away. “It’s just right. You look marvelous.”

  Everyone kept saying that. She wished they would stop.

  The strings began to play again, thin and plaintive, saving Sophie from the need to reply. She felt a twinge of misgiving, but before she could demur Julian stepped close and positioned her arms, his full lower lip quirking, and then they were moving.

  What happened next, even as it occurred, seemed impossible. Sophie whirled and dipped, responding with reflexes that knew Julian’s body and Julian’s signals. Her muscles caught on quickly while her mind trailed behind, sluggish and uncomprehending.

  It had been a long time since she’d attended a formal dance. A year at least, maybe more, since she’d waltzed. She shouldn’t slip into it so easily.

  And then she tripped.

  Julian caught her and lifted her as though she were weightless. They didn’t even miss a step. Sophie gasped and met his eyes, clear and calm, flicking to her and away as he guided her into another turn.

  Sophie fumbled along, her vision full of the delicate shell of his upper ear, the working tendon in his neck, the indent of his temple and high, blunt cheekbones.

  She tripped again. Worse, this time, her knee crumpling and almost taking her down—but Julian caught her, again.

  That was when it all became clear. He’d keep on catching her no matter how many times she missed a step. She would never fall so long as she stood within his reach. The knowledge seemed to rise up in her, generated by her feet and her arms, her legs and her belly, an awareness she wanted to call instinct but knew to be utterly different. This was learned, practiced, but physical. In her flesh and bones.

  It had been a long time since she’d been free of fear, even if only for a few minutes. It was bliss. She swayed and spun and she never looked left or right or down. She let Julian guide her, and she let the rest fade away.

  Sophie emerged from her trance to silence and stillness. The musicians had ceased their playing, the other dancers left the floor. They ringed her now, onlookers all, and Sophie realized that they must have been watching her and Julian dance for some time.