by Darcy Burke
Sophie dropped her chin. Even knowing that Clive had betrayed her, it pained her to think of him as weak.
“But ignorance exposes you to future manipulation from Malcolm Roe.”
Sophie tensed. “What more can my uncle do? He already took what he wanted.”
“I mentioned that Clive and Mr. Roe carried on a warm and frequent correspondence for many years, did I not?”
“You did.”
“But you know, from observation, that their friendship dwindled to nothing—that, for more than a decade, Clive and Mr. Roe struggled to maintain even the semblance of cordiality?”
“I knew their relationship had grown strained…”
“Their friendship ended with the fraud they perpetrated on you. In the years following their crime, the letters they exchanged diminished in frequency and cooled in tone. This at just the moment when Clive attained a position of wealth and prominence.”
“My uncle must have been furious.” The very pride that had impelled him to pretend to friendship, for the added shine to his reputation here in Padley, must have suffered in the pretense.
Jones nodded. “You are at the center of a conflict that has, I believe, played a critical role in the lives of both men. Now that Clive is gone, I would hate to see you caught in a war with your uncle that you do not understand, buffeted by an anger whose origin you hadn’t guessed.”
“I am grateful.”
Vasari Jones nodded. “I’m sorry to sully your memory of the late duke. Clive wronged you, but he spent his last years as your champion. He truly thought of you as a second daughter.”
Sophie shook her head. As with William Allsop, she’d clung to the idea that Clive was good—and, as with William Allsop, she couldn’t help but think that made her the fool.
I know what I am doing and I will not apologize.
She’d never really understood him, had she? She’d hung her faith in human nature on a man who’d spent the prime of his life wallowing in the muck.
“He was a man like any other,” Sophie said, and it must have sounded like acceptance because Vasari Jones nodded somberly.
“I hope you find it in your heart to forgive him.” Jones rose to his feet.
Sophie smiled mechanically. “I won’t make any promises on that count. But you have done me a great service.” Sophie rose as well, though her legs wobbled. “If you are not content in your position with the new Duke of Clive, I hope you will come to me. I am an heiress now, and a businesswoman of some repute. I will see you comfortable and employed for as long as you need.”
“Thank you, Miss Roe. You exhibit only the good character I already knew you to possess.” Jones bowed and took his leave.
She waited until the bell signaled that Jones had opened the door, and for the loud clatter that followed when he closed it. Her fingers tingled; she felt a little light-headed. But she swallowed, threw back her shoulders, strode down the hall to the parlor. “Mr. Dawe?”
“Miss Roe?”
“Miss Dawe?”
After a bit of shuffling, Charlotte poked her head out of her workshop. “Miss Roe?”
“We leave for Derby on the morrow.” Sophie cleared her throat. “Bright and early. Make yourselves ready.”
Chapter 16
Derby did not go as planned. At the first and second sites on Charlotte’s list, the owners told Sophie in plain—even cruel—language that they would not lease their space to a woman. At the third, an adequate building not far from the main road into town, her reception was hardly better: the owner, a man who’d written exclusively with Iron & Wine ink for years and heaped praise upon her product’s quality, offered her a lease… so long as she could find a trustworthy, respectable male guarantor.
“What if I pay a year’s rent in advance?” Sophie had asked.
“Aye, and what if I have to look for a new tenant in a year?” The property owner had shrugged, a little apologetic. “Our last tenant kept this space for thirty years. That kind of commitment… I’d feel better shaking hands with a man.”
Of course, Sophie couldn’t provide a trustworthy, respectable guarantor. The only man in her circle capable of serving in such a capacity was her uncle, and she’d just learned what came of trusting him.
So she extended her stay in order to broaden her search. In only two months, a commercial space perfect for a shop would open up right in the center of town. It was much smaller than her cottage on Halftail Road, but the owner offered her the lease, so long as she paid in advance. She supposed it was easier to move new tenants in and out of a small shop than a large industrial space, and therefore easier to take a risk.
And, of course, easier to make unreasonable demands of a woman.
“But I don’t understand,” Charlotte said that night, as they settled down for supper at the inn. “Why move into a new shop here in Derby if you must abandon the idea of building a nib factory?”
“Because I haven’t abandoned it,” Sophie answered, very firmly. “It will happen, if more gradually than I had initially planned. Even if I end up in the shop—I could reduce the size of my own workshop and we could start out with a small staff of three or four women, and build from there.”
Charlotte and Max exchanged a long look.
“Living in Derby will be expensive,” Max said.
“But we will come,” Charlotte countered. She reached across the worn, wobbly wooden table to take Sophie’s hand. “I am your creature, Miss Roe. If you wish me to be a solitary mouse, laboring in solitude, that’s what I’ll stay. If you need a shepherd for a flock of nib-making ladies, that’s what I’ll become.”
Sophie’s heart squeezed painfully.
One possibility she wasn’t ready to explain remained open to her, by far the riskiest. Rather than repurpose an existing space, she could buy a piece of property and have a facility built to order. She’d own the land; she’d own the building. That would be something. But she’d use up a goodly portion of Clive’s bequest even before she moved in. If she carried on with the added expenses of hiring employees and materials only to have her final product fail on the market, she could find herself in a difficult position.
“Skill and hard work have propelled me farther than I expected,” Sophie said, squeezing Charlotte’s hand. “They’ll do the same for you.”
She let Charlotte and Max chatter, too absorbed to do more than nod or mumble vague replies. She’d built her business up from the ground. She’d made ink her hobby for years before she’d sold a single bottle, and she’d brewed in basement distilleries before she acquired a shop.
Charlotte had proved herself loyal and talented, and Max a reliable, organized secretary. With the pair of them in her employ, if they set themselves to turning nibs en masse, the project would be successful. But she wouldn’t be able to manage the nib-making enterprise herself—she didn’t have Charlotte’s skills—and she’d learned more than one hard lesson about trust in the recent past.
This could be her new version of trust. Offered freely, but only so long as she retained the power to dismiss the recipient without a reference. A euphemism, sugar-coating a harsh disparity of power.
Was she prepared to risk the financial security that Clive’s bequest had restored to her? It had taken months to feel the impact of that gift, for her worries to calm and her fears to recede. The process was not yet complete. Why this urge to expand her business at the expense of her peace of mind?
Her grim mood followed her to bed, and she slept poorly. The next morning, she ordered a return to Padley. She needed time to think, and if her delay caused one of the opportunities she’d scouted in the city to slip away, well, she’d take that as a sign.
When she arrived back at Broadstone Cottage, she had presents to distribute—ribbons and cloth, sheets of music and new books. While her aunt, uncle, and cousins cooed over their gifts, they tumbled over themselves to relate the gossip that she’d missed during her absence.
William Allsop had vanished. He’d left wi
thout a word, and nobody knew where he’d gone.
“Everyone thinks he’s fled the county out of shame,” said Bettina. “From having been found out after Peter’s wedding.”
“But that’s not all,” exclaimed Aunt Jenny, with the gleeful horror that all good gossip provokes. “He left all his things behind! Even his purse!”
“I hope he’s fallen off a cliff,” said Sophie.
Her family stared at her in shock, but none were bold enough to scold her for having gruesome fantasies.
“And I hope they never find the body,” she added, standing up and smoothing her skirts. “Even if he comes back tomorrow, he’s dead to me.”
And she marched out of the room, pleased to escape without having to answer any uncomfortable questions about why she’d gone to Derby, or what she’d done there.
Julian waited outside in the pre-dawn when Sophie left Broadstone Cottage the following morning, seated in a phaeton, the spindly wheels breast-high. A pair of matched gray horses snorted into the silence, breath steaming out of their nostrils in puffs of white.
“Your Grace?” Sophie waved the footman back inside and hurried down the stone path. She pitched her voice low, wary of eavesdroppers lurking inside. “Is something the matter, Julian?”
“Not at all.” He leaned over the side, eyes bright, his hat tilted rakishly atop his head. “Can I borrow you for breakfast?”
Sophie hesitated.
“I’ll have you at Iron & Wine by ten o’clock.” Julian offered his gloved hand. “Promise.”
Sophie let Julian assist her into the phaeton. The narrow seat didn’t allow for any space between them, but he draped a thick, fur-lined blanket around her shoulders as soon as she settled at his side. That muffled the effect of his proximity enough that, when he clucked the horses forward, she didn’t hesitate to brace her feet against the baseboard and lean into the steady strength of his body.
He drove as nimbly as he did everything. Sophie watched the ground speed by beneath her feet, dust and pebbles flying in their wake. The cold and wind stung her cheeks, but spring’s early chill had finally begun to gentle, and the fur around her shoulders kept her comfortable.
The phaeton devoured the miles so swiftly that when Julian turned off the road onto a narrow cart track that cut through a fringe of meadow toward a light wood, the sun had yet to breach the eastern horizon. The sky had lightened to a silvery, purplish blue, the moon still hovering in the west.
The horses picked their way slowly over the cart-track, the high-sprung phaeton jouncing them at each lump and pit. The air cooled as they slipped beneath the cover of the trees, but the birdsong brightened and echoed, every note suddenly sweeter and purer.
“I know where we’re going,” Sophie said, as the realization hit.
“When did you last visit?” Julian asked.
“I was with you, I think,” Sophie replied. “I haven’t made the time on my own.”
A hint of yellow broke through the treetops as Julian drew the phaeton to a halt. He tied off the reins and reached into the narrow trough attached to the back of the seats, empty but for a large picnic basket. From layers of padding, he extracted a large crock and a pair of stoneware cups, and a great rectangle of something wrapped in tea towels.
He poured a thick, milky brown liquid—chocolate; a rare treat for Sophie—from the crock into one of the cups, handing it to her as he unwrapped the tea towels to reveal the yellow poppy-seed cake for which High Bend’s cook was famous. Julian detached a slice, breaking off a piece to pop in his mouth as he folded the rest into a napkin and handed it to her.
“This is lovely,” Sophie said, watching as Julian poured a cup of chocolate for himself and closed the picnic basket. He settled the cup against his belly as he reclaimed the reins and kicked up his feet against the baseboard, slouching low on the hard, leather-upholstered bench.
“I’m glad you think so,” he answered, sipping from his cup.
By reflex, Sophie copied him and took a drink. The rich chocolate weighed down tongue, sugared heavily enough to overpower the hint of bitterness. It paired perfectly with the moist, eggy poppyseed cake. The cracks of light filtering through the trees widened; the leaves seemed to shrink in order to make room. Beneath their feet, in every direction, spread a carpet of bluebells.
They appeared a dark, flat purple at first, bell-shaped flowers hanging in rows from curving green stems like pendants on a necklace. The air smelled of honey, the scent warming along with the flowers, hundreds and thousands of them. The petals paled from violet to lavender as the day waxed, the ruffled frills at the throat of each flower paler than the hipped base, translucent in the sunshine.
Julian wrapped his arm around her, drew her close to his side, and Sophie leaned into his embrace. The last time they’d been here they’d made love amidst the flowers. She knew he must be remembering that—wondered, with a sudden pang, what he must experience when every clean and perfect panorama could be soiled by the miasma of memory.
When the shifting light steadied with the advance of morning, Julian dropped his arm. “Shall we return to Padley, Miss Roe?”
“Not yet,” Sophie replied. She took another sip of her chocolate, cold by now. “I can’t believe I don’t come to see this every year.”
“Next spring, then,” Julian said, leaning over to tear a stalk out at the root. Eight or ten flowers hung from the crook, which he plucked one by one and began nesting in her hair. “And the one after, and the one after that. You’ve dozens of springs left, and the bluebells return every year.”
Sophie laughed; his light touches tickled. “Two or three dozen future springs aren’t enough to justify this neglect.” She skimmed the tips of her fingers along her scalp, felt the silky soft petals. “You’ll make me into a laughingstock.”
“You look beautiful.” Julian brought his knuckle to her lower lip, hunching down a bit so she had to meet his eyes. It didn’t bother her to look at him—hadn’t since that moment in the High Bend ballroom, when despair had flashed across his perfect features. He was still beautiful, but she’d begun seeing past his looks.
For the first time in her life, she’d learned to see the whole man.
“I spent the last week in Derby,” she offered, surprising herself. “Looking for factory space. I’d hoped to move Iron & Wine. Expanding.”
“Mmm,” Julian replied, noncommittally. “And how did that go?”
“Not well.” She explained about her three potential landlords, and the three successive rejections. “I think I’ll end up taking the shop,” she finished. “I can’t stomach the risk that would come with building a facility. We’ll keep growing, but slowly.”
“Or you could ask me to vouch for you to the third landlord,” Julian said. “The one who wanted a man to shake hands with.”
Sophie hesitated.
“Contact a solicitor,” Julian continued. “Have him draw up a contract—you can tie my hands however you like. I’ll sign it. I’ll aid you freely, without condition.”
Sophie plucked the stripped bluebell from Julian’s hands. Without its cluster of flowers, only a hard, rubbery stalk remained. She twirled it between her fingers, then tossed it from the side of the phaeton. She couldn’t see where the plant landed, but stared after it anyhow.
The second she’d begun explaining her dilemma, the results had been inevitable. Almost as though he were some sort of lever she could pull, labeled Give me. But she’d told him all the same, hadn’t she?
She wanted. He gave. The pattern was so deeply ingrained in her mind that she didn’t have to think about it. She could open her mouth and pretend that she didn’t know why, when—in retrospect—her motivation was staggeringly obvious.
“All right,” she said.
“All I ask is that, if you accept, you’ll think about my proposal. I don’t want to get in your way, Sophie. I want to stand by your side.”
“All right.” Sophie looked up, reached out to hook her hand around the placke
t of Julian’s thick coat. She tugged, lightly. “Yes.”
Julian hesitated. “You want me to sign for you?”
“No.” Sophie shook her head, sending a few bluebells tumbling down to her lap, blurry flickers of blue in her periphery. “I want to marry you. I accept your proposal.”
“Mother of God,” Julian whispered. He covered the hand she’d laid against his chest with his. “Make sure you mean it this time.”
“I won’t give up Iron & Wine,” she added. “So if you don’t want a duchess who’s in trade…”
“I want a duchess who does any damned thing she wants.” Julian’s eyes narrowed. “So long as you understand that the next time something goes wrong between us—and it will—you won’t be able to close your door and send me away, as you did before. If we marry, you will let me in.”
Sophie opened the hand she’d used to grip his jacket. Julian shook his hand loose and she unfurled his fingers. Turning his wrist, she placed his open palm against her chest, between her breasts. She laid her forehead at the center of his chest, exactly where his hand rested on her body.
“I’m so sick of being afraid.” She felt heavy, lethargic, but her heart beat rapidly beneath his hand. “And you terrify me, Julian.”
Julian kissed the tip of her ear, the top of her head. “Sophie, you scare the hell out of me, too.” He laughed and wrapped his free arm around her, drawing her close. “Fear means you’re doing it right, this time.”
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut. She’d spent so long barricading herself against loss. She had such a small, quiet life—a spinster in a small town, back and forth from her shop every day, as dull as dull could be—but all the routine in the world hadn’t been enough to stave off disappointment, betrayal, heartache.
She could keep looking all she wanted. She’d never find a safe place.
“Hang it all,” she said, and I give up, she didn’t say. Hard experience had taught her that she could not have everything she wanted, that the best things in life were mirages she’d never reach, that if she wanted treasure she’d have to kneel down in the muck to search for it. Julian could only exist within her frame of reference as a cruel joke.