Fairchild (27 page)

She was already in bed, in a clean nightdress and her braid falling down her back, when Lady Fairchild came into her room.
 

“I am so pleased, darling! I just had to come congratulate you. You have captivated him!”
 

“If I haven’t, Barham has,” Sophy replied. With a house thrown in, of course Alistair would snap her up.
 

Lady Fairchild’s eyes grew wide. “That is not true! Even if it was, he would never be ill-mannered enough to say so.” When Sophy’s face didn’t lighten, she sat down on the bed, clasping her hand affectionately. “I understand why you are afraid. Don’t fret. You will have me close by, which is why I knew this match was the best. And you have been wiser than I. Alistair is not sure of your affections and will not take you for granted. He cannot, since the lease to Barham will be in your name.” She smiled, a little sad. “Your father will protect your interests better than mine did.”

She squeezed Sophy’s hand. “It will be well.”

Moved, Sophy lifted Lady Fairchild’s hand to her cheek. The gesture did not feel strange at all. The emotion behind it had joined them long before. How strange that they had never noticed. Some tightness inside her loosened with the feel of Lady Fairchild’s hand, smooth and cool against her cheek.
 

Lady Fairchild reasoned that Alistair would value her because her heart was not yet won, that affections easily earned were easily scorned. Perhaps she was right. After earning Lady Fairchild’s love, she could not cast it aside.
 

She smiled with trembling lips at the woman who had no reason to love her, but cared for her nonetheless, giving her the house meant for her lost son and choosing to ally her with her own blood. “We shall have to decide what I shall wear when Alistair takes me riding,” she said.

“Oh, Sophy.” Lady Fairchild brought her other hand to Sophy’s face, cupping her cheeks. “I am glad to be your step mama.” Dropping her hands, she drew a deep breath. “And yes, we must discuss your clothes. It’s a pity you aren’t driving. You look so well in your apricot muslin.”
 

Sophy spent the following day with Lady Fairchild and Henrietta. By evening she was fretted to the bone and again retired early. Sleep brought its own counsel. When she rose in the morning, she was resigned to her future. It cut deeply, closing the book on Tom Bagshot, but she would recover with time. She had survived heart-wounds before. The injury from this love—unspoken, brief and fleeting—would not always feel overpowering. She allowed herself two silent tears in front of the mirror after Betty left, then shaped her face into a smile.
 

“Brighten up,” she told herself. “It will get better.”

Her father and Jasper were waiting down stairs. She greeted Jasper warmly, grateful she would be able to forget herself with him. Alistair was not with them. She would ride with him in the afternoon before the fashionable world. After that, no one would be too surprised by the announcement of their engagement in the morning papers.
 

Outwardly calm, Sophy chatted easily on the ride to the park and along Rotten Row, for this morning Jasper seemed to have set aside his quarrel with their father. Lord Fairchild moved off to ride beside one of his cronies, also addicted to horse breeding, leaving her and Jasper alone.
 

“I ran into an acquaintance of yours the other day,” he told her.

“Oh?”

“Tom Bagshot.”
 

Sophy’s heart stopped. “Here? In London?” Did Jasper know Tom thought she was a real Rushford?
 

“Of course in London. Where else should I be?” Jasper’s eyes weren’t on her. He was lazily scanning the park. “Bagshot said he spends most of his time here. Doesn’t go out to Chippenstone much at all.” He did not confront her with her crime, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know. He might enjoy watching her sweat.
 

“How is he?” Sophy finally asked.
 

“He looked well enough. Did me a good turn, as it happens. I actually called on him at his office in the city yesterday. Interesting place. Never seen one before. Anyways, I thought I’d speak to the mater. Bagshot and his mother are in town. She and father should pay a call. Only right, after all they did for you.”

Swallowing, Sophy nodded, keeping a slantwise gaze on Jasper as they trotted down the tree-lined row.
 

“Did he mention me?” Sophy ventured at last.

Jasper frowned. “No. I don’t think so.” Meeting her eyes, he smiled. “Disappointed? Don’t be. Both places we met were not ones where I would care to have your name thrown about.”

“I’m not disappointed,” Sophy said, straightening her spine. “I merely thought it would be natural for him to inquire into my health.”
 

Lady Fairchild would despise her if she knew what she had done. It was a miracle Jasper had not stumbled on the truth already.
 

“Nice enough fellow,” Jasper was saying. “Rather starchy, but a decent sort. Invited him to dine with me tonight.”

“You what?” Sophy snapped to attention.

“White’s. This evening. Bagshot’s joining me. Why?”

“Nothing could be worse!”

 
Jasper eyed her strangely. “Your mother will hate it,” she said, contriving an excuse.
 

“I don’t particularly care. Why let it ruffle your feathers? Don’t cut up at me. You seemed to like him well enough.”
 

There was still a little time. She must find Tom, tell him the truth and hope she could beg him to conceal her folly. He would hate her, but with luck he would pity her enough to give her that.

“Where is his office?” she asked. Jasper told her. It was in the city. Betty would never allow her to go there. Even if she could slip away unnoticed, she would still have to find her way there and back; she’d be in nearly as much trouble for wandering into the city unescorted as she would be if Lady Fairchild discovered the truth. There was only one thing to do. She must send Tom a message asking him to meet her someplace else.
 

“I must go home,” she said to Jasper, turning her horse.

“Now?” He looked at her like she had grown a tail.

“Yes. Are you coming?”
 

“I have to, don’t I? What’s the matter with you?”

She made some excuse, but he did not look convinced.
 

Leaving a bewildered and suspicious Jasper in the hall, Sophy dashed upstairs, pausing only to scrawl two quick notes. Tom might be at his office or at home and she could not risk missing him. Jenkins, her reluctant ally, looked askance at her worried face but promised to have the notes delivered. Sophy returned to her room and asked Betty to bring her a walking dress.
 

“I want to sketch in the park this morning,” she said.
 

“Didn’t you just come from there?”
 

One of these days, she would strangle Betty. For now, she offered up drivel about perfect light and the colors of summer. Betty sent an appealing glance heavenward, but fastened Sophy into a green walking dress and matching spencer and followed her outside, carrying her sketchbook and charcoals with a disgruntled air. They walked to Green Park, where Sophy settled down to wait, watching the park gates for Tom.

“Light not so perfect after all, miss?” Betty said, frowning at Sophy’s blank sheet of paper.
 

“I’m waiting for inspiration,” Sophy said, making a few tentative lines, sketching the gate of the park. She tried drawing a passing dandy, then a ragged looking woman hunched dispiritedly beside the gate. The woman was a better choice for her current mood, but neither attempt was any good. She might have made a brilliant caricaturist, but she had no talent for realism. It was a depressing thought.
 

She was still surveying the park, tapping her charcoal impatiently against the page when Tom appeared at the gate.
 

“Fetch me a glass of milk, Betty. I’ve become quite thirsty,” Sophy said, returning her gaze to her drawing. There was a herd of dairy cows on the other side of the hill. It would take Betty an age to walk there and bring it back without spilling any.
 

“I do not think Lady Fairchild would like me leaving you alone,” Betty said.

“Would she like you disobeying me?” Sophy asked, raising her eyebrows in her best Lady Fairchild manner. Betty snorted and stumped off.
 

Tom was carrying a walking stick, swinging it carelessly as he climbed the hill, smiling up at her with an unusually jaunty air. She tried to smile back, but could not.
 

“Morning Miss Rushford. A fine day.”

She didn’t feel fine at all, but she nodded, unable to speak. Her carefully rehearsed words deserted her.
 

“What is it?” he asked, sitting down on the bench beside her. “I was surprised to get your note.” He looked so carefree. Blighting his good humor was surely a crime.
 

“My brother said he called on you,” she blurted out.
 

“Yes, he did.” He smiled. “We didn’t take to each other right away, but he improves on longer acquaintance. He’s bringing me to his club this evening. I think he’s trying to make me acceptable to your kind. You know I don’t care for that, but I should like to be acceptable to you.”
 

Her throat closed. The stick of charcoal snapped in her hand. “It’s no use Tom, however much I might wish it.”

“Why not?” he asked, his mouth hardening. “There’s no logical reason why you couldn’t choose a fellow like me. Anything else is made up prejudice.”

“My family wishes me to marry Alistair.” This was not going the way she had planned. Alistair wasn’t the only reason.
 

Tom looked away, scowling at the distant city. “Are you engaged to him?”

“Not yet.” Not officially.

Neither spoke for some time. “I’m sorry, Tom. You—you must know I have an affection for you,” Sophy faltered.

“Then why marry him?”

She pulled free from his gaze, turning blind eyes to the park. “Alistair doesn’t matter. That’s not the real reason. You might care for me now, but when you know the truth—”

“Care? I’m mad for you—can’t you tell?”

She pressed on. “When you know the truth, you will not.”

“Almost, I hope you’re right. What’s come over you today, Sophy? Don’t you think I’ve tried to get you out of my head? You’re lodged so tight, I’d have to blow out my brains to get rid of you.”
 

“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not a good person. You don’t know—”
 

“I don’t believe you. What have you done? It can’t be so terrible.”

She was angry now, mouth tight, cheeks hot. “You know nothing about me. I was born tainted. I killed the person I loved most.”

That silenced him. He stared at her, his eyes wide with horror and disbelief. This wasn’t the truth she’d meant to tell him, but she supposed it was a good place to start.
 

“It wasn’t murder,” she said with a bitter laugh, “Though at the time I believed I was guilty. I was only ten, you know. I tossed her a chestnut and it stuck in her throat. She turned red, then grey. I could not get it out.”

She started at her hands lying limp in her lap.
 
“They brought me to Cordell after that.”
 

This detail caught him by surprise. “Where were you before?”
 

“Herefordshire. A little village called Bottom End.”
 

 
“Oh,” he said, “I’d forgotten your people do that.” It wasn’t unusual for the upper classes to send their infants to foster homes when they didn’t want to be bothered with their children. “I’m sorry. You must know that it wasn’t your fault.”
 

She looked up at him, ashamed of her leaking eyes. “It doesn’t matter, though, does it? She still died.” She’d be bawling next, and he hadn’t yet grasped the truth.
 

He leaned forward, enclosing her hands in his own. “She must have been like a mother to you. I’m so sorry.”
 

“She was my mother,” Sophy sniffed, freeing one hand to swipe at her eyes.
 

Tom did not hear her. He was staring past her shoulder with a look on his face she didn’t understand. Twisting around, Sophy saw Betty standing behind them, scowling and brandishing a glass of milk.
 

“Here you are, miss.” Betty thrust the glass between them, slopping drips onto Sophy’s skirt. “There was a boy carrying a glass for his sister,” she explained. “I bought this from him instead of walking all the way, since you said you were so thirsty. Who is this gentleman?”
 

“Mr. Gerald—” Sophy began, choosing a random name from Lady Fairchild’s ‘acceptable’ list.

“Bagshot. Tom Bagshot,” Tom interrupted, giving Sophy a severe look.
 

Sophy took the glass and gulped down the milk, wishing it were poison. Betty and Tom were sizing each other up like strange cats. “Will you return the glass, Betty?” Sophy asked feebly.

“I think we both should, miss. You could use a turn, after sitting for so long. You’ll get cramp in your legs.” Betty said, full of false solicitude. “Have you finished speaking to Mr. Bagshot?”
 

She could say no more, not in front of Betty. “Of course,” Sophy said, looking around for her charcoals. Only the stub of one was left in her hand. The others had rolled away into the grass.
 

“Allow me.” Tom bent down to retrieve them.
 

“I don’t like your reasons,” he whispered as he rose and passed the sticks into her hand. “I’m not giving up.”
 

“Please. You must.”
 
But he ignored her, setting his mouth more firmly. Nothing had gone as she had planned. She had failed. Her fingers were thick and clumsy, fumbling with the catch on the charcoal box. She jammed each stick in place and shut the lid with a snap. Taking Tom’s offered hand, she rose to her feet and passed the drawing implements to Betty.