Miss Sophie's Secret (9 page)

“For a moment I mistook you for Ellen Joysey, Miss Althorpe.” She turned to the equine lady. “Does she not resemble her, Elizabeth?”

“Somewhat, yes,” Elizabeth agreed, without appearing to open her mouth.

Mr. Ferguson was smiling so steadily at Sophie that she was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

“They are quite different, however,” he said, his cheeks and the tip of his nose growing pink. “Miss Althorpe’s eyes are much brighter . . .”

“The same color,” Elizabeth observed.

“No,” he said. “Miss Althorpe’s are darker, and they sparkle a great deal more. And her hair is more luxuriant, and her mouth is a different shape, with a dimple alongside the . . .” He looked down at his left toe, flushing all over. “Please forgive me, Miss Althorpe. I should not have made these personal remarks.”

Jonathan chuckled. “We only object to personal remarks when they are derogatory.”

“Well, I cannot agree with you, Trevor.” Miss Kathleen giggled. “Miss Althorpe resembles Ellen Joysey despite these traits you have pointed out.”

Ferguson was still staring at his toe, his face a fiery red. “That is as though to say that Gray and I look exactly alike except for the color of our hair and the difference in our height.”

Miss Kathleen giggled again. “I shan’t argue with you, as I am confident you know best.”

At that moment a bony middle-aged woman with a beaked nose and vividly black hair emerged from the box on the arm of a shriveled old man.

“Mrs. Bingham,” Jonathan said. “Mr. Earnshaw, may I present my cousin, Sophie Althorpe?”

Sophie saw that Elizabeth was looking at Jonathan with an expression of marked warmth.
Is it possible
, she wondered,
that this stony creature has a heart
?

Mrs. Bingham laid a hand on Jonathan’s arm. “I cannot tell you, sir, how much your visit comforted me this morning. I will confess that, before our conversation, I could not reconcile myself to the loss of my son. But now I see his death in a different light and am able to accept it. At least, as a member of your regiment, I know that his life was not considered lightly.”

“Certainly not!” Jonathan exclaimed, sincerely shocked.

Her eyes were beginning to glisten, and unable to control her welling emotions any longer, she nodded mutely to him and turned away, leaning heavily on her ancient companion, who led her off down the hall, staring grimly into space.

To Sophie’s surprise, Elizabeth’s eyes were also threatening to brim over. She inclined her head toward Jonathan, gave Sophie the faintest hint of a smile, and said, “A pleasure, Miss Althorpe.”

With that, Wellstone led her off in pursuit of her mother.

Sophie turned to Ferguson and Kathleen, her eyes wide and curious. Ferguson was still watching her. Kathleen slid a hand through his arm as if staking her claim.

“I should very much like to have some lemonade, Trevor,” she said. “The theater is excessively warm tonight.”

“Oh, certainly,” he said, stiffening to attention. “You’ll excuse us, Gray? Miss Althorpe?”

Jonathan nodded to them, and after one last wistful glance in Sophie’s direction, Ferguson led Kathleen off toward the lounge.

Sophie examined Jonathan’s face. “You’re unhappy now,” she said, pressing his arm. “They’ve brought the war back to you.”

He looked down at her for a long moment, his brow taut and his mouth twisted at one corner. “War never leaves the warrior. But,” he said, his expression softening into a smile, “I’m with you now, and I’m happy.”

When he led her back to the Englewood box, they found themselves arriving ahead of Jeanette and Fairmont, who appeared shortly thereafter, both slightly red-faced and tight-lipped. They sat staring pointedly away from each other until the curtain rose again.

Immediately Sophie was swept back into the fifteenth century and sat mesmerized until the curtain fell for the second time. She was sitting motionless, still in a trance, when Mr. Ferguson popped through the door. He gave the others the briefest possible greeting then turned his attention to Sophie, somehow managing to secure a chair and place it in such a way that she was held captive. He leaned his face close to hers.

“Miss Althorpe,” he began, “I have been in torment since we were parted. I have been dreaming of the moment I could bask again in the radiance of your eyes.”

“Please,” Sophie said, waving an impatient hand, “I do not wish to speak of eyes and ardor and languishing and so forth. I wish to speak of this remarkable play. It is all most affecting and I have never been so engrossed in anything before.”

Ferguson stared at her without speaking.

“But is it not true that Horace Walpole wrote a refutation of this slander?” she went on. “
Historic Doubts on Richard III
, I believe it was entitled, something of the sort. It proved that he was not evil at all, but an excellent fellow who was much loved by his people and maligned by those of his enemies who usurped his power.”

Ferguson blinked at her now. “Well . . . I’m sure I can’t say.”

“But certainly you’ve read the Earl of Orford’s arguments?”

“No,” he admitted. “I have not.”

“Oh,” she said, momentarily thoughtful. “Lord Reginald and I read and discussed it at some length. Richard’s own people—the city of York—wrote in their records something about ‘today our
good
King Richard was foully slain . . . or murdered . . . to the great
heaviness
’—I well remember the word
heaviness
—‘of the city.’ Which certainly proves that he was a good man.”

“I should think so,” he agreed. “It’s what I suspected all along, which is why I’ve not been paying too much heed to all this ranting.”

Sophie’s eyes widened. “But certainly, sir, the play itself is quite affecting, aside from its historical inaccuracy. You were moved, no doubt, when Lord Buckingham asked, ‘What shall we do if Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots?’ and Richard answered, ‘Chop off his head.’” She shuddered.

“Eh?” Ferguson said, knitting his brow. “When was that?”

“Is it possible, sir, that you were napping?” she demanded.

“Well, yes, I must confess it,” he said. “The theater is so devilish hot, and these actors go droning on forever . . .”

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “How can you say so? I have never found anything so diverting. Jonathan, were you not totally engrossed?”

She turned to look at him, but discovered that he had left the box to stroll in the corridor with Jeanette. Lady Englewood was busily lecturing a tight-lipped Fairmont on the perils of allowing a loved one to venture out of one’s sight on the arm of a calculating, money-hungry mushroom.

“Miss Althorpe, your eyes . . .” Ferguson began again.

“Please, sir,” she urged. “I cannot think of eyes, unless you wish to speak of Kean’s. Are they not the most intense—I shall say
frightening
—you have ever beheld?”

“Certainly you’re hoaxing me, Miss Althorpe,” he protested. “All young ladies delight in having their beauties extolled.”

“Ah,” she said in relief, “here is Jeanette . . . and Jonathan. Jeanette, were you not thrilled when Richard said”—she hunched her shoulders and spoke through a tightened throat—“‘Cut off his head!’”

Jeanette shuddered. “Please, Sophie, I shall have the most dreadful nightmares. First to hear those chilling words from Kean and now from you. And I swear that you are nearly as frightening as he.”

“No, no,” Sophie said on a laugh. “But, Jonathan, were you not fascinated? You didn’t fall asleep?”

“Good God, no!” he said. “I’m deriving entirely too much pleasure from the mere fact of being in a London theater again to waste even so much as a minute of it.”

Ferguson opened his mouth to protest, but the warning chimes began to ring and he was obliged to duck out the door and return to his party.

When the final curtain descended, Sophie sighed with regret.

“It is over,” she mourned. “I wish it would go on forever. May we attend another play tomorrow night?”

“No, my love,” Lady Biskup said. “We have been invited to a dinner party at the Princess Hollande’s. But we’ll find an escort for you and you may attend the matinee the following day, if you wish.”

The Englewood party gathered its possessions and issued forth from its box. The Bingham party, it was discovered, had already departed. Lady Englewood made a final attempt to pair Sophie with her son, fluttering her hands and pointing out to him that it was not right for cousins to continue on as strangers. But the two men in the party ignored her maneuvers—Nicky moved off with Ellen on his arm and Jonathan with Sophie.

When Sophie glanced back, she was happy to discover that Lady Biskup was still conversing earnestly with Baron Englewood. His wife was babbling into the countess’s ostrich plumes, while the baron and Lady Biskup strolled arm in arm, smiling warmly into each other’s eyes. Sophie smiled in turn on seeing her Aunt Ruth reunited with her handsome and charming brother.

After giving his sister a kiss on the cheek, the baron turned to Sophie.

“Well, puss,” he said, cupping a hand under chin, “you’ve turned out to be as pretty as can be.” He nodded to Lady Biskup. “Done an excellent job with her, Ruth. You’re to be commended.”

It occurred to Sophie that she should ask if he remembered her mother and father when, without further ado, he left them and began to usher the remainder of his party into his barouche.

Jonathan steered his two ladies to the landau.

“Such a delightful evening!” Lady Biskup sighed, settling herself against the squabs. “And most gratifying of all was to be reunited with dearest Edgar.”

Lost in her own thoughts, Sophie sat quietly beside Jonathan as the carriage moved along the ice-encrusted street. Each time they passed a streetlight, Lady Biskup’s face became dimly visible and her happiness was apparent. She wore a blissful expression; her lips were drawn gently back in a contented smile.

When they reached their own front door, Jonathan leaped out to help his ladies alight. He offered them each an arm and guided them up the icy steps.

Lady Biskup paused in the vestibule and patted Jonathan affectionately on the arm. “Well, my dear, this has been entirely delightful. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your patience, spending your evening at the theater for the pleasure of Sophie and myself.”

“But I enjoyed it,” he said. “I am not one of those men who pretends to find the theater a bore. I am always entertained there. And Kean’s performance tonight was engrossing from beginning to end.”

“Yes,” she agreed. She was gazing happily off into space. “And next week we shall have the pleasure of attending Countess Dangerfield’s ball.” She turned to Sophie. “Your first, my love. Just think of the delightful time  you will have. Your white ball gown with silver butterflies will be delivered in a few days. You’ll be a vision in it.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing you decked out in butterflies, Sophie,” Jonathan told her, smiling.

They marched up the staircase together and soon reached the fork in the hallway that took Lady Biskup in one direction, Jonathan in another, and left Sophie at her own doorway.

All three hesitated.

“I shall bid you both goodnight,” Lady Biskup said. “Sleep sweetly, my loves.”

“Aunt Ruth?” Sophie said, pattering after her. “May I come into your room for a moment? I’ve something to ask you.”

“Why certainly,” Lady Biskup said. She blew a kiss to Jonathan and then ushered Sophie into her room and closed her door. Seating herself on a small slipper chair, she looked at her niece expectantly. “Now, what is it, my dear?”

Sophie stood for a moment, trembling slightly. She twisted the edge of her cloak between her fingers. “I was wondering,” she finally said, her voice unsteady, “if perhaps I should ask Lord Englewood what, if anything, he remembers about my mother and father.”

Lady Biskup looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. Then she rose and put her arm around Sophie’s shoulders. “Why are you torturing yourself so unnecessarily?”

“I—I just thought he might tell me—”

“Lord Englewood is a busy man.”

Tears of disappointment oozed from Sophie’s eyes. “I understand.”

“Please, my love,” Lady Biskup pleaded. “Content yourself with the knowledge that you are the daughter of a respectable, aristocratic gentleman, Timothy Althorpe. You are my niece and I love you. Don’t look for mystery and intrigue. It will only lead us all to disaster.”

“I shall go to bed, Auntie,” Sophie said on a sniffle.

Lady Biskup dropped her arm from the girl’s shoulders and walked slowly back to her chair. “Yes, go to bed, my sweet, and sleep well. There’s no need to rise early tomorrow. Sleep as long as you can, so you’ll be fresh and pretty for the party at Princess Hollande’s. How kind of her to invite us for Twelfth Night dinner—and on such short notice.”

Sophie roused early the following morning, but the sound of rain beating against the windowpanes sent her burrowing back under her bedclothes and into her comfortable dreams again. Soon the sound was carrying her back to Vaile Priory, to a day four years earlier, when she had sat disconsolately in the abbot’s room, watching the rain drive against the ancient leaded glass of the windows. It was a dismal sound. She and Albert had planned a picnic on the moors, high above the jagged rocks that dropped downward to the cliffs.

They had chosen a spot that had an unobstructed view of the sea, where they could watch the riffles of white as the breakers came in, sometimes watch a sailing vessel beating its way up the coast, and always enjoy the windswept clouds scudding over them in great rolling masses of gray and white.

She had been leaning an elbow on a table and her chin on her palm, when Albert entered the room. To her surprise, he was smiling.

“What a beautiful day!” he announced.

“How can you say so?” she asked him, trying to smile. “It’s wet and angry, and the rain has spoiled our picnic.”

“No, it hasn’t,” he said. “I love the rain. It’s something I’m accustomed to. We have rain on Stonehaven more than two hundred days out of each year. And there’s no reason why it should spoil our picnic. We can bring our bread and sausages up here and pretend we’re sitting on a cliff. Look out there.”