Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine (4 page)

“I shall faint, Maria, I'm sure of it! Of all the things your sister has ever done, this is the very worst. We shall never recover from the shame of it.”

“What has she done now?” The rector's wife, Sophie's younger sibling, had arrived for her usual morning tea and gossip.

“Your sister has procured a husband from an advertisement! Oh, my heart races. I'm giddy. I cannot breathe!” Lavinia fell back onto the groaning couch, where the imprint of her broad posterior was already worn into the upholstery after three years of constant contact. “Dark as the Devil, he is. Eyes that looked right through me, and a smile…a smile, Maria, that was surely the wickedest I've ever seen.” Clearly she would have crossed herself had she the energy and required strength in her limbs at that moment. “We are all undone.”

“An advertisement?”

“She wrote one and sent it to the newspaper.”

“Oh, Sophia,” Maria exclaimed, “I thought Henry confiscated your writing box, ever since you wrote all those protests to our local member of Parliament.”

Sophie hid a smile behind her book. “Someone had to point out that man's inertia and incompetence.”

Her sister barely heard. “Now, once again, you put pen to paper and cause trouble. This is surely the matter to end all. What will Henry say?”

Sophie said nothing and studiously turned a page.

Unable to sit still, Maria declared she would run down to the oak at the crossroads and wait for the mail coach, which passed through the village soon on its way between Yarmouth and Norwich. Henry was due to return on it from Morecroft that day. “I'd better meet him there…otherwise he might hear of this from someone else first.”

She hurried off on her mission, while Lavinia resumed her loud lament, which was by turns mournful and irate but never comprehensible.

***

As it turned out, Henry was already aware of his sister's latest scandalous prank. While in Morecroft, he'd heard about the advertisement, and when he entered the cookhouse with Maria at his heels, he threw a copy of the newspaper across the table, ignored his wife, and demanded Sophia read it out for all to hear.

She picked it up and read quietly, “Wanted, one husband, not too particular. Age and size not an issue. Must have patience for recalcitrant females. Small dowry, several books, sundry furnishings, and elderly aunt included. Idlers, time wasters, and gentlemen with other attachments should not apply. All enquiries, Miss Sophia Valentine, Sydney Dovedale.”

Lavinia promptly melted into the next stage of hysteria, moaning and swaying, her ringlets vibrating. Next came apparent exhaustion, at which she fell down—always onto something conveniently comfortable—and required the application of smelling salts. It usually had the desired effect of returning all attention to her, but today no one was very interested in her antics. She realized this and recovered enough to make tea, or at least to supervise Maria in the making of it, while Sophie quietly explained why she chose to place her advertisement in the
Norwich
and
Morecroft
Farmer's Gazette
, among the livestock for sale. “It is surely the most appropriate venue. I thought you'd be pleased, Henry. With Aunt Finn and me gone, that is two less burdens on your hands. And I'm under Lavinia's feet. Daily she reminds me…”

Henry's teaspoon tapped angrily against his china teacup, waking Aunt Finn from her nap.

“We shall all be murdered in our beds!” the lady cried, clutching her patchwork shawl to her chin and looking around with wide, frightened eyes. “Bonaparte has come—he has come!”

Sophie gently reassured her Napoleon Bonaparte had not invaded the village, no French soldiers had come, and they were all quite safe.

“But, Sophie dear, I heard gunshots.”

“The war is over, Aunt Finn. Remember Waterloo? I'll pour you some tea.” She tucked a blanket around the lady's knees and fetched another teacup from the dresser.

Henry folded his arms. “I don't like the sound of this fellow. Not one bit.”

“He must be an oddity,” Lavinia exclaimed. “By answering such an advertisement, he proves himself a lunatic. You ought to pay him a visit, my husband.” Her eyes gleamed with spite. “Find out what he's up to. I daresay he needs to be told the lay of the land, and who better to tell him than you? I suppose he thinks by marrying into this family, he might get a foot up on the social ladder.”

Always amused by Lavinia's overinflated view of Valentine importance, Sophie let out one low chuckle, which, as she tried to prevent it, turned into an unladylike snort.

Henry turned stiffly in his chair and observed her with a cold eye. Nothing could cause such a wintry chill as her brother's dour, disappointed expression. “I think, Sophia, you've had your fun. You would do well to remain silent and show repentance for such a foolish prank.”

But in the innocent, everyday act of pouring her aunt's tea, Sophie pondered the stranger's face, the darkness of his hair and eyes, the square jaw held without fear.

She couldn't marry him, of course, a complete stranger. The idea was patently ridiculous, yet he came all this way—wore down the heels of his boots—to find her. And that was her fault.

Her family assumed the advertisement to be another prank, and, in the beginning, she might have confessed it was so. But now that someone had actually come in answer to it, she was forced to take stock of her circumstances.

There was only so much loneliness a soul could take. Surely even a scarred woman with scandal in her past was entitled to a companion and partner. She didn't expect anything more than that. Or she shouldn't.

There seemed to be an excess of “shoulds” and “shouldn'ts” in her life lately. The wayward, opinionated creature that still dwelt inside her, just below the ladylike surface she'd carefully cultivated over the last decade, had begun to bristle at the sound.

Every day, for almost eleven years, she'd gone through the motions, doggedly following the same routine, and for the last three of those years, she did it all to the accompaniment of Lavinia's whines. Today, however, someone had thrust a pin in the clockwork mechanism, and all the cogwheels were stuck…jammed. Finally, something new had happened. A man had come out of nowhere and kissed her. Kissed her like no other man ever had.

“Sophia! The tea!”

She'd almost overpoured.

Maria, exhaling cake crumbs as rapidly as they were previously inhaled, exclaimed indignantly, “As if my sister would truly entertain such an idea! Marry a complete stranger?”

“Our sister's temper has once again got the better of her,” said Henry, “and, as always, it falls in my lap to undo the damage.”

Sophie's lips tightened. She gingerly carried the very full cup to where her aunt sat, then she picked up her sewing to mend the skirt she'd torn that morning. But her eyes couldn't concentrate on the stitches; she was too distracted by the restless pacing of her heart. She could hardly blame Aunt Finn for thinking Napoleon Bonaparte had invaded the village, for everything was turned upside down, and her own nerves spun about like tumbling maple seeds.

Now her family, with no input from her, were discussing the stranger and his motives.

“I've never seen such coarse hands on a gentleman of means,” said Maria, crumbs falling from her busy lips as she stuffed cake into her mouth with more greedy alacrity than one might expect from a rector's wife, especially one who so frequently lamented the tightness of her stays.

“It depends by what
means
he became a gentleman,” Henry replied as his fingers ran over his straining waistcoat buttons.

“Quite!” his wife agreed. “What sort of gentleman travels so far—on foot—to marry a woman he's never met and knows nothing about?”

If they only knew he'd already kissed her, she thought mischievously. Oh, if they only knew how his hand had touched her, stroked her spine and the nape of her neck. She was all goose bumps at the mere memory of that, not to mention the brazen shape of his arousal as her hip pressed up against it. He'd taken possession of her mouth as if she owed it to him, as if he'd waited a long time to claim it, and she hadn't offered up the slightest argument to dissuade him of that amorous notion.

Of course, strangers were rare in Sydney Dovedale, and they were most often merely passing through. She certainly hadn't expected him to creep up on her again a few hours later with marriage in mind.

“The stranger has leased the property at Souls Dryft from the admiral, they say, for a considerable sum,” Maria exclaimed. “He must be quite rich.”

Henry sighed deeply and disdainfully. “If it's true he has money, it's only new wealth. The fellow may be rich, but he clearly has no social standing, no rank, or he would not seek a wife in the
Farmer's Gazette
.” He glared across the room at Sophie and added with icy calm, “I know exactly why she posted that advertisement. She wrote it for the same reason she wrote those letters to the newspaper about why women—
women
, of all things—should be permitted the vote. To cause mayhem and make me look ridiculous. Well, she might have caused a ruckus with her preposterous opinions and misguided wit before this, but she shall not goad me into an apoplexy, no matter how she tries.”

When Sophie pricked her finger and cursed aloud, her aunt exclaimed, “Are you cold, my dear? You look pale. I hope you're not coming down with a chill. I promised my dear brother, God rest his soul, I would look after you all!”

Sophie smiled. “Another cup of tea, Aunt Finn?”

“No, no, my dear, or I shall need the chamber pot again. You know it goes right through me.”

Lavinia sighed loudly. “Well, I'm sure I don't want to hear about your bodily functions. Henry, tell her!”

But they all knew whatever one said to Aunt Finn generally went in one ear and came directly out the other, or, if it chanced to linger, was misinterpreted en route in some way that might be deliberate. Parsimonious with his time and speech, Henry wasted none on ladies from whom he could gain nothing. He leaned back in his chair and fumbled for the watch chain in his waistcoat pocket. “I must be going, my dear. Life continues as usual, despite everything.”

Nobody ever asked Henry what he had to do with his day, but he was more often out than he was home, with no real occupation and no inclination for any. From their father, he inherited the ancient fortress and land upon which they lived, but he took little interest in the management of it, leaving all that to his steward.

Sophie watched as he stooped to kiss his wife's fleshy pink cheek, and Lavinia informed him of her need for a new parasol. Henry promised to purchase the item for her on his next visit to the town, even though he must know this would appease her for no more than half an hour, until the newness of her parasol wore off and she spied something else she must have.

Needs.
Sophie sighed and studied her clumsy stitches. Some women knew what they wanted—or thought they knew—and demanded it at the top of their lungs. Some women kept their needs to themselves, afraid of them. Of course, as a consequence, the second sort of woman never got what she wanted, while the loudest voice, accustomed to getting its own way, never felt the value of what it had. It was never satisfied, never content. With the acquisition of a silk parasol agreed upon by her husband, Lavinia now returned her thoughts to the true cause of her upset that morning. Abruptly her tone changed from wheedling and cooing to the sharp bark of a discontented lapdog. “You should call on this stranger, find out who he is and where he comes from, Henry!”

He studied his pocket watch, lips pursed. “I shall consider what must be done. In the meantime, I expect discretion from all of you. Sophia”—he fixed her in his hard glare—“you will not go near the man until I have spoken with him and ascertained his true purpose.”

She looked up from her sewing with as much innocence as might be mustered, and bowed her head in mute agreement.

“We don't want this spread about the village,” he added, his stern gaze turning to their younger sister. “Do you pay heed, Maria?”

Maria was tying her bonnet ribbons under her chin and not listening to Henry at all. She checked her reflection in the silver teakettle. “Oh, Sophia,” she exclaimed, “the flowers in the church are quite tired and miserable. You'd better bring some new before Sunday. I see yours are blooming so well already, and yet my garden is in a very sad state. You've been quite lax at seeing to the church flowers lately. I cannot think why, as you have little else to do. Lord! When I think of how busy my day is compared to yours. If you had my life…with two children to raise…you would be rushed off your feet with no time for that little school of yours.”

No one in the family considered Sophie's teaching of the village children to be a worthwhile enterprise. Henry disapproved the very idea of a school that would distract the local children from their work in his fields, and had tried in the beginning to make her abandon the enterprise. But she dug in her heels, and eventually, having far less energy than his sister to pursue a cause, he gave up and merely resorted to the occasional scornful comment about the damage an education could do where it was unwarranted. Maria, on the other hand, distantly indulged the subject of her elder sister's school with the mellow forbearance of a busy mother tolerating a small child's collection of dead insects. She patted Sophie's clenched hand and kissed her sullenly proffered cheek before hurrying after their brother, who continued with dire warnings about holding her tongue.

While Lavinia returned to her listless, lounging pose on the couch, Sophie cleared away the tea things and wondered what Henry meant to do about the stranger. It would, no doubt, take him a few days to decide. The only impulsive choices Henry ever made were those regarding racehorses and hands of cards.