Page 57

“It is distasteful to speak of such rumors,” Lady St. Quinton hissed.

They walked several paces in silence. The trees broke, casting them into the full force of the sun. There was not a hint of breeze; the air smelled of daffodils only half alive, sharp and earthy and vain.

“Are you truly serious?”

Mama peeked up from beneath the feathered brim of her bonnet.

“You truly mean to arrange a connection between myself and this man.” Sophie kept her voice flat, held the brown-eyed gaze of her mother as it flashed concern and flitted away.

“It would be a most fortuitous pairing. There is no denying that. I do believe your father is of a mind to introduce the pair of you.”

Sophie’s stomach flipped. “I have done everything shy of begging for your help these past weeks, and when it’s finally offered, this is what it comes to?”

The top of Lady St. Quinton’s bonnet swiveled. “Child—”

“No.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “I cannot understand. Help me understand. You ridicule someone like Mr. Balfour, act horrified to even hear my name uttered alongside his though you know nothing of his character, but pray I endear myself to some scoundrel who already has two estates to manage? I thought this—my sacrifice—was for Belmaine. You truly believe Lord Hansbury will give a fig about what you and father have built? That he wouldn’t just as soon bust it—and perhaps me—like that—”

One small sound silenced her. Stole the breath from her lungs.

They had reached the edge of the park; the gate was in sight. Sophie dragged her mother to the edge of the walking path. She put a hand under her chin and lifted it, all the venom cleansed from her voice. “Mama.”

She had heard correctly: a cry. Lady St. Quinton’s eyes bore a glassy sheen, already growing red at the corners. She backed out of her daughter’s touch and rummaged through her reticule until she found her handkerchief.

Nineteen months. Nineteen, and she had never seen her mother cry. Her parents wore their grief in other ways, with coarse edges and heavy armor. She had wondered countless nights, as she dampened the corner of her own pillow, if her parents did the same. If their sorrow belonged only to the private silence of the small hours. She still didn’t know, but this—the proof that her mother ached in some way resembling her own pain—sent guilt over her in waves.

“It is difficult enough,” Lady St. Quinton said shakily, dabbing her nose and looking over each shoulder, “without your malice, Sophie.”

“I-I’m sorry.” She reached out for her mother’s arm, but the chatter of a passing couple gave her pause. She mirrored Lady St. Quinton’s polite nod and smile until the pair had passed. “It was never my intention to sound malicious. I know, you may trust that I know how difficult everything is without Edmund. I would give anything … I would give myself, if I could bring him back to us.” The backs of her eyes began to scorch in that sickening, familiar way.

Lady St. Quinton’s back straightened. Her brow crimped, hooding her eyes. “I am not speaking of your brother. Pray, do not mention him again.”

Sophie drained. The tears swirling at the edges of her eyes receded. Her fondness, her aching, reaching heart, abated, returning to its cage. Her hand fell to her side, and her voice percolated into something as flat and lifeless as her mother’s. “Dare I ask what you are speaking of, then?”

“Of your selfishness and of your vanity.”

Her mother could have lashed her with a leather whip and dealt less pain.

“You are just like him, you know,” Lady St. Quinton went on. “He always thought he could have everything, your brother did. Glory and courage in battle, and then come home to a happy house and fulfill his duties to this family. I at least thought you understood priority, Sophie.”

She stared at the ruffled edge of her mother’s kerchief. It rattled in her hands, swept lightly over her age-sunken cheeks. It represented nothing more than a fixed point; a buoy on which to cling to.

“I know priority perfectly well.”

Good, her voice was steady. Even she almost believed in it. She dipped her chin at a passerby and they smiled easily. Good again; her inner turmoil must be well confined.

She offered her mother her arm. “Let us go home, then. I’m sure Papa waits up for us.”

It was growing difficult for Sophie to remain passive. She was pacing laps around the dark edges of her bedchamber, the candle atop her escritoire sputtering each time she passed it.

She had thought of writing to Mr. and Mrs. Darney, the couple who ran the village schoolhouse back in Sussex. What books would they recommend for a boy of twelve, who hadn’t had the benefit of formal education before now?

The school across from the hospital will handle Barnard’s education, said her rational mind. It’s none of your concern. He’s going to sail out again. They’ll make him.

No. She couldn’t just accept that; not after what she’d seen last night. She flung herself into the chair by the desk, dipped her pen into the inkwell with a clink, and scrawled:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Darney,

I hope this letter finds you well, as it does me.