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“Excuse me,” she said, and flushed as she pushed by him.
Her heart had begun to thump and not in a pleasant way. Apart from Adam’s warning, and the way Digby had just spoken to her, there was something about him she didn’t like. She knew he was Harry’s friend but she didn’t trust him. She found herself wishing Harry had not brought him to Pendleton Manor.
She had barely escaped him when Sir Arbuthnot’s hearty voice made her jump. “Sophy? Come here!” She turned and saw he was beckoning her forward. “Your father tells me you can sing, young lady. Is that so?”
Sophy blushed. “A-a little,” she stammered. She looked for her father to save her, but instead he was beaming at her with pride. She gave an inward groan.
“Then let us hear a tune from you!”
She opened her mouth to protest but it was clear from the look in Sir Arbuthnot’s eyes that this had not been a suggestion.
Nervously, Sophy went to the spot pointed out to her. Her gaze danced around the room and she found everyone watching her. For a moment her throat closed over. She swallowed and forced herself to think of calming thoughts. She could hold a tune, and although her voice wasn’t strong, it was mostly true. Recently she had been taking the children at the academy for singing, so she was used to performing, albeit in front of an uncritical audience. As long as her nerves didn’t get the better of her she would not disgrace herself.
She could do this, she really could. She …
Someone moved to the left of her. She saw Harry standing there, smiling and nodding encouragement. There was a girl clinging to his arm, one of his neighbours’ daughters, who didn’t look very happy to be forced to listen to Sophy sing. The girl gave Harry’s arm a tug, which he ignored. Sophy refused to be jealous. In fact, she was motivated more than ever to astonish her onlookers.
‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman’ was the song she chose, and it rang out sweetly, with only a bit of a wobble on the high notes. She was enjoying herself so much that she forgot to be nervous. Despite what her father believed, Sophy wasn’t a perfect singer, but there was something about it that made her feel happy. Made her feel free. It was like walking in the garden during the summer, with the sun warm on her head and bees buzzing, and the whole world promising so much.
Her eyes landed on Harry again and she realised that wasn’t quite true. There was another thing that made her feel happy and free. Being with him.
HARRY
Sophy sang so beautifully, her lovely face full of feeling, her eyes mostly closed, and the candlelight picking out the gold in her fair hair. And she was his. He felt the truth of it in every part of his being.
The girl at his side was a nobody. His father had invited her but he knew Sir Arbuthnot had as little interest in finding a match with his neighbours as Harry did. He would be seeking a daughter-in-law from among the wealthy and privileged. Harry was only nineteen, and until he turned twenty-one his father would be in control of his future. Harry hoped that if he could stave off any prospective engagements until then, he would have no need to openly disobey his father. Sir Arbuthnot was a dangerous opponent when his will was thwarted.
Harry’s dearest wish was to marry Sophy, but his father would never agree to it. If Harry was to make his wish come true then he would need to be patient and clever, and he would need a strong will. Harry believed he had all three, but he did not relish the scene he would eventually have to face and what he might lose because of it.
Sophy was worth it. He couldn’t imagine a world without her, or a life lived without her. When his father understood Harry was not going to play the obedient son, he would fight him every inch of the way, and Harry would win in the end. He had to.
An elbow dug into his ribs and startled him. It was Digby, and he was also watching Sophy, a big grin on his face. Harry’s frown deepened as Digby’s grin widened, but Sophy finished her song before he could say anything. She curtseyed to the applause, her cheeks pink with pleasure.
“Bravo!” shouted Digby. He shot another glance at Harry, taunting him, and unease twisted in his gut. It occurred to him now that he shouldn’t have shown Digby up at their archery contest. Not that he would ever have let him win, Harry never let anyone win, and especially not where Sophy was concerned, but he could have managed matters better. Digby was one to hold a grudge, and he was beginning to suspect that his friend was planning his revenge, despite the terms of their wager.
Harry kept his focus on Sophy as afternoon turned to evening. There was a game of charades and more dancing, but after her performance her father and aunt kept her close. The aunt even sent Harry more than one suspicious glance, as if she thought him capable of corrupting her niece in front of them all. Although he was unable to claim the dance he had promised her, he was glad she was being taken care of. When Sir Arbuthnot led them out to the barn where the Baillieu estate workers and servants were having their own Christmas celebrations, the Harcourts came as well.
Sir Arbuthnot had to raise his voice above the racket to deliver his usual Yuletide speech, and it was received with rousing cheers as well as a few drunken tears. After he was finished, he pushed Harry forward. “Your turn!” he roared. “Come on, boy, speak up!”
Harry didn’t mind stepping into his father’s shoes, but he would rather have done so in a more dignified manner. He was no Sir Arbuthnot, with his extravagant promises and theatrical showmanship. He preferred to be honest in his approach and not get their dependents’ hopes up for a bumper year. In time he would grow into the role of master of Pendleton Manor, but if his father had his way that was still many years in the future.
He thanked everyone and wished them good health. But what he really wanted to say was that spending so much money on Christmas celebrations was all very well, but a better use of the money would be to spend it on mending rooves and repairing fences.
On the day that he stepped into his father’s shoes at Pendleton Manor, he would do things differently. He already had plans for modernising the way in which the estate was run. His father was too set in the past and would never change, although he acknowledged that in some ways the two of them were very alike. The Baillieus were land owners and farmers and had been for generations—they were practical men.
There had been Baillieus on this patch of land since the Norman Conquest, and if Harry had anything to do with it, there would be Baillieus here forever.
After he had swallowed a mug of beer with the workers and listened to their drunken and sentimental good wishes, he moved on with relief. His eye was caught by the sight of his father and Sophy’s father huddled together. They were in a discussion, and on Sir Arbuthnot’s part at least, the matter didn’t appear to be amiable. Although George Harcourt had always been polite to Harry, and he had no reason to doubt he did his job to the best of his ability, he wondered sometimes whether they needed someone more modern in their thinking. In Harry’s opinion, Mr Harcourt’s books were often chaotic, and the few times he had cast his eye over the uneven columns, he’d found it difficult to trace outgoing payments and incoming amounts.
He’d even said so to his father once, who only glared at him with disgust. “We are not book-keepers, Harry! You were born to run the estate, not scribble on paper!”
He hadn’t mentioned it again.
Now, as he watched the two men, he noticed the frown grow on his
father’s face while George Harcourt had a mulish look. Harry might have joined them, if only to keep the peace—his father had been drinking heavily all day—but at that moment he was distracted by a shriek.
He looked around sharply. One of the farm girls was being chased by one of the tenant’s sons. By the look of happy excitement on the girl’s face, she was enjoying herself immensely. Nothing to worry about there. But the scene brought his thoughts back to Sophy.
