Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine (5 page)

Sophie escaped into the walled garden, eager to gather her thoughts in peace. She carried cake crumbs in her apron to disperse for the industrious spring birds, and then sat on a small bench in the shade of the wall. She was so still and quiet the birds landed within a few inches of her feet, pecking for the crumbs she'd thrown and finding the bonus of an occasional worm. One bird was a big, bossy fellow with a speckled chest. He bobbed about and supervised the others—all noise and strutting with very little productivity. Another bird flew in and perched on the garden wall, watching slyly, assessing his competitors with a keen eye. He had shiny black feathers, slightly ruffled by the playful breeze. He twitched his head and winked at her, just as the stranger did that morning.

It was almost as if he saw inside her, to where all her ideas and daydreams clicked back and forth. Almost as if he knew her, and she, somehow, knew him.

Her thoughts turned suddenly to James Hartley, the man to whom she was once, very briefly, engaged. She'd not seen him in many years. In the beginning, when she first came home after the accident, he wrote to her almost daily. But over time, his letters became shorter, his handwriting more slanted and hurried, as though hastily slathered across the paper in a last-minute dash. Finally, they stopped altogether. She couldn't resent him for it. After all, she was the one who broke off the engagement.

James lived in London now, returning occasionally to visit his grandmother in Morecroft. Although he had a very handsome yearly allowance, she held the purse strings to a vast portion of his fortune until he reached the age of thirty-five—an extremely stringent, but probably wise precaution written into the terms of his inheritance. Whenever Sophie asked about her old beau, Henry would say only that James was “still insufferable and still richer than Croesus.” Henry blamed James for giving her one too many cups of punch at the Grimstock ball ten years ago, when she was unaccustomed to the heady effects.

The scandalous events of that tragic evening were still occasionally spoken of, although time exaggerated many “facts” about it. This included the number of witnesses to their brief coupling on a billiard table, which grew from a mere two to an incredible dozen. The latter number included Lady Rosemary Grimstock-Pritchett, who swore she could no longer look at green baize without needing a sit-down and a tonic. Yet, in truth, she was not even present at that particular ball.

All that happened in another lifetime. Today came a new man, a very different sort of man. She felt an odd flutter in her breast. The stranger was nothing like James Hartley. His hair was distinctly unkempt, just as unruly as those eyes. He dressed well, the fabric of his clothes obviously of luxurious quality, but there was something about him…something…misplaced, like an off-key note.

He was altogether too…altogether too…

The blackbird on the wall suddenly took flight, skimmed low over her head, and landed on the willow arbor.

Wild. That was it. Wild. Only masquerading as tame.

Showing off for her, the blackbird dived down into the shrubbery and plucked a worm out from under the speckled bird's complaining beak.

The stranger was trouble. No doubt about it. His hands were large, square, and restive. Like his eyes, they held an unquiet spirit. And promise.

She glanced over at the cookhouse to be sure no one was watching, and withdrew her copy of
Fordyce's Sermons for Ladies
from where it was folded up in her woolen shawl. Inside the pages of that worthy tome, she kept another—one propriety required disguising in such a sly fashion. This second book was a small, slim volume she'd once found hidden in her aunt's sewing box. With each perusal of its illustrated pages, Sophie felt anew that little thrill of venturing into a forbidden world. Now she examined it again with the eagerness of a truly irretrievable hussy, too lost to be saved from her own wickedness by the estimable Mr. Fordyce and his sermons.

Her nervous fingers rediscovered a much-thumbed page.
Chapter
three, figures i and ii - The Male Anatomy in Repose and Erect.
She studied the sketches, her lively imagination transposing a pair of breeches over the detailed drawing, comparing it to what she saw that morning. The stranger was neither figure i nor figure ii, but had the latter occurred, it would definitely strain the confines of his breeches. Her imagination drew a new sketch: figure iii - The Male Rampant. She snapped the book shut, quite disappointed in herself for having such a prurient interest in the poor man. He didn't deserve her mental undressing. And what must he think of her already, having seen the sort of book in which her interest lay? Not to mention her zealous, uncalled-for abuse of a sack of innocent chicken feathers.

Sophie shook her head, disgusted with herself. Under no circumstances could she ever think of the stranger again or yearn for what she thought he might give her. Marriage was completely out of the question. She knew nothing about him, except he was darkly handsome and altogether too forward. At her age, she must think practically.

Now, if it was an elderly gentleman in a bath chair who had answered her advertisement—someone in need of tender nursing in his dotage—well, then she would consider it. But marriage to a daring, vigorous young man like him? Impossible. Ridiculous, even.

She could almost hear her brother exclaiming in hushed, brittle tones, “What will our noble relatives, the Grimstocks, think of this?” That would be his first concern. The Grimstocks' easily offended sensibilities must always be considered.

Thirty-six years ago, when Lady Annabelle Grimstock eloped with Jeremiah Valentine, a respectable, hardworking gentleman farmer with only modest savings and no title, the Grimstock family never forgave her. Jeremiah was a solemn fellow, what might be called “plodding” in nature, whereas Sophie remembered their mother as being full of ups and downs, veering from tragedy to airy delight, often all in the space of one afternoon. Her daughters took after her in spirit, while Henry resembled their father, growing up to be a stern fellow with graying temples and a prematurely receding hairline. When Annabelle and Jeremiah died within a year of each other, the children had only one adult remaining in their immediate family, Jeremiah's spinster sister, Finn. But it was Henry who ruled the household, taking miserly delight in ordering his sisters about, especially Sophie. In his opinion, she'd always got away with far more than she should.

Henry was eager for his sisters to make advantageous marriages and, therefore, no longer be a burden on his finances. He had written a groveling letter to his mother's Grimstock relatives, offering an olive branch. They agreed, most condescendingly, to send the girls to a ladies' academy and then, should they turn out to be presentable, invite them to London for a Season.

This turned out to be a very unfortunate idea. The Billiard Room Incident and The Accident sent Sophie back to Norfolk within a month. Maria, two years younger than her sister, didn't wish to stay in London without her, so they returned together to Sydney Dovedale. It would seem as if Henry were stuck with the burden of his sisters once again. Only a few years later, however, exuberant chatterbox Maria surprised everyone by falling in love with quiet, unassuming Mr. Bentley, the rector, and bullied him mercilessly until he married her.

Sophie smiled as she thought of her little sister. Maria, like their mother, had a very romantic view of life: everyone deserved to be happy. In their childhood, when the volatile tempers of Sophie and Henry clashed, it was Maria who ran to tell tales and get help. Though she was usually caught in the middle of their squabbles, she was also, on occasion, the unwanted peacemaker. Her nosy curiosity was exceeded only by an inability to keep secrets.

With this in mind, Sophie severely doubted her sister would manage to hold her tongue about the stranger's purpose in Sydney Dovedale. It probably would not be very long at all before the mortifying truth was out.

As Sophie was daydreaming through Mrs. Cawley's parlor window the following afternoon, she suddenly saw the stranger appear between two cottages and cross the market square. She moved quickly away from the window and tripped, almost dropping her teacup. Anxious to see what was causing her sister such distress, Maria nudged the drapes with her shoulder and peered out.

“There he is,” she exclaimed. “The stranger!”

Maria was immediately shoved aside by the impertinent shoulder of Miss Jane Osborne, a determined, horse-faced creature, who considered any unmarried gentleman in the village to be her own personal property until she declared him unsuitable for herself.

“He's too dark for an Englishman,” the young woman neighed through her ponderous buckteeth. “I wouldn't be at all surprised to hear he's a foreigner. Amy Dawkins said he's a Spaniard.”

“He has no accent,” Mrs. Cawley assured her. “I heard him speak already.”

“As did I,” agreed Mrs. Flick, taking smug pride in the fact. “I detected no accent at all, and if there was one, I assure you I would know it. Amy Dawkins wouldn't know a Spaniard from a Scot.”

They clustered around the window and watched the stranger pass, each falling silent as they greedily assessed his appearance. Even Sophie cautiously looked out again, unable to resist temptation.

He was pronounced by the room in general to be “exceedingly tall,” although Sophie was sure it only seemed that way because of his confident manner of walking. His shoulders, it was also decided by the other ladies, were uncommonly broad. With this statement, she could brook no argument. They all agreed his profile had a certain interesting and unusual quality; it was not, by any means, unpleasant to look upon. While Mrs. Flick declared his nose lacked nobility, she could also allow it was not too large and showed no signs of overindulgence in the Demon alcohol. His black hair was rather long, but then, as Miss Osborne pointed out, it might be the fashion these days for gentlemen to wear their hair longer and somewhat tousled. Sydney Dovedale being so far from London, it was often the case that fashion had already come and gone before it arrived in the village. This was a great frustration to younger ladies like Miss Osborne, who pondered sketches of fashionable gowns in old copies of
La
Belle
Assemblee
with the awe and amazement other folk might reserve for detailed accounts of new discoveries in science and medicine.

“He could be a Russian Cossack,” Jane whispered. “He has that look about him.”

“What look would that be?” demanded Mrs. Flick. “What Russian Cossack have you ever seen?”

Miss Osborne had nothing to say to that, having never been outside the county of Norfolk, let alone the country.

“Walking about in his shirtsleeves,” Mrs. Flick muttered. “What can he be thinking?”

“He could catch cold,” said Mrs. Cawley, although that was, of course, not the reason for the other lady's concern.

“He looks as if he's about to burst out of his clothes,” Jane Osborne exclaimed.

Again they all fell silent, watching as he walked away in his shirt and waistcoat, his narrow hips and tight buttocks not remarked upon but certainly observed. By Sophie, in any case.

“He's hosting a party at Souls Dryft,” Mrs. Cawley muttered as she lifted her spectacles to watch the fading figure. “He called here yesterday to invite me in person.”

Maria swiftly snapped her lips shut and looked across at her sister. Even as Sophie frowned and shook her head, she saw Maria struggling with their secret, so full of stifled energy. The sudden announcement of a party being planned without their brother knowing would surely bring her to the bursting point. Henry Valentine considered himself the most important person in the village, and no party of any kind ever happened without his permission.

In a huff, Maria left the window. She resumed her seat at the table and fidgeted with the buttons on her gloves, her countenance peevish.

Sophie quietly suggested they might all return to their discussion. As a founding member of Sydney Dovedale's Book Society, Sophie was also the most enthusiastic reader. These days she no longer skimmed pages but read books from cover to cover, having far more time on her hands to do so and no lively beaus to drag her away from them. The other women, she suspected, joined the book society for tea and gossip as much as they did for any intelligent, insightful conversation about novels. Maria would read the beginning and the end; Miss Osborne read the cover and ascertained from that what the story was about; Mrs. Flick fluttered through the pages for any passages that would allow her to condemn the book; Mrs. Cawley, while making a valiant attempt to read every chapter, usually found too much else to take her attention away from it and could never quite “get to grips with the story.”

Sophie glanced around the small parlor and thought what a pity it was that Mrs. Cawley's niece, Ellie Vyne, was not there. At times like these, Sophie missed the distraction provided by her dear young friend very much. Ellie always had plenty of opinions to express, usually contrary to those of her fellow society members, even though Sophie suspected Ellie never read the books either. If Ellie were here today, she would have mocked them all for being so intrigued by the stranger. She would probably have cornered him already and found out everything there was to know about him, including his shoe size, thereby ending all the silly speculation. Although she was five years younger than Sophie, she was far bolder, quite dangerously fearless at times.

But Ellie would not be back to visit her aunt until the summer, and Sophie must plow bravely forward without her. It's not every day a girl is proposed to by a perfect stranger, and she could use her best friend's counsel.

As she opened her mouth to begin the discussion, she was interrupted before the first sound formed on her tongue.

“He has a scar upon his chest,” Jane Osborne sputtered. At once all the ladies turned to look at her. “The Misses Dawkins saw him with his shirt off, mending his gate.” She, too, returned to the table, and the other ladies followed, gathering eagerly like pigeons around bread crumbs. “It is a little bump,” she added, “right by his heart.”

Immediately, they were all agog, and Sophie watched her younger sister begin to perspire, fingers working frantically at the tiny, much-abused buttons on her gloves.

“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Flick curtly, “the Misses Dawkins spent rather more time than is proper, inspecting the fellow without his shirt. They should have turned their eyes away at once.”

They all agreed aloud the Misses Dawkins were quite at fault.

“And how is dear Finn?” Mrs. Flick suddenly inquired of Sophie.

Relieved by the change of subject, she replied, “My aunt is quite well, thank you.”

But Maria exclaimed, “All this business about this new person coming to the village has upset her. Strange men coming to mar—” Sophie nudged her, and she stopped with a small yelp.

“I shall take Finn some calves' foot jelly,” Mrs. Cawley exclaimed, beating her knees with her fists as if she ought to have thought of it long before now. “There's nothing like it for strengthening the blood.”

Sophie ground her lips into a smile, but Miss Osborne, who couldn't care less about Finn Valentine's state of health, exclaimed merrily, “His name is Lazarus! Of all things…Lazarus!”

Her nerves scattered, Sophie studied the carpet. She could almost feel the building tremors of her sister's righteous indignation shaking her Hepplewhite chair.

“What will my dear Mr. Bentley think of a name like that?” Maria grumbled. “It might be a biblical name, but it's not a solid, plain name like Peter, Paul, or John. Lazarus—he who was raised from the dead.” She shuddered. “I can't imagine what my dear Mr. Bentley will have to say, but surely he will not approve. Of course, I'm never one to judge, but such a name…and dark as a gypsy he is. The moment I knew Souls Dryft was let to a single man, I said to my dear Mr. Bentley,
It
will
only
be
trouble
. The admiral cares nothing about this village. If he did, he wouldn't let his house to people called Lazarus.”

Sophie licked her lips, desperately searching for another subject, but Maria picked up speed, her flighty gaze dancing back and forth in a rowdy jig around Mrs. Cawley's cozy, tranquil parlor, her breath coming in little spurts like steam from a nearly boiling kettle.

“A stranger—a single man—all alone…moving into that house…Well, it's none of my business, and I take no interest in his comings and goings. Henry says he wouldn't be surprised if he was”—she lowered her voice—“
from
the
colonies
. Those are not the hands of a gentleman…not even a glove in sight…I wouldn't be surprised…not a bit…An advertisement for a…well, really! Who ever heard of such a thing?”

Sophie cleared her throat. “If we might return to the book—?”

“I suppose he made a fortune in investments.” Maria mowed over Sophie's words as if they were nothing more than the drone of a fly.

Wilting in her chair, Sophie tried desperately to restrain her sister with little nudges of the knee and elbow, yet nothing worked. One may as well strive to uncurl a pig's tail as stop her now. Maria was about to burst out of her stays.

“It could be money smuggled out of France,” she exclaimed. “He must be a mercenary soldier. Hence the wound.”

“Very few men of wealth came by it honestly,” said Mrs. Cawley. “Show me a man with great fortune—as my dear Captain Cawley would always say—and I'll show you a thieving tinker. Ah, my dear captain. God rest his soul.”

The clock on the mantel wheezed out another soft, steady thunk, and the departed captain's old parakeet, recognizing his master's name, gave a proud squawk from his tall cage by the window.

Maria raised her chin another inch, ignored her sister's polite request for more tea, and then out it came.

“He has come to find a wife.” It fell into the quiet, comfortable air of the room like clumsy, hobnail boots dropped from a careless hand. “He has come to marry Sophia, because she advertised for a husband in the
Farmer's Gazette
.” With every eye now turned in their direction, Maria assumed an innocent face and sipped her tea, unblinking. She might as well have disowned the very statement her lips just delivered, leaving Sophie to take the brunt of their amazement and disbelief.

Miss Osborne opened her mouth, but perhaps it was simply the size and placement of her teeth that prevented it from closing again when no words emerged. Mrs. Flick looked smug, as if she could possibly have had an inkling of it, while Mrs. Cawley blinked in astonishment, bearing more than slight resemblance to her husband's bird, whose crest was now raised as he jumped from one foot to the other in agitation.

The secret undone, Maria had nothing left to lose. It could not very well be put back under her tongue. She consoled herself out loud with the reassurance that “nothing ever remains secret very long in Sydney Dovedale. I suppose you would all have found out soon, in any case.”

Mrs. Flick nodded, her lips pressed tight, and Mrs. Cawley's expression drooped with pity for the poor, desperate, scarred woman in their midst. Jane Osborne covered her mouth with one small hand, and Sophie suspected she was struggling to restrain a spiteful giggle, one she would let out as soon as she had the chance to relate this story to another.

Sophie wished fervently for a trapdoor under her chair and someone braver than her to pull the lever. There was no one, of course. Making a hasty and nonsensical excuse of being needed at home to make jam tarts, she leapt to her feet and left Mrs. Cawley's parlor.

***

Lazarus whistled softly as he strode down the narrow, muddy lane, arms swinging. His thoughts were so far away he didn't see anything in his path until the toes of his boots hit the edge of a deep, wide puddle. He stopped abruptly and looked up to assess whether he could make it over with one jump.

And then he saw Sophie Valentine on the other side of the puddle, apparently pondering the same problem. She carried a bonnet in one hand, a book in the other. Her coat was unbuttoned, her face flushed, and her hair in disarray, as if she'd been running again and was in considerable temper. Her eyes widened when she saw him at the exact moment he saw her. She stepped back, her heels squelching in mud. He followed the path of her gaze as it tracked from left to right and measured the verge on either side. There was only a narrow strip of grass before the stone wall on one side and a high, steep bank of weeds and thistles on the other. Finding dry footholds would require the balance of a circus acrobat.

Well, he couldn't let her get her petticoats wet, could he? Lazarus rolled up his shirtsleeves and sloshed forward into the water, his stride long and determined. Alarm and surprise took turns possessing her pretty face. It seemed she was too stunned to move away, and when he finally reached the spot where she stood, he swept her up easily into his arms, swung around, and carried her slowly across the puddle. They did not speak. Her arm reached across his chest, her hand resting on his shoulder, clinging to the ribbons of her dangling bonnet. He felt her breath, unsteady and shallow, as it trembled through her light form. His own heart thumped away, beating in his ears and boldly disregarding the metal lodged nearby.

Carefully, he set her down. He wondered if he should say something, but he didn't want to spoil the peaceful moment.

At first he thought she meant to walk away and say nothing, but apparently her temper—something he'd already witnessed being released on a sack of feathers—got the better of her.

“What made you think I needed your help?” she demanded primly, chin up and eyes aflame. “I suppose you assumed I was just waiting to be rescued.”