Brothers at Arms (19 page)

Someone so influential, his wishes outweighed other considerations.

Having given permission, and said farewell to Sophie, there was nothing to delay their return to Linmore. As the coach started on its way, they settled back against the padded squabs and closed their eyes with relief.

A few minutes later, Jane said, “Poor Miss Pepperslade, I felt sorry for her. Yesterday, she was convinced she had right on her side. This morning, she was in the invidious position of having to compromise her principles. If one is to believe Sophie, her friend’s father owns half the town so the headmistress cannot afford to alienate the man.”

“I know, Jane. The woman was probably right in her assumption. Whilst this man’s intervention means we have avoided a scandal with our niece; I am indebted to someone in trade, and he will expect me to return the favour.”

“She is not your niece, Tom – her mother was my cousin.”

“It’s the same thing, Jane, as well you know.” Tom lapsed into silence, looking through the window. Then he said, “Did Sophie tell you the girl’s name? The headmistress evidently expected us to know the father by repute.”

“All I heard from Sophie, amongst a lot of silly giggling, was that her friend was Annie Bell.”

Tom frowned. “I knew of Josiah Onnybrook, when he was alive, but this man is new to me. However, I am sure we will hear more of him.”

The resignation in his voice made Jane offer a suggestion.

“Do you suppose Winifred would help? Your brother-in-law, Pontesbury, has influence in the City, so that wouldn’t tarnish you by association, would it?”

“Oh, Jane, where would I be without you? I will mention it to my sister, when I see her next week.”

“We must be thankful Sophie can stay at school and visit her friends at weekends. I only hope she knows how to behave at their level of society – whatever that is. Oh dear,” she said with a dry chuckle, “I have just thought about the boys – but I suppose they are almost men now. Will they have a chance to mix with people on their travels?”

“Yes,” he said. “Probably more than they realised when they set out. I gave the tutor letters of introduction to use for the various embassies where they travel, so they will be included in social functions. They may not have wanted a conventional Grand Tour, but Dr Hawley will arrange for them to have lessons in etiquette, protocol and dancing to ensure they know how to behave in society. If they question it, I suggested he told them that all army officers need to know such things.”

When Sophie was at Bredenbridge, she missed the freedom to gallop across the acres of Linmore parkland. Riding lessons at school hardly qualified for the name, for Miss Pepperslade’s notion was for each class to mount the ponies in the stable yard, and ride in single file along a path behind the groom – never to break into a trot or extend the process for more than half an hour. It was pathetic.

The stables were considered dirty and dangerous places, and no young lady was expected to groom her horse – except Sophie, who rose early to spend an hour in the stables each day before breakfast. Similarly, her riding habit did not conform to the approved demure style. She alone wore black amongst an array of bright fashionable colours, but it was the military style, with divided skirts, that drew censure. She wore it just the same, saying her guardian approved it. Nobody argued with that. Whereas many pupils had wealthy parents, Sophie had a political contact.

As usual, there was a delay in starting, and Sophie knew if it took too long, Miss Pepperslade might curtail the exercise in favour of handwriting practice. That was futile, because she had her own inimitable style.

Tired of waiting, she was debating whether to whisper the gypsy words that would set her horse at a gallop, out of the stable yard and across the park. It would be worth doing penance afterwards, just to be free for half an hour.

Instead, her mind drifted back to the morning lesson of etiquette and protocol, before Miss Pepperslade sent the pupils to change into their riding habits. These topics were all the same to Sophie, with more things she could not do than she could.

It is not seemly for a young lady, to look directly into a gentleman’s face. One must always lower one’s gaze,
Miss Pepperslade’s glacial tone decreed.

That was nonsense. Eyes were essential. How else were messages to be conveyed, except with a smouldering glance?

Never grasp his hand in greeting – only extend the tips of one’s fingers…
Sophie almost snorted in derision.

You must understand that gentlemen have different desires to ladies, and it is most important not to arouse the beast in them.

That was plain speaking indeed for a maiden lady.

Of course they were different, and Sophie thanked God they were. She almost howled with laughter, wondering how many men Miss Pepperslade had known in the biblical sense. Precious few, she imagined.

One can always judge a gentleman by his mode of dress.

What nonsense. She had known impeccably dressed rakes, and thought the only true test of quality was the way a man sat a horse. In that, Uncle Tom was magnificent. Loyalty to Charlie demanded she set him high on the list, but honesty forced her to admit he would never be Joshua’s equal.

The recollection of him sitting astride his father’s bay gelding, the day before he set off on the Grand Tour with Charlie, deprived her of breath. It was the moment, she realised he was the epitome of everything she desired. Also, she was sure that once he shed the restrictions of his upbringing, he would be very good at being naughty – and she was just the person to teach him.

She closed her eyes, seeking to bring his image to mind… but the sound of tittering females broke into her reverie.

Looking around, she noticed a new girl to the group was having difficulty mounting her pony. When some of the other pupils started to laugh, the disruptive sounds transmitted to the animal. It sidled away, and became more restive with every attempt the groom made to assist the girl to mount.

Sophie’s concern for the animal made her furious.

“Stop that at once,” she ordered, striding forward to grasp the pony’s bridle. “You’re frightening the horse.”

Ignoring the groom, she led the pony aside, whispering a few soothing words in its ear, and offering sugar lumps she kept in her pocket, while Miss Pepperslade looked on aghast. What did she care for a teacher’s opinion?

Within minutes it was calm, so she beckoned to the girl and led the animal to the mounting block.

“Get on the horse,” she said with authority, indicating the correct step on the block. “It’s quite safe now.”

The girl was still too scared to move, so Sophie placed a lump of sugar in the palm of her hand and showed her how to give it to the pony. A look of wonder lit her face when she realised her hand was empty.

“Take no notice of the others,” Sophie said, casting a contemptuous glance over her shoulder, before showing the girl how to hold the reins and place her foot in the stirrup. “They don’t understand horses. If you like, I will show you how I groom it afterwards. That way you gain its trust.”

Within seconds, the girl was in the saddle, arranging her skirt. Sophie gave a low whistle, and her mount came to her side. A quick nod at the teachers and she was ready.

To her, it was a natural thing to help someone learn to ride, but it made her a friend, something she had never sought before. She did not particularly like the other pupils, but if she had to choose one, Annie-Bell, the new girl, was as good as any other.

That was not how other folk pronounced the name, but Sophie made a play on the sound, and the girl accepted it. They were an unlikely pair of friends. Annie-Bell was as fair as Sophie was dark, and quite tall, in a skinny kind of way, whereas Sophie had a towering presence.

It was a revelation to learn this insignificant wisp of a girl had the richest father in the town. The knowledge gave Sophie pause for thought. She learned the rules of etiquette and protocol by rote, but deliberately thwarted the teachers’ attempts to instil discipline. Now she had the incentive to conform.

Life had been happy when her pa was alive. They only lived in a little house, in Dublin, but it was a joyful place when he came home on leave from the army. They did not need much money, for he filled the household with love and laughter when he tossed her in the air, calling her his beautiful girl. Sophie adored him.

It was a sad day when Charlie told her that Pa was not coming home again. That was when they went to live in Blackrock, and when Sophie smelled money for the first time. Charlie went for lessons with the local rector, which left her with little to do, except count on the abacus frame, which Aunt Tilda taught her to use. It did not occupy her for long, so she walked up and down the stairs, looking in all the rooms to inspect the contents of cupboards and drawers. Barleycorn followed everywhere she went, scolding.

One day, finding her uncle’s study door unlocked, Sophie hid in there, but just when she decided to leave, Uncle Lucius entered the room, and took a locked box from a cupboard. She was enthralled, watching him stacking up piles of coins, setting them aside and moving on to bundles of paper, which he unrolled and counted before replacing them in the box. Her hands itched to reach out to touch, but the intensity of his expression made her stop. For quite ten minutes, he sat at the desk breathing in the scent on his hands. Beads of sweat lay on his brow, making him look almost feverish…or was it excitement? Whatever it was made her curious to know more.

It was the first time she did not tell Charlie what she had done. If she had, he might have understood the upset caused when Barleycorn, the housekeeper, caught her in the study, sitting on the floor surrounded by coins and piles of bank notes, sniffing the scent on her fingers. She was not stealing the money. It was simply a misunderstanding, and no reason for Uncle Lucius to send her to the convent in the next village to do penance. What was worse, they did not let her see Charlie before she left.

The nuns said the same prayers as Barleycorn, and tried to force Sophie to chant the words, but she knew what was right and used her own version. Then they beat her with sticks, and she climbed over the garden wall, and ran away to visit the gypsies in the hills. Each time the nuns found her, she ran away again. The last time it happened, they sent her home, and then Uncle Tom came to take her and Charlie to Linmore. He was wonderful, for he gave her a pony.

“Welcome to our little home, Miss Cobarne. I hope you enjoy your stay with us,” said Annie’s father on her arrival.

Sophie felt almost drunk with elation as she walked through the grand entrance, into a marble reception hall with an intricately painted high domed ceiling. The moment she climbed into the luxury coach that conveyed her to her friend’s home, it had been like stepping into a different world, leaving the ordinary folk outside.

Glossy black paint trimmed with gold on the outside, but the interior covering on the thick padded seats and squabs was in burgundy velvet, a rich colour that reflected the comfort expected by its owner. Discreet half-drawn blinds enabled them to view their surroundings whilst ensuring their privacy was preserved.

The “little home” description Annie’s father had given was inapt, for whatever Fallowfield Court might be, it was not small. Sophie had never seen a greater contrast between the quiet country elegance of Linmore Hall and the almost vulgar opulence of the mansion. Everything was designed to impress, from the crystal chandeliers and the abundance of gilt-edged furniture. Tables inlaid with ivory and display cabinets filled to the brim with ornaments. Chairs and sofas with ornate frames, covered in vibrant red stripes and dazzling shades of blue satin. Swathes of swirling fabric framed the long sash windows, with seemingly acres of deep carpet underfoot. It quite took her breath away.

“Oh my goodness,” she gasped. “It’s absolutely amazing.”

The man looked pleased by her praise. “It wasn’t always so, young lady,” he said in a blunt voice. “Onnybrook House was almost a ruin when I took it in hand, and it cost me a pretty penny to set it as you see it today, what with one thing and another.”

Sophie noticed the name he used was different to the one on the brass plate outside the door, but she waited until the introductions were over and her friend’s father left the room before asking for an explanation.

“I thought this was Fallowfield Court.”

“It is now,” said Annie. “The other name relates to when Grandfather Onnybrook lived here. This was my mother’s childhood home, but when her brother died, Grandfather had no other son to leave the business to, or the house where the family lived for generations. I’m afraid he let everything deteriorate.”

“I see,” said Sophie, not seeing things at all.

Annie cast a nervous glance around, before saying in a lowered voice, “I think Papa used to work in the foundry, but when my parents met and fell in love, Grandfather wanted him to change his name, but he refused. That is why we lived in a smaller house on the edge of town. I do not understand how Papa made the business profitable again, but when the old gentleman died, he employed an army of builders to restore this house, and when it was finished, he changed the name. It’s rather sad, because only the foundry still has the Onnybrook name, and I much preferred it.”

Thinking about the brash manner that Annie’s father exhibited, Sophie was sure his love of money came first. Despite his expensive clothes, it was obvious he was not a gentleman like Uncle Tom. He was hard-faced and grasping, with a vanity the size of a mountain. He was everything Uncle Lucius Cobarne was not, except in the way his eyes shone when he talked of money.

This man had no need of false modesty, for his iron foundry processed the raw materials for the munitions the British army used in Europe, India and the Americas. It was a very profitable occupation.

Until she met him, Sophie did not know iron was newsworthy, but neither did the haughty pupils at Miss Pepperslade’s Seminary – and she was not going to tell them, for fear they might usurp her position as his daughter’s friend. It was her secret.