Fairchild (17 page)

“Indeed.” Lady Fairchild surveyed him with a frown. “I suppose he’ll grow into those ears. Percy’s legacy, no doubt.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn out very handsome,” said Sophy.
 

This was her first visit to Henrietta’s London home since her marriage. It was impossible not to feel the happiness of this house, overflowing the rooms and spilling into the street. And why not? Henrietta ought to reign over a house like this, doting on her children and her helplessly-in-love husband.
 

If she could have something like this, she wouldn’t hesitate to marry whomever Lady Fairchild directed, but experience had taught her that such happiness was rare indeed.
 

She heard a squeal of laughter, and turned her head to the open nursery door. It was Percy, scholar and aristocrat, galloping into the room with two-year old Laurence on his back.
 

“Georgiana. Sophy.” Greeting them with a nod, he tossed a squealing Laurence onto the bed. He cocked a half-smile at his mother-in-law. “I told Henrietta she wouldn’t be ready when you came. You’ll have to forgive her, Georgiana. She’ll never learn to keep time.”
 

Laurence crawled to the other side of the bed and began thumping his velvet rabbit.
 

“So what do you think of our boys?” Percy asked.
 

“Sophy and I were just saying how healthy they are,” she replied.
 

“Mmmmn.” Amusement lurked in Percy’s eyes. “I’ll leave Laurie with you,” he said to the nursemaid.
 

“You have a lovely family,” Sophy told him.
 

“They are rather marvelous, aren’t they,” he said. “Should I wish you an enjoyable shopping trip, or is today’s outing more work than pleasure?”

“A productive afternoon is necessary, but I hope to derive some pleasure from the excursion,” Lady Fairchild said, eyeing the door through which Henrietta had vanished. She had progressed to bouncing Little Will on her knee.
 

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Percy said, and left with a bow.

“Master William doesn’t normally care for jostling, my Lady,” said the nursemaid, stepping forward and halting mid step as Lady Fairchild froze her with a stare.
 

“Really? He seems fine to me,” she said. She glanced down at her grandson, a hint of a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. Leaning over to Sophy, she whispered, “I think he and I understand each other.” And it seemed they did. Henrietta didn’t return for a full half-hour, but in all that time, William frowned silently from his grandmother’s knee.
 

“He’s lovely, Hen,” Sophy said, upon the errant mother’s return.
 

“Isn’t he?” she agreed, bending down beside William. “And will you be good for nursie?” she asked.
 

He bit his lip and stopped breathing, his face turning red. Henrietta’s face crumpled in a worried frown. “Maybe I should stay until he falls asleep.”

“Absolutely not,” Lady Fairchild said, standing up and holding out little Will to the nursemaid, who stumbled across the room in her haste to obey. “Sophy’s wardrobe must be purchased today, and you cannot be seen again in that atrocious jonquil gown I saw you in last week. Burn it. When I saw you at Lady Winward’s party, I wished the earth would swallow me up.” Despite her dazzling beauty, Henrietta had appalling taste in clothes.
 

“Very well. We shan’t be too long,” Henrietta lied to the maid, patting Laurence’s head and giving a worried kiss to her beet red baby.

Henrietta abandoned herself to the pleasures of shopping for the first two hours, lingering over a length of tangerine net for so long that a bead of sweat rose on Lady Fairchild’s brow. “Come away, dear,” she urged. “There’s nothing suitable here.”
 

But by late afternoon, the expedition felt as long and exhausting as the peninsular campaign. Henrietta lost interest and Lady Fairchild seized the opportunity to guide her to a smart fawn pelisse and a pale blue gown.
 

Sophy wished her own outfitting was so easy. She and Lady Fairchild could not agree. Though she felt guilty over her intransigence in the face of Lady Fairchild’s generosity, she could not like the clothes Lady Fairchild wanted to choose. They were all perfect debutante clothes in excellent taste—delicate gowns in white and pastel shades that made her look like a corpse.
 

“It is a beautiful gown, but I will not wear it,” Sophy argued. “Look at what it does to me!”

“Yes, but you cannot wear that,” Lady Fairchild retorted, gesturing at the bolt of emerald muslin Sophy had chosen. “That color is flashy! We have to tread carefully, given your circumstances.”

“Well, I won’t show to advantage in that. Unless there are men looking to marry consumptives. And this has too many frills. I’d look like—like Mrs. Bagshot.” Sophy said and blushed with shame. Lady Fairchild didn’t notice the blush, but she set aside the dress without further protest.
 

“Mrs. Bagshot . . . from Chippenstone?” Henrietta asked, fingering the dress Sophy had discarded. “How did you meet her?”
 

“They were good enough to help Sophy when she was thrown from her horse,” Lady Fairchild said, her eyes darting to Madame Foulard, who was bent over, measuring the length for Sophy’s skirts.
 

Henrietta ignored the signal to be silent. “What was the house like? I heard they had the rooms all redone.”
 

“The old Mr. Bagshot did. He spared no expense.” Sophy bit her lip. She was recounting facts, not betraying them.
 

Lady Fairchild sniffed.
 

“Was it dreadfully vulgar?” Henrietta asked, leaning forward.
 

“I don’t think it would be to either of your tastes,” Sophy said quietly, failing to keep her lips in a prim line as she remembered. There was a sparkle in her eye when she added, “My room was quite astonishing. And there was a salon, done in the Egyptian style . . .”

“Hmm?” Madame Foulard looked up, giving a knowing nod. “Quite the mania for Egypt this season. I have some sandals, very popular, that would be just the thing to wear with—”

Lady Fairchild blanched. “We shall stay with slippers. No girl in my charge is venturing out with her toes showing. Don’t even think it, Henrietta.”
 

Henrietta pursed her mouth. She would have a pair within a fortnight, Sophy knew.
 

“How about this?” Lady Fairchild said, holding out another length of silk.
 

“It’s lovely, but I can’t wear white,” Sophy said.
 

“Well, what do you propose?” Lady Fairchild snapped. “Packing paper? Corduroy?”

Madame Foulard flinched. “My Lady, I would never bring such things here.”

“I want that. Done up like that.” Sophy pointed to a bolt of brilliant blue silk lying on a table across the room and a picture in the open magazine before her, while Henrietta made mollifying gestures at Madame Foulard.
 

Lady Fairchild opened her mouth to protest, but stopped, looked, then frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. “Bring it here.” Madame’s assistant went scurrying across the room for the cloth, bearing it toward Sophy with outstretched arms.
 

“Hmmn.” Lady Fairchild looked from the cloth to the magazine. “Generally, I favor simplicity, but this cut is almost severe. It will look like your father is a nip-farthing, instead of being quite handsome about your portion.”
 

“The excellence of the fabric makes ornament unnecessary,” Sophy said.
 

“It looks perfect with your hair,” Henrietta added.
 

“There is not one girl in a hundred who could support that color, my Lady,” inserted Madame Foulard, impatient to make the sale. “You cannot deny it is becoming.”
 

“Very well,” Lady Fairchild said. “One of this blue silk and one of the green muslin you liked. But I still want at least one white dress. Put some gold trimming at the neck. That should help.”

Madame Foulard nodded, and motioned Sophy to hold out her arms. “Very wise, my Lady.”
 

Madame busied herself with tape and pins. Lady Fairchild sat down on a pretty chair to watch, but stood again almost immediately, frowning and pacing across the room.

“My Lady?” Madame Foulard cocked her head, talking around a mouthful of pins.
 

“They are such bold colors,” Lady Fairchild said. “You must be careful, Sophy. There are some already disposed to dislike you, simply because of what you are. If I let you wear these gowns, your behavior must be impeccable. You cannot afford mistakes. When you are snubbed, you must smile and accept it gracefully, but you must never act as if you expect to be snubbed. Carry yourself proudly, and most people will accord you respect.”
 

“Oh, mama,” Henrietta said, but Sophy was nodding, her eyes serious. It was easy to forget, to think she could simply wear what suited her best. Matters would never be so straightforward for her.
 

“You are right, of course,” Lady Fairchild said, settling herself back into her chair with some annoyance. “The colors are brilliant on you. You will have hair plumes died to match, Madame?”

Madame nodded vigorously.
 

Sophy held in a sigh. Her right shoulder ached, but it was the heaviness inside that troubled her. Lady Fairchild, sharp as ever, met her eyes and caught something of it in her face. “Madame,” she said severely. “Did I not tell you that Sophy injured her shoulder? Lower your arms, child. You look pale.”

“A thousand pardons,” Madame said, flustering as she helped Sophy off the stool. “Such stupidity is unforgivable. Sit here, Miss Sophy, and I will have Thérèse bring you biscuits. A fitting is very taxing.”

Accepting the offered chair, Sophy agreed with a slight smile. Madame spoke true, but it taxed her in more ways than one.
 

*****

“How much longer will you stay?” Tom’s mother asked over the breakfast table.

“Mmm?” Tom decapitated his egg and looked up.
 

“I’m happy to have you here of course, but I wondered how long you intend to stay.”
 

He had only intended to visit for a week. Already he’d stayed four extra days, and planned to stay as long as he could stand Chippenstone. He had no desire to be in London, not while she still haunted him.
 

“Tired of me already?” he teased, scooping runny egg onto his toast. While his mother protested, he folded the toast in half and bit off the corner, before yolk could run too far down his fingers.
 

It was pathetic, really, he thought, licking his fingers clean. In better moments he could laugh at himself, but moments like this he wanted to stick his head in the horse trough. His mother only made it worse, bringing up Sophy every chance she got. He positively hated that book of hers,
The Wicked Duke
.
 

Last night, he had suggested starting something new.
 

“But I’m enjoying it,” she said, her eyes all innocence. “I thought you didn’t mind it. You certainly seemed to enjoy reading it with Miss Sophy.”
 

He had enjoyed it then. But every evening since, he’d been unable to read it without casting Sophy Rushford in every scene, seeing the flick of her fingers, the turn of her wrist, exactly like a lovesick idiot.
 

He stabbed a forkful of ham and shoved it into his mouth.

“Hungry?” his mother asked.

He replied with a grunt.
 

“It’s just that you don’t seem contented here,” his mother continued, recapturing his attention. “I know you prefer London. You needn’t put yourself to so much trouble for me.”

That forced a bland smile from him. Both of them knew he wasn’t staying for her; his visits were always frequent and short.
 

“Why don’t I go with you?”

He nearly choked on his coffee. “What?”

“I thought maybe I’d go with you to London this spring.”

“You never go to London,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin, trying to ignore the burn in his nose.
 

“Don’t you want me to go?”
 

“Of course I want your company. I drag myself all the way here, just to see you. You surprised me, that’s all.”
 

“I might enjoy a change of scene,” she said, as if she had been born idle and rich. Tom raised his eyebrows. “Well, why shouldn’t I?”
 

Tom cleared his throat. “I’m not sure London is the best place for me right now, mother.”

“Of course it is. There you have your work and the company of your friends. And if you should chance to see—”

“I think it very unlikely,” he broke in. “Nor would I wish it.”

“Well I wish very much to go to London,” she said, folding her hands.
 

“Do you?” he said, fixing her with a stare. She didn’t blink, so he gave up. He didn’t want to go to London at all, not with his mother reminding him about her three times a day. But saying that would be admitting defeat. “Very well. We’ll go. But I warn you, it’s not going to do any good.”
 

Folding up his newspaper, he rose from the table. “Have your maid start packing.”
 

He never was angry with his mother. He was all she had, and she deserved better from him. But just right now, he longed to punch something.
 

The summons came in the evening, from his mother.
 

“The termagant. Again.” Jasper groaned to his friends. He’d invited them to join him at his rooms in St James for supper and cards.

“What does she want this time?” asked Alistair, lounging in the chair beside him.
 

Jasper frowned at the folded note in his hands, “You may be her nephew, but you have nothing on me. She’s my mother.”