Fairchild (30 page)

“We need a word. Where are you going?” he asked.
 

“Does it matter?”

“Of course.” His wildest guesses would never have predicted distress like this; it covered him like frost pictures creeping over a windowpane, turning him cold. She needed something, but he did not know what. If he tried to help, he was just as likely to set the charges of the mined ground between them.
 

“You’re weak,” she spat. “I can see it. You’ll let her have that rascal, just to please her. She’ll love you then, no doubt.”
 

“You think so? I doubt it.” Reason had taken hold of him now. “I do not foresee approving an alliance with Mr. Bagshot. He hasn’t asked my permission for any such thing, so I am disinclined to favor his suit, should marriage be his actual intent.”

 
Hope gleamed in her eyes, quickly concealed. “You think him an adventurer?”
 

“I see little evidence to the contrary.” Sophy was too young and raw to know the difference. Even a plebe like Bagshot knew the proper course to take, if his intentions had been honorable. A quick marriage was probably best. Alistair was a smooth fellow and would know how to turn Sophy’s wounded heart in his favor.
 

“I’m upset too, Georgy,” The old name slipped out, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Sophy’s mistake is serious and unkind to you. But I cannot understand this response. You said yourself we can mend this.”

She refused to answer, gathering her skirts. Tightening his hold on her arm, he moved to block her path.
 

“Let me by,” she demanded.
 

“After you tell me why you are so upset.”

“You have no right to my thoughts.”
 

“True. But I ask you to share them, so I may help if I can.”

She turned her face aside, her words coming forth haltingly. “It must be Alistair. Without Sophy I have no one. I’ll be alone.”

She shut her eyes, waiting for him to speak, but he had no words.
 

Silence was a mistake. Lashed into a fury, Georgiana spat, “You’ll give her what she wants. She’ll take your heart and walk away with it, just like her mother, that little bi—”

“Stop.”
 

Taking advantage of his shock, she ripped her arm free. “You defend her to me? Still?”

“I am the one you should blame.”

“Believe me, I do.” Shouldering past him, she swept down the corridor.
 

“Georgiana.” He did not trouble to whisper now. She stopped, but did not turn around. “You needn’t worry. I will not see you left alone.”
 

*****

Sophy refused to show Alistair a tear-stained face. Because she had no handkerchief, she dried her eyes with the sleeve of her nightdress and held the backs of her cold hands to her hot cheeks.
 

Her father should understand. He had known love. Her mother’s painting, hung so he could see it from his desk, made that very plain. If he cared for her he would not be impervious to her pleas.
 

It was a lovely painting, executed with tenderness and skill, but it was not the real thing. Had her mother known the difference? Had she left her lover determined or despairing? Tonight her father was ordering her into another kind of counterfeit life and giving her no choice at all. Then again, what kind of choice had her mother’s been? Sophy turned away from the picture, wondering what had driven her mother. Did she have enough hope of her own?
 

The door clicked. It was her father, bringing Alistair and Jasper with him, Jasper hanging back like a shadow. She looked Alistair in the eye.
 

“Did my father tell you why?” He would not wed her if he knew she loved Tom, whatever Lady Fairchild said.
 

“I did not ask,” he said, his cool outplaying her belligerence. “Making sport of the Bourgeois made perfect sense to me. I shall not soon forget his face changing color as he realized the truth. It was rather gratifying.”

Of course, Sophy thought numbly. He feared no rival now. She’d been a complete fool, leaving herself open.
 

“You’ve framed our difficulty exactly,” her father said, frowning at Alistair and Jasper. “If he is as angry as you say, how can we hope for his silence?”

Alistair smiled faintly. “You worry too much, uncle. Who would he tell? More to the point, who would listen? You may trust me with Sophy’s honor. I shall not permit anyone to use her name lightly.”

That she could believe. Alistair was known for his marksmanship.
 

“Obliged to you.” Her father looked pleased.
 

“May I see Sophy alone?” Alistair asked.
 

Her father wouldn’t permit that. Not with her in her nightdress, her toes naked and exposed.
 

“I’ve rung a peal over Sophy already, Alistair. She looks tired.”
 

“You mistake my intent, sir,” Alistair said. “I wish only to reassure her. This situation might have been avoided, had she not been so apprehensive. I ought to have done more to relieve her anxiety.”
 

They exchanged smiles.
 

“Five minutes,” her father said. “I’ll be waiting outside the door. Coming Jasper?”
 

Jasper followed without a word.
 

Alistair crossed over to the sofa. “Come sit by me,” he commanded.
 

Sophy obeyed, wondering if she would strangle on his beneficence.
 

“I’ve always thought you an endearing little rogue,” he said, moving closer and trapping her against the arm of the sofa. “It’s all right. I did not act so well either. Better if we had been honest with each other from the first.” He gave her plait a little tug, then brushed it over her shoulder.
 

“Why do you want to marry me?” Sophy said, too frayed to conceal her distress. A tear slipped out of her eye and ran down her nose. “Is it the money?”
 

“Partly. But there are other ladies I could choose. Of them all, I like you the best Sophy. A man would have to be a fool to tire of you. I have not been wise, perhaps, but I do not think I am a fool.”

He had chosen her like he might choose a horse or a hat. She sat, unmoving, as he drew out his handkerchief and wiped the tear off the end of her nose. “Of everyone, I believe I mind this fracas least. You had him well and truly fooled, my dear. It was quite entertaining. I think it will be best though, if you don’t entertain me in this way again.”

Sophy swiped her nose with the edge of her shawl, scowling bitterly into her lap. “I am so pleased you find it amusing. That makes my heart’s breaking all worthwhile.”
 

He raised her chin with his thumb. “Truly Sophy? Is your heart breaking?”

“Can’t you tell?” She let her voice rise, trying to hit him with her words. He did not retaliate. Gently he smoothed her hair, shushing her like a young child. “You’ll find that hearts can break and mend an astonishing number of times, little one. Sometimes even with the same person. If you give me the pieces, I will do what I can to make you whole.

“Tell me the truth, now,” he said. “You never kissed him?”
 

“I told my father everything. You’re the only one who has done that.”

“And he was not pleased to learn of it,” he chuckled. “I like that color in your cheeks, Sophy. It tempts me to be disagreeable more often.”

“I dare say if we marry, we shall find each other very disagreeable,” Sophy retorted. “It won’t work, Alistair.”
 

“There’s no reason it should not. You are too young for your affections to be fixed. This infatuation will pass, and indeed, our marriage will probably be better for your experience. First love is like the measles—a hot rash that one is stronger for surviving. You will not find me a bad husband and you will learn to love me well enough.”

“You cannot be certain.”

He gave her a flat look. “Nothing is certain.” He shifted closer. “But I think I have seen somewhat more of the world than you.”

Cornered by the sofa, she could not move away. Alistair set his hand on her cheek, brushing her lower lip with his thumb. She turned her head away, pressing her lips firmly together.
 

“As you please,” Alistair said, dropping his hand. “It is too late for you to have him. Go to bed then. You will feel better once you have watered your pillow. I will see you in the morning.”

He was all politeness, escorting her out the door. Sophy did not meet her father’s eye and hurried to the stairs. Jasper was nowhere to be seen.
 

Upstairs, she sat on the edge of her bed, heedless of the cold. She thought and listened, and thought some more. A biddable girl would gratefully accept what Alistair and her family offered, but that wasn’t how she was made. Maybe it was because she’d been born of unlawful passion, but whatever the reason, Sophy knew she could not subdue her unruly heart.
 

When the house was quiet, she began to dress. It was difficult in the dark. She had no idea what color stockings she wore. Her dress and petticoat, fastening up the back, probably took her a half hour. She donned a spencer, bonnet, gloves and her sturdiest boots. Rolling up a second dress and a change of underclothes—they would be a mass of creases, but that was a small concern—she tucked them in an empty bandbox. Toothbrush, hair ribbons, nightdress: she stuffed them in the box along with any gewgaws she could sell.
 

She tiptoed through the house, unbolted the front door, and let herself outside. There was a chance, albeit a slim one, that her golden future was yet possible. But even if it was not, she would not marry Alistair. It was time she made a life of her own.
 

Dawn was not far away. Tired folk shambled along, heading to the day’s labors. She was barely ahead of the baker’s boys and milkmen, busy already with deliveries.
 

I will be like them, she thought. If this doesn’t work, I will be like them and they do not look unhappy. She would have liked to say goodbye to Jasper, and to thank Lady Fairchild, but they would not have understood or allowed her to go.
 

The sun was up when she reached the building with Tom’s offices. She had needed to ask directions numerous times. Though she had driven through the city, she had never walked it before and was more frightened now than when she had left the house. There were so many people, all with very little. Would they make room for her to join their ranks?
 

Tom’s offices were as she had imagined, a plain, solid block of a building, bearing the sign ‘Bagshot and Son, Trading’ in yellow letters on black. The door was locked and no lights were on, but when she cupped her eyes and put her face against the window, she could see the reception counter and the high desks for a host of clerks behind it. Heedless of the dusty brick, she settled against the building to wait.
 

How long he walked, he did not know. But when Tom let himself in his front door, his eyes fell on the letter waiting for him in the hall.
 

He had forgotten it entirely. Without thinking, he tore it open. It was too late to be surprised by her confession; he only felt humiliated, remembering her fiancé-cousin’s leering face. Damn her. He banged his fist into the table, nearly toppling his waiting candle, which was almost burned to the socket. Snatching up the stub, he stormed into the library, lit himself a fire and poured himself a drink. The letter he threw into the fire; himself he threw into a chair, so he could scowl and nurse his brandy.
 

He would have woken in his chair in front of a dead fire with an empty glass in his slack hand if not for his valet. Because of Martin, he woke in his own bed, in a nightshirt, even. He could not recall how this miracle had come to pass.
 

Too sullen to feel embarrassed, as he normally would, Tom told himself Martin had probably enjoyed handling him in such a docile state. The real question was if he would ever be able to get himself out of bed. On the whole, he thought it unlikely. He rolled over and pulled a pillow over his ears.
 

It didn’t prevent him from hearing someone creeping up the stairs, with a tread as heavy as a giant’s. “Go away!” he shouted, wincing as his head rang like a clapped bell. “And for heaven’s sake, be quiet!”
 

Hitching the bedcovers over his shoulders, he tried to go back to sleep. Not a squeak came from inside. It was the street noise that hammered his head now. Normally he couldn’t sleep without it, but today, each vibration rattled him. Fish sellers, rumbling carriage wheels — damnation! It was impossible for a man to get any peace. His mouth felt like a piece of dusty carpet. Blearily cracking an eye open, he eventually focused on the can of steaming water waiting on his washstand. Muttering that there was no help for it, Tom staggered out of bed.
 

Pressing a warm cloth on his face helped, as did Martin, materializing wordlessly with a cup of coffee.
 

“You may as well help me dress,” Tom grumbled. He was expected at his office.
 

“I’ll have your breakfast sent up first?”
 

His stomach rebelled, but he ought to eat something, to at least pretend this was an ordinary day. “Just a roll. And more coffee,” he said, setting down the cup and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, catching the ruffled linen cuff of the nightshirt. Martin winced.
 

“Your pardon, sir, but I would recommend something more substantial. My last employer, Sir Timothy Blanding— well, he used to dip deeply and often. Took some time, but I learned how to get him going the next morning. If I might suggest the same?”

“You are optimistic, Martin,” Tom said. “I’m sure it’s nearly noon. But very well.” By the time his tray arrived, he was starving, and he made decent work of the plate of cold ham. He thumbed through the morning paper, noting on the second page that the Americans had declared war after all.