Fairchild (9 page)

“Who’s coming?” Sophy asked. “She’s never made such a fuss for any of the neighbors. And we have no house guests.”
 

“You’ll see,” Dessie said, holding the secret in with a prim smile. “It’s an occasion, and you ought to look your best.”

Sophy rolled her eyes, submitting to Dessie’s attack on her windblown hair, wondering who Lady Fairchild was entertaining tonight. It had to be someone important. Hastened by Dessie and her own growing curiosity, Sophy descended to the drawing room on light, rapid feet, took one step inside, and stopped. The room was empty, save for Lord and Lady Fairchild.
 

No impromptu party? She looked around. No guests lurked in the corners.
 

“Good evening, Lord Fairchild, Lady Fairchild,” she said, curtseying to each. Then she followed behind as her father took up Lady Fairchild’s hand and led her into the dining room.
 

The table had only three places, set in the usual gleaming china and sparkling plate. Yet it could be no ordinary meal, for Lady Fairchild was wearing her new rose satin. It was unlike her to bring out a new gown if they were merely dining with the family. Timothy, the footman, held out her chair and Sophy took her seat, eyeing Lord and Lady Fairchild carefully as she began eating her soup.
 

Lord Fairchild looked as he usually did at dinner: freshly shaved, in breeches, silk stockings, pumps and a dark coat. It was Tuesday, so he wore blue, a quirk Lady Fairchild could never persuade him to give up. His face was lined and he looked a little tired, but that was nothing extraordinary. He made conversation, his eyebrows dipping, lifting, and drawing together as he spoke. Apparently he had spent his afternoon going over the form books.
 

“And you Sophy?” he asked, between bites of turbot. “How was your afternoon?”

“Pleasant. I finished the work Miss Frensham set me and spent the rest of my time riding.”

“Mmm?” He was interested in the ride, not the lessons.

“I took out Nemesis, the new Arabian. She was fresh. John says that bodes well for her race.”

“Good.”

“You said you finished all your set lessons?” Lady Fairchild asked, as Timothy brought out the second course.
 

Sophy nodded. “She’ll give me more when she returns.” Miss Frensham was gone for a three week holiday with her family.
 

Lord Fairchild shook his head. “She’s not coming back.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Taking a new post in Surrey, with the Beauchamps. You’ve had lessons enough.” Feeling the blood drain from her face, Sophy worked around a bite of pheasant, her mouth dry. Tonight was an Occasion, Dessie had said.
 

Not this.
 

Some fears Sophy had never been able to eradicate. She’d lived carefully for seven years, afraid of being sent away from Cordell Hall. Her stomach plunged at the thought.
 

Lady Fairchild frowned at her husband, displeased he had chosen to discuss family matters with a servant in the room.
 
Pointedly, she asked him what he had thought of Sunday’s sermon.
 

“I’m sorry my dear,” he said. “I wasn’t attending.”

“Well, I am not certain I approve of the vicar choosing his text from Revelations,” she said. “I dislike apocalyptic fervor.”

Swallowing her dry mouthful, Sophy cut her meat into tiny pieces and managed to eat one spear of asparagus. She waited, her hands gathered in her lap, while Timothy removed the tablecloth and brought out dessert. Ignoring her favorite cake—was it a sign?—she took an orange from the bowl and dissected it with her silver fruit knife. She could not look up.

“You’re seventeen now,” Lord Fairchild said at last, setting down a half empty glass of burgundy. “It’s time we spoke about your future.”
 

Not yet
, Sophy thought, desperately concealing her disquiet. But there were governesses her age, she knew.
 

“Georgiana has spoken to me. She has an excellent plan.”

Lady Fairchild interrupted. “Let me tell her, William.” She was excited, giving off fizz like a glass of champagne. “Sophy, dear. We are bringing you with us to London.”

Sophy blinked. “Why?”
 

“For the Season, of course.”

Sophy frowned, still not following. Lady Fairchild always looked forward to the Season, but—

“Seventeen
is
a little young,” Lady Fairchild said, “but with your handicaps it might take two Seasons to come up with a suitable match. We may as well make the best use of your youth and beauty we can.”

Hope and relief flared in her, hot and bright as a struck match. Always, she shied away from thinking of her future; no wonder, with Miss Frensham’s dreary life observable every lesson, every day. Hadn’t old Mr. Lynchem warned her this was how it would be? Her mother had seemed happy as a teacher, but Sophy did not trust her memory. She couldn’t have been really happy, spurned by her lover, suspected by the villagers, hiding a grieving heart.
 

Well, she would escape this future at least. Now, with the hope of marrying herself, she might enjoy reading the novels Henrietta was always sharing with her. She had three of them now, pasted into false covers (for Henrietta knew well what Lady Fairchild permitted Sophy to read) hiding under the clean handkerchiefs in her bureau drawer. Sophy hadn’t opened any of them. With her history and prospects, she had always found romances painful, teasing her with something she did not hope to have. Henrietta had never understood. Surely her mother had loved Lord Fairchild, and look where that had led?
 

This wasn’t the same. Lord and Lady Fairchild were helping her to a husband. Rather forlornly, Sophy reflected that it was not necessary to love one of those. But it was possible. Henrietta was unashamedly happy. Sophy brightened. How wonderful it would be, if she could have the same.
 

“I am to marry?” she said, finding her voice at last.
 

“Of course.” Lord Fairchild set down his fork. “What else would you do?”

Work. Wither into spinsterhood. Teach Henrietta’s children, or Jasper’s, when he had them.

She was the only one at Cordell—the only one in the neighborhood—without a clear place and a clear path. When Sophy let herself want anything, it was only to remain at Cordell. If she was inoffensive and not too conspicuous she might be able to stay, blending into the background like a dappled fawn, scarcely noticed. Eventually the house would pass from Lord Fairchild to Jasper. He would keep her, she knew.
 

Lately, she had begun contemplating other paths. Peter Larkin did not quicken her pulse, but she liked his smile and his steady hands. If she—but she could not think it without blushing. He would want a bride with something besides youth and a modicum of looks. She had none of the skills a farmer’s wife would need, and no money either.
 

“Don’t worry, Sophy,” Lady Fairchild said. “You shall manage perfectly well. Your father has given you an independence—”

“I have money? How much?” Sophy interrupted.
 

“You have enough to attract respectable men,” Lord Fairchild said repressively.
 

Lady Fairchild exchanged a glance with her husband. “Respectability is key,” she said. “We should like you to remain within our sphere. Imagine, if you will, how disagreeable it would be for Fairchild if you were to marry one of the locals—Sam Goodwin or Peter Larkin. Such awkwardness! How could he collect rent from his daughter’s husband? Certainly they would use you to impose upon us.”
 

Not Peter Larkin then. “Is it enough money that I could live on my own?” She had lived in plain circumstances before. A cottage was all she needed.
 

“What an idea!” Lady Fairchild said. “You are far too young to be thinking of any such thing. I do not approve of spinster households. And it is entirely unnecessary, for as I said, you cannot fail to attract someone worthy.”

“It is important for me to see you are well cared for,” Lord Fairchild said, straightening his knife alongside his plate. “And it is very good of Lady Fairchild to sponsor you.” He looked up into Sophy’s eyes. “Rest assured, I shall look carefully at all the men who apply to me. We will help you make a wise choice.”
 

No one knew what Society permitted better than Lady Fairchild, but Sophy was skeptical. What sort of man of their rank would be willing to marry a bastard? Yes, the neighbors accepted her as Lady Fairchild’s companion, but she did not think they would tolerate her when they knew she was dangling after one of their sons. When the Matcham girls learned she was entering the lists, they would have her blood. Or what little they could get of it with an embroidery needle. Sophy swallowed, forcing a tremulous smile to her lips.
 

What sort of man indeed? And what sort of marriage? Sam Goodwin had loved his young wife, until losing her a year ago to influenza. His heart might be given and gone, but he was a gentle man, who would be good to whatever girl he married. If she was to marry into her father’s order—

Sophy glanced between Lord and Lady Fairchild and shivered. No one made marriage look more uncongenial than they.
 

“One would think you don’t want to marry, the way you carry on,” Lady Fairchild said. She looked offended.
 

“No, no. I’m merely surprised.” Sophy said. “I—thank-you,” she added, bowing her head to escape her father’s pointed look.
 

“Think of London,” Lady Fairchild said. “You shall have such a wonderful time!”
 

She was thinking of London. It was making her ill. London was not Suffolk. There, even Lady Fairchild could not protect her from the contempt of the Polite World. Some would never accept her. Some would scorn her. Mock her. Despise her.
 

She raised her eyes from her plate.
 

“This is a happy day, Sophy,” Lord Fairchild said, smiling at her from down the table. “Only to be surpassed by your wedding, I hope.” He raised his glass. “To your future, Sophy! And your happiness.”

Would there be happiness in this future? She feared not. But her tension ebbed as she drained her glass.
Don’t be a ninny. They want you to be well.
 

Setting down her glass, she tried to catch some of their excitement. Her father was on his feet, already refilling her glass. “Have another, both of you,” he said, overriding Lady Fairchild’s weak protest. “This burgundy is for celebrating.” Returning to his place at the head of the table, he remained standing, grinning broadly as he raised his glass. “The King,” he said. “And confusion to Bonaparte!”

Sophy spent the weeks leading to her departure for London alternately fearing that she would be shunned or that Lady Fairchild would succeed. Everyone was pleased for her, from the lowliest stable boy to Jenkins the butler. She accepted their well wishes with the best grace she could muster, but couldn’t hide her feelings from Dessie.
 

“I wish you could come with me,” she said.
 

Dessie snorted, tugging harder at Sophy’s night plait, knotting the end with a piece of string. She had a young man in the village and was being promoted to housemaid. “Worriting will only spoil your complexion. You’ll need a proper maid in London.”

Nine days before Sophy and Lady Fairchild were scheduled to journey to London, she had a reprieve. Jasper wrote, offering to drive her down to London on his way back from Newmarket, giving her a few extra days. Sophy begged to delay her departure and Lady Fairchild agreed. As she waved Lady Fairchild goodbye, Sophy’s spirits rose. She had five days to herself, maybe six. She wouldn’t waste a single one.
 

She would play spillikins with Dessie and eat ginger biscuits. She would finish walking all the paths in the garden, ride through the marshes and sketch the house and the surrounding country. Her artistic talents were non-existent, but she would try to make a passable representation of the country for which she had grown such a painful love. She had always loved springtime at Cordell, when the family went to London and she had the run of the house.
 

Her first day alone dawned grey and wet. Sophy spent the morning staring out the window and writing a list of everything she wanted to do before leaving Cordell. In the afternoon, conscious of each passing hour, she ventured out of doors, cloaked and carrying a large umbrella. She returned an hour later, damp and defeated. Sketching was impossible while juggling an umbrella and she did not dislike any of the footmen enough to ask them to hold it for her while she drew.
 

The rain fell unabated the second day, so Sophy threw the list into the fire, and spent the day with John in his snug room off the stables, listening to him recount horse lineages and famous races.
 

The third morning was misty and damp. Good enough, she decided. Throwing on an old riding habit, she gulped a quick breakfast, scarcely pausing to chew. A letter from Jasper rested beside her plate. Eager to be on her way, she stuffed it into the pocket of her heavy skirt for later.