Pamela Sherwood (18 page)

Robin left the shop with his resources slightly depleted but his spirits more elevated. Imagining Sara’s pleasure when she opened her parcels was almost enough to dispel the cloud over his head. His meeting with his solicitor had left him in a somber mood… and there had been that matter of seeing Sophie again.

Sophie
. Robin’s footsteps faltered momentarily. Impossible not to think of her, and their strained meeting this morning. Even knowing their complicated history, even recognizing how much time had passed and how tortuous the road ahead was likely to be for them, he’d still found himself wanting… more than he probably had any right to expect.

Well, what had he
thought
would happen? That she would cry, “Yes, of course I’ll wait for you!” and fall into his arms straightaway?
Conceit, my boy, pure conceit
, Robin told himself sternly. Sophie could have anyone she wanted, just as she had in Cornwall. Only it was still more likely now, because of what she had become. It was sheer happenstance that she was presently unattached. Otherwise, he doubted he’d have had the nerve even to speak of a reunion. That, and the sheer panic that had gripped him at the thought of losing her again, just when he was reclaiming his life and freedom at last.

He remembered that shining young girl who’d enchanted him at their first meeting, not least because she seemed the embodiment of everything he desired and had denied himself since his ill-starred marriage. Coming to know her better, as a person rather than an ideal, had deepened rather than diminished the attraction for him. A goddess was meant to be worshipped, but a woman like Sophie was meant to be loved. And so he’d loved her, reluctantly, almost unwillingly at first, and with heedless, whole-hearted abandon—as she had loved him.

Correction. As the younger Sophie had loved him.

Because the woman he’d met today—still lovely, compassionate, and generous—was so much warier and more guarded than the girl he remembered. And a large part of that was
his
doing. He’d promised her a future together, a future for which she’d been willing to wait, to stand by him through gossip and scandal, and then reneged on it. That he’d been convinced it was the right and only thing to do didn’t negate that he’d let her down. She might still care for him—he hoped to God she still cared for him—but the absolute trust she’d had in him was gone.

Robin sighed sharply and rubbed his aching temples. The right and only thing to do… More and more he’d come to question the wisdom of his decision. It couldn’t have been wrong, ever, to protect the innocents, but when the price was remaining in a loveless marriage, with a spouse for whom you felt indifference at best and contempt at worst…

Perhaps there was no right thing to do in this situation. Perhaps there was only the
least
wrong
thing
. And he’d chosen that course four years ago. He’d no business whining about it now just because it had proven more difficult to live with than he’d anticipated. For Nathalie too, he suspected. Because he hadn’t given her what
she
wanted, either. Not in Rouen, or in Cornwall.

Unbidden, the memory rose to the forefront of his mind, in all its stomach-turning detail.

It had happened a few months after his break with Sophie—in autumn, when even Cornwall’s mild climate held a slight chill in the air. When days were shorter, nights longer, and everything seemed to be drawing to a close. While he was reeling from the news that the girl he’d loved and renounced had embarked upon her tour, leaving him behind. As he’d wanted and
intended
, but the loss still dragged at his soul. He’d sat up long into the night, drinking brandy by the fire, and, despite his efforts, brooding over the way things might have been, if only.
If
only
.

Finally, disgusted with his maudlin mood, he’d gone to bed, where he’d dreamed, not unexpectedly, of Sophie: the taste of her kiss, the delicate heart of her face, the scent of violets wafting from her satiny skin.

Even in sleep, he’d felt the mattress dipping beneath him and registered the added warmth and weight of someone climbing into bed beside him. Sara, perhaps? Once or twice, his daughter had slipped out of the nursery to seek comfort she could not find from her nurse or her mother. But some instinct had prompted him to pull away rather than draw close, even as he’d struggled back toward consciousness, fighting to raise his heavy eyelids.

It had been the scent that finally roused him: not essence of violet but something muskier, more exotic. Opening his eyes at last, he’d seen the female silhouette beside him in the darkness. As his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, he’d seen that the hair cascading over the pillow was moonlight-pale, not dark chestnut. And Nathalie had smiled at him in blatant invitation, drawn back the sheet to show him her naked body. Confident to the point of insolence in her charms—after all, they’d caught him once before, hadn’t they?

He’d got up at once, without a word, pulling on his robe, and walked into his dressing room, where he’d shut the door and lain down upon the couch there. He’d made no reference to what had happened the following morning at breakfast, and Nathalie, slightly to his surprise, had not mentioned the incident either. But then, it did not exactly reflect well on her that she’d attempted this in the first place. Toward the end of the meal, however, she had lifted her gaze briefly from her plate, and the anger and affront in her eyes had startled him.

Had she really thought him so enamored of her, so easily manipulated, that one glimpse of her unclad form would have brought him into her toils once again? He could not believe that she truly desired him as a lover—she’d tired of that soon enough in Rouen—so it was most likely mastery and power over him that she craved. Either way, he had no intention of cooperating.

From that night on, he locked his chamber door on retiring. While he trusted the restraints of his own body, he was less confident of Nathalie’s scruples. At that point he’d not have put it past her to spike his food and drink with Spanish fly, or some other such substance. He’d taught the children a special knock, though, in case they should want Papa at night.

Not long after, Nathalie had apparently taken her next lover, though she had respected their original agreement and conducted the liaison with discretion, away from the Pendarvis Hotel and the eyes of the children. For his part, Robin had poured his energies into work and fatherhood… and occasionally indulged in brief interludes of his own.

One could always find some way to assuage one’s appetites, if necessary. So, a few times when he’d come up to London on business, he’d availed himself of a courtesan. But those excursions into bought pleasure only left him feeling emptier and lonelier than ever.

He’d known love, real love, and without it, the physical act was meaningless. Better to devote himself to other things—his work, the children… Strangely enough, he’d found it less difficult than expected to lead a celibate life. Better abstinence than this grotesque travesty of love. It had been almost two years since his last assignation, but he’d felt no desire to change that. Not even now, with his marriage finally, indisputably
done
.

Standing
in
the
empty
passage
,
hearing
the
sound
of
Nathalie’s laughter, tinkling and bright, but always now with that hard, almost mechanical note to it.
A
chamber
door
opening, and the sight of her lying there, pale hair outspread upon the pillow, the diamond necklace gleaming about her throat. And the man starting up beside her, every bit as naked.

And
a
feeling, deep inside, of a last link sundering. An obligation ending.

He supposed he should have felt outraged, humiliated. The wronged husband, cuckolded again, this time under his own roof. Instead, he had felt mainly relief and emptiness.

It was over. It had been over for a long time. And now even the pretense was over as well. The divorce would be just a formality. Granted, there was Sara to consider, and he did not delude himself that her parents’ divorce would be easy for her. But he would do his best to shield her from the worst of it. And selfish though Nathalie was, he did not believe she would do anything to deliberately harm or distress their daughter.

The past was the past. Time he stopped living in it, trying to make amends for the foolish youth he’d been and that foolish youth’s foolish choices. The present was what mattered, and the future, even if—he steeled himself—Sophie ultimately chose not to be a part of his.

Squaring his shoulders, Robin paused to take stock of his present surroundings, which had gone unnoticed for a good twenty minutes. And a short, sharp laugh broke from his throat when he saw the print shop window almost directly in front of him.

Flanked by photographs of the reigning professional beauties, Sophie, in costume as Cherubino, smiled winsomely out at the world.

Fate had a perverse sense of humor, Robin reflected. But after only a brief hesitation, he entered the shop and bought the picture, along with a silver filigree frame. The clerk tried to persuade him to purchase a second photograph—of Rosamund Langley, a striking young widow who was the current beauty of the Season—but Robin politely declined.

Leaving the shop, he turned his steps in the direction of Brown’s Hotel, studying Sophie’s photograph as he walked. The face he loved and had pictured so often in his mind. She looked radiant here, her dark hair pulled back into a queue, her eyes bright, her dimples bracketing a mischievous, even slightly roguish smile. Perfectly in character, for Cherubino was an enchanting young rogue, forever falling into love and into scrapes with equal abandon. Sophie had received glowing reviews in the part from the London papers, all of which Robin had clipped and kept. And she regularly performed “Voi che sapete,” Cherubino’s best-known aria, as part of her programme.

Robin tried not to think too much about the very real possibility that newspaper clippings and this photograph might be all that he would ever have of her now. A great singer belongs to the world, after all. With a sigh, he tucked the photograph away into his breast pocket and turned onto Albemarle Street.

Late afternoon, and Brown’s Hotel was doing a brisk business serving tea. Robin considered the tearoom for a moment as he’d not eaten for some hours, but decided to go up to his room and order sandwiches instead.

He paused at the concierge desk to ask, though not with any real hope, if any messages had come for him. Much to his surprise, the attendant on duty handed him a single envelope, sealed with deep red sealing wax. Delivered by hand that very afternoon, he informed his guest.

Robin’s heart bounded in his chest at the news—until he looked more closely at the writing on the envelope. Not Sophie’s. After their year of correspondence, he’d come to know her handwriting intimately. Unless that too had changed, along with everything else. For a moment, he wondered if he’d received someone else’s message by mistake, but the name and direction were indisputably his own. Walking away from the desk, he located a convenient wing chair in the lobby and sat down to open the envelope.

Breaking the seal, he extracted a gilt-edged invitation… requesting his presence at a soiree at eight o’clock the following evening, to be held at the Park Lane residence of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Sheridan. Musical entertainment would be provided.

Robin’s mouth went dry, and his heart began to beat in slow, painful strokes. But it wasn’t the invitation itself that provoked that response, but the short note that accompanied it—penned, almost certainly, by his hostess.

For reasons of her own, Sophie wishes you to attend. I hope you will not disappoint her.

Warning as well as cautious acceptance in that brief communication.

Robin closed his stinging eyes and silently thanked whatever gods existed for the mercy of a second chance.

Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.

—William Shakespeare,
The
Merchant
of
Venice

Will he or won’t he?

Sophie stared into the glass, and her reflection—perfectly tinted, not a hair out of place—stared serenely back. But it was another face she saw: a lean, angular face dominated by intense blue eyes, a face she’d tried for four long years to forget…

Is
there
any
hope
at
all
for
us?

She closed her eyes, hearing that question echo over and over in her mind. And no nearer to an answer than she had been when he first asked her.

He’d promised her all the time she needed. But how much did she need, truly, to make up her mind on this? Did she already know, deep down, the answer she wanted to give? Might it be something else that was holding her back?

At her request, Amy had sent the invitation to Brown’s Hotel. Short notice… but all the same, Sophie did not yet know how Robin had responded. Amy had dozens of other things to attend to regarding her soiree for Sophie to want to trouble her about one particular guest. Her friend had already done more than her share over the last four years. Besides, even if Robin had sent an acceptance, he might still change his mind at the last minute and not attend. Convince himself that it was in her best interest for him to stay away.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d thought that way. But it might be the last time she was prepared to accept it. Because if he was serious about their having a future together, he had to commit to it fully. She would accept nothing less.

This evening, then, would tell the tale.

She did not like that she was thinking of tonight as a test. In general, she had little use for women who continually demanded proof of devotion. But after the lonely years they’d both endured, the hopes that had been raised so high, then dashed so cruelly, the broken promises…

She needed to know, for once and for all, if he was prepared to fight for them. As he had not fought four years ago.

Come
to
me
.
Take
a
chance
on
being
seen
with
me. At least some of my life will be lived in the public eye. Are you willing to join me there, and let the world know you mean to be a part of it?

A small test—nothing as dangerous as tossing one’s glove into a pit of rampaging lions and expecting him to retrieve it, as a lady had done in a poem she’d read as a schoolgirl. But a test, all the same.
He
loves
me, he loves me not…

“Miss, are you ready for your gown yet?” Letty inquired.

Sophie came to herself with a start. “Yes, yes, of course.”

She glanced at the clock, grimaced. The Sheridans’ carriage would be here soon—and a fine spectacle she’d make, sitting here in her dressing gown and mooning over the past.

Rising, she crossed to the open wardrobe to inspect the contents. She’d narrowed her choice of which gown down to two: an ice-blue satin draped with an overskirt of silver lace, and a pale gold silk—the color of candlelight—sewn with sparkling crystal beads on bodice, sleeves, and skirt. Both had the extravagant balloon sleeves that were still all the rage after three years, probably because they made the wearer’s waist look tiny by comparison. In Sophie’s opinion, these sleeves had reached absurd extremes of fullness this Season, to say nothing of how tiring it could be to carry the weight of so much fabric on one’s upper arms. While in Paris this spring, she’d been relieved to hear that sleeves would be much less voluminous next season.

She’d almost decided on the pale-gold gown, was just reaching for it, when she heard the faintest whisper in her memory:
“I’m partial to you in green.”

Then more faintly still—
You
look
like
a
Nereid
in
that
dress. My idea of one, anyway
.

Try as she might, she could not push those whispers away. Almost of their own volition, her fingers sought and located the delicate confection of sea-green silk gauze over oyster-white satin that hung in the wardrobe as well.

“I’ll wear this tonight,” she found herself saying.

Not that it was any less fine. Far from it—there were seed pearls and silver bugles on the bodice that would shine just as brightly as the crystals on the gold gown. She’d purchased it just before leaving on her European tour and hadn’t found the right opportunity to wear it yet.

Letty made an approving sound as she lifted out the gown for her mistress. “You do look a proper treat in green, miss. I’ve always thought so.”

Feeling as mindless as a life-sized doll, Sophie let herself be dressed for the soiree. The green gown, with its matching slippers, then her jewels for the night: teardrop pearl earrings, then her pearl necklace, a single creamy strand. She restrained a shiver as their cool weight settled about the base of her throat with the intimacy of a lover’s touch.

Come, and I will lead the way / Where the pearly treasures be.

When had she last sung that song? Surely she must have performed it since that long-ago afternoon at Pendarvis Hall, she was sure of it… but no other occasion sprang to mind.

The past was all around her now, a living, breathing entity. And only time would tell whether she’d been wise or foolish to resurrect it, whether she should have let the ashes lie rather than stir the fire.

Letty’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Your shawl, miss?”

Sophie hurriedly recollected herself. “Of course. Thank you, Letty.” Obediently, she let the maid drape the folds of white silk about her shoulders and hand her a beaded reticule. “I don’t know quite when I’ll be back. Mrs. Sheridan’s soirees have been known to continue past midnight, so pray just go to bed. Waiting up for me twice this week is above and beyond the call,” she added with a smile.

“Very well, miss,” Letty conceded. “I suppose I could do with an early night.”

“Couldn’t we all?” Sophie observed lightly. “But that’s London during the Season for you.” She looped the cord of the reticule about her wrist, tilted her head as the sound of carriage wheels reached her from the street below. “Until tomorrow morning, then.”

Tomorrow
morning
, she thought as she descended the stairs. By which time she would know whether she and Robin shared a future… or merely a past.

***

On arriving at the Sheridans’ house, she was shown into the music room, where Amy, Thomas, and Joanna Herbert, the accompanist with whom Sophie had worked on other occasions, were already assembled. Earlier, she and Mrs. Herbert had gone over tonight’s programme, though Sophie had sung only briefly, intending to save her voice for the actual performance. Amy, resplendent in a gown of coral and silver silk, greeted her with an affectionate embrace. “Darling Sophie, you look simply wonderful tonight! Is that a new gown? From Paris?”

“I bought it in London before my tour,” Sophie confessed. “But the modiste was French.”

Thomas nodded sagely. “I thought as much. You can always tell French fashion from the line and the cut alone. And Amelia is right—you do look wonderful this evening.”

Sophie smiled. “Thank you. I hope my performance gives equal pleasure.”

“Based on what we heard this afternoon, it could hardly do otherwise,” he replied.

“Indeed, and I expect to be the envy of every other hostess in London for having engaged you for the night.” Amy linked her arm through Sophie’s. “I know you never eat much before a performance, but would you care for something to drink? We have lemonade, or my special iced tea, if you prefer. I had it brewed with mint this very morning.”

“Iced tea would be lovely, thank you,” Sophie replied. She’d developed a fondness for iced tea ever since Amy had first served it to her years ago, asserting that Americans found the drink very refreshing during the hot summer months.

Amy hurried to the sideboard and poured out a glass at once, while Thomas secured Mrs. Herbert a glass of lemonade. “Our guests should be arriving within the next ten minutes. And from the looks of it, we’ll have a full house this evening. Though not
too
full,” she added, bringing the tall, icy glass over to Sophie. “It’s always better to have more chairs than guests at a musicale, although I’m sure many would be willing to stand for the privilege of hearing you.”

Sophie inhaled the fragrance of the tea and sipped at the amber liquid, relishing the crisp bite of the mint. “I’m flattered that you think so.”

“I know so.” Amy paused, then resumed almost too casually, “And—one in particular, I might add.”

Sophie froze, her hand tightening about her glass. Swallowing, she looked at her friend, who gave the tiniest nod of confirmation.

So Robin
would
be attending tonight—or at least he’d sent an acceptance. But until she actually
saw
him, here in Amy’s music room…

Sophie’s mouth dried, and she took another, more deliberate swallow of tea. Nerves, she thought—but nerves that had nothing to do with tonight’s engagement. All the same, it was time to put them away. Whatever happened or did not happen between her and Robin, she had a performance to give, and she particularly wished to do her best for the Sheridans, who had been such constant friends to her.

Amy had turned away and resumed talking—chattering almost—in a light diversionary way that Sophie could only appreciate. “And the Kelmswoods are up from Kent, so they’ll be attending too. Can you believe what a staid, contented married man he’s become these last few years?” Amy shook her head over her erstwhile suitor, but her expression was indulgent.

“Not so unbelievable,” her husband demurred. “Sometimes, all it takes is—meeting the right woman.”

Their eyes met in a glance so intimate Sophie had to look away. She remembered all too plainly how that felt—the moment when no one else in the world existed but the one you loved. Those golden months in the summer of 1892 had been full of such moments. Robin had stopped trying to deny what he felt for her, had even begun to imagine their future, and she… she had never been happier. Music had bubbled up from her like a hidden spring, a fitting accompaniment to the joy she felt at loving and being loved in return. She’d been so certain, then, so sure that nothing could mar their happiness—and then fate had proven her wrong.

Could she face such a possibility again? Did she even want to? A divorce could take years, especially if Nathalie found ways to contest the suit. And there was Robin’s daughter to consider too, a child who might resent having to share her father and who would not unnaturally regard Sophie as an interloper and a usurper.

But in the end, it all came down to one question: Did she still want Robin?

If
you
know
the
answer, then you know which course to take
, Amy had said.

Tonight was meant to help her discover the answer—and until that occurred, she would obsess no further about this. She drank more tea and surveyed the room instead. “You’ve done wonders with this salon, Amy. Everything looks beautiful.”

She spoke no less than the truth. While handsome enough by day, the music room blossomed into an oasis by night. Amy had tastefully distributed a few floral arrangements throughout the room: tall spires of delphiniums mingled with clusters of gardenias, their rich blue and white a perfect foil for the color scheme. Half of the French windows stood open, letting in just enough of the balmy evening air, though the rows of chairs had been carefully arranged so that no one would find himself sitting in a draught.

Nor had Amy stinted on refreshments: pitchers of lemonade and iced tea stood on the sideboard, along with trays of tiny pastel-iced cakes and bite-sized savories, especially for the benefit of guests who might have foregone dinner. Heartier refreshments and wine would be served after the entertainment. Best of all, the whole salon was bathed in the even glow of a large electric chandelier, cooler than gaslight or candle flames. The last must be entirely Amy’s doing; Americans set such store by modern conveniences, but in this case, Sophie could only approve.

Amy beamed. “Thank you. I know I should be used to this after almost four years as a hostess, but you can’t think how much it means to me when a friend approves my efforts.”

“Well, this friend certainly approves,” Sophie assured her, handing back her now-empty glass. She glanced toward Mrs. Herbert who was finishing her lemonade. “Now, is there time for Joanna and me to look over our music before your guests arrive?”

“Yes, I really do think we should,” the accompanist chimed in. “One cannot be too prepared, after all.”

“Of course. There’s a little antechamber just off the music room too.” Amy indicated a small side door just beyond the grand piano. “Shall I let you know when we’re ready for you?”

“Excellent,” Sophie said with a brisk nod, then beckoned to Mrs. Herbert to follow her.

***

The knock on the door came perhaps twenty minutes later. No words were necessary.

Smoothing her skirts, Sophie followed Mrs. Herbert out into the music room. The low hum of murmured conversations ceased as Amy’s guests caught sight of them, but Sophie refrained from looking back. Instead, she mounted the performers’ dais and positioned herself beside the piano as the accompanist took her seat behind the instrument. Only then did she turn her head to face the audience.

Amy hadn’t exaggerated before; every chair in the salon appeared to be occupied, at least from Sophie’s vantage point. As always, the faces blurred into a sea of featureless blobs for her in the first moments. Only the music and the training existed.

She took a bracing breath as Amy introduced them to a scattering of applause, then discreetly withdrew. Mrs. Herbert, who had nerves of steel, played the introduction to her first song. Almost at once, Sophie sensed the pleased expectancy in the room at hearing something familiar. Many of Amy’s guests would have seen her in
The
Marriage
of
Figaro
last year, and while she wasn’t wearing breeches tonight, she knew Cherubino inside and out—certainly enough to give a sense of the character, even in full evening dress. Assuming an expression that was half-mischievous, half-wistful, she raised her head and launched effortlessly into the opening phrase of “Voi che sapete,” letting the music carry her away.