Page 16 of A Counterfeit Engagement
Thursday evening arrived swiftly, though not before it had been impatiently awaited and urgently wished for.
The Anderson ladies had carefully dressed and ornamented themselves to suit the refined glitter of London society.
Sophie had chosen not to wear her grandmother’s ruby necklace, thinking it better suited to a dance floor than to an event when the attention should be focused primarily on the performers.
Instead, she wore her amber cross with a dress of almost severe simplicity.
Its colour, however, was all the ornament that was needed.
Isabel had carefully chosen the sea-green fabric, rejecting several similar bolts of silk before finding exactly the right one to bring out all the colour of her eyes and the reddish hues of her hair.
Isabel herself was wearing a pale blue gown, the colour of the sky on a fine spring morning.
Subtle touches of white lace gleamed at her neckline and hems, echoing the soft shimmer of the white pearls around her neck.
Mrs Anderson looked every inch the wise and elegant matron in a gown of deep, rich blue.
Sophie knew she had protested the expense to the duke, saying that the monies for gowning her daughters were more than enough, but he had not listened to one word of it, and had finally forced her to accept his generosity without amendment.
When the Haverly’s carriage arrived, Sarah and Jonathan came in to meet them.
Isabel could have told her that Sarah was looking remarkably well in a peach-coloured gown that accentuated the lighter shade of her mother’s pearls, but Sophie had eyes only for Jonathan.
He must have contrived with Isabel to purchase a new waistcoat in fabric exactly matching Sophie’s own dress.
The rich blue-green looked well with his dark hair, but it was not that that made Sophie’s breath catch in her throat.
We match, and I feel claimed, Sophie realised.
And it is well enough to say this is all part of our plan, but I don’t feel it in my heart. I feel I am his.
What a fool I am, thinking silly thoughts just because of a few yards of fabric.
Sophie took a calming deep breath and advanced to greet the Haverlys. “Good evening, Your Grace, Lady Sarah.” With Giles the butler looking on, any acknowledgement of their hidden plans was confined to her smile. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”
“I am delighted that we shall attend together,” Jonathan said. There was a subtle twist to his smile that boded ill for Mary Collins. “I think it will be a delightful event.”
“Isabel, you will never guess what I have learned!” Sarah claimed her friend’s notice.
Their happy chatter about the performer’s reputed excellence and the alto who, rumour had it, had been replaced by an understudy at the last moment carried them through to the carriage and indeed, until they were set down by the coachman at the doors to the concert hall.
In all the gaiety of greeting acquaintances old and new, admiring the beauty of the stately old hall, and finding their seats, Sophie had forgotten to keep watch for Mary Collins.
She was brought sharply back to the hidden purpose of their attendance when Jonathan circumspectly touched her elbow and murmured, “Look there, Miss Anderson. Three rows ahead of us, and to the right.”
“It is Mary Collins.” Her cousin was easily recognised.
“Indeed, it is. And I do not believe that she has seen us. It will be most interesting when she does.”
Sophie only wished she could enter into Jonathan’s enjoyment of the situation. Her confusion was too painful to rise to the same high spirits. “What do you think she will do?”
“What can she do?” Jonathan scoffed in an undertone. “She will be shocked, and will not wish anyone to see it. If she causes a scene, she will merely save us the trouble of springing our trap. Her confusion is self-incrimination.”
“I almost feel sorry for her,” Sophie murmured. In that moment, the cousin of olden days and girlish games came easily to her mind’s eye, and it was possible to forget how readily Mary had used and discarded her.
“Her punishment will be rather less than she intended for you, and for much greater an offence,” Jonathan replied. Sophie intended to respond, though she knew not in what words, when the first musicians appeared at the edge of the stage. She was not sorry to fall silent.
How different this would all be, if it were real, Sophie mused idly, listening to the first chords.
What joy I would have in sitting next to Jonathan — that is, to the Duke of Belford — and feeling that we belonged to each other.
How I should like to go on and on knowing him, learning to know such a man truly.
Instead, I must remind myself that our small, fragile friendship is built on a foundation of sand.
Worse still. In truth, it is not based on sand. It is based on lies.
The lies Mary Collins told, and the lie I told, when I said that there was nothing between us, and I would happily bring our pretended engagement to an end.
With a strong effort of will, Sophie brought her mind back to the present, with all it held to captivate the mind and uplift the spirits.
There was the presence of her dear family, and the stirring music they had come to hear.
Carefully, Sophie paid due attention to the performers, and thought of nothing more.
Or at least, she told herself she did.
The audience was evenly divided that evening between those who were transported by the excellence of the musicians and felt that the intermission came much too quickly, and those who professed themselves delighted in the music after having impatiently waited for it to cease so they might have the opportunity to say so.
Sophie followed her family to the refreshments, glad for a chance to merely nod and smile while others spoke.
Sarah and Isabel were deeply engrossed in an intelligent discussion of the performance, one she had not the technical knowledge to join in even had she wished.
Mrs Anderson was happily busy in a small knot of mothers with young sons and daughters to match, and the duke had left them for a moment to greet an acquaintance across the room.
“Good evening, Miss Anderson.”
With a start, Sophie turned towards the speaker. She had not waited to see his face before recognising the sneering tones as those of Owen Ferrars.
“Sir Owen,” Sophie replied evenly. “I hope you are having a pleasant evening.”
“I have had better,” he returned coldly. “Are you not ashamed, Miss Anderson, of having told my mother and I such bald-faced lies? You cannot now deny that you have had the presumption to set your sights on my cousin.”
For a moment, Sophie was perplexed for a response.
In agreeing to the counterfeit engagement, she had thought only of showing Mary Collins the error of her ways.
She had quite forgotten the Ferrars and their disapproval of the duke’s supposed choice.
It was not pleasant to be accused of lying, and still less so when the accusation, though false, must appear to be correct.
A moment’s thought provided both the answer, and some private amusement. She would tell the truth, as ever — and she would recall that even if his accusation had been correct, Sir Owen’s behaviour was considerably worse.
“You must excuse me for any confusion,” Sophie therefore said coolly.
“I am afraid I am not accustomed to speaking of private matters with men to whom I have not been introduced. Even yet, Sir Owen, we have had no proper introduction. Therefore, you must excuse me. I shall be glad to speak with you once the Duke of Belford has introduced us.”
And with that, Sophie turned and walked away with alacrity, leaving him sputtering behind her. But, as she had thought, even the brash Sir Owen was not quite brash enough to pursue a woman who had made it so entirely clear his conversation was not welcome.
After gaining a safe distance, Sophie wandered idly through the space, glad for the moment that she saw no acquaintances she would be obliged to speak to.
The crowd thinned considerably near the back of the room, and Sophie noticed a window with a view into the garden.
It would be pleasant to look at plants and trees, she thought, and made for it.
Sophie had continued abstracted at the window for some minutes when her attention was caught by the sound of a throat deliberately cleared behind her. She turned, thinking that her mother, or perhaps Isabel, meant to call her to task for her inattentiveness.
It was Mary Collins who stood before her.
In later years, Sophie would be equally astonished and proud of how well she kept her equanimity. She merely gave a small bow, her face a polite blank. “Miss Collins. It has been so long, cousin.”
“Not nearly long enough.” Mary Collins’s face was downright ugly when anger overtook it. “I had not thought you so — conniving, cousin. You are a good liar. Indeed, I have always thought you incapable of manipulation almost to the point of stupidity. As you no doubt wished that I should.”
“I have never desired to be manipulative, let alone conniving.” Sophie was astonished at the steadiness of her own voice.
It seemed to project out of her, as though somewhere deep inside herself had been unlocked.
“I believe my actions could withstand any amount of scrutiny, Miss Collins.” Sophie paused. “Could yours?”
Mary Collins sneered. “It is like you to be so self-righteous, cousin. You know perfectly well that I have done all the work to capture the Duke of Belford. I have laid the groundwork, and now you are attempting to snatch him from under my nose, when you would never even have met him without my intervention. It is a triumph any matchmaker would count the height of her career. And this, you consider free of conniving?”
“I do,” Sophie said. “I have never sought to deceive anyone, nor to manipulate events to my advantage. And if you are none too pleased with the present state of affairs, Miss Collins, perhaps you might ask yourself who is responsible. If you consider it unfair, perhaps you might think of how — fair — your original intent was. Or, indeed, was not.”
From the sudden movement of the crowd at the other side of the room, it was clear that the intermission was coming to its end. Sophie was certain that only that could have ended their confrontation.
“So be it, cousin,” Mary Collins hissed. “You refuse to satisfy me. Very well. But this is not over. And you will find that I am a bad enemy to make.”
Sophie bowed deeply. “Goodbye, cousin. I hope you shall enjoy the rest of the concert. I certainly intend to,” she said evenly, and left without another word.
∞∞∞
Sitting beside her as the musicians resumed the entertainment, Jonathan could only see Sophie’s profile, and that only by low light.
It didn’t matter. The tension in her jaw was unmistakable.
Something had happened. And since her jaw had been perfectly normal and not at all made of iron before the intermission, it must have happened then.
In the clatter of applause between pieces, Jonathan took his chance. He leaned close to Sophie’s ear. “What’s wrong?”
She had only moments to answer. “Mary Collins. She, ah, expressed her disapproval.”
“I see.” He had time for nothing more before the applause ended and they fell silent in expectation of the next piece. But while his face was turned towards the stage with a look of eager attention and appreciation, his mind was far afield.
Foolish of me, Jonathan thought. I had pictured Miss Collins losing her temper at me, even making a public scene.
I had rather hoped for the scene, to be honest. It had not occurred to me that Sophie — that Miss Anderson — might bear the brunt of her displeasure.
Jonathan was shocked at the level of anger he felt.
How dare she use her cousin, use her with every likelihood of causing pain, and expect everything her own way!
Thank God her schemes never came to fruition.
I can imagine no worse fate that being married to such a woman.
Jonathan stole a look at Sophie. He rather suspected she, like himself, was not properly attending to the music. The expression on her face was dreamy, as pleasure in the fine musicians might rouse, but it was a far-away dreaminess, one that seemed rather to come from her own thoughts.
How different these two cousins are. Mary Collins, the most short-sighted, scheming, and selfish creature I have had the misfortune to encounter, and Sophia Anderson, witty, wise, and kind.
Indeed, perhaps I should give my thanks to Miss Collins. After all, I never would have met Sophie without her.