Page 29 of A Counterfeit Engagement

As the door clicked shut behind her, Sophie drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Unseeing in her confusion, she stumbled across the room until she reached the countess’s bed. Her legs sank out from under her and she lay down heavily on it, glad for a chance to hide her face against its pillows.

Their small cottage in Seaton had meant many years of sharing a room with Isabel.

In all that time, she had grown accustomed to weeping in silence, lest her little sister awaken and worry for her.

It was strange that now, of all times, the tears simply would not come.

Sophie felt instinctively that things would be easier if she could only cry.

The disappointment, the disillusion would become bearable.

She could put on a smiling mask and put it all down to her own foolishness in hoping for more. She could go on.

Her eyes remained stubbornly dry. Sophie sat up and deliberately closed her eyes, feeling the heaviness of her heartbeat and the tightness in her throat.

All my life, I have given way, I have been sensible, I have been calm, Sophie thought. Perhaps there is something, after all, in feeling every bit of this pain. In staying true to who I am and what I want, whatever the cost.

Slowly, Sophie rose and crossed the room to sit on the divan by the window, where she could look out. Her thoughts seemed to move oddly slowly, as though she had a high fever or was caught deep in sleep, and yet her mind felt clearer than it had ever felt before.

Sophie looked out the window at the dark London street and knew she had hoped for much.

This was a pain that could not have been possible if she had wed Jonathan dispassionately, respecting his character and grateful for the security his wealth could bring her family.

This awful ache that seemed to split her clean through, that made thoughts of easy compromise and compliance impossible, was engendered by her love for him.

If she merely wanted a comfortable life and marriage to a decent man, his words would have been powerless to hurt her.

And how easy a choice that would have been, how familiar a path.

All her life, she had reached out only for what seemed possible.

It was Jonathan who had made her want — everything.

As though she had heard a sudden noise, Sophie looked up. The house was silent, the street motionless. It was only a sudden knowledge come on her unawares that had given that look of surprise to her face, left her eyes wide and her lips parted.

That was why I agreed to marry Roger Webb, Sophie realised.

He seemed possible. He was adequately wealthy.

Reasonably handsome. He seemed respectable.

And because I did not truly want him, I thought it was possible.

I thought I might be allowed to have a home of my own, married life, children, in the bargain.

The night was already well advanced, but Sophie stayed seated by the window, looking out into the London streets and seeing nothing.

The old me would simply apologise to Jonathan tomorrow. Swallow down all my pain. Let bygones be bygones, no matter what it cost me to ignore my own feelings so that I might promote the comfort of others.

The old me was a fool.

The first faint streaks of pink were beginning to show in the east when, at last, Sophie heaved a deep sigh and felt the first cleansing, relieving tears begin to fall.

∞∞∞

Jonathan drew in a deep, ragged breath as he watched his wife disappear into the duchess’s bedchamber.

For a mean, small moment, he was heartily glad that the room had not yet been redone and was still the same cold, cheerless place it had been of old.

In the next moment, he was ashamed of being so.

He squared his shoulders, resolving to take it as a reminder: being his father’s son, he could not afford to lose control, to feel and act without reservation. The cost was simply too high.

One thing was certain — he would not pursue Sophie if she chose to go.

Dark memories flashed behind his eyes, ugly scenes beginning in earliest childhood and growing uglier still as he grew better able to comprehend them.

His mother would attempt to leave the room sometimes when his father’s ugly rages were too much.

It availed her little. He would inevitably follow her, unwilling to let any matter drop, and his words would grow more hateful, his violence more brutal.

Jonathan was unwilling to act any part of such a scene.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and cradled his head in his hands.

He closed his eyes. I had not thought Sophie so irrational, Jonathan thought wearily.

His anger seemed all burnt out, turned to exhaustion.

I had thought myself — my God, what a fool!

— I had thought myself safe with her. Safe in her ease, her calm.

I had forgotten the one valuable lesson my father ever taught me: there is no safety. There is only strength.

Jonathan sat unmoving for a long time. He felt desperately that he must think out what to do, lay out some plan for what was to come in the morning, but his thoughts remained stuck, looping uselessly in their grooves.

If only he had not made that unworthy jab about the necessity of their marriage, and how much more necessary it was for Sophie than for himself.

He had been half sick as soon as he had said it.

Not for having uttered any untruth, for it was true enough, but he had said it for no other reason than to hurt her and thereby win the argument.

In a bleak moment, Sarah’s gentle words came to his mind. Would you truly be happy to hear my future husband speaking in such a way?

Jonathan shook his head in bitter self-disgust. If Sarah’s future husband threw any such necessity back in her face after they wed, he would seriously consider horsewhipping the man.

It had been an ugly, shameful reason for a gentleman to do anything.

It had been what his father would have done.

Jonathan closed his eyes, feeling the trap closing around him.

He would do anything rather than hurt a woman as his mother had been hurt — anything.

Yet could he truly be certain that Sophie was safe with him?

They had worked well together as partners in the counterfeit engagement, had talked well together as friends even from a first meeting.

But there had always been a safe remove between them.

No sooner had she tried to close that distance than he had lashed out at her.

Had lost control and said what he ought not to, what he did not even mean.

He felt confident of offering a wife respect, courtesy, a place in the world. Love was something else entirely. Something he did not have within himself to offer — at least not in any form that would not shame him even as it hurt her.

He would have to apologise to Sophie. That much was clear.

The mere fact that she was his wife, the vows they had made to each other, deserved that much.

But Jonathan could already perceive the difficulty.

Though he disliked the necessity of apologising as much as any other man, he was, in truth, sorry for his thoughtless remark, and it would not be so difficult to say so.

The real pain would come in that Sophie wanted something he could not give her.

It had not been a heated, incautious moment that led Jonathan to speak slightingly of love, but years of the bitterest experience.

How many times had his father said the words?

How many reconciliations had there been, only for those brief interludes of peace to be broken by the ugliest of actions?

Jonathan could and would apologise for his unkind words, but he could not offer Sophie what she so clearly wanted most of all.

I should have known, Jonathan thought wearily . She has always thought well of people. It is her one flaw in judgement, in fact — she thinks better of others than they deserve. Am I really so surprised, after all, to find she also thinks better than it deserves of love?

The first cold light of dawn was beginning to come in through the crack in the curtains. Jonathan stood and went to the window, drawing them open and looking out on the streets with their first intimations of life.

I wish I could lie to her, Jonathan thought bitterly . I wish I could lie and promise what I know I cannot give. But she and I both deserve better than that.

Slowly, Jonathan went to lie down and try to steal a little rest before the day began in earnest. Sleep, he knew, was unlikely to come. But if he was fortunate, perhaps he might in brief moments be spared from having to think.

The day would begin, and he would make his apology, and their real, deeper problem would not be solved at all. But surely, in these few small moments, he might be given the grace to forget.