Page 31 of A Counterfeit Engagement

Ruefully, Sophie thought she must be doing a poor job of concealing her distress.

Perhaps she ought to have known better. At Seaton, Mrs Downsy had always known of any troubles as soon as any of the family had.

The formality of Jonathan’s house had led her to think it ought to be different, but of course, that was not true.

People were people everywhere. Particularly with Emily waiting on her every day, it was impossible that her agitation could have gone unnoticed.

At least the servant’s judgement did not seem to be against her. Far from being treated as the interloper who had upset their duke, the footman had given her a shy, sympathetic smile as he handed her up into the coach, and Ned the coachman had confirmed her directions in an unusually gentle tone.

Sophie breathed a sigh of relief when the coach drew up at the rented townhouse in Portman Square. Even if the ball seemed utterly inconsequential now, it would be a relief to speak of things that could only charm and could not hurt.

Isabel did not wait for her to be shown into the parlour, but ran into her arms as soon as she came in the front door, before she had even had time to take off her pelisse.

“You act as though you have not seen me for a twelvemonth,” Sophie laughed. “We were at the play together just last night!”

Isabel waved this away as inconsequential. “That is no reason for me not to be excited to see you. Particularly when you come to discuss anything so interesting as your first ball as a duchess!”

Under the influence of her sister’s enthusiasm, Sophie felt her own spirits begin to rise. Even if her own enjoyment in the ball had been spoiled, it was still good to see the joy it would bring to others.

Of course, that did not touch the real problem. Each time Sophie remembered the ball would mean standing up as Jonathan’s duchess before all of London, knowing all the while that their marriage was hollow, she wished they might cancel it.

But that was folly. She was still very lucky, even if her marriage was not the love match she had thought, and she would not allow her own pain to ruin her sister’s happiness.

Sophie put on her best smile and gestured towards the parlour. “Let us begin planning, then. I am sure Mama will have a great deal of advice about holding such an event, and your artistic eye will make it truly lovely, Isabel.”

“You do not mean that you will allow me to help you arrange your very first ball?” Isabel looked at her in astonishment, as though she had not the least idea of being granted such a favour.

Sophie could not help but laugh. “You ought to know me better than that,” she scolded her sister playfully. “Your help will be welcome, I assure you. I would not want to plan everything myself.”

Upon reaching the parlour, Mrs Anderson greeted her daughter with a broad smile and open arms. Sophie went into them gratefully, glad both for the comfort of her mother’s embrace and for the chance to hide her face for a moment.

She did not intend to confide her troubles.

She hardly knew what would be worse — if her mother said she was being nonsensical, and ought to be grateful that Jonathan had married her under any conditions, or if she blamed Jonathan for the quarrel.

Sophie did not think she could bear to have her kind, gentle mother lose her respect and liking for Jonathan.

To judge by the questioning look that Mrs Anderson gave her when she at last released Sophie from her embrace, she had not succeeded in making her mother think that all was well.

But in front of Isabel, she did not inquire.

She only suggested that they all sit down, where they might discuss the arrangements in greater comfort.

“I will be glad to have your advice,” Sophie confessed. “I am afraid it is all a little overwhelming.”

Mrs Anderson shook her head, smiling. “Do not worry, my dear. Of course, I have never held an event of such magnitude either — after all, I am not a duchess! — but you will find that it all goes quite well. Your housekeeper seems most competent, and a very good sort. You will work together with her, and she will make sure that nothing is neglected or forgotten.”

“Yes, I am sure you are right,” Sophie replied. “Mrs Jennings is a treasure, and she is excited about the prospect of a ball, as well.”

With her worries eased, they were off into discussion all the minutia of a ball — composing the list of invitations to send, deciding on the musicians to hire and the songs to be played. They had even gone so far as to consider how the punch ought to be made when Isabel stopped short.

“We are forgetting something, aren’t we? We have not even discussed what the theme of your ball ought to be.”

Mrs Anderson chuckled. “That is a rather modern idea, Isabel. A ball does not need a theme. Most of those you have attended this Season did not have one. And surely you remember the Collins’s ball. I, for one, found such a theme most disquieting!”

Sophie stifled a grimace. The ball’s unofficial theme of duplicity and ruthlessness had been still more unpleasant than its confusion of mirrors and masks.

“Oh, I suppose you are right, Mama,” Isabel agreed. “A ball does not need a theme, that is true. It is only…well. There is something very fine in it. I should like Sophie’s first ball to be one everyone will remember and admire.”

Isabel’s disappointment was too much. Sophie cleared her throat. “Perhaps we might have a theme after all,” she suggested. “I am sure we can select something more…pleasant…than Mary Collins.”

“Of course we can!” Isabel replied eagerly, and she was off, naming ideas more rapidly than the others could answer them.

“Stop, stop,” Mrs Anderson told her laughingly. “You must at least let your sister choose the theme of her own ball, Isabel.”

“I am sorry, Sophie, I was a bit carried away,” Isabel agreed. “Of course you must choose it yourself.”

“Let me think a minute,” Sophie requested.

She had not intended to do any such thing, but as she thought of it, there was a sameness to most of the balls one attended.

The music was more or less tuneful; the punch more or less pleasant, one had better partners or worse.

They hardly stood out as events. It would be rather nice to have her first ball be something more.

“Perhaps Italy,” Sophie suggested at last. “Jonathan has spoken of how his family used to travel to a small town near Florence, and how greatly he enjoyed it. We might have Italian composers — even an Italian dance, perhaps.”

“Brilliant, Sophie,” Isabel chimed in eagerly. “The flowers, the decorations — I can picture it already.”

“Perhaps Mrs Jennings might have some ideas for how to give the refreshments an Italian flavour, as well,” Sophie added. “What do you think, mama?”

“Capital, my dear,” Mrs Anderson said with alacrity. “I look forward to it already. Perhaps I may even contrive to give an Italian air to one of my gowns, though I hardly know how.”

“Oh! You must be sure to spread the word as quickly as possible, Sophie, for all the ladies will wish to do so,” Isabel said eagerly. “Madame Duvall will be pleased with you for this, you know. You will be giving her a prodigious amount of business.”

Sophie could not help but laugh. “Well, then, it is settled. If it will please Madame Duvall, let it be so.” And the three women laughed together heartily.

At last, Mrs Anderson grew rather thoughtful. “Now, Isabel, perhaps you might go up to your room for a time,” she said. “I should like to speak to your sister in confidence.”

Isabel stood up, looking surprised and a little hurt. “Oh! Naturally, if you wish it. But could I not —”

“These are matters for married women, dearest,” Mrs Anderson interrupted firmly. “Off you go.”

“Yes, certainly,” Isabel agreed. “Do say goodbye to me before you leave, Sophie.”

“Of course,” Sophie said. When Isabel was well away, she turned to their mother and raised an eyebrow. “Matters for married women, Mama? Are you not rather late for that? My wedding night was some weeks ago.”

“It is not that sort of matter I had intended to discuss,” Mrs Anderson replied. “I hope I have not been mistaken, but I rather thought the duke had such matters well in hand.”

Sophie looked away, aware that she was blushing furiously. “No. You were not mistaken.”

“That much is all well and good, then,” Mrs Anderson said. Gently, she took her daughter’s chin in her hand, turning it to face her. “But I do not think all is well with you, Sophie. I wish you would tell me.”

“I hardly know how.” Sophie could hardly get the words out. They seemed caught in her throat, as though holding her emotions in grip could not be accomplished without holding her breath still, too.

“You have always been strong, dearest,” Mrs Anderson said.

“I have admired that in you. But perhaps it has gone too far. When your father died, I was so much overcome that I was not there for you as I ought to have been. To have been betrayed by Mr Webb at the same moment that you lost your father, your home…I was too deep in my own grief to support you as I would have wished. I am sorry, Sophie.”

Sophie shook her head, half blinded by tears. “There is nothing to apologise for, Mama.”

“I am not so sure of that,” Mrs Anderson replied. “But in any case, I think you have grown too used to keeping your own counsel. My dear daughter, I should like to help you if I can. I am sure there is something weighing heavily on your mind.”

“I cannot deny it,” Sophie said. Her voice sounded strange in her own ears, low and hoarse. “Only I hardly know what to say. Perhaps I am only being foolish.”

“Perhaps so,” Mrs Anderson replied. Sophie looked at her in surprise. “But with whom can you be foolish, if not with your own mother? I do not say that I can help, my dear. Perhaps I can do nothing. But I can at least give you the relief of troubles shared.”

“Yes,” Sophie said slowly. “Yes, I suppose that would be a relief.”