Page 34 of A Counterfeit Engagement

In his work as a financial advisor for London’s elite, Mr Davis had seen any number of young ladies unexpectedly elevated by advantageous marriages, if few quite so impressive as the transformation of Miss Sophia Anderson into the Duchess of Belford.

He therefore braced himself to be greeted with distant formality.

In the first place, it was entirely possible that she would not remember him, and in the second, the memory of her former social position might not be a welcome one.

Even Mrs Anderson, surely, could not have raised her daughters to be so free of all pretence.

He was therefore astonished to find the duchess rising to her feet with a broad, friendly smile as soon as he was presented.

“How pleasant to see you again, Mr Davis!” she said at once. “It has been such a long time since we last met. These five years, at least.”

“Why — yes, so it has,” Mr Davis agreed, stammering a little in his surprise. “Perhaps — if you would be so good — you might convey my friendly greetings to your mother.”

For her part, Sophie had recognised him at once. Mr Davis had been a welcome visitor to the townhouse in Portman Square, back when her father was alive, and he had always had a friendly smile and a kind word for Mr Anderson’s daughters.

It was odd that he would mention her mother with so much diffidence, when conveying good wishes to a respected parent was among the most basic and generally accepted gestures of friendship and goodwill that anyone could make in society.

He had spoken with such emphasis, and yet so shyly, it brought quite new ideas into Sophie’s head.

That was a strange thought, but her mother was not yet fifty, and still a vigorous and handsome woman.

But it would not do to embarrass Mr Davis by letting him see any part of her suspicions. Accordingly, Sophie only smiled and agreed. “Certainly, Mr Davis, and I thank you for them. Mrs Jennings has informed me you wished to speak to me about financial matters. Shall we sit at the desk just there?”

“Yes, thank you, Your Grace.”

At hearing the formal address, Sophie could hardly suppress a grimace.

It was odd indeed to go from being an impoverished woman with no connections, hardly even a member of the ton , to suddenly being among the highest nobility.

She half-thought of asking Mr Davis to call her Mrs Haverly instead — but no, such informality would cause more problems than it would solve.

She would simply have to deal with her own discomfort.

In the first days after coming to Haverly House, Sophie had taken over a small room on the first floor as a kind of study, though privately, she thought of it as her refuge.

The windows were lovely, tall and with a fine view over the gardens at the rear of the house.

Even in winter’s sparse foliage, they were lovely, full of winding paths and stately fountains.

Best of all, some past duke or duchess had the flight of fancy to put a little round stained-glass window in the arch at one side of the room, where its irregular shape had led to an extra space between the plain glass windows.

For much of the day, its design of violets cast a shifting pool of jewel-bright light on the floor.

The rest of the room could not be said to be so charming.

It had long been neglected, the furniture outdated and shrouded in dust covers, the paint sun-bleached and dull.

When Sophie first discovered it, her heart had been full of all her first warm confidence in Jonathan’s affection and love.

She had intended to make it the kind of room she had always dreamed of, with the walls freshened and painted, lush new carpets on the floors, and the furniture half taken from the fine old things in the house’s attics, and half new-bought exactly to her own taste.

Such luxury was far, far beyond her old means, but Sophie knew well that to Jonathan’s wealth, it would not present a problem.

Then had come their argument, or their disillusionment with each other — she hardly knew what to call it.

Jonathan would not have begrudged her the money.

Even when feeling most cast off by him, Sophie had known that much.

But to have asked for and received the funds, knowing the request to be bitter in her mouth and a matter of duty for him, instead of a matter of joy, would have spoiled all her pleasure in the room.

Sophie’s study had therefore stayed largely as it was, only with the dust covers taken away and the windows washed.

The desk to which she led Mr Davis was heavy and awkward, evidence of some former Haverly with rather dubious taste, but perfectly suitable for their needs.

And if the chairs in which they sat were a little faded, they were still perfectly comfortable.

“Very well, then, Your Grace,” Mr Davis began.

“Allow me to begin by informing you that the duke wishes to make provisions in the event of his untimely death without issue. I will alter his will accordingly. In such an event, I am afraid that you could not retain this house, or the country estate, as they go with the Belford title.”

He paused, as though waiting for her to object, but Sophie only nodded. “Yes, I understand.”

“His Grace would therefore leave you the house in Oxford, and the sum of thirty thousand pounds.”

Sophie stared at him. “Thirty thousand pounds?”

“It is not much, in comparison with the full wealth of the Haverly estate,” Mr Davis began consolingly, “but —”

“You misunderstand me, Mr Davis,” Sophie interrupted him.

“I do not intend to quarrel with the sum. I was surprised at its being so much, rather than so — little. If, indeed, one can use the word ‘little’ to refer to thirty thousand pounds. My mother, sister, and I lived for five years on an annual income of two hundred.”

For a moment, Mr Davis seemed to forget all his careful deference for the Duchess of Belford, and looked at her once again as Mrs Anderson’s daughter. “You and your dear mother — and your sister too — on so little? I had not imagined it. If I had only known…my dear, I am so sorry.”

“I do not see why you should be,” Sophie pointed out.

“It was hardly your responsibility, Mr Davis. Besides, one can do much worse than to be in a snug little cottage by the sea. But that is why I was so surprised to be expected to live on a sum of ‘only’ thirty thousand pounds, you see. I am not yet so far from the young lady who lived at Seaton. It still seems like unimaginable riches to me. But I suppose a dowager duchess must keep up appearances.”

Mr Davis seized on the excuse with transparent relief.

“Yes, that is exactly it. The duke would not wish you to be deprived, nor would he wish the Haverly name to be disgraced. Now, perhaps we ought to discuss your pin money. I will establish an account in your own name. Here is a schedule of the monies that are to be deposited into it from the main account.”

He handed Sophie a piece of paper. She took it curiously, nearly dropping it in surprise as she read the first line.

“Mr Davis, have you perhaps added a zero to the end of these numbers?” As he scrambled to reply, Sophie forestalled him laughingly.

“Do not worry, Mr Davis, I am only teasing you. I suppose this, too, is only what must be expected of a duchess.”

“Yes, exactly,” Mr Davis agreed, perhaps a little too quickly.

“This is quite standard for as noble and affluent a family as the Haverlys. Furthermore, I am charged to tell you that this money is only for your personal expenses. Family expenses such as the upcoming ball must be charged to the general account.”

Sophie smiled at him, though she imagined her expression must be rather strange.

She could not seem to attend to the rest of the conversation.

All Mr Davis’s careful instruction in how to draw on the account and how to send bills would have gone entirely to waste, had he not taken the precaution of providing her a set of written instructions.

She could only just master herself enough to give him a decently friendly farewell and extract a promise that he should come to visit her again, so that her mother might have the pleasure of renewing the acquaintance.

That last suggestion left poor Mr Davis in as distracted a state as herself, so that Sophie had the satisfaction both of reviving an old and formerly much-valued friendship, and of confidence that he would not have noticed anything odd in her manner towards the end of their conversation.

At last she was alone and could think. Though telling herself she should not have been surprised, she could not help it.

Generosity was nearly the core of Jonathan’s nature.

Was it not all of a piece with his general conduct?

He was generous with his sister, generous with his friends, generous with his servants.

Certainly, he would be generous with her as well.

Yet she had not expected him to solve a problem he had not known of.

He had given her the means of refurnishing her room at once — and of purchasing every book she had ever thought of, and all the lessons she might have wished to take, and a new gown for each day of the week, all without having to ask for his approval.

It was a kind of generosity still more valuable to her for providing something much rarer than the material goods themselves: freedom.

That, too, was like him. Upon serious consideration, Sophie had no wish to deny it.

When had he ever sought to coerce or overrule her?

Even in persuading her to take part in their scheme to revenge themselves upon Mary Collins, he had coolly and courteously presented the reasons to do so.

Her freedom of judgement, he had only ever addressed with respect.