Page 1 of Love’s Refrain at Roslyn Court (Noble Hearts #2)

One

SOPHIA

It ought not to have come as a shock. The matter had been openly communicated and discussed at length, but nevertheless, the appearance of that white envelope on the morning’s salver of letters was as horrifying and unwelcome as had been the black-edged one that had preceded it by almost six months.

Now, the seal broken and the paper unfolded, it lay at an awkward angle near the teapot, where it had been cast by Sir Neville’s shaking hands moments before.

“It is that soldier.” Lady Poole breathed the last word as if summoning a spectre.

She slumped against the back of her chair, pale eyes blinking frantically, whilst beside her, her daughter Louisa fussed about with a serviette and a piece of toast, both rather ineffectual tools for calming the older woman’s nerves, crying out “Mama, mama,” at random intervals.

Sophia Bradley sat across the table from her, neither wishing to make a sound nor take a sip from her own teacup for a moment.

Her pulse fluttered in her wrist as she fought to regain her composure.

Nevertheless, rational heads must prevail, and after permitting her aunt an appropriate length of time for her display of shock, she dared speak.

“The letter is from Major Hollimore, is it not, Uncle?”

Sir Neville nodded, his face white and his jaw tight.

“When does he arrive?”

“Oh, my poor boy!” Lady Poole wailed before her husband could draw breath. “Poor Henry… my heart is breaking as surely as it did in November last. How will I ever forget that dreadful, dreadful day? Must he come? Surely, he need not come. Tell him, please, not to come.”

By now, Sir Neville had recovered somewhat. “We cannot do that, for he is almost certainly already on his way. His letter was sent from Portsmouth, and the man himself must follow.”

Sophia took a sip of her cooling tea and cleared her throat. “It is very kind of Major Hollimore to make the journey himself, Aunt. He might have packed all Henry’s belongings up and just sent them in the post. This is an act of generosity that we must not spurn.”

Her aunt, chastened, sniffled and nodded, not stopping the tears that still traced paths down her cheeks.

Louisa was grim and silent; cousin Diane had not yet come down for breakfast, but would surely let out a cry and dash from the room the instant the import of that innocuous-seeming letter was made apparent to her.

Sophia attempted her question again. “When does Major Hollimore arrive?”

Her uncle brushed the letter across the table. “I could not read far enough to determine. Take it, take it, Sophia, and deal with it all, if you please. We shall, of course, receive him graciously. Make the arrangements and inform Mrs Oswald and Cook. You can manage everything.”

Feeling as much a stranger to her family as ever she had done, Sophia mumbled some excuses about tending to matters at once and escaped from the breakfast room, letter in hand.

She slipped down the hall, past her aunt’s sunny morning room, past her uncle’s billiard room, to the small office she used, asking Jenny the maid for some tea and toast to be brought to her there.

She ought not to complain about her aunt and uncle.

They had been good to her, taking her in when her mother had run off, giving her a home despite her parents’ ill deeds.

Her aunt—her mother’s sister—could have turned her nose up at Sophia’s plight or sent her to some orphanage.

Her uncle could have made her live with the servants, or treated her poorly like some wraith flitting between family and drudge, the eternal Lady’s Companion.

It was to their credit that instead, they had given her a room in the family’s wing of Roslyn Court (albeit a smaller room at the very end of the hall, where the ceiling sloped so as not to permit one to stand upright at the windows) and had welcomed her into the classroom where her two younger cousins toiled with their governess and tutors.

Further, when Sophia had shown a marked affinity for the pianoforte, they had even engaged particular music masters for her, allowing her to refine her skills into something quite remarkable.

It had been more kindness than obligation, and she and the entire neighbourhood derived great joy from her music.

Indeed, when she played, people stopped to listen, and proffered invitations that would not otherwise be forthcoming.

For one who would otherwise be branded an outcast at best, this was not to be discounted.

If she was now assigned to the unofficial position of secretary for the Poole family, she could hardly utter a complaint.

To speak the truth, she rather cherished the role. It made her feel useful. And, frankly, she enjoyed it. It allowed her to exercise calm reason and impose order on a house governed by her aunt’s melodramatics and her cousins’ youthful flightiness.

Sophia’s uncle, good man that he was, was interested in his horses, the races, and hunting, and he let little else bother him. As long as the accounts were properly kept and the coffers were as full as he wanted them, he let his wife have full run of the household.

And, for all her love of excess, Lady Poole was not a profligate woman.

The family wanted for nothing and the estate was everything it should be, with a grand and noble house and fine ornamental grounds, but Lady Poole’s real extravagance was in her sensibilities and her need to be seen as the principal lady of the neighbourhood.

These last six months of mourning, which precluded the social activities she thrived on, had quite taken their toll on Sophia’s aunt, and her emotional excesses—including frequent and understandable outpourings of grief—had rather expanded beyond what they had been before.

As for Louisa and Diane, they were sweet girls, guided by their own sensibilities.

Diane was still young, little more than a child at fifteen, and easily led by her sister, but inquisitive and with a great deal of promise.

Louisa, at nineteen, was spirited and full of determination.

She was also quite lovely to look at, with blond curls and sea-blue eyes, and her mother was quite determined that she would marry well.

Louisa had other ideas, which she confided in Sophia alone.

They were cousins, but also the best of friends, which happens not as often as one might imagine.

Oh yes, she loved her family and was most grateful for their generosity and kindness.

Still, despite everything, she was never made to feel completely one of them.

Perhaps it was her plain brown hair and eyes, where her cousins were of more remarkable colouring, or simply the not-infrequent references by Lady Poole to her wayward sister—Sophia’s mother—and inferences that Sophia must always struggle to avoid her mother’s fate.

No, she was included with the family, but not one of them.

But here, in her small office at the end of the hall, she stepped out from the shadows, and if dealing with the family’s correspondence and less interesting matters of running the house was her lot, she did not mind it.

She imposed order on chaos, and as in the music room, she could let her natural talents lead the way.

She cherished a place where she felt master of her own domain.

And thus, she sat down at her desk, a warm cup of tea now at her elbow, to respond to the letter from Major Hollimore that had so distressed her relations only minutes before.

Sir Neville Poole, Bt

Roslyn Court, Gloucestershire

Dear Sir Neville,

It is with a mixture of pain and satisfaction that I write to you today.

Having only this morning disembarked from The Dart which sailed from Portugal, I find myself in the position of being able to return to you those effects left in my care, which previously belonged to your dear son, and my own dear friend, Henry Poole.

I promised him that I would see them into your hands, and I shall fulfil that promise with a full heart.

Words cannot describe how I miss your son’s cheerful smiles and astute observations, and he made our terrible time fighting Bonaparte’s armies in Portugal and Spain easier to bear.

He died a hero. This you know. I hope to share memories of him, which will be more precious than the contents of the crates I carry.

I hope you will receive me in this same spirit of melancholy and friendship.

I have business which I must attend to here in Portsmouth, relating to my position in the army, and some accounting and reports to complete, which tasks have been entrusted to me by my colonel.

I hope to discharge this as quickly as possible, and then engage suitable transportation to carry me and your son’s belongings to Roslyn Court.

I expect, therefore, to arrive at Roslyn Court five days hence, on Friday, the 14 th of May.

Yours,

Major Hollimore, etc

That was in less than five days’ time, and there was plenty to do within these five days to keep Sophia and all the staff at Roslyn Court busy.

The guest room must be aired out, for there had been no company at all since that dreadful day last November when the news of Henry’s death had arrived.

Ned had come back, of course, but he was family, the heir to the baronetcy, and Henry’s older brother.

He had his own rooms, which he stayed in for as short a time as propriety allowed before rushing off once more to his friends and acquaintances in London.

But that was December last. This was May, and the mood, along with the weather, had changed.

Now the windows were flung open, allowing in the clean spring air, the linens were taken to wash, the mattress beaten, and the wooden furnishings and trim polished to a shine.

Then there were meals to be planned, food to be ordered, activities to be arranged, and against all custom over the last months of mourning, society to be sought.

They must have some entertainment for their guest. Nothing too lively or joyous, of course, for poor Henry had been gone for less than half a year, but something to honour the officer who was bringing back their son’s belongings, at great inconvenience to himself and honour to his friend’s family.

The questions flowed. What did Major Hollimore enjoy? Did he like riding? Did he eat asparagus? Was he a card-player? Had he any injuries that might prevent sport? How long, even, did he plan to stay?

For all that the family had read countless letters from Henry about his comrades-in-arms in Portugal and Spain, the men were still nothing but names, whose adventures in the villages might have been recounted, but whose characters were a complete blank still to his family.

Only Major Hollimore had featured as more than a shadow in the letters, and he, Henry painted only as a brave man and respected leader.

Of his character, his preferences, they knew nothing.

With this in mind, Sophia and her relations had no recourse but to prepare as best they could for their unknown visitor who bore the personal belongings and the last medals of their beloved and sadly mourned cousin, brother, and son, Captain Henry Poole.

“I see the cart!” Diane rushed into the parlour where the family were sitting, her cheeks red and shoulders heaving from the exertion.

At fifteen, she was most often a young lady but sometimes, still an exuberant child.

Her hands danced through the air as she informed everybody once more that a small hired cart with only one horse and a driver was just now visible at the end of the long lane, and that the major must surely be the other person on it.

“Mrs Oswald, Jenny, Robert, quick, to the door!” Sophia’s aunt commanded her staff, and with great effort of mind, more than of the body, raised herself off the sofa to prepare to meet her guest.

Sophia followed behind the others. She was only the poor cousin, not a parent or sibling of the dead soldier.

She would trail them, stand far back, as decorum dictated.

They never demanded this of her, but it was always implied that it was the proper place for her.

Her eye caught the image of her reflection in the mirror near the door.

Her hair, plain brown, neither dark nor light, was neat enough in its simple knot, and her dress was neither too fine nor too plain.

Eyes, also brown, blinked back at her, the perfect invisible cousin, just present enough to be useful. It would do.

She pulled her shawl about her shoulders and took a fortifying breath before striding forth to join her relations and greet this officer, about to invade and disrupt their little fortified castle.