Page 11 of Love’s Refrain at Roslyn Court (Noble Hearts #2)

Eleven

SOPHIA

L ady Poole managed to keep Sophia busy all morning with a pile of useless tasks.

The stack of correspondence that had been deemed of little importance yesterday suddenly had to be tended to at once, and the details for some future dinner party were now quite vital to arrange.

The guests, the menu, the flower arrangements, and the precise tablecloth were all matters to be set out and discussed far beyond what was necessary.

When these tedious tasks were complete, there was an errand in the village that she had to run at once, and then she was sent to the music room to prepare suitably for the evening’s dinner at the Wrights.

It would never do for Miss Bradley not to impress the gathered company with her skills at the keyboard—but only to a point, of course.

One must also never appear boastful. A most careful assessment of the music was of the utmost importance.

Her aunt’s aim was clear: to keep Sophia busy so Louisa might be sent out alone with Isaac, in the hopes that he would make her the next Viscountess Brackendale. If it were not so obvious a scheme, it would be laughable.

Still, an order was an order, and whilst she knew Sir Neville would never cast her from the house, Lady Poole could make her life here pleasant or miserable, depending on her whims. And so, to the village and then the music room Sophia went, and she saw not a hair of Louisa or Isaac the whole day, until all were gathered in the hall to clamber into the carriage that would take them the three miles across the valley to Bowood House, where the Wrights lived.

This was the family’s first time in greater society in many months.

Lady Poole had only the day before cast off the heavy black bombazine of deepest mourning for greys and mauves, and it was this latter she wore to the Wrights.

Louisa and Diane, likewise, wore the tones of half-mourning, although their gowns this evening were so light as to be almost the ordinary hues young ladies of their age wore.

Diane’s gown, newly made, was a delicate shade of periwinkle, and Louisa’s grey could have been called silver by a generous observer.

Both looked lovely; their eyes shone with the excitement of being in company once more, and their father reiterated as they waited that they could stay to observe any dancing that might transpire, although they could not yet participate.

For the two young women, after six months bereft of any such events, this was enough.

Sophia, although not expected to dress in mourning for a cousin, had nevertheless, until now, taken on the same obligations in her garb.

He had not been a brother, but Henry had been as close as one to her, and she felt she owed this much, at least, to his memory, as well as to the family with whom she lived.

Tonight, however, she had chosen to wear one of her better gowns, a beautifully cut garment in a shade of emerald green that was, if slightly darker than a young woman of one-and-twenty usually wore, one of the more popular shades of the previous year.

It also set off her colouring well, making her plain brown hair seem a richer nutmeg and her brown eyes sparkle.

It was, for all that, not an elaborate gown, for that would not do.

No, the poor cousin who relied on the beneficence of the Pooles must, of course, be seen nicely dressed, testimony to the generosity of that family and the open-hearted grace with which they took her into their home, but never so very well dressed that she would outshine the real ladies of the neighbourhood.

Like her music, her garb must be fine enough to reflect well upon her relations, but not so fine as to take undue attention from those who deserved it more.

Sophia, in this as well, knew her place.

As such, she was quite unprepared for the look on Isaac’s face when she removed her cloak at Bowood House, and he saw her in this elegant gown for the first time.

It was subtle, nothing untoward, nothing that would loosen lips, but she could not help but notice his eyes grow wide and his glance linger, nor could she ignore the twitch of his lips into that echo of that half-smile she had come to know so well.

Had she seen such a gaze directed at another, she would have assumed without hesitation that the gentleman liked what he saw.

Could this possibly be… Did Isaac look upon her with admiration?

It seemed laughable, for Sophia knew she was no beauty, but she could not disregard what her senses told her.

She caught his eye for a moment to return that quiet smile, and then, overcome by some sensation she could not quite name, lowered her gaze and turned to the side.

It seemed, now, that she had not been the only one to observe Isaac’s reaction.

Lady Poole was there in the corner, having just now handed her own cloak to a young servant, and she did not seem happy.

Rather, from the expression on the lady’s face, Sophia suspected that her aunt was not at all pleased.

There was no time to worry about this, however, for at once, her cousins were fluttering around her like bees at a flower.

“Sophia! How well you look tonight,” Diane gushed. “It has been such an age since we have been anywhere, and I had quite forgotten that lovely gown. Would it look well on me, do you think? Or would that lovely green make me look too red?”

The young woman, as pink and fresh as any English rose, had the right end of it, for her dewy skin would flush against the tones of the dress.

“You, dear cousin, could not look lovelier than you are tonight in your periwinkle. That is the shade for you. It perfectly brings out the colour of your eyes.”

The young lady beamed at her and hopped off to find her friend Emily Wright.

“Diane is correct,” Louisa countered with a great grin as she approached from one side. “You are in excellent looks tonight. If nobody else asks you to dance, I shall,” she teased.

“You are very silly, cousin!”

“Not at all. Well, perhaps I shall not ask you to dance, but Mr Gibbon there is casting an approving eye on you, and I have just now heard Mr Southam ask Jeremy if you are not looking uncommonly fine tonight.”

Sophia brushed off her cousin’s compliments, but it was still with a face flushed with pleasure and a tall and confident carriage that she walked into the parlour where the guests were gathered.

All the company were well known to Sophia.

Although the Southams were not grand enough for Lady Poole, they were quite acceptable—and dear friends—to Mrs Wright, and were, of course, welcomed guests.

Old Mrs Mowbray was there, with her widowed daughter Mrs Lovell, as were Mr and Mrs Gibbon, who lived in Allden Abbey on the far side of the village.

With the addition of such children who were of age and living at home, there were twenty at dinner, a most admirable number.

Others, so Mrs Wright informed them all, were expected after dinner for an evening of cards, and—if the young ladies were willing—music and perhaps dancing.

“Remember, girls,” Lady Poole admonished her daughters, “you may observe but may not dance yourselves.” She did not include Sophia in this caution, since she likely thought it impossible that her niece should be asked.

Little had changed over the last six months, it seemed.

Dinner was pleasant but not exceptional.

As an honoured guest, Major Hollimore was seated closer to the head of the table where he might be interrogated by his hostess.

Seated far down at the other end of the table, Sophia found herself next to Jeremy Southam.

He was a pleasant young man, and Sophia enjoyed his company, but there was little to discuss which had not been canvassed on any one of a number of encounters at the school or in church on a Sunday morning, and their conversation, while pleasant, held little to record in one’s diary.

As Mrs Wright had promised, more company arrived after the meal to enjoy an evening of cards and other entertainments.

To the comfortable crowd already gathered around, an equal number were added.

Sophia gave her greetings to the vicar and his wife, old Colonel Frampton and his son, the Ridouts, who had made their fortune in trade—to Lady Poole’s disdain—and several others whom she knew.

There were also introductions to be made.

Not very long before, whilst the Pooles were still deep in mourning and not moving in society, a new family had moved to the neighbourhood, having purchased Clarehurst Hall nearby.

The new owners were a young couple—he the fourth son of a gentleman and she the wealthy daughter of an industrialist—with two children still in their infancy.

Mrs Ashburton was a plump and rosy woman, with dark curls artfully arranged under her fashionable turban.

She smiled shyly and seemed inclined to remain by her own party, more out of a reserved character than out of any sense of superiority.

Sophia wondered if she would be more open at a smaller gathering and resolved to offer a friendly word to her new neighbour.

The lady’s husband was tall and thin, with all the outgoing joie de vivre that his wife seemed to lack.

He smiled a great deal and laughed often, and was soon pronounced by Lady Poole and Diane to be the very essence of what a friendly gentleman ought to be, even if his wife’s fortune was from trade.

There was little point arguing; Lady Poole would not be moved. Sir Neville, however, had already declared that the Ashburtons were fine people and must, from now, be included in their society.

Having a large house and not a great many people to fill it, Mr Ashburton had invited a small party to stay with them for an indeterminate time.

Included in this company were his sister, a pretty young woman around five-and-twenty years of age, his younger brother who was there between terms at Oxford, and three friends.

How Mrs Ashburton took to all these people in her house, Sophia did not ask, but the lady looked pleased enough with her situation.

Of these friends, only one was present at the Wrights’ home this evening.

He was introduced as Mr Bladestock, and he said his how-d’ye-dos very prettily and with excellent manners.

He was a fine-looking man, with fair hair and blue eyes and a face that was pleasing, if not remarkably handsome.

He was neither short nor tall, nor grand enough of stature to be considered a Corinthian, but he carried himself in such a way that no one would be surprised to find him to be a fine horseman, or a natural on the tennis court or cricket pitch.

“I am quite delighted with the society in this part of Gloucestershire,” he declared when they entered into conversation.

“When my friend Ashburton told me he had bought an estate here, I imagined it would be pretty enough, but no better than any other part of England. And yet, without exception, I discover new pleasures every day. If it is not some picturesque village or a particularly fine field for riding, then it is delightful new acquaintances. Ashburton will regret the day he invited me to stay, for I begin to suspect I shall never wish to leave.”

Sophia felt her cheeks go warm. He could not mean this to be directed at her, surely. And yet, his glance had lingered and his regard was warm.

“I hope we will have the opportunity to talk further after I beat my friend at piquet,” he continued, before offering her a most elegant bow and turning to answer Mr Ashburton’s summons.

The evening was promising to be most pleasant!