Page 16 of Love’s Refrain at Roslyn Court (Noble Hearts #2)

Sixteen

SOPHIA

H ollimore, as I have written before, is a man among men.

I am proud to call him friend. I shall not recount his bravery and decisive actions when we overtook a small French party, separated from their regiment—we thought by accident, but ultimately discovered by design—and captured the lot, with their ammunition intact, without firing a shot.

Instead, I shall tell you of his kindness.

After some days of dreadful rain, we began to ford a stream where the bridge was washed away, when we heard a pitiful calling, which happened to be from a man trapped on a small island in that same stream.

He was, so it transpired, a Galician who had been servant to an Englishman.

This claim was borne out by his moderate command of the English language, but moreso by his excellent and fluent usage of such English words that I hope my sisters and mother should never hear!

Do I shock you, dear Mama and Sisters, to tell you this? Forgive me.

Our major, however, upon discovering this filthy and bedraggled creature, conspired to have him rescued, whereupon he told us he had attempted to cross the stream but stepped not onto the sandy bottom he expected, but a deep hole, and had been swept down current, until the waters became shallower.

We brought him to shore, fed him what we could and gave him dry clothes, and sent him to the village we had recently departed with two of our lieutenants to ensure his safety and proper treatment.

It is a minor matter, but it would have been as easy to leave him on the shore, and I know by this what a good fellow Hollimore is.

With all my love, looking forward greatly to seeing you once more,

Henry

Sophia stared at the list her aunt had just placed on the desk.

There was no possible way to accomplish all those tasks in so short a time.

While the event Lady Poole had in mind was not quite a ball—for such would be unthinkable only six months after losing their son—it would be as close to one as could be contrived, whilst still being called something more discreet.

“An evening of restrained society,” she had said, “nothing so grand, a mere reception in honour of Major Hollimore. Yes, a reception.”

And yet, this reception was to involve everything but planned dancing.

And even that, should some attendee call for it, would be permitted.

It would hardly do to deny one’s invited guests, after all.

Consequently, provisions must be made in the event that the reception became a ball in fact if not in name.

Sophia sighed.

It would take two full days to deliver all the invitations, and that was after they were printed, or in this case, written out and most likely by her.

“I have informed Sir Neville that the guests have been invited already,” her aunt explained, “but only by word of mouth, issued in conversation. We must have formal invitations, and you have a fine hand. You can write them all.” It would take untold hours.

Then there was the planning, conferring with Cook, compiling lists of what needed to be ordered, then ordering the food, ordering enough eight-hour candles, ensuring that there was sufficient wine and rum for punch and other refreshments, sending some boys to the ice house to bring in suitable quantities, but only after the rooms had been properly arranged for such company, hiring musicians, engaging somebody to chalk the floor (just in case dancing did occur, of course), and a hundred other tasks that would keep her busy from dawn until long past nightfall for days on end.

And all this was to be done in a week. One week! It was impossible.

But her aunt had so commanded, and Sophia must obey.

Lady Poole’s intentions were obvious and multiple.

The first was to keep Isaac present at Roslyn Court, in the eternal hopes that he would marry Louisa.

This aspiration of Lady Poole’s was as perplexing as it was obsessive, for neither had expressed the first bit of interest in the other or had any desire to develop such.

Isaac knew that Louisa loved Jeremy Southam, and—so Louisa had told her—Isaac was in full sympathy with that star-crossed pair and had no wish to come between them.

As to Isaac’s own frustrated wishes to leave Roslyn Court, Sophia’s feelings were more complicated. She understood his purpose in this, and knew that the longer he remained here, the harder it would be to say goodbye to him, but she could not wish him gone a moment sooner than was necessary.

They had developed a friendship, a meeting of the minds and—dare she admit this to herself?

—of the heart. Isaac was a troubled man, it was true, with these strange turns and terrible nightmares, but he was a good and understanding man as well, and Sophia could not get enough of his company.

And when he was in a bad way and he needed her and her music, she felt so powerful in her ability to offer him comfort. So needed. So loved.

If she was ever able to marry, she would wish it to be to someone exactly like Isaac.

And that, she knew, was the second reason behind the great amount of work her aunt had put before her.

If she were kept so very busy that she could scarcely take the time for meals, she would also have no time to spend with Isaac. And that, her aunt clearly thought, would necessarily send Isaac to Louisa for company.

It was the first step (and only step, so Lady Poole seemed to think) towards Louisa becoming a viscountess.

When had her aunt become this sort of woman, who would sacrifice the happiness of her own child for status?

Had she always been thus? Had Sophia simply never noticed it before?

Her aunt certainly ensured that Sophia was most keenly aware of her own inferior status in this house, despite her uncle’s marked attempts to treat her as one of his own children.

How strange, she thought not for the first time, that it was her uncle-by-marriage and not her aunt-by-blood who should be the one advocating for her.

It was her uncle’s money that fed, clothed, and educated her.

It was her aunt who always needed her to take the role of family secretary and who subtly ensured that everybody knew about the shame of her parents.

“Poor girl, with a father and mother like that.” That poor girl’s mother, the troublesome child of the family, unlike me , she seemed to suggest. I am the good one, the perfect one, who married a baronet and who has a perfect life .

Was that the kernel behind this sudden urge to marry Louisa into the ranks of the nobility?

Was it another barb at Sophia’s parents, another reminder to the world how she, Lady Poole, was the superior one, whose daughter was a viscountess, whereas Mrs Bradley’s child might, if she were to be very lucky, become a lady’s companion.

With another deep sigh, Sophia locked her thoughts away and turned her attention to the upcoming reception, and the massive amount of work that must happen if the evening were to be a success.

Over the next two days, Sophia toiled at her labours. For each task that she completed, her aunt added two, until she began to feel like Cinderella from the children’s story. In her own case, however, Sophia would be allowed to attend the ball, but only after she did all the work to make it happen.

By the time the clock chimed eleven on that morning, Sophia was quite ready to abandon any hopes of the ball, if only she could see her way through the growing mountain of tasks before her.

She had spent countless hours writing out the invitations according to Lady Poole’s directions, and had not seen the ink dry on the last of them, when her aunt strode into the room she called her office and announced that there was to be a change, and the invitations must all be rewritten.

Further, the menu that she and Cook had planned would not do, because Mrs Wright’s mother, who would be attending with the family, could not eat duck, and entirely new plans must be made.

The chandler had then sent a message that he had not the time to make or procure the eight-hour candles she needed in time for the reception, and could it not be delayed for another se’ennight?

Sophia’s head, which had begun to ache at seven o’clock, now threatened to strike her down with each beat of her pulse, and the day was not even half over.

When Lady Poole appeared once more at the doorway, Sophia was perfectly ready to cry.

But instead of more chores that needed doing, this time, Lady Poole brought help—of a sort.

“Do cheer up, Sophia dear,” she said as she slid into the chair across the desk. “You look quite the fright, and that will not do. I know this is rather a bit of work I’ve asked you to do, but I have brought you help.”

Sophia tried, without full success, not to scowl at her aunt. She apologised for her expression and blamed her aching head.

“I was visiting Mrs Wright yesterday,” her aunt went on, “and Mr and Mrs Ashburton were there. Charming people, even if her family is in trade. Mr Ashburton’s friend accompanied them—Mr Bladestock, the fair-haired one.

My, what a handsome young man he is. He asked after you, Sophia.

What a thing, to have a man of good breeding express such interest in you.

I informed him that you were somewhat occupied, and that he should expect an invitation very shortly, and you will never guess what he said! ”

Unless he suggested that Lady Poole send Sophia to her room with a cool compress for her brow and no more tasks for the day, she had little interest in his words. Her aunt, however, was ready to tell her.

“He said that he was quite at liberty, having no occupation for the present, and would be delighted to offer you what assistance he could. Is that not remarkable? Of course, I accepted on your behalf. I even told him, jokingly, of course, that if he had good penmanship, he might write his own invitation to the reception. Is that not amusing?”

Amusing. That was not exactly the word Sophia would have chosen, but it would have to do.

She tried to smile through the pounding in her head.

“And what is better still,” her aunt continued, oblivious to her distress, “he is here now! What a charming gentleman. Now, we must get some colour into those cheeks, and you should do something with your hair. Oh dear… and that gown. The sleeves are all stained with ink!”

“I have been writing invitations all morning!” Sophia cried out. She could not stop the words from escaping, and to her credit, her aunt did look somewhat chastened. But only somewhat.

“Yes, yes, I suppose that is to be expected. It will have to do. Ah, here he comes now. Mr Bladestock!” She leapt up from her seat. “Come in, come in. Sophia is delighted to see you. Well, I shall send up some refreshments and leave you alone. So much to do, so much to do.”

And in a moment, she was gone.

“You are not pleased to see me,” that gentleman said the moment Lady Poole had left the room. “I ought to apologise…”

“No, do not. You have done nothing wrong. I am quite overwhelmed with work, and I have a rather dreadful headache. I am not pleased by anything at the moment, but you are not unwelcome.”

“You are looking quite pale. Forgive me for saying so, but you need to rest, Miss Bradley. What are you doing? Let me help. Are these the invitations your aunt mentioned? I have been told I have a good and neat hand. Ah, here is the tea tray.” He thanked the young maid who wheeled it in, something Sophia had rarely seen in this house.

He poured Sophia a glass of lemonade from the jug and put a slice of bread and some cheese on a plate, all of which he set on the desk before her.

“Here. You need something to eat. Then you will lie on the sofa there with your eyes closed until you are recovered. I shall take care of everything.”

And, surprisingly, for one of his idle upbringing, he was as good as his word.

After ensuring that Sophia ate some sustaining food and drank two glasses of the sweet lemonade, he hustled her to the sofa.

Jenny, the young maid, was sent to get a cold compress for Sophia’s head, and she drifted into a doze moments after laying her head on the pillow he found.

Whether she slept a true sleep or merely drifted in that grey mist between wakefulness and slumber, when she opened her eyes some time later, her head was very much improved. Moreover, Mr Bladestock beamed at her from over a pile of completed invitations, his pen still in his elegant hand.

“The princess awakens,” he commented with a smile. “Behold, we are much underway. I have enjoyed being useful. Have another glass of lemonade, and let us see what we can accomplish next.”

Perhaps Mr Bladestock was not so frivolous a fellow after all.