Page 23 of Love’s Refrain at Roslyn Court (Noble Hearts #2)

Twenty-Three

SOPHIA

S ophia collapsed on her bed, her tear-filled eyes mercifully closed for the moment. She was exhausted. She had been awake and busy since the first rays of the sun had tinged the horizon, and she knew she would not see real sleep until the following dawn.

Why, oh why, had her aunt done this to her? How could she be expected to appear at tonight’s reception with so little rest? She had begged to be excused from the gathering, but that was deemed impossible, for somebody must be there to provide music should the hired band take a rest.

“Besides,” her aunt had chided, “who will supervise the servants, especially those taken on only for tonight, if you are not there? I shall be busy entertaining my guests. I cannot possibly also be managing the staff. No, you must be there. And try to get some colour in your cheeks, dear. You are looking quite worn out.”

Those tears, borne of exhaustion and frustration, escaped the bounds of her eyelids and slid down her cheek, dampening the pillow beneath her aching head.

It was three o’clock. She had escaped the servants’ rooms at last, leaving everything in Mrs Oswald’s capable hands, and had crept up the back stairs, hoping that her aunt would not see her and send her back to work.

An hour. If she was lucky, she could rest for an hour.

No more, for she then must wash and dress and present herself, looking as fresh and cheerful as possible, for dinner.

Her aunt had invited a small number of guests to dine, and she must attend.

Grateful for the cool towel Mrs Oswald had pressed into her hands as she made her escape, Sophia draped the damp lavender-scented cloth over her eyes and tried to empty her mind.

She did not think she would sleep, but even rest would be welcome, and despite her fears, she began to slip into that misty space between wakefulness and slumber.

Images floated around her, sounds and sensations.

The smell of Cook’s white soup, the clang of the pots in the kitchens, the endless sea of white linens, a thread of melody, and faces…

Cook, Mrs Oswald, the young girls from the village, come to work this evening, the laundress in the village when she presented her bill. And Isaac.

Of course he would fill her dreams. She had seen little enough of him these past few days that her dreams were the only place she could now welcome him.

She wished she had been able to find him after that night in the cottage, to talk to him and ask him to tell her what she had done to send him off like that.

But she was never at the family’s dinner table, and he was most often out of the house somewhere.

Louisa had told her that he returned as late as possible, looking like he had been walking or riding all day, and too tired to offer much conversation at dinner.

It seemed, from all she could tell, that he was as tired and sore at heart as was she.

What a sad story this had become, when all she wished for—no, all she could hope for—was that he would be a friend. Among the tears of exhaustion, perhaps one or two were shed for him, and what might have been.

When Sophia descended the stairs two hours later, she was only somewhat recovered.

Her fitful rest had been insufficient, but it would have to do.

Dressed in the gown her aunt had selected for her, and with her hair expertly done by Louisa’s lady’s maid, she looked equal to her company, although she hoped she would not be pressed into any sort of conversation, for there she would surely fall short.

Not surprisingly, Mr and Mrs Ashburton were included amongst the dinner guests, as was Mr Bladestock.

As this was deemed to be a casual meal, there was no preference of rank, and when Lady Poole suggested that Mr Bladestock escort Sophia into the dining room, she knew she would spend the meal in his company.

Isaac, as the guest of honour, was seated beside Lady Poole, whom he had accompanied in, with Louisa across from him.

How smart he looked, in his dark blue coat and embroidered waistcoat, his snowy cravat expertly tied and falling between crisp collar points.

He had lost the haunted expression he wore when first he arrived at Roslyn Court, and with the benefit of a few weeks of good food, his cheeks were no longer so hollow.

He really was quite handsome now; no wonder all the ladies looked to him as he held Lady Poole’s chair for her.

Handsome, and far too distant even to smile at.

There might be no procession by rank this evening, but the seating had all been most carefully arranged by Lady Poole, of that there was no doubt.

The meal was excellent, as Sophia knew it would be, having spent much of the day in the kitchens overseeing its production. Little conversation was demanded of her, and she began to think she might make it through the evening without too much trouble.

Trouble, however, was intent on finding her, as she discovered after the meal, when the ladies rose to leave the men to their port and cigars.

She had walked not a few feet from the dining room when she heard her name. There, standing in the hall, was Mr Bladestock, his golden hair glowing in the early evening light that filtered through the windows.

“Might I beg a moment of your time?” he asked, all politeness, and gesturing to the small parlour that would be otherwise unused this evening.

Sophia’s stomach sank. This could mean only one thing. Still, he was a gentleman and one she liked, and he deserved a civil response.

He wasted no time in getting to his point.

“Have you ever considered marriage?” he asked, as if he were soliciting her opinion on the best crops to plant, or a particular shade of wallpaper.

Then, as if realising his gaffe, tried again.

“As we have worked together over the last while to arrange tonight’s event, I have come to admire you a great deal, Miss Bradley…

Sophia, if I may. You are everything delightful; you are charming, beautifully ordered in thought, a brilliant musician, and above all, you make me a better man when I am in your presence.

I hope, if I may flatter myself, that you are not indifferent to me.

I will strive all my life to make you the happiest woman in England, if you will agree to be my wife. ”

He spoke these words with such a look in his blue eyes, with such sincerity, that Sophia could almost believe he meant them, and that he was not merely acting out the role her aunt had ordered him to play.

And, she believed, he did mean them. He had not mentioned love. The rest was likely genuine.

But he had not mentioned love because he did not love her.

She took a deep breath and turned around to contemplate a painting on a wall for a moment to arrange her thoughts. Then she spun about once more to face her suitor.

“I wish I could accept your offer, Mr Bladestock. I am fully cognisant of the honour you do me, and I am most grateful, but I cannot, in all conscience, accept you. Do not be angry, please, nor upset.

“I like you a great deal, and hope always to be friends, but I do not love you. Nor, I believe, do you love me. We would rub along well enough, I suppose, and be content, but I want more than that. I want to be loved. And you must wish for that too. We both deserve the chance for true happiness, where hearts and minds both agree that no other in the world could ever do. And we are not that to each other.”

What was that look on Mr Bladestock’s face? Had she not known better, Sophia could imagine he was genuinely disappointed. Surely, he did not believe he really loved her?

No, it could not be. While he had seemed happy enough to spend those days with her, helping to sum up expenses and tally the lists of linens needed, he had paid her no particular attention that spoke of a heart engaged.

She was certain that he liked her, as she liked him.

But while friendship might be a necessary part of love, there must be more.

Sophia remembered that delicious fire that had set her senses ablaze when she had reached out for Isaac’s hand that night in the cottage.

She recalled how he came to her in her dreams, how she craved his company, even when he was troubled by that cloud he talked about, or by his terrible dreams. She enjoyed Mr Bladestock’s company.

But she would move mountains to be with Isaac, if only she could.

That was the difference between friendship and love, and even without any real hope, she could not forsake the chance that one day, she might feel something like this again.

“It is true, is it not,” she asked at last, “that your affections are as much engendered by my aunt’s promise of a fortune as by my own charms?

You can admit it without fear that I shall be insulted or angry.

A man needs money to live. Many women have married for less, and nobody thinks ill of them.

But I… I have felt what it is to love, and that is worth more than a pocket of coin. ”

“It is Hollimore. Do not deny it.” His eyes were sad, but not accusatory, and there was a trace of a smile where she might expect a grimace.

“I suspected as much. The way you looked over towards him at dinner only confirmed it. I still had hopes, but he is a good man, and I wish you every happiness together.”

“That is unlikely. He has made no offers, and I expect none. I would only bring him down in the world, where he needs a wife who will open the doors to society.”

“But you are welcomed everywhere!” Mr Bladestock’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “I cannot hear a word about you that is not full of praise.”

“That is only because I entertain everybody. If not for my music, my parentage would quite bar me from most salons.”

Now that mild expression turned to one of anger, but not, surprisingly, at her.

“Is that,” he asked, “something you know to be true? Or is it only what your aunt has always told you? We have just now ascertained that she does not always have your best interests at heart. You do deserve love, Miss Bradley, but the first person from whom to seek it is yourself.”

How those simple words shook her.

The world shifted a little and when it came back into focus, everything Sophia saw was slightly different than before.

Was it true? Did she think so little of herself that she was prepared to give up the man she loved?

For so much of her life, she had been told she was tainted, condemned by her parents’ sins.

But what if that was wrong? She had one chance, and she knew, in a flash of insight, that she had to take it.

It was absolutely the wrong thing to do. It went against everything she had ever been taught. But if she did not find Isaac and tell him she loved him, she would regret it her entire life.

If he cast her off and refused to see her again, she would be no worse off than she was now. And if he did not… if he listened to her… she might gain everything.

She turned her wide eyes to Mr Bladestock, who answered with another sad smile.

“Go,” he said. “I wish you every happiness. I will always be here if you need me, but now, go. Go to him.”

Daring everything, and ensuring the door was closed, Sophia dashed forwards to catch him in a quick, grateful hug, and then stepped back to straighten her gown.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything. I hope you find your own joy.”

And she rushed from the room to search for the man who had stolen her heart.