Page 8 of Love’s Refrain at Roslyn Court (Noble Hearts #2)
Eight
ISAAC
T his walk had been a good idea. Despite his initial reluctance to encourage any expectations on the part of Louisa Poole—or, more accurately, her mother—the young lady seemed to have no notion of catching herself a future viscount.
Instead, young Miss Poole appeared to be far more interested in attracting the attention of Jeremy Southam, whoever he was.
Sophia… Miss Bradley caught his curious expression.
“Jeremy is an old friend. We ought to call him Mr Southam now, I know, but he has been Jeremy for so long, it would feel quite unnatural. He is the son of the village attorney and has been at Oxford these last three years.”
“The family are well-to-do, then, that they dine with the gentry?”
Miss Bradley gave another indulgent smile.
“We are not so grand here, nor do we have such a large neighbourhood that we can afford to be so particular. The Southams are elegant enough for uncle, if not high enough for my aunt. But they are quite comfortable; Mr Southam—Jeremy’s father—had a thriving practice in Gloucester before settling in Chilcombe, and still manages the affairs of a select few men whose names are known to everybody.
Jeremy is clerking for him now, and will one day take his place. ”
“But he is in trade,” Louisa wailed, “and Mama has said I must end my friendship with him.”
“I, however,” Miss Bradley added with a sardonic grimace, “am under no such strictures. I may associate with the ragman, and my aunt would not stop me. This is my place, and I must be satisfied with it. There, Major! You seem now to be privy to all our secrets. You have been here only a handful of days, and three of them ill, and already you have nothing left to discover about us.”
He feigned a pensive look.
“Just so. Once I discover your favourite colour and the name of the horrid novel you have hidden away where Mrs Oswald will never find it, that will be the end of any useful discussion, and I may then direct all my remarks to Sir Neville regarding the new foals over at the stables, the hunt, and the races next month.”
Sophia—no, Miss Bradley. He really must not get into the habit of thinking of her as Sophia—cast her eyes skyward in mock disdain, which she followed with a carefree chuckle, and for a moment, all Isaac could think was how delightful it was to see her be free like this.
Oh, he liked her more than well enough in the guise she adopted in the house, so cool and ordered, calm efficiency personified.
But here, out of doors and away from the eyes that would dictate her future, she allowed herself to reveal more of her true character, and he saw now a hint of those passionate depths whence her marvellous music sprang.
Thanking the heavens she could not read his thoughts, he asked a question about the age of the church, at whose doors they had just arrived.
“You will meet our vicar, and he will explain all. There is Mrs Thremble at the schoolhouse.”
Louisa Poole waved her greetings and ran over.
A young man, tall and stocky, with light brown hair and elegant attire, stood in the shadow of the building, and he stepped forward as she neared.
Isaac watched his graceful bow, and could hardly miss the light touch he placed on Louisa’s hand in greeting.
“Mr Southam?” he asked Sophia in a low voice. Good gracious, she would always be Sophia in his mind, and heaven help him remember to address her suitably when they spoke.
She nodded. “Yes, that is Jeremy. He somehow finds time to help with the children as well on exactly those days when Louisa is there.” More serious now, she turned her eyes to him, honey-flecked brown and pleading. “You will not tell my aunt. Please.”
“No, of course not. Far be it for me to stand in the way of two people’s happiness. There is enough sorrow in this world. I have no wish to cause more.”
She grabbed his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “Thank you!” Then, realising what she had done, stared down at where she still held it for a moment, before dropping it like it burned.
It did burn, but there was no pain in the flame.
“I… I must give these embroidered squares to Mrs Thremble.” She changed the subject neatly and they walked over to the small building where the children from the village and some local farms learned their ABCs.
It was not until they were walking back to Roslyn Court some time later that Sophia addressed her impulsive actions.
They had been to the chandler, where she had some business to conduct on behalf of Lady Poole, and to the general store, where she introduced Isaac to the proprietor and several acquaintances from the village who happened to be present and whom he had not met before.
Now, with the sun at their backs, they wandered not along the short path leading directly to the house, but across the bridge and around the far end of the lake, through some of the fields that held the promise of a fruitful harvest.
“Major Hollimore,” she began, “I do hope you will forgive my thoughtless actions earlier. I was only so concerned on Louisa’s behalf, and then so grateful…”
Her face peered up at him from under that ridiculous bonnet, so deep that he could scarcely see her, and something shifted inside him.
“There is nothing to forgive. Nothing at all! But I do have a boon to ask.”
“A boon? That sounds rather serious.”
He stopped walking for a moment to face her, and she turned toward him. “Oh, it is. Most serious indeed.” He allowed a smile to crack through the serious soldier’s face he had assumed for the moment. She exhaled in relief.
“If we are to be co-conspirators in this matter between your sister and Mr Southam,” he continued, “I cannot have you calling me Major Hollimore. It puts me in mind of the men under my command, and in truth, I shall not be a major for much longer. Yes, yes, I know I have the right to retain the title, but I must start to adjust my mind to civilian ways. Therefore, it would please me for you to call me Isaac.”
“Isaac.” She spoke the word aloud. “I did not know that was your name.”
“It is, and I give you leave to use it.”
“Then I must be Sophia.”
“The honour is mine, Sophia. It suits you. It is classic and refined.”
She flushed a soft peach that brought out the honey flecks in her eyes. He was seized by an inclination to grab her hand once more, and he fought it with difficulty.
Desperate for something to say to deflect this sudden awkwardness, he asked about the chandler, hoping she had noticed nothing amiss. It would not do to suggest… to reveal… to reveal what, exactly, he was not quite certain, but something.
Surely, he was not developing some sort of affection for her…
Sophia. That would not do. Yes, he had obeyed his uncle’s summons back to England and was quite prepared to do his part by learning what he must to eventually take on the estate and the title; he had given up the role of soldier, the only thing he had known, and was prepared one day—hopefully many years in the future—to become the next viscount.
But he had quite firmly decided that they must search further still for his heir.
He could never marry, never live with another person. This he had determined.
After all, he could barely live with himself.
He could refine his table manners, talk about the races, join the best clubs, and learn the newest dances.
He could learn about estate management and how to keep the books.
He could study up on investments and crops, or better, engage some smart fellow to do it for him.
He knew he would, with suitable effort and practice, be able to play the role of a nobleman, and possibly even enjoy it.
But when the guests departed and the candles were snuffed, when he was alone at the end of the day and removed his mask, he was reduced to a quivering wreck who lapsed into strange dark moods at no provocation, who saw black acrid smoke in a clear blue sky, and who could not sleep for more than two hours without waking covered in perspiration and most likely, screaming from the dreadful nightmares.
He could not subject anybody to that.
He could not marry.
Not even Sophia.