Page 15 of Sophia’s Letter (Ladies of Munro #1)

T he days had passed rather differently for Sophia. To begin with, her father had returned on Monday to find Adriana gone.

At first he suspected nothing. Adriana was often out. She would take long walks, visit a neighbor for tea, meet with Freddy. Short of locking her in her room, Mr. Grant had given up control of Adriana on Mondays.

But she had always been home before dark.

Being late April, the sun was slower in setting. This far north, the light lingered until after eight in the evening, and Adriana was inclined to use every last second of it.

By half past the hour, the sky had fully darkened, and so had the mood in the home of the Grants. The siblings were questioned. Though no one but Sophia knew the truth, they all grasped at once what had happened. Not a word of it was suggested to their father. He would have to reach that conclusion on his own.

The servants were called in and interrogated. The coachman admitted driving her to church with her luggage but had been led to believe it was a friend’s wedding, and that the middle Miss Grant was visiting with the newlyweds for some weeks after.

Her lady’s maid was missing. Traveling with her mistress, the coachman explained, to attend to her, as always. Had he misunderstood? His eyes sought Sophia’s. A brisk shake of her head, and his loyalty was confirmed. No, there had been no one else.

Sophia watched her father process the information. He understood. He had been betrayed. Abandoned. Such would be his reaction. He would not bewail having missed the ceremony. He would not own the guilt for the extreme measures his daughter had been compelled to take. He would not regret the power he now gave Miss Sangford over two households, even should he be made aware of it.

Sophia saw his anger simmer up from its shallow well. But deeper, much deeper, lay the ink-black despair. He had lost a daughter. That which he feared most had come true. Another part of his heart had been shorn off. Now he would cling tighter than ever to what was left. And drive his precious children even further from him.

The servants were dismissed from his presence. They would not be held accountable. Adriana had protected them with lies. And now Sophia must do the same. She must conspire and manipulate because her father could not be reasoned with. It was the lesser of two evils in Sophia’s mind. She blamed Miss Sangford for this difficult choice. She blamed her father. And she blamed herself for not having the strength to stand up to them.

It took her several days to build up the courage to approach her father at all. For better or worse, he did not speak of Adriana. It was as if she had never existed. For the moment, it was simpler this way. Life proceeded with chilling normality. Sophia knew this would take its toll on the family. But for now, it was easier to speak with her father when he was calm, or at least offered the semblance of calm.

Tobias had written the day before. A letter from the Viscount Howell was included. He had done his part. Was she ready to do hers?

Well, of course she wasn’t! How could he understand? The truth was, she had never helped him to. It was just so hard to speak of. Painful. Humiliating.

Yet, ready or not, this was the path before her—to convince her father to host a poetry reading on her behalf. It was not going to be easy. But it would be a good degree easier than telling him about Tobias.

In the midst of her nervous symptoms—a churning stomach, and a chest that grew tighter as the moment of action neared—Sophia was amazed to find a flutter of excitement. Certainly, guests in the house were unusual, but Sophia did not have a strong appetite for visitors to begin with. No, the buzz of anticipation was for the eager crowd, headed by the viscount himself, who would be drawn to their home just to hear her read her own words.

It was everything she had ever wanted—to be recognized, validated. And yet, she realized, this alone was not enough. Her world had expanded in the past months. She wanted more. She wanted Tobias. She wanted to share her words with him. To touch his mind more than any other. To touch his heart. To touch.

A memory drifted up of his hands upon her waist, his lips seeking hers, their warm breath mingling, their heartbeats merging as if they were one being. That was what she wanted. A life shared, in every way.

Perhaps they might even be blessed with children. Sophia did not know if her body was capable, but she wanted very much to bring more of Tobias into the world, more of his selflessness and courage. She had known so much fear and for so long. If she could lay it down, she would never take it up again. She would run headlong into the future, her arms open wide to receive all the joys that a life with Tobias could bring. If she could lay down the fear.

But first, this moment in which she felt very alone. It was only the knowledge that Tobias had already struggled up the same hill with his uncle which she must now climb with her father that gave her the confidence to proceed.

Here he came. To kiss her cheek. To bid her good morning. To inquire after her health. To test that the leash with which he bound her was intact.

Well, today she would test it.

“Good morning, Papa,” Sophia began, tilting her head to offer the expected cheek. Everything must be familiar, comfortable. Only that which she asked must challenge him. She must lull him, gently, gently, into a state of complaisance.

Her father strode across the carpeted floor. He was dressed for riding, his long hair tied back in a queue that was no longer fashionable. Then again, so much of her father was stuck in the past.

The kiss was given and received. He stepped back to take in the whole picture that was his eldest daughter. “How is my Sophia today? Did you sleep well?”

“I am as much myself as always,” she answered. Cryptic as her reply might seem, her father would understand. After all, how could she say she was well when she was confined to this room, this chair? She was well enough. It would suffice.

“Have you had your breakfast yet?”

“Not yet, Papa.”

“I could join you after I have taken my exercise, if you are willing. I will be gone but an hour.”

Sophia wanted to say she was hungry now, that she was about to send Katie for her breakfast tray. But she did not. He must suffer no disappointment. Not now. She had much to ask of him. They must begin from a place of agreement.

“I will gladly wait for you. Perhaps we may dine at the table. You will have built up an appetite. And a tray can be so clumsy.”

“A fine idea!” He turned to Katie. “See that the table is set. And ask Cook to bring out the blackberry preserves.” He smiled at Sophia. He knew it was her favorite.

“Thank you, Papa. You are very thoughtful,” she said, and she meant it.

“Anything to make you happy,” he answered.

Anything? Sophia bit back the bitter reply. It was easy enough to offer a treat while refusing her the freedom to marry. Like a good dog. Stay. Good girl! Have some blackberry reserves.

Her father left the room. And Sophia waited for his return, in thoughtful captivity.

*

An hour later, they were seated together at the small table in the drawing room. Papa was in a very good mood, even humming a little as he spread butter on his hot crumpet.

Sophia had set aside her grievances for now. That was a battle for another day, if she ever found the courage. Today’s skirmish was merely in aid of her poetry. At least, that would be the story she told.

“Papa,” she began.

“Hmm?” Her father’s voice slipped naturally from a hum to a question.

“I have received a very encouraging letter. Can you guess who sent it?”

Her father paused in the midst of the bite he was about to take. “Is it a publisher?”

“No, not a publisher. Someone more powerful than that.”

“Who is more powerful to the artist than their publisher?” her father wanted to know.

“An influential reader,” she replied.

“I am intrigued. Is it one of your comrades in poetry? Byron, perhaps? Wordsworth?”

“Not a poet. You may have one more guess.”

“I’m afraid you will have to enlighten me. I cannot think who it might be.”

“It is Lord Howell!” Her body trilled with glee as she said the words, for the viscount did indeed admire her work, and the knowledge mattered a great deal to her.

“Well, now, that is a thing, indeed!” Her father sat back, his hands paused in mid-action. “To have gained his lordship’s attention is no small achievement. What does his letter say?”

“I shall read it to you.” She reached into her dress pocket and drew out the page, unfolding it with reverence.

“‘ To the poet, Miss Sophia Grant. ’” Sophia grinned up at her father. “It is official. Our most prominent member of society has declared me a poet.”

“And so he should. I am gratified to discover that he is the man of good taste I had always thought him to be.”

They shared a moment of happy connection. Then Sophia read on.

“‘ I am pleased to say that I acquired your volume of poems for my library at Munro House. I fully intend to recommend it to my circle of close friends. They will, no doubt, do the same. In fact, I imagine a reprint will become necessary to accommodate the growing interest. ’”

“I shall write to the printers after breakfast,” Mr. Grant promised. “How many copies shall I order?”

“It might be a fair number,” Sophia explained. “His lordship has an idea in mind. He is quite the champion to our cause.”

“Is he? That is very generous of him. You are lucky indeed to have such a busy man turn his thoughts to your advancement.”

For a moment, Sophia imagined a flicker of suspicion in her father’s eyes. Could he possibly think Lord Howell would be interested in her for anything beyond poetry? Her thoughts drifted down to her imperfect legs, and the illness that had wrought them so. No, her father had nothing to fear. No viscount would want her for a bride. However, Lord Howell had obviously given her condition some thought. She voiced as much to her father.

“He even considers the difficulty of my physical situation in the event he has planned.”

“Event? What event?” The first tendril of opposition curled into the conversation.

“See for yourself.” Sophia, too anxious to read the words aloud, thrust the letter at her father.

He perused the contents, lifting his head after a few lines to ask, “A poetry reading? He cannot possibly expect you to travel to that mausoleum of a house. You will catch your death of cold, even if every fire in every hearth were lit!”

“Read on,” she urged. “He has taken that into account.”

Mr. Grant grumbled under his breath but finished the letter. “I see,” he remarked, though he frowned as he said it. “He suggests we host it here. He will be in attendance. And he will advertise this formal gathering among his learned associates. Exactly how many people are we talking about, Sophia?”

“I believe, not counting the household, one might expect at least…thirty?”

“Thirty strangers in my house!”

“Thirty supporters , Papa. It is only for the afternoon. And his lordship will be here. From what I understand, he is no more an enthusiast of such gatherings than we are. And yet he will do this for me, whom he does not even know beyond what I have written. Can you bear it, Papa, for me, your daughter?”

A multitude of emotions flitted across her father’s face. Sophia dug her nails into her palms. She had played the only two cards she had. Her father was as great a friend to her career as he was an enemy of her freedom. Having denied her the one, he would be hard-pressed to deny the other as well. As for the viscount, he was a difficult man to say no to. If his presence necessitated the attendance of countless others… Well, it would be a close call.

“We…We could arrange it for a Monday. Then you would not have to endure it.” It was a last, desperate attempt to convince her father. Her fingers dug deeper into her palms. And then…

“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I will be there. What sort of father do you think I am?”

Sophia was so elated at his response that it was easy to ignore his question. She flung her arms around his shoulders, almost toppling from her chair as she did so.

“Oh, thank you, Papa! Thank you! A thousand times thank you! You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Her father stood and carefully settled her back in her seat. “It would be impossible not to know,” he said matter-of-factly. “You have nearly thrown yourself upon the floor with enthusiasm. Sometimes I wonder if you are so very different to Adr—”

He cut himself off. The air filled with unspoken thoughts.

“Papa…” Sophia reached her hand across to his arm. He ignored it, sitting down and returning his attention to his crumpet.

“I assume his lordship will only invite the sort of people with whom he would be willing to spend time,” he said stiffly. “I will not stand to be a curiosity for idle gossip.”

“No, Papa.” Dread descended upon her at the thought of Miss Sangford. Surely, she would be on her best behavior if she hoped to snag the earl? Sophia had no choice but to hope it was so.

“Two weeks,” her father pondered aloud. “It seems a little rushed. Then again, I imagine the viscount has few openings in his schedule.”

“Cook need only prepare some light refreshment,” Sophia reassured him. “It should not place any undue pressure on her. And no one is spending the night, so there is little to be done by way of readying rooms. Honestly, Papa, now that I know it is really happening, I am grateful it will be soon. I already feel my nerves beginning to tremble.”

Turning to face her, her father cupped her hand in his. Sophia looked at the protective fingers curled around her own, then up into his eyes. They were filled with such compassion that she had to look away. He really did love her. And yet…

One day, she would have to stand her ground. Tell him what the darker side of his love—his ferocious attachment—was doing to the family. Today, she had been a little brave. But it would take far more courage to broach the topic of marriage.

At least Miss Sangford could be held at bay a while longer. Two more Mondays with Tobias were granted her. Sophia bloomed at the thought. She felt the echo of his lips against her neck, a soft, lingering heat creeping into her cheeks.

“Are you all right?” her father asked. “You are looking a little flushed. If this gathering is going to cause you further strain, we shall call it off at once.”

“No!” Sophia cried in alarm. “Er… I mean, there is no need for that. It is a little excitement, and nothing else. I will settle soon. After breakfast, I will select the poems for the reading. Once I have a task to focus on, the apprehension will fade.”

Her father’s worried gaze softened. “I suppose I should attend to my own duties also, most important of which is the letter to the printers. Once you have won the hearts of your audience at the reading, we must make sure they are not disappointed when they seek your book for themselves.”

How ready her father was to give her up to her readers! How easily he spoke of hearts and passion when it came to her poems. A barrier of pages kept her safe from them, tucked away at home, hidden behind her words.

More and more, she felt dissatisfaction and resentment replace helplessness and acceptance. One day, she would…

Her house of cards collapsed. She would never have the strength to do what Adriana had done. It just wasn’t in her.

However, when she imagined her future without Tobias, little whorls of courage rose up within her. It needed to percolate into a full-scale tornado before anything could be done to change her fate. That seemed a phenomenon unlikely in the climate of her life.

And yet, despite her doubts and fears, Sophia had a sense that the weather was shifting.