Page 18 of Sophia’s Letter (Ladies of Munro #1)

S ophia was gently deposited on the library’s sunny window sofa. Katie took up a protective position at her right shoulder, squaring off against Miss Sangford, who had followed close behind. Upon their arrival, two gentlemen seated nearby, bent in concentration over a scattering of yellowed pages, lifted their heads in unison.

“Oh, Lord Carthige, Mr. Mannerly, I see you have found my mother’s sketches.” Sophia smiled as she made herself comfortable on the plush, burgundy upholstery. “They are rather good, aren’t they? She had such an eye for detail. You should see her watercolors. Unfortunately, they are upstairs. They really were too lovely to hide in a dusty, leather binding. Father had them framed and they hang in and around our various bedrooms. I could have the footman fetch one, if you like.”

“That will not be necessary,” the earl assured her, rising from his chair. “With your permission, we shall take our leave. You will have come here for a modicum of privacy, and we shall not disturb you.”

Sophia cast an anxious glance toward Miss Sangford.

“Please do not leave on my account,” she replied hastily. “I only seek relief from the press of bodies and the closeness their multitude of breaths create. There is room enough here for us to share without repeating those conditions.”

“You are certain?” he asked.

“I am. Perhaps now you will reconsider my offer to show you one of my mother’s paintings?”

“May I support Miss Grant’s suggestion?” came the even tones of Miss Sangford. “I should very much like to see her mother’s artistic skill.”

The sincerity in her voice was so convincing, Sophia wondered if it could be real. Miss Sangford put so much effort into her pretense at warmth, it was strange that she should not choose to embrace it as an authentic part of herself. It would have made her search for a husband easier. And she would not have been the outcast in good society that she was. True friendship must have surely escaped her. Those who sought her company were no better than herself. They gave her no motive for improvement. Sophia found herself feeling a little sad for Miss Sangford. Until she remembered why she was here.

Lord Carthige, oblivious of Miss Sangford’s motives, dipped his brow in acquiescence. “If the young lady is to be satisfied, then perhaps it is not such an imposition to have the painting sent for.”

“Excellent!” Sophia turned to the footman, who had withdrawn to an inconspicuous position against the wall. “I think the portrait in the hallway outside George’s room is a good choice. It is not Mama’s best work, but it is still very fine. And it is an easy size to carry down the stairs.”

The footman left at once, and Sophia caught Tobias’s eye.

Now. It was time.

“I suppose,” she said hurriedly, keen for the torment of this task to be over, “introductions are in order. My lord, may I introduce Miss Irene Sangford?”

“Sangford?” inquired the earl. “I am not familiar with your family.” He turned to his nephew. “Was she on our list?”

“She came at my personal invitation, my lord,” Sophia explained, while Miss Sangford stood like a horse whose pedigree was in question. “She is…er…that is to say…her family is descended from the Hanover Sanfords. A distant relation to the queen, I am told.”

Why was she defending the woman? She despised her! But the idea of there being a list that one was not on brought out Sophia’s protective instincts. She had too often been on such unwritten lists.

“Ah, yes.” His lordship smiled, the mystery solved. “Are you a fellow connoisseur of poetry, Miss Sangford, or are you here simply to support a friend?”

To declare herself a friend would have been such an abomination of the truth that even Miss Sangford could not manage to say it. She spluttered a little as she formulated a response that was both suitable and attractive to her target. “Yes…well…if one is a friend to poetry, one must be a friend to Miss Grant. Her writing is most endearing.”

“Is it?” Lord Carthige frowned. “That is not quite the word I had in mind. But then again, women see things differently. Which of her poems would be an example of this endearing quality? I would like to read it again with new eyes.”

Sophia suppressed a grin. It was becoming clear that, while Miss Sangford had come prepared to charm the earl, she had not, in fact, researched the materials with which to charm him. It was amusing to watch the machine of her mind slip gears behind her startled eyes.

“I would far rather hear your thoughts on the matter, my lord,” Miss Sangford deflected. “Your wealth of experience makes your opinion far more worthy.”

“I disagree. It simply means I have had more opportunity to become set in my ways. The eyes of youth see with freshness, and a passion that we of an earlier generation have set aside. Yet I am willing to be enlightened.”

“This ought to be good,” Katie mumbled just near enough to Sophia’s ear for her to hear. Sophia flicked her fan open to hide the smile that her lips could not.

“I confess, my memory is not reliable,” said the floundering Miss Sangford. “Perhaps, if I had Miss Grant’s book with me, I could find the lines I had in mind.”

“I have a copy right here,” Sophia announced, holding out the volume that she had placed on the seat beside her.

“Oh, good,” Miss Sangford answered weakly. “Er…I might take a while to find the exact page. If you will be patient.”

“Of course,” replied his lordship. “Do not feel rushed on my account.”

Miss Sangford, who was likely reading the poems for the first time, scoured the stanzas for anything that might qualify as endearing. She was probably kicking herself for choosing that descriptor. She would soon realize the book in her hands would offer her no evidence of such a quality. Passion, yes. Depth, yes. A rendering of classical images and thoughts, certainly. But the trite view that the work was endearing, like a child’s misspelled letter to a favorite aunt, was quite misplaced.

As she turned the pages, Miss Sangford must have come to this very conclusion. Sophia imagined that she had, in all likelihood, stopped reading and was using the time with her head bowed over the book to scheme her way out of this situation.

Miss Sangford was spared further embarrassment when the footman arrived with the painting. Visibly relieved, she handed the book back to Sophia. “I shall find the poem later, if you like. Seeing your mother’s art is a privilege I would not want to miss.”

She reached for the frame and gazed at its contents thoughtfully. “It is very good,” she said, in a voice that was strangely quiet. As if the portrait truly moved her. As if she meant what she said.

She turned to Lord Carthige. “Do you see, my lord?” She angled the painting so that he must stand close beside her to share its view. “It captures something that has since been lost.”

The earl stood, almost shoulder to shoulder with the most dangerous person in the room, focused intently on the object before him, unaware of the peril he was in. “Ah, yes.” He nodded. “Mr. Grant.” He paused. “It is the way a wife sees her husband. All his complexity. Yet none of those many layers hide the essence of what he expresses through his eyes, and which she has captured through her brush.”

“Love,” Miss Sangford breathed.

“Indeed,” the earl agreed.

There was an intake of breath throughout the room. Lord Carthige and Miss Sangford remained lost in the portrait. An unlikely pair to be captivated by such deep feeling. Neither mentioned the angle of the brushstrokes, or the subtlety of color. The artist had drawn them past mere technique into a well of emotion.

Just when Sophia felt she must say something, anything, to break the spell, her father entered the room and did it for her.

“I see all is well,” he remarked, though Sophia did not currently share his sentiment. Miss Sangford and the earl lifted their heads reluctantly to behold the very man whose visage had held their attention a moment before.

“What do you have there?” Mr. Grant asked as he approached. He took the frame from Miss Sangford’s unresisting hands, turning it to face him. He looked up at Sophia. “You had this fetched.”

Sophia nodded. “Lord Carthige found Mama’s portfolio of old sketches among our shelves. But they don’t do her artistry justice, do they, Papa? Her paintings are a far better reflection of her talent.”

Her father viewed the portrait once more. Sophia knew he did not see his own image. He was remembering the hours he’d posed for his wife. The way she’d looked at him while she’d worked. The things she’d seen in him that no one else had.

“She was a remarkable painter,” Lord Carthige said quietly.

“She was a remarkable woman,” Sophia’s father replied.

“After all these years, it still cuts deeply,” the earl said, as if to himself.

“You understand.”

“You know I do.”

Sophia’s father lowered the painting, looking directly at his neighbor. “I had forgotten. It was remiss of me. Sometimes one’s own sorrow blinds one to that of others.”

“It was such a long time ago.”

“Time changes nothing.”

If only Miss Sangford had remained quiet.

But she didn’t.

“Perhaps,” she said, as one who could never understand such loss, “it is not time one needs, but the love of a good woman.” She smiled her encouragement to the earl, testing his readiness to be pursued. The smile was not returned.

Sophia watched Lord Carthige’s shoulders sag with weariness, while her father’s expression morphed into searing contempt.

“I have already had the love of a good woman,” he bit back. “Do you think I will ever find her equal?” He threw his hand out to indicate the earl, his voice rising with hurt and anger. “Are men like us supposed to tear the scars from our hearts so that some other woman who could never take her place can climb inside and nest there like a Gorgon?”

“Papa!” Sophia felt the tears welling up, the agony of her father too much to bear.

He whirled round to face her, his face a storm, his lips wet with spittle. She held his eyes, pleading silently. Within a few raggedy breaths, he had subsided. In two steps he was with her, taking her hand and lifting it to his bowed temple.

“Ah, no need for a Gorgon, my dear,” he said, his voice low and thick. “My heart is already a stone.” He leaned her knuckles onto his brow, his words now a mere whisper. “And you bear the weight of it.”

Sophia’s free hand reached up and cupped her father’s cheek. “We all struggle together,” she said. “Mama’s absence is a wound that will not close.”

Silence descended upon the room. No one knew what more to say. For once, that included Miss Sangford.

Sophia’s father pulled her hand from his cheek, squeezed it gently, and released it. The other he kissed and returned to her before taking a deep breath and turning to face his stunned audience. Remnants of recent emotion, mixed with embarrassment, showed upon his face.

If only she knew how to undo all that had just transpired! It was her fault, bringing strangers into his home, his sanctuary. He would have been spared this pain and humiliation, if not for Miss Sangford. And Sophia was the one who had given the enemy power over her with the secrets she kept from her father.

Then again , said a new voice inside her, bold and challenging, was it not your father who forced such secrets upon you? Is it not he whose relentless sorrow extends all of ours? How long must we be held ransom to his misery? Why may his children not know the depth of love that he still feels? Her pity shrank as this voice grew louder. How they all pandered to his needs! Fifteen years had not been enough for him to feel relief, nor offer it to his children.

She looked at Tobias, whose skin was flushed with silent restraint. Did he understand at last? Would he give up now, knowing there was no hope for her father to release her? Or did he wish, more than ever, to free her from this house of endless mourning?

She cursed her legs that could not stride from the room, could not offer her escape. She wanted to be far from her father and his morbid obsession with a memory. Instead, she would have to ask. Please carry me. Please release me. She felt a scream of frustration build in her throat.

Her father, by contrast, had calmed. “I fear I have rather shocked you,” he said to Miss Sangford. “I pray you will forgive my outburst, for my daughter’s sake.”

Ah , thought Sophia, Miss Sangford will do no such thing. She has seen that the earl is beyond her reach, beyond the reach of any woman. She need spare no one now. There’s no reward in it for her.

And yet, Miss Irene Sangford paused. Perhaps she remembered the room beyond was filled with men as well as women. Some would be fathers. But others might include an unwed brother, or chaperoning cousin. And if the earl and his friend the viscount were here, the other gentlemen would no doubt be from families of the highest caliber. To antagonize her host would be to cut off all potential that lay but two doors down.

“I have not yet heard Miss Grant read,” she said at last. “Nothing has occurred that would prevent me from doing so. That is why we are here, after all.”

Sophia’s father bowed his head briefly. “Thank you for your understanding. It is most generous of you.”

Lord Carthige tapped the back of his hand against Tobias’s arm but addressed their host. “I believe your daughter came here to rest. We have robbed her of that. Please excuse us. My nephew and I will rejoin the others. Miss Sangford, may I escort you?”

He held out an arm and she took it readily. Even if her designs on the earl were a lost cause, being seen on his arm couldn’t hurt.

So it was that when Lord Howell at last hastened into the library—most likely having had to fend off mothers and their eligible daughters—he found his friend in the clutches of the notorious Miss Irene Sangford.

“Miss Sangford,” he cried, “I did not know you would be here.”

It was the truth and a lie. She had definitely not been on his list of potential brides. He would not have expected her to attend the reading. But Sophia had seen him frown at Miss Sangford earlier. Her presence had been noted. Lord Howell knew she had followed them out of the room. Was that why he had come, clearly in a hurry, to join Lord Carthige?

Miss Sangford smiled her feral smile and leaned into her escort’s arm more closely. “My lord, why would you concern yourself with whether I am here on not? I am no one of importance.”

“So you know each other,” Sophia’s father interjected. “Well, that saves us the trouble of introductions.”

“Indeed,” Miss Sangford replied. “We often attend the same events. We have several friends in common.”

“Those are not my friends,” the viscount replied gruffly. “There are functions I am expected to attend. That is all.”

“Oh, you are too modest, Lord Howell,” Miss Sangford said with practiced coyness. “All of Munro would be your friend. If you would but give them a chance.”

“All of Munro can mind its own business,” he huffed. “I know who my real friends are. And I have come to fetch one now. Carthige, if you would be so good, I need your assistance in a private matter. Mr. Mannerly, you would not mind escorting Miss Sangford instead.”

It was not a request, and Tobias stepped forward at once to comply. The earl released Miss Sangford’s arm with a polite bow of apology. Tobias grudgingly tipped his elbow toward her.

It was met with a look of disappointment, then disdain, and finally, inspiration. Miss Sangford threw a glance at Sophia, slipping her arm through that of Tobias and using her other hand to grip his bicep possessively. “You are too kind, sir. I could have managed well enough on my own, but this is very gentlemanly of you. I suppose I should be grateful you have no companion who might be jealous of your thoughtfulness toward me.”

Sophia wanted to scratch her eyes out! Did she have to take every opportunity to sow malice? Sophia bit her tongue to keep from snapping at her. She would not give that hussy the satisfaction of knowing she had hit her mark.

Tobias, however, did not hold back. “I assure you, Miss Sangford,” he said, while peeling her clutching hand from his person, “the sort of woman to whom I would form an attachment would not be envious of a simple act of chivalry. In fact, she would expect no less of me.”

“Is that true, Miss Grant?” Irene Sangford asked innocently.

Sophia froze. “Why… Why do you ask me?”

“You are the only other genteel woman in the room. I will hardly ask the opinion of a lady’s maid.” She looked down the considerable length of her nose at Katie, then angled her neck toward Sophia. “Do you not agree the softer sex is easily made jealous?”

Sophia exhaled her relief, though the sudden fright she’d felt at the question still left her heart thrumming in her ears. “No,” she said as firmly as her voice would let her, “we are no more inclined to such fits than the male of the species. It is a mark of an individual’s insecurity, and not of their gender. Where one is loved well, there is no need to watch and worry.”

“Well put, Miss Grant,” said Lord Howell. And then, cutting off any further discussion on the matter, he declared, “Mr. Mannerly, I believe we were leaving. Shall we get on with it?”

In answer, Tobias began at once to step toward the door. Miss Sangford, who had twisted to face Sophia, was caught off-balance and fairly lurched forward upon his arm. He continued to walk, forcing her to rearrange her steps to match his. As soon as they passed the viscount, he fell in behind to flank them. Lord Carthige hesitated a moment, then followed them out the door.

“Well!” Sophia’s father scratched the back of his neck. “They are an odd bunch. Miss Sangford seems not to know how to hold her tongue, though I am certain she means well. But she does have an unfortunate habit of raising ticklish subjects. A lapse in her education, no doubt. And then there is Lord Howell. A little arrogant, in my opinion. I suppose that a man of his station has not often been contradicted, and he has grown used to it. Yet when I observed him among our other guests, he appeared thoroughly uncomfortable. Is it the crowd, do you think? I could understand that. Not all men who are masters of their own domain enjoy the crush of so much humanity in one sitting. I certainly don’t.”

“They are opposites,” Sophia replied. “Lord Howell commands an audience, and Miss Sangford repels them. Thank goodness Lord Carthige is such a gentle soul. For all his knowledge and wealth, he is unassuming and kind.” Seizing the opportunity, she added, “One can see his nephew takes after him.”

“Does he?” her father asked. “I can’t say I noticed. He did not make much of an impression on me. A quiet chap. And accommodating. I suppose those are not bad qualities. But his uncle suggested he was a talkative sort of fellow. Perhaps I should be grateful he held his tongue. We did not need any further superficial chatter with Miss Sangford in the room. Self- control is a worthy quality to have. If he has inherited that from Lord Carthige, he has done well.”

Sophia’s heart rang out a happy and triumphant note to the heavens. A compliment! Her father had given Tobias a compliment! Granted, he would not have done so if he’d known the nature of the man’s relationship with his daughter. But it was an honest view, and she hugged herself with the knowledge of it. Aloud, she merely said, “He does seem to be an honorable man. It must run in the family.”

Her father snorted. “Insofar as it includes his uncle, Lord Carthige, yes. But the earl’s brother is a dandy if ever I saw one. He wastes more money on his wardrobe than his wife does hers. Mr. Mannerly may be grateful if he resembles the older brother in character. In all likelihood, Lord Carthige wishes he could pass his title to his nephew rather than his brother. But that, I’m sorry to say, is not how these things work.”

“It does not seem to bother Mr. Mannerly.”

“No, indeed. But one cannot discount the benefits of a large inheritance.”

“I imagine he only desires a sufficient income to supply his desire for books.”

Her father nodded. “Another quality he shares with his uncle. Even today, among a crowd of eligible young women, one finds them both in the library.”

Sophia felt the corners of her mouth twitch into a knowing smile.

“ Tch , such a pity you were denied your rest for their sakes,” her father said. Then he caught sight of her expression. “Yet you do not seem the worse for it.”

“It was enough to breathe less stuffy air awhile,” she answered. “And I was distracted from fretting about my reading.”

“Do you feel ready to proceed, then? To be honest, I would be glad to have all these people out of my house at last.”

Did she feel ready? Sophia considered this. She had survived Miss Sangford and all her devilry. There was nothing more they had to offer the woman, no fodder for her manipulations. The secrets she held over them could serve no further purpose. Thanks to the protection of the viscount, Lord Carthige had escaped unharmed. Miss Sangford might toy with the Grants of the world, but she would not risk the fury of nobility. Furthermore, Tobias and her father had met without incident. All in all, it had been as much of a success as she could have hoped for. What was a poetry reading when compared to challenges such as these?

“Yes,” she declared, “I am as ready as I’ll ever be. In fact, I am eager to get it over and done with before I change my mind.”

Her father wasted no time. He sent the footman to return the painting, and then bring Sophia to her little dais. Meanwhile, Papa went on ahead to have the guests seated and ready to begin.

They were still milling about, selecting chairs next to their kin, or at least someone of suitable standing, when Sophia was carried in. Her presence sped up the procedure and mercifully kept many eyes from her for the moment. Those of Miss Sangford were still narrow with furious disappointment but were barely visible from her ostracized position near the back.

Sophia cast her gaze away from her audience and captured a tiny movement at the doorway. Familiar curls appeared around the partially opened door, followed by Bess’s inquisitive eyes. They locked with Sophia’s and a grin materialized on young Bess’s face. Sophia tried not to react. Papa would not have been pleased to know that his youngest had snuck down to the gathering. Sophia wished that Bess, at least, might have been allowed to attend. The absence of her siblings at such a momentous occasion was sorely felt.

Bess’s hand crept around the edge of the door to steady herself. Then another hand clasped it and, with a brief yelp, Bess disappeared. A worried frown from the housekeeper popped up instead. Sophia gave a quick, reassuring blink. Then the door closed once more. Sophia sighed her disappointment.

By now, the front row of seats had been filled. Sophia did not recognize many of the occupants. Squarely in the center, though, were her father, the viscount, the earl, and dear, precious Tobias. He made sure he had her attention. Sliding his hand surreptitiously to his chest, he pressed it to his heart, smiling encouragement at her.

Sophia focused on that hand, that smile. The noise in the room faded into the background. The silence that finally descended went unheeded by her, until her father stood and made an official statement of welcome. He turned and nodded for her to begin. Sophia barely acknowledged him. She opened her little volume of poems and lifted it so that her voice might travel better as she read. All the while, she felt the caress of Tobias’s eyes upon her. The hours, days, weeks they had spent discussing her verse, in person and via countless letters, swirled around her like a mystical cocoon. She was safe. She was worthy. She was loved.

As she spoke her words to life, the rapt focus of a crowd of strangers was but a distant echo of her beloved’s attention. For Sophia, it was a private conversation. For the hour that followed, she read her treasured works to an audience of one.

It was his face that stayed in her mind when Katie put her to bed that night. His applause that curled her toes with pleasure. And—she hugged herself with the thought—his lips she would seek when Monday brought him back again to her waiting arms.