Page 4 of Sophia’s Letter (Ladies of Munro #1)

T hat confounded dinner invitation!

Sophia had tried everything to escape it. She had pleaded with Adriana. She blamed the weather, saying that spring would still be too cold for her to leave her cozy private chambers.

But Adriana was unmoved. “Was it not you who begged Papa for a carriage ride so you might take some fresh air?” Her eyebrows arched. “It would seem you have courage enough for snow, but not the hearth-heated dining room.”

“You know full well the snow does not terrify me as much as our father’s wrath,” Sophia countered.

Her sister shrugged. “Papa need never know. We have become quite adept at sneaking off on our little adventures behind his back.”

“You don’t even bother sneaking,” Sophia grumbled. “And I have only ever been a secret keeper . I have never created one of my own.”

Adriana’s lips tweaked into a poorly concealed smile. “Except for Mr. Mannerly.”

“Keeping our correspondence secret wasn’t my choice.”

“You are a poor liar, Fee. You could easily have discarded Mr. Mannerly’s letters. He would soon have given up trying. But you love every word he has written. Why, I am amazed the pages haven’t fallen to shreds from your constant re-reading of them!”

“You shouldn’t spy on me.” Sophia pouted. “It is poor form.”

“Just admit it. You can’t wait to meet him.”

Sophia hesitated. There was a degree of curiosity, to be sure. What did Mr. Mannerly look like? How did his voice sound?

But far, far deeper than this superficial interest ran the vein of fear. Her father was a surprisingly small part of it. What truly turned her blood cold was the thought of dear Mr. Mannerly discovering that the pedestal he had placed her on was made only of words. When reality leaned too heavily upon them, they would scatter from his mind, and his admiration with them.

“No.” Sophia’s answer was firm. “I would do very well if I never met him. You are risking my pleasant correspondence with Mr. Mannerly to satisfy your own love of intrigue. It is not kind, Adriana.”

Her sister’s face clouded. “I am being kind. I am trying my best to leave you in good hands when I marry Freddy. Or do you not want me to be happy? Perhaps it is you who are unkind. Perhaps you would like to see me shrouded in this house along with you, turning ever more gray and wrinkled until one of us abandons the other to death…”

“Dee-Dee!” Sophia’s hands flew to her mouth. “Don’t say such things!” Tears pricked her eyes. “I would never want you to share my fate.”

Adriana’s momentary disgruntlement dissolved. She lowered her head in shame. “I’m sorry. I went too far. Perhaps I take after our father more than I’d like.”

“Papa was not always as he is now.”

“No. He had better qualities. And I should emulate those. I should be looking out for you.” Adriana lifted her eyes to her sister once more. “I’m trying my best, Fee. I really am.”

Sophia released a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure this dinner is going to achieve what you wish it to. In fact, I am quite convinced of the opposite.”

A warm hand touched Sophia’s arm. “That is only because you don’t see yourself as we do. Mr. Mannerly is going to be more smitten than ever. He will want to carry you off with him the moment he lays eyes on you.” Adriana’s voice once again took on its familiar teasing ring. “Shall I order the footmen to hold him down when he does?”

It was impossible to reason with Adriana. She was not afraid to claim what was due her, or demand it on behalf of those she loved. And she assumed the rest of the world would make room for her, especially if she stood, legs akimbo, hand on hip, waggling her finger at it.

Acknowledging defeat against her sister’s stubborn optimism, Sophia considered another possible source to assist her in canceling the dinner. It couldn’t be Henry. He was still away at Cambridge. And Adriana was too bold a force for him to argue with her in a letter. It was hard enough to reason with her face to face.

Of course, Adriana would make sure Henry attended the dinner. When Father was away, the five siblings made a point of spending time together. The mood that reigned then harkened back to happier times. Almost as if Mama were still with them. Certainly, Adriana would call Henry home for a visit the moment Father left. But for now, he was unavailable to strengthen Sophia’s cause.

George would be no help, either. Adriana had too much with which to blackmail him. They all hid things from their father. The secrets ranged in severity, from George’s white lie about a work commitment so that he could spend a few days in London, out from under their father’s iron thumb, to the apocalyptic truth that Adriana was already engaged to Freddy.

That just left Bess. She was too young to undermine their father’s will, so Adriana had no secrets to hold over her. But she was also too young to have developed any skills that might challenge their brazen middle sister.

No, there was nothing for it. If Sophia was going to escape this dreaded dinner, she would have to reach for the only weapon she had.

Her father’s love.

It had become a strange, flightless version of the soaring devotion it once was—a twisted thing, corrupted by a sense of loss he had been unable to overcome. But the love was still there at his core.

Her health concerned him. Not in the possessive way that had soured much of his relationship with his children, but as a genuine worry for the wellbeing of his favorite child. Using it against him felt wrong. She just didn’t know what else to do.

Papa would not go to London if she were ill. And, if he did not leave, the dinner would be called off. It was a desperate act. And it was guaranteed to work. So, Sophia played the one ace she had. She took to her bed.

No sooner had Katie plumped up the pillows behind her than Papa materialized at her side. His dark, haunted look was exaggerated further with concern. His oiled queue had released a strand, which fell forward as he leaned toward her, arm extended.

“Should I send for the doctor?” he asked, touching the back of his hand to her feverless forehead.

“No, Papa. There is no need. I am just tired.”

“You should not walk so much,” he said with more concern than rebuke. “Katie must bring you what you need. And a footman is always available to carry you.”

“I know, Papa. I merely stand to be dressed. I have no opportunity to exert myself.” Her statement carried an edge of complaint, which her father seemed not to hear.

“Then it must be an illness.” He straightened up, furrows of worry etched upon his forehead. “I will send for Doctor Wesley at once.”

Sophia tried to harden her heart. Her father had brought this upon himself. She would not have to go to such extreme lengths if Mr. Mannerly had been welcome in their home. The dinner would have been easy to arrange, and then…

And then Mr. Mannerly would see her as she was. And those letters that brought her so much joy would swiftly change. Oh, he would be polite about it, she had no doubt. But they would wane into mere academic correspondence. In truth, it was all she had asked for. But Mr. Mannerly had been wonderfully persistent in his adoration of her. It was clear he had tried to curb his enthusiasm for her sake, yet it permeated every letter despite his best efforts. She could no longer imagine her life without his admiration, misplaced though it was.

She tried to ignore the pain in her father’s eyes. This once, she was putting herself first. Papa would never leave her now. Not after he had done so on that Monday fifteen years ago. He owed her this much.

He would stay with her this day, this week, this month. Whatever it took.

A trickle of stark reality ran like icy water through her thoughts. How long was she willing to confine herself to her bed? How would her father conduct his business if he never tended to it in London? Mightn’t Mr. Mannerly discover the truth about her through a gossipy neighbor instead?

If he came to dinner… If she saw the disappointment in his eyes… At least she would have seen him. It was small consolation. Under the circumstances, perhaps she should be grateful there was any. Best to get it over and done with. No Doctor Wesley fussing over her, guessing at what medicine might relieve her mysterious malady. No Papa fretting by her bedside. No prison to be made from her bedroom.

“I am merely feeling sorry for myself,” she confessed as her father hovered over her. “It would be selfish of me to keep you home when you have important business in London. I have such good care here, and I am feeling better already. It is just a passing melancholy.”

His obvious relief when she appeared to perk up soon afterward ate at her conscience. She had toyed with the one part of him that was still pure, all because she couldn’t face her own fears regarding a gentleman with whom she had no future. It made her more miserable than ever. Her father would still go to London. Mr. Mannerly would still come to dinner. She had hurt her father for nothing.

*

Papa lingered a little by Sophia’s side the morning before he left. “You are certain nothing ails you?”

“No more than what is usual,” she answered bravely, lifting her chin and offering him a smile. “There is no need for you to worry, Papa. I am as well as I can be.”

Her father must have accepted her at her word, for he kissed her gently on her forehead. “I’ll be back in just a few weeks.”

“Perhaps then it will be warm enough for us to take the carriage and see a bit of the countryside,” she added hopefully.

Her father frowned. “We shall see.”

If she had been Adriana, she would have folded her arms stubbornly and retorted smartly, “We certainly shall.” But she was not Adriana. Instead, she waited until she heard her father’s carriage leaving the drive before calling to Katie to bring her the writing tray. She had no more excuses. She was resigned to her fate.

A short letter to Mr. Mannerly provided the date and time for dinner. She didn’t have the will to discuss poetry. All her energy was spent on keeping her rising panic from overcoming her.

The letter was dispatched. And Sophia waited in agony.

Oh, if only he would be too busy! But, as she had expected, the reply was immediate and a resounding “yes.” In two days, Mr. Mannerly would be here. And it would at last be clear to him—the proof irrefutably before him—that she was by no means a goddess. And the pedestal he had placed her on would crumble to dust.