Chapter Nineteen

 

 

 

Hal was one stride from the chaise longue when the study door opened, and as quickly closed again. It was enough to break the spell. Sophie found herself on her feet, Hal’s arm steadying her as he looked at the closed door. Then it slowly opened and, with a slight warning cough preceding him, Grayling entered.

By the time the butler was into the room Hal was flicking over the pages of a parish magazine and Sophie was picking deadheads off the flower arrangement on John’s desk.

His face an imperturbable mask, Grayling announced, ‘Lady John has asked me to say, Miss Haydon, that she is quite ready for you.’

‘Thank you, Grayling,’ Sophie replied with what dignity she could muster, considering that her hair was distinctly ruffled and that her fichu had become twisted. ‘Please tell Lady John that I will be with her directly.’

The butler left and Sophie looked at her reflection in the over-mantle mirror in dismay. ‘Oh, look at me,’ she muttered, taking in her pink cheeks and tear-bright eyes.

‘I am looking,’ Hal said, coming to stand close behind her, his arms encircling her waist.

‘Stop it.’ She batted his hands away. ‘Emma is waiting for me and look at the state of my hair.’

Hal dropped a kiss on the top of her tousled, cropped head. ‘I think your hair is charming. You will set a new fashion when we are back in London.’

‘Nonsense,’ she scolded as she hurried from the room. Her pulse was racing and she tried to be grateful for Grayling’s interruption, but she knew in her heart that, had Hal pressed her, she would willingly have given herself to him. And she must not, must not, capitulate and condemn them both to a marriage that was wrong. However much he desired her, he had never told her he loved her and she was not such a sheltered innocent as to believe that he would not be equally aroused by any other presentable woman who yielded to him so willingly.

‘Ah, there you are.’ Emma was already seated before her little escritoire, a pile of hot-pressed paper before her, her quill freshly sharpened. She eyed Sophie’s face and remarked, ‘You look a little flushed, dear.’

‘I have just been having... words with Hal. I am sorry I kept you waiting.’

Emma frowned. ‘You have not been arguing again, have you? Surely now you must see that this is all for the best? After all, you do love him, don’t you?’

‘Please do not say anything about that, not even to John. I should never have told you how I felt about Hal.’ It was one thing for Hal to recognise that she desired him, quite another for him to know that she loved him. It would be difficult enough without having to endure his pity.

With only breaks to drink innumerable cups of tea, they settled down to the intricacies of wedding planning. For minutes at a time Sophie found herself carried along in the flow of Emma’s enthusiasm and undoubted skill for organisation.

They wrestled with menus and seating plans aided by frequent recourse to the etiquette book for orders of precedence. ‘Does the Rural Dean, who is the second son of an earl, take precedence over the bishop of a minor diocese or not?’ Emma muttered, flicking through the pages. Orders of service proved simpler – ‘John will guide you over the hymns and readings’ – and Emma brushed aside the question of carriages with, ‘Hal will deal with that.’

But these details, comfortingly unreal as if they were to do with another person altogether, were eventually replaced with the question of her trousseau and wedding clothes and Sophie found herself facing the reality of what exactly was happening.

‘We will go to Madame Levalle, of course, she is quite the best modiste in York, and her seamstresses also have a good reputation for embroidered, er, undergarments.’ Emma recovered herself, apparently not noticing the deep blush on Sophie’s cheeks, and pressed on to list the number of day and evening gowns, the sort of mantles and hats and the types of boots and shoes Sophie would need.

The words flowed over Sophie’s head as her treacherous imagination conjured up Hal’s expression if he saw her in embroidered nightwear. She could remember his reaction that evening at Mr Fanshaw’s hunting lodge when he had seen her in the diaphanous peignoir...

‘Do you agree, Sophie?’ Emma asked, obviously not for the first time.

‘Oh, yes, whatever you say, Emma,’ Sophie replied hastily. ‘You have so much more experience in such matters.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Emma said hesitantly. ‘I had been meaning to have a word with you in the absence of your own mama and with your sister-in-law perhaps not arriving until immediately before the wedding day...’ She shifted slightly on the chair. ‘If there was anything you wanted to ask me about... Anything you were anxious about... That is, on the more intimate side of marriage...’

Sophie was rescued by Elizabeth bursting into the room. ‘There you both are, doing all the planning without me.’ She was looking very flushed, very animated and quite outrageously pretty.

You have been flirting, my girl, Sophie thought, observing the brightness of her eyes.

Emma appeared to notice nothing more than unladylike high spirits. ‘Do not bounce so, Elizabeth. Ring for more tea and sit down.’

‘Did you enjoy your visit to your friend Jane?’ Sophie asked calmly, trying to suppress her misgivings about just who Elizabeth had been flirting with.

‘Oh, yes, indeed! We had so much news to catch up on.’

Emma glanced up sharply. ‘You have not been indiscreet, I hope.’

‘Oh, no, of course not. I would not wish Jane to know how foolish I was to be taken in by a man as shallow as Mr Fanshaw.’ She managed to look sanctimonious. ‘I have resolved to seek only the company of gentlemen of a more serious, not to say spiritual, nature.’

Emma looked amazed, but Sophie had no difficulty in interpreting this pronouncement. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘By which, one assumes, you mean Mr Winstanley?’

Elizabeth tossed her head. ‘Well, and what if I do? Just because he’s an old beau of yours, you need not be jealous. After all, you are about to be married to Hal, so you don’t want him any more, do you?’

Sophie kept her voice calm and uninterested, but her heart was contracting with anxiety. ‘Mr Winstanley was hardly a beau, merely an old family friend.’ It was an outright lie, but what choice did she have? ‘And have you been speaking to him again this afternoon?’

‘Yes, Jane and I met him when we went for a walk.’ There was a pause while tea was poured and Sophie felt quite queasy with foreboding. ‘Jane’s nose is out of joint because she has been wanting to meet him for a sen’night, and I was able to introduce her.’

Emma clucked reprovingly. ‘He does indeed seem to be a pleasant young man, Elizabeth, and your brother John speaks well of him. But you should be more circumspect in your behaviour. You must not get yourself a reputation for being fast.’

Sophie winced. No, the fast one was Henry Winstanley, able to spot an opportunity when he saw it. She knew now that was precisely what he had done with her. But he was older now, with more to lose, and he would play Elizabeth with caution, like a fish on a line. A fish that could land him considerable benefits in both dowry and professional preferment.

Sophie’s immediate instinct was to tell Emma all about herself and her involvement with Henry Winstanley four years ago. But she hesitated. It would cause the most awful scandal if John felt it necessary to tell the church authorities of Henry’s moral weakness. And, after all, he might have reformed his ways. Just because he was obviously ambitious did not mean he would do anything unscrupulous to achieve advancement. Four years is a long time, she told herself. And he had been ordained in that time. Perhaps he had learned from past errors.

And the knowledge that Henry was the man in her past would not deter Hal from his determination to marry her. But it might drive a wedge between him and John if John felt it his duty to report Henry’s character, when by doing so he would taint the reputation of his new sister-in-law.

‘Oh, what a muddle,’ she muttered to herself, loud enough to interrupt the conversation between Emma and Elizabeth. ‘Just thinking aloud,’ she said hastily when they looked at her.

‘One of the things we must do is introduce you to York Society,’ Emma said thoughtfully. ‘We may not live in London, but there is a busy social whirl here, and many people of breeding and influence reside in the City and in the countryside around. It will make things so much more pleasant if you are well known before the wedding.’

Elizabeth broke in again. ‘I know the very thing. Jane reminded me there is a dance at the Assembly Rooms on Thursday. We must go to that, everyone will be there.’

Sophie’s anxiety rose again. She had hoped to spend the next three weeks in peace, plotting her escape, which now, she realised, was looking more and more difficult. ‘But I have no suitable gown, or shoes, or...’ Her voice trailed away as Emma patted the folded bank draft George had sent.

‘But we have already begun planning your trousseau: this is merely part of it. We must go to Madame Levalle’s at once and see what she can furnish us with at short notice. Then tomorrow we will know what to match cloaks and shoes to.’

 

An hour later Sophie found herself in the modiste’s, perched on a spindly gilt chair and being asked to choose from the elegant gowns being paraded before her. The late notice, Madame informed the ladies, was of no account, for Mademoiselle had such a neat and elegant figure that she would fit any of the gowns being displayed with only the merest pin tuck or two to render them a perfect fit.

Mademoiselle, Madame Levalle declared, was of such a distinguished and unusual colouring that white would not show her to best advantage. ‘Deep cream would complement Mademoiselle’s complexion to perfection. And see how it enhances your deep chestnut hair. Such an unusual crop as well.’

Emma rushed in. ‘My young friend has had to sacrifice her hair after a fever. Fortunately, she soon recovered. We must ensure my coiffeuse calls soon, dear,’ she added to Sophie.

‘Oh, but these curls are charming,’ Madame said, clearly fearing she had given offence to clients intent on spending a lot of money. ‘If you are decided on this gown in figured cream silk with the twelve rows of ribbon around the hem, I can have a plaited filet of the same silk made up for Mademoiselle’s hair. With a flower entwined in it, it will be charmante.’

Elizabeth was eyeing one of the more dashing creations with envious glances. ‘Can I not have a new gown too?’

Emma was not going to be caught that easily. ‘Now, Elizabeth, you know full well that you packed that new gown of white muslin with the jonquil underskirt. That will be most suitable,’ she added, firmly frustrating further discussion.

 

The next day, armed with a sample of the silk from the gown, the ladies embarked on an exciting shopping list of shoes, stockings, gloves, reticule and evening cloak.

‘And, of course, if we see anything else on the trousseau list we shall buy that too. One never knows when one will see the right thing again,’ Emma pronounced, a gleam in her eye.

She was so enthusiastic and indefatigable that Sophie forgot her condition until Elizabeth. sighting a tempting array of pastries in a teashop window, said, ‘Are you not fatigued, Emma? Should we not go in here and sit down and take tea? And perhaps a pastry or an ice?’

Emma turned to the footman who had been dogging their steps all morning. ‘Please take those parcels home, Samuel, and come straight back here.’ Then she led her companions into the stylish tearooms, bowing left and right to several acquaintances, all of whom regarded Sophie with interest.

‘They will have heard the news,’ Emma whispered as they sat down. ‘You will be the centre of attention at the ball, Sophie.’

‘Especially in that gown,’ Elizabeth muttered. ‘While I am going to look positively dowdy in my old dress.’ She sighed and dug into her ice with a long spoon.

Emma ignored her sister-in-law with the ease of familiarity and studied her lists while sipping a restorative cup of Bohea. ‘Yes, yes, that is all done,’ she murmured as she ticked her way down the column. ‘Ordered that... Ah, yes, shoes. Shall we go and find your shoes next, Sophie?’

‘If you feel up to it, Emma. What colour do you think would be best?’

Emma sucked the end of her pencil thoughtfully but Elizabeth said, ‘Pistachio green would be the very thing with that rich cream.’

‘Quite right,’ Emma approved. ‘The very thing. Let us hope Mr Pitchforth has the right colour or it will mean waiting and having them dyed, and that would be cutting it a little fine.’

Mr Pitchforth, the first choice of shoemaker to York Society, was delighted to see such a good customer as Lady John again. He bowed over her hand, clicking his fingers at a young man to attend the ladies.

‘Pistachio green in a glacé kid for dancing,’ he mused, running a practiced eye over Sophie’s foot. ‘I have just the thing.’

 

Half an hour later, having cheered Elizabeth even further by the purchase of a pair of amber slippers to go with her gown, the ladies emerged and made their weary way home. Emma retreated to her chamber to put up her aching feet, Elizabeth rang for her maid to try out a new hair style she had seen in La Belle Assemblée and Sophie found herself alone.

She retreated into Emma’s little parlour and, with Pippin on her lap, settled down to make a serious plan for escape. But all she could think about was the touch of Hal’s lips on her own, the thrill of his body, the promise in his dark blue eyes when he had cupped her face in his hands yesterday. She shivered slightly. Could she spend just one night...? No, that was madness. Pippin stirred on her lap as her fingers tightened in his silky coat.

She found herself wondering what Hal's home was like. After a moment or two she was strolling along the corridors of a gracious hall, deep in conversation with the housekeeper, choosing menus with the cook, deciding between one elegant silk sample and another...

The dressing gong sounded and she hurried upstairs to wash before dinner. She still had the best part of three weeks to manage her escape, she told herself. Somehow.

 

As they assembled before dinner Elizabeth did nothing but prattle of their shopping expedition. She was too feminine to give away a secret about clothes, but she could not resist teasing Hal. ‘Just wait until you see Sophie’s new gown, Hal. You will be hard put to secure a dance at the ball, for her card will be full when all the gentlemen see her.’

One of Hal’s eyebrows rose sceptically. Sophie thought she had never seen him look so handsome as he was this evening. It was not just his impeccable evening clothes, but his air of absolute assurance that made him dominate the room.

‘I do not think so, Elizabeth. I have first call on my fiancée’s dance card.’ And the look he gave Sophie across the table said that he had first call on everything else he chose to demand as well.

The ladies of the Wyatt party gathered in the retiring room at the Assembly Rooms while Hetty, their maid, gathered up evening cloaks and fussed around pinning up loose curls and tweaking hems straight. Lady John looked magnificent in periwinkle blue, her condition disguised by the artful cut of her gown. She moved with a stately grace which gave her an air of authority and breeding. By contrast Elizabeth, determined to appear grown-up and poised at this, her first real ball, appeared both ridiculously young and ridiculously pretty.

But as they entered the hot, glittering, thronged room it was Sophie who found herself stared at. There was a moment's hesitation before several young men started forward, all seeking an introduction, but Hal was before them.

He bent over her hand in its long white kid glove and pressed it to his lips, then Sophie found herself walking into the throng with her hand firmly placed on his arm. It was as though he had hung a badge of ownership around her neck and the hopeful young men melted away.

She was not at all sure she liked that. ‘You have scared off all my partners, Hal. Am I only going to be allowed to dance with you?’

His eyes were dark with desire and she found she could not drag her own gaze away. ‘I do not want to dance with you, Sophie,’ he said slowly. ‘I just want to take you home and – ’