Meant To Be (Pendleton Manor 1)

“If my father found out he’d do something to keep us apart,” he explained, turning them both down the white garden walk. Sophy squeezed her bare toes into the soft green lawn, clearly enjoying the sensation. He’d noticed how Sophy found joy in the simple things—for her the sun on her head and the grass beneath her feet was enough.

“Sir Arbuthnot doesn’t think the heir to Pendleton Manor should be friends with the lowly estate manager’s daughter,” she said the truth for him in a teasing voice.

He pulled her in closer, bumping her shoulder with his. “When I am the master here I will be friends with whomever I want,” he declared.

“You may not want to be my friend by then,” she reminded him, with a quizzical look. “You may be far too grand.”

He shook his head at her in disbelief. “Sophy,” he promised her, “I will always want to be your friend.”

Chapter 3

SOPHY

1806, Pendleton Manor, Oxfordshire, England

“Harcourt! The field in the east corner is flooded again.”

Sir Arbuthnot frowned at Sophy’s father, as if the low lying land was his fault instead of a fact of nature.

Her father cleared his throat nervously. “I will see what can be done.” George Harcourt did not want to lose his job as manager of the estate, and Sophy had long suspected he would say anything to keep it.

Sir Arbuthnot nodded sharply, the lines on his handsome face deepening. Harry looked like him, she often thought so, only Harry was so much nicer in every way. “See that you do, Harcourt. I want it drained before we plant next season’s crops.”

Her gaze flickered to Harry now, standing by his father’s side. He had grown a great deal since last she saw him, and at seventeen he was far more of a man than a boy. He was slightly taller than Sir Arbuthnot now, and his shoulders were broader. And when his father spoke to him he focussed his full attention on what he was being told as if it was of vital importance. He would make a fine master, everyone said so, and whenever she heard the words she felt a warm sense of pride on his behalf.

Father and son had been riding the estate, as they did whenever Harry was home from school, and it just so happened that Sophy had been with her own father today, on her way into the village. Sir Arbuthnot had flagged them down and directed them to the field, as always expecting them to put his own concerns before theirs.

Sir Arbuthnot was a baron, and the Baillieus were landed gentry. Their ancestors had come over with William the Conqueror in 1066 and they were proud of their place in history. Even Harry was slightly insufferable on this point at times, and Sophy felt it was up to her to tease him down from his high horse.

All the same, she knew that one day Harry would step into his father’s shoes. One day he would be the one issuing orders. Not that Sir Arbuthnot would release the reins until he had to—Pendleton was his pride and joy and he was stubborn enough to remain in charge as long as there was breath in his body. He was a widower, his wife having died when their two sons were quite young, and had never remarried, so he had few distractions when it came to his estate. Sophy had heard the servants talk about ‘other women’ and she was aware of the gossip surrounding Sir Arbuthnot’s regular visits to Oxford, and less regular ones to London, but clearly none of his paramours had been tempting enough for him to consider remarrying.

The two older men were still talking, heads together. Sophy met Harry’s eyes. She hadn’t spoken to him since he returned from school last week and she desperately wanted to. Had he changed? Since she had come to live at Pendleton Manor, they had been firm friends. He’d sought her out every time he was home, and although it was not as straightforward as it had been when they were children—how could it be?— he always made time for her.

She’d been looking forward to spending time with the boy who, last time he was home, lay on his back in the clearing in the woods and laughed aloud as she pointed out shapes in the clouds above them, each one sillier than the last.

As if he had read her mind, Harry’s mouth twitched into a smile, and his brown eyes warmed on hers.

“Come, Harry!” His father snapped his fingers as if his own son were a dog as he returned to his horse.

Harry followed, but glanced over his shoulder at her again. She saw his mouth move to form silent words: The usual place? She nodded, smiling back at him before she thought to stop herself. She looked at her father nervously, but he was checking his pocket watch with a frown, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

It wasn’t until they were back in the carriage that he spoke to her, and she realised he had noticed her interaction with Harry after all.

“Sophy.” He shot her an uncharacteristically stern glance. “You are fifteen now, no longer a child. I have done my best, but I know you miss the influence of a mother. Perhaps I have allowed you too much freedom.”

“What do you mean, Father?” She put a hand to her straw hat as the wheels of their vehicle bumped and rattled over the road to the village.

“It is all very well to dream, my dear. We all have dreams. Real life is different. It is stark and sometimes rather unforgiving.” He glanced at her sideways, and for a moment she saw something in his eyes that threatened to ruffle her usually sunny nature. Before she could ask what he meant, he went on. “Sir Arbuthnot has plans for his eldest son, and you will never be more than a servant in his eyes.” His voice gen

tled. “Harry Baillieu is not for you, my dear.”

“Harry and I are friends,” she protested. “I don’t expect anything more.”

“That’s as may be, but he will grow into the sort of arrogant young gentleman I see all the time. He will leave you behind because you are no longer important to him, just a memory from his childhood. Men like Sir Arbuthnot and Harry are not interested in us, not in the way you like to imagine, and I don’t want to see you hurt. You deserve better, Sophy.”

“Harry would never hurt me!”

Her certainty made him grimace at her, and she looked away, not wanting him to read the truth in her face. Despite her assertion to her father, lately she had begun to think that maybe she wasn’t just friends with Harry. Perhaps it was more than that, on her part, at least.