Sophy loved Harry. She thought he loved her. Perhaps those two things, physical and emotional love, did not go together. Should she pretend she hadn’t heard and didn’t know about that part of his life? Maybe that was what he was expecting of her—pretending to be deaf. Gentlemen like Sir Arbuthnot always had mistresses tucked away. Even when they were married, they could compartmentalise their lives, and expected their wives to turn a blind eye.
Harry had said he wanted to marry her, but perhaps that did not mean she would be the only one in his bed.
Anxiety twisted in her belly as she set about her daily tasks. During the past months he hadn’t written to her. Perhaps he had better things to do. She didn’t expect him to spend every moment thinking of her, but the distance that was growing between them worried her. Now he was home and she waited for him to come to her as he’d promised. And waited. Until she could wait no more.
The setting up of Christmas decorations was underway at the manor. Servants darted about and climbed up ladders, cleaning and polishing and hanging all manner of pretty things. Cook oversaw meal preparations for the family and their friends, as well as the feast that was always put on for the estate workers and their families in the barn. Sophy had always loved Christmas at Pendleton Manor. It was her home, and she couldn’t imagine celebrating the festive season anywhere else.
And as long as her father’s job as Estate Manager was secure—and Sir Arbuthnot had never given any indication that he wasn’t happy with the arrangement—they would remain. Sophy felt safe here at Pendleton and hoped her father would resist whatever her aunt was whispering to him.
A group of servant girls were giggling in the drawing room. Sophy didn’t want to ask them where Harry was. She shouldn’t really be in here, and anyway, what if one of them was the girl involved in the sowing of the wild oats? What if it was more than one girl? The maidservants were daughters of villagers and tenants, and Sophy did not mix with them. Her father might have slipped low on the social scale, but he still believed his family to be far above Sir Arbuthnot’s domestic servants. Sophy felt quite isolated sometimes, neither one thing nor another. Through family misfortune and misplaced pride, she was trapped between two worlds.
Sophy spied a footman striding by, as if he was in a great hurry, and moved to intercept him.
“Can you tell me if Master Henry is at home?” she said, pretending she had every right to ask the question. “My father, Mr Harcourt, sent me with a message.”
It was a lie, but Sophy wasn’t sure how else to get the information she wanted without raising the wrong kind of suspicions. The footman stared at her. She recognised him; she knew most of the servants by sight despite not fraternizing with them.
“Master Henry?” he repeated.
Sophy nodded, her cheeks growing a little pink.
He pointed toward the glass doors that led to the terrace, before leaving her to carry on with his own business.
The sky outside was grey and there was a hint of snow in the air, but Sophy barely noticed. As she slipped through the doors and hurried down the stone steps, she was too focussed on finding Harry.
She reached the end of the lawn and approached the tall clipped hedges that divided the terrace from the white garden, where she finally found Harry and his friend, the Honourable Digby. The two of them had set up an archery target in the wide terrace between the flower beds, and were taking turns firing arrows at it. Their voices rose and fell, interspersed with laughter.
She hovered, wondering whether she should wait until Harry was alone. Surely, she told herself, he wouldn’t mind being interrupted, not if it was her? She had come this far and to go back seemed like failure. This was Harry, her Harry.
Sophy set off again, head up, pretending a confidence she didn’t feel.
Digby raised a silver flask to his mouth, tipping down the contents and staggering a little. They both cackled with laughter.
Sophy’s steps faltered. Perhaps she really should leave them alone. Not that she was afraid, but she could see now that they were inebriated. Her father never drank to excess, but she had seen Sir Arbuthnot deep in his cups, loud and obnoxious. She had also seen some of the patrons outside The Black Sheep, when she was in the village, hooting and staggering around. And this time of year, with the Christmas festivities at Pendleton, there were sure to be many sore heads come the morning after. Harry drunk was something she hadn’t experienced before and was not sure she wanted to now.
As if he had read her mind, he turned and spotted her. He stared as if he didn’t recognise her and for a moment her heart sank. Then his face lit up. Relieved, Sophy began to walk toward them.
“Sophy!” he called out enthusiastically. “There you are!” As if it was she and not he who had neglected to pay her a visit. All the same she couldn’t help but smile.
Digby, who had been trying to notch his arrow into the bow, turned to see who Harry was calling to, his weapon wavering about dangerously in his unsteady hands.
“Sophy?” he repeated. His eyes widened and he gave her a toothy grin. “She’s a beauty, Harry! You never said your little Sophy was a beauty.”
He’d spoken of her to his friends? Her steps faltered as she tried to take that in, tried to decide whether she was pleased or dismayed by that fact. Before she could make up her mind, Harry was in front of her, reaching out to clasp her shoulders in his big hands, and smiling down at her as if she was the best thing in his world. He did smell strongly of brandy, but she tried not to wrinkle her nose.
“I was coming to visit you,” he said, brown eyes searching hers, as if it was important that she believe him.
“I was tired of waiting,” she retorted, pretending to scold, though her heart refused to be anything but light and bubbly. She smiled back at him. “What are you doing?” she said, even though it was obvious.
“You should be asking who’s winning,” Harry responded, with a note of Baillieu arrogance. “It’s me.”
She laughed and shook her head. Harry liked to win, it was true, but this was a side of him she didn’t see very often and she suspected it was the Harry he turned into when he was with his friends.
Behind him, Digby was scowling, his reddish hair and green eyes making him look like one of the foxes Sir Arbuthnot cursed when they took the pheasants he raised for his shooting parties. He could have been a handsome boy but something in the set of his features made him deceitful. “I’m letting you win,” he sneered. “It’s impolite to beat one’s host. Don’t you know that, Harry?”
Harry turned his head to stare back at him, and Sophy felt the sudden tension in the air between them. For two people who were supposed to be friends they were very competitive. Harry and Adam were always trying to come out on top, but Adam was more inclined to laugh and shrug things off when they didn’t go his way. Or walk away to find something better to do and leave Harry to his hollow victory. Digby seemed to be cut of a different cloth.
“I’ll wager you my ebony cane,” the boy added.