A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories (Regencies 6)

Expecting a comment on the colour of her ribbons, or something in similar vein, Sophie smiled reassuringly at Lady Matcham, returning the squeeze of one birdlike claw.

“But that’s why I feel I have to say something, Sophia,” Lady Matcham continued. “For I would not rest easy thinking you had got hurt when I could have prevented it.”

An icy hand closed about Sophie’s heart, all expression leached from her face. Numb, paralyzed, she gazed blankly at Lady Matcham.

“I must say,” her ladyship went on, her washed-out eyes widening, “I had thought Lucilla would have warned you but, no doubt, having only just returned to the capital, she’s not yet up with the latest.”

The chill creeping through Sophie had reached her mind; she couldn’t think how to interrupt. She didn’t want to hear any more, but her ladyship pressed on, her soft, gentle, undeniably earnest tones a death-knell to all hope.

“It’s about Mr. Lester, my dear. Such a handsome man—quite the gentleman and so very well-connected. But he needs a rich wife. A very rich wife. I know, for I am acquainted with his aunt, dear soul—she’s passed on now. But it was always understood the Lester boys would have to marry money, as the saying goes.” Lady Matcham’s sweet face grimaced with distaste. “Such a disheartening thought.”

Sophie could only agree. Her heart was a painful lump in her breast; her features felt frozen. She couldn’t speak; she could only gaze blankly as Lady Matcham lifted her wise old eyes to her face.

Lady Matcham patted her hand. “I saw you in the Park, in his curricle. And I just had to say something, my dear, for it really won’t do. I dare say he’s everything a gal like you might wish for. But indeed, Sophia dear, he’s not for you.”

Sophie blinked rapidly and sucked in a quick breath. Her heart was aching; all of her hurt. But she could not give way to her pain in the middle of Miss Chessington’s sonata. Sophie swallowed; with an effort, she summoned a weak smile. “Thank you for the warning, ma’am.” She couldn’t trust herself to say more.

Her ladyship patted her hand, blinking herself. “There, there. It’s not the end of the world, although I know it may feel that way. Such unfortunate happenings are best nipped in the bud—before any lasting damage can be done. I know you’re too wise, my dear, not to know that—and to know how to go on. Why, you’ve all the Season before you. Plenty of opportunity to find a gentleman who suits you.”

Sophie would have given the earth to deny it, all of it, but nothing could gainsay the sincerity in Lady Matcham’s old eyes. With a wavering smile, Sophie gave the old lady a brief hug, then, with a mute nod, rose. Dragging in a steadying breath, she drifted to a corner of the room.

By dint of sheer will-power, she did not allow herself to dwell on Lady Matcham’s revelations until, together with her aunt and Clarissa, she was enclosed in the protective shadows of the carriage and bound for home.

Then misery engulfed her, tinged with black despair.

As they alighted in Mount Street, the light from a street flare fell full on her face. Lucilla glanced around; her eyes narrowed. “Sophie, you will lie in tomorrow. I will not have you coming down with any ailment at this time of year.”

Fleetingly, Sophie met her aunt’s gaze, sharp and concerned. “Yes, Aunt,” she acquiesced, meekly looking down. Ignoring Clarissa’s concerned and questioning glance, Sophie followed her aunt up the steps.

* * *

THE NEXT DAY dawned but brought with it no relief. From behind the lace curtain at her bedchamber window, Sophie watched as Jack Lester descended the steps to the street. He climbed up into his waiting curricle and, as his groom scrambled up behind, deftly flicked his whip and drove away. Sophie watched until he disappeared around the corner, then, heaving a heavy sigh, turned back into the room.

He had called to take her for a drive, only to be met with the news of her indisposition.

Sophie sniffed. Aimless, she drifted across the room towards her bed, her sodden handkerchief wadded in her fist. As she passed her dressing-table, she caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. Dark shadows circled her eyes; her cheeks were wan, her lips dry. Her head felt woosy and throbbed uncomfortably; her limbs seemed heavy, listless.

Lady Matcham’s warning had come too late. In the dark hours of the night, she had faced the dismal fact: the delicate bud rooted in her heart, influenced by the weather and the warmth of his smile, had already flowered. Now it lay crushed, slain by the weight of circumstance. Soon, she supposed, it would wither.

She was not a wealthy catch, a bride who would bring as her dower the ready cash necessary to rescue a gentleman’s estates. Nothing could change that cold, hard fact. She was her father’s heiress, a lady of expectations, possessed of no more than moderate fortune, and even that was prospective, not immediately accessible as capital.

Sophie sniffed again, then determinedly blew her nose. She had spent too much of the night weeping, not an occupation she had had much experience of, not since her mother’s death. Now, she felt emptied, desolate, as she had then. But she knew she would recover. She would allow herself one day in which to mope, and by tonight, she would be back on her feet, her smile bright. As the Season unfolded, she would devote herself to her search for a husband with all due diligence. And forget about a handsome rake with dark blue eyes.

That was the way things were in her world; she knew it well enough. And after all Lucilla’s and Clarissa’s kindnesses, she would not allow her unhappiness to cloud Clarissa’s Season. She would do her best to ensure it did not sink her own, either.

Feeling oddly better to hav

e such clear goals before her, Sophie perched on the end of her bed. Her fingers pulled at her wrinkled handkerchief; her gaze grew abstracted. There was one point she had yet to consider: how best to deal with him when they met, as, inevitably, they would.

After deep and lengthy cogitation, she had absolved him of all blame. She could not believe he had sought to cause her pain. She it was who had misread his purpose; she was, in reality, no more experienced in such matters than Clarissa. It was, very likely, as Miss Billingham had said—to him, she was a safe and agreeable companion, one with whom to pass the time until the Season was fully under way and he could set about choosing his bride. Indeed, Lady Matcham’s observations left little room for any other interpretation.

There were, admittedly, his curious words when he had last left her. The time is not yet. She had thought he had meant.... Abruptly, Sophie cut off the thought, setting her teeth against the pain. What he had probably meant was to propose some outing, some excursion which their present early stage of friendship would not stretch to encompass. She had read more—much more—into his innocent words than he could ever have intended.

Which meant that, given his innocence, she would have to treat him as if nothing was wrong. Pride dictated she do so. Any awkwardness she felt must be suppressed, hidden, for she couldn’t bear him to know what she had thought—hoped.

Somehow, she would cope. Like Madame Jorge, like Lucilla, she could contrive.

With a sigh, Sophie climbed onto her bed and tugged the covers over her. She snuggled down, settling her head on the pillows; calmly determined, she closed her eyes. She forced herself to relax, to allow the furrows in her forehead to ease away. If she was going to contrive, she would need some sleep.