Читать книгу Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 2 - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 59

The worst part was knowing that Charles was right. That he could breathe a sigh of relief with each new broadsheet posted across London, that he could thank his lucky stars that he was not involved, as each vile rumour grew worse with repeated whisperings.

Sophie had lived most of her life at the mercy of talebearers and scandalmongers. She had long ago learned to rise above such nonsense. But not this time. This time the whisperers had sharper tongues, wicked wit, and a broader audience. The tales circulating about her were outrageous. She’d worn trousers, she’d worn transparent trousers, she’d worn next to nothing at all. She’d danced a harem dance, she’d danced with the Prince Regent, she’d danced down the centre of the supper table. There was no end to the inventiveness.

Still, strange things had been said of her before, and she had held her head high and taken the high road. She had even used her reputation as an eccentric to her advantage a time or two. It might have been the same with this, after enough time had passed, if this time, the scandal hadn’t become the embodiment of her deepest insecurities. This time each fabricated account of her wickedness hit her like a blow, drumming the ugly truth deeper. Not good enough. Not good enough.

Oh, he hadn’t said it in so many words, but the meaning was clear. She should know. She was an expert at being not good enough.

She’d been a disappointment to her uncle, a failure in reaching her aunt, a pariah to the people of Blackford Chase. Only Charles had ever made her feel truly appreciated just for being herself. The rest of London could go hang; it was the loss of that certainty, the sure knowledge of Charles’s regard, that caused this pain, this blinding agony that only seemed to grow worse with each drawn breath.

She wandered the house, emotionally adrift. Only now was she coming to realise how deep her dependence had gone. She’d spent half her life on the wrong side of public opinion, but always she had clung to the rock of Charles’s faith in her. Now she floundered. She hadn’t felt this lost since the death of her parents.

She had to fight, to keep afloat, to flail blindly if need be, until she found something stronger to hold on to. But it was so hard. She couldn’t think. It was all she could do to breathe, to ignore the hurt and make it to the next moment.

Emily’s family was suffering as well. That first day her drawing room was a scene of frantic activity, as society came to sympathise, to gloat, or just to be in the centre of the scandal broth. Sophie stayed in her room and waited with a mixture of dread and anticipation for Charles to come. He didn’t. And then neither did anyone else.

The number of visitors trickled, and then stopped. An air of dread inhabited the house. Deep silences, long faces, hushed voices. Sophie grew tired of mourning her reputation and heartily sick of waiting for Charles. Finally she could take no more. She packed her bags and went alone to Sevenoaks.

It was exactly what she needed. She threw herself into the dirtiest projects she could find. No job was too small to command her attention. Stripping paper, hanging fabric, and restoring plasterwork occupied her thoroughly. She concentrated on soothing the Italian stuccatore’s wounded vanity instead of nursing her own wounded heart. She spent her time curbing the hanger’s passion for red-flock paper instead of dwelling on the passion that had flared so easily between her and Charles.

She worked almost unceasingly each day, falling into bed exhausted late each evening. As a plan for avoiding painful memories, it had merit. Unfortunately, it did not meet with success. In the quiet darkness her mind was too busy to allow her body to rest.

A thousand times during those lonely nights she changed her mind. Charles was right, he wasn’t asking too much. Not if they could be together. Tired, heartsore, and more alone than she had ever felt in her life, she thought of marrying Charles, spending their lives together, and she knew she would do it. She would change. She would change into an elephant if he wished it.

Yet each morning found her back at work rather than on her way back to London. As much as she yearned for Charles in the night, in the clear, dawn light harsher memories returned. Cold eyes, hard words, high, strong walls keeping her out. She’d been exasperated by that side of Charles, but she could not deny that she had found him intriguing and irresistible in his own way.

Was that the sort of person he wished her to become? Even here, alone and covered in grime and plaster dust, she shook her head. Through years of loneliness and neglect she’d battled bitterness and despair. She’d refused to become closed and angry. She couldn’t give in now, even for the sake of love.

That was the crux of it: love. Charles desired her, he wanted her, but he didn’t love her. Love supports, love nurtures, it doesn’t require you to change.

So, with stiffened resolve, Sophie laboured right along with the workmen, and slowly over the next few days the project drew close to the end. It was a bittersweet realisation.

The house had turned out to be even more beautiful than she had hoped, and now that it was nearly complete, she could picture Charles here all too easily. His image sprang to mind everywhere: in the library, in the hall, in the bedroom. He would spend many happy hours here. Without her.

Finally she had accepted the truth. She’d had time for a lot of relentless soul searching over the last days, and she wasn’t sure she liked what she’d found.

No matter what she had told herself upon coming to London—regarding both her designs and her relationship with Charles—she had to admit now that some part of her had been hoping to have both. Well, she couldn’t. He had changed, and so had she. And it was past time she changed again.

These days of grief and regret had been disturbingly similar to the days after her parents’ deaths. As a scared little girl, suddenly alone in the world, she’d put all her hopes and dreams into the image of a loving uncle, a man who would love and care for her the way her parents had. When that fantasy had died, she had focused all the love in her lonely little heart on the one person who had cared. Even after he’d left, she’d carried that dream in her heart.

No longer. She was a woman now, and it was time to finally recognise the difference between dreams and reality. Charles was a dream. But what was her reality?

This, she thought, gazing around her. No matter what society thought, no matter what Charles believed, she knew the kind of person she was. Not perfect by any means, but she did have talent, the ability to bring beauty to people’s lives. More importantly, she could use that talent to accomplish something useful, to help those who had so much less than herself.

Society was closed to her now and she wouldn’t give tuppence to have it back. But she had her designs. Her book. Mr Darvey and the workmen back at Blackford Chase. She could use her skills and accomplish some good at the same time. She would be content with that.

It was not long after reaching that conclusion that she stood in the drawing room, staring with a frown at the continued chimneypiece. She’d had the wood painted white to match all the moulding in the room and to complement the elegant plasterwork. But she could not decide on a painting to mount there. She had two candidates, but neither was quite right.

With the rest of the room she was more than satisfied. Here her ardent hanger had had his way, and the room was resplendent with red-flock paper. It contrasted beautifully with all the white. Here was a room a statesman could be proud of. Fit for entertaining royalty, visiting dignitaries, or just close friends and loved ones. It was grand, impressive, yet somehow it also maintained the warmth of a home.

She could even think of it that way without regret. Almost.

As luck would have it, some sort of disturbance began at the front of the house and she was given no time to dwell on it. She had only just turned towards the door when it opened.

‘Now that I see what occupies you so far from London, I must say it is worth the trip.’

‘Mateo!’ Sophie gasped.

‘Indeed, it is I. You fled the city just after I arrived and I have chased you down, just as when we were children.’ He smiled and entered the room to take her hands. ‘The sight of you alone was worth the chase. This—’ he waved his hand at the room ‘—is—what do the English call it—the cream.’

She laughed. ‘How did you find me?’

‘I have pestered the good viscountess day and night until she finally relented and allowed me to travel here with her. She will be in directly, she was delayed by the housekeeper, and I had the bad manners to come straight in here.’

‘Well, I am glad you are here.’ She surprised herself by meaning it.

‘As am I.’ He dropped her hands and began to circle the room. ‘Lovely. Exquisite, in fact. If this is an indication of your work, then I can see why the Prince Regent adores you so.’

Sophie grimaced. ‘I think you exaggerate.’

‘Oho! So you have not been reading the papers here in your retreat?’

‘No.’ She could not keep the hard edge from her voice. ‘And if you have, then you’ll know why.’

Mateo tossed his head, setting his shining dark curls to bouncing, and laughed long. Sophie stared, filing the image away in her mind, knowing she would sketch it later. Young, handsome, confident, carefree, he was the very image of … something. Life, perhaps.

‘Trust you, Sophie,’ he crowed, ‘to turn London upside down and not even realise it.’

‘He’s right, my dear.’ Lady Dayle came in, and Sophie went straight into her embrace. She clung a little longer than she meant to, and when the viscountess finally set her back, she began, ‘I’m so sorry, my lady—’

‘No,’ interjected Mateo. ‘You do not apologise. It is these English. Such a fuss over such a small thing. They do not know how to enjoy life, Sophie. You have no wish to be like them.’

Despite herself, she smiled. ‘You sound just like Nona Celeste. Nevertheless, I am sorry for any distress you have suffered, Lady Dayle.’

‘Not at all, dear. You must listen to your cousin. The circumstances have changed since you left.’ She looked around with pleasure at the room. ‘How lovely it has turned out, Sophie. Let us sit while we speak.’

They all took seats, but Sophie could wait no longer. ‘Circumstances have changed?’ she prompted.

‘Yes, they have realised that they have put their temper in a teacup,’ Mateo said.

‘Tempest in a teacup, Mr Cardea. In any case, Sophie, it is over.’ The viscountess took her hands in hers and smiled.

‘Over?’ Sophie was perplexed.

‘Over.’ Lady Dayle said in a firm voice. ‘After you left, the furore died down a bit. Only to be stirred up again every day or so with some new story or published account. Soon people began to notice that many of the articles printed about that night and your supposedly shocking behaviour were very similarly worded. As if it were one person behind all the stories, stirring the scandal broth, as they say.’

‘But your defenders, they were legion!’ her cousin said. ‘The viscountess has stood your truest friend, and Mrs Lowder and many more.’

Sophie couldn’t help the tears that rose. No one had ever defended her before. Except Charles. The stab of pain was acute, but she had to know. ‘And Lord Dayle?’

‘I haven’t seen him since the masquerade,’ Lady Dayle said, sounding troubled. ‘Jack said he was locked up with his committee, but Sir Harold said they had adjourned several days ago to await a report from the north. No one seems to know where to find him. I thought perhaps he might have told you his plans?’

Mute, Sophie shook her head.

‘You have no need of his aid, Sophie,’ said Mateo. ‘Your friend the Duchess declared she would cut dead anyone who spoke a wrong word of you. The cold one, Miss Ashford?’ She nodded and he continued. ‘Even she finally declared that the costume had been her idea and was unobjectionable. But the final blow to your detractors came when the Prince Regent spoke on your behalf.’

Sophie could only cover her mouth with her hand. ‘He didn’t,’ she whispered.

‘Indeed.’ Lady Dayle smiled.

‘He said that your talent is great and that the artistic temperament must be allowed more latitude than the average person’s. He would be very displeased to hear anyone disparaging you. He may not be much of a ruler,’ Mateo said with condescension, ‘but he is a man who knows how to get the most out of life.’

They all laughed and Sophie began to feel a little better.

‘The truly funny thing is that once Prinny made his pronouncement, everyone pulled out their drawings to prove him right and show their support. Now a Dunyazade original is quickly becoming the most fashionable object one can own.’

‘Indeed, it is most unfair that I, your cousin, do not possess one.’

Sophie smiled. ‘I’m afraid that Dunyazade is permanently retired, but I would dearly love to draw your portrait.’

Mateo’s eyes lit up. ‘Now?’

Sophie laughed. ‘I’m sorry, but no. I have too much to do today. But perhaps tomorrow morning, when the light is best, we could begin some sketches. That is,’ she said, turning to the viscountess, ‘if you both mean to stay the night?’

‘We do,’ said Lady Dayle, ‘and I really must get upstairs to help with the unpacking. Winston will not know which dress to leave out for dinner. By the way,’ she said casually, ‘I stopped at Emily’s and brought Nell along, and the rest of your wardrobe.’

‘Thank you. I have missed Nell. I hope you won’t be disillusioned by my sad wardrobe while you’re here, Mateo, but the work is hard on my gowns.’

‘You would be divine in rags,’ he professed. ‘Business calls me back to London in a few days, but I intend to enjoy my time here with you, cousin.’

‘I will see you both at dinner, then,’ Lady Dayle said, rising to leave. She paused by the chimneypiece. ‘The white is such an improvement! But do you mean to hang one of these here, dear?’ She gestured to the two paintings propped against the marble hearth.

‘I suppose so. Neither suits me exactly, but I haven’t found anything else in the attics.’

‘Then don’t hang anything just yet. I have just the thing. I will send to Fordham—it should only take a few days to arrive.’

‘Thank you, my lady. Now, Mateo, I hope you will excuse me.’

‘Indeed I will not. I shall be one of your drudges, if you permit.’ He chuckled. ‘I suspect it is the only way to spend some time with you, cousin.’

Sophie accomplished much that day, even with Mateo’s help. Actually he possessed a keen eye and a willingness to lend a hand to even the meanest task. He kept her laughing with his chatter and unflagging good spirits. She enjoyed the day, and later they all enjoyed a fine dinner, cosy in the breakfast room, as the dining room was not yet complete.

Afterwards, the three of them took tea in the less formal parlour at the back of the house. Sophie avoided the window where Charles had first kissed her.

Mateo did not. He stood right in the spot where Charles had and assessed the room. ‘Sophie,’ he said, ‘this house will make your name.’

‘If it does not, I shall set out a shingle as Madam Dunyazade,’ she teased.

‘Mateo is right,’ Lady Dayle said, ‘I cannot wait for everyone to see it.’

‘You shall have to write and tell me how Lord Dayle’s first entertainment is received.’

The viscountess set down her teacup and exchanged a glance with Mateo. ‘I won’t have to, dear,’ she said.

‘Why not?’ Sophie looked from one guilty face to the other. ‘What is it?’

‘Charles’s birthday, you know, is at the end of the week.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve invited some people here to celebrate. It is to be a house party.’

Sophie’s jaw dropped. ‘But, my lady! There is still so much to be done!’

‘Nonsense. It is magnificent. What is left can easily be accomplished in time.’

Sophie was doing rapid calculations in her head. ‘Perhaps.’ She was quiet a moment. ‘Yes, I believe we can manage it, but we must not delay. If we work very hard for the next few days, I should be able to be finished and out of the way in time.’

‘Indeed, you will not. You will not be in the way and you will not be skulking off. You must be here.’

‘I would rather not.’

‘But you must, for they are your guests as well. I issued the invitation in both our names. It is to be a birthday celebration and an unveiling at once.’

Sophie sat very still. ‘You …’ She felt the urge to laugh, but was afraid it would turn into a sob. Charles. A house party. ‘You do not play fair, Lady Dayle.’

The viscountess chuckled. ‘True. All’s fair in love and war … and decorating.’

‘Ah, but the lady is right, Sophie. This is perfect.’ Mateo’s voice was intense. ‘It shall be a triumph for you. After this you will be able to go anywhere, do anything you wish with your designs.’

‘I agree. I have no doubt you will receive another commission when this is seen. In fact, I predict you will receive many offers.’

‘Ah, but you are wasted on these rigid English.’ Mateo was leaning forward in his chair, regarding her intently. ‘I agree, you must receive due credit for this beautiful work, but then you must come home to Philadelphia with me. There you will be appreciated, revered. A lady designer with the ear of the English prince! They will be fighting over you like dogs in the street.’

‘Such a charming picture.’ Lady Dayle rolled her eyes. ‘Sophie is well loved and appreciated right here. Surely the last few days have shown you that.’

‘Yes, but here she will not be allowed the sort of success she could find elsewhere. In America, it is different.’ He looked into Sophie’s eyes, earnestness shining in his own. ‘You think on it, eh?’

She would. After she found a way out of this house party.