Fairchild (14 page)

He told her about the cliffs Wolff’s army had scaled to surprise Montcalm and the grey stone farms and churches in Quebec. He told her about the fur traders, who paddled tiny boats of birch bark for thousands of miles. He told her about Atlantic storms, and sleeping in a hammock on a crowded ship. When the clock on the mantle chimed, he saw that the candles had burned low and blinked, collecting himself.
 

“I should have let you go to bed ages ago.” His mother would not thank him for tiring Sophy. He had rambled too long under her watchful eyes.
 

“No, I enjoyed listening. I told you that I’ve never been anywhere remotely exciting.”

“Not for long. Isn’t your brother taking you to the metropolis?”
 

Again at the mention of London, the animation left her face. She dropped her eyes to her lap. “Yes. For the Season, you know.”

“I do.” Well, not by experience, but he knew something of the path before her. It would take her far away from him. Pushing to his feet, he crossed the room and offered his hand. She rose from the divan and he handed her a candle, resisting the compulsion to let his fingers brush hers. “Goodnight, Miss Rushford.”
 

Her eyes flew to her face. “So formal? I have given you leave to call me Sophy.”
 

He hid a grimace. He wanted to put distance between them. No, to remind himself of the distance already there. “Since you wish it,” he said. “You may as well call me Tom, then.” She left him with a cryptic smile. Rousing his mother, he summoned Sarah to attend her to bed.
 

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep in front of Miss Rushford!” she fretted.
 

“Miss Sophy,” he corrected. “You were tired, and Miss Sophy understands. Besides, you needn’t care what she thinks. It has no relevance to us.”

Heaving out of her chair, her joints creaking, she took Tom’s arm, patting it affectionately. “I dare say she thinks I’m a silly old woman. She’s probably right. But how can anyone not think well of you?”

“You’ll give me a swollen head, mother.” Damn. She liked Sophy Rushford then, and was plotting for all she was worth.
 

Tom left his mother at the door of her chambers, with a kiss pressed on her cheek. Then, holding his candle aloft, he made his way downstairs to the library.

He hated this house, so full of sham and pretense. The shelves around him overflowed with handsome volumes in Greek or Latin that he couldn’t read. Useless stuff. His years at school had cured him of any desire for a gentrified life. It wasn’t real. Pouring himself a brandy, he downed it like cheap gin and slumped in front of the fire, which burned low behind a monstrosity of a screen. He peered at the fire through his empty glass. It looked distorted and strange.
 

Her injury should have warned him of her dangerous high-spirits, her infectious humor. But he didn’t see how he could have foreseen how her face changed when she listened. Mesmerized by her candid grey stare, she had pulled words from him, more words than he had unburdened himself of in a long time. Foolish, when she would be gone from his house tomorrow, or the next day.
 

He was infatuated with her, but it would pass. He had experienced this fleeting effect before, had seen friends make cakes of themselves before coming to their senses. He knew that if he distanced himself the effect would pass. The important thing was to let the swift fever work its course and not to do anything buffle-headed. Miss Rushford could not be allowed to suspect how she was afflicting him. He would prefer to keep his folly from his mother, but knew she was already speculating on what he and Sophy must have said to each other. They’d been essentially alone for over an hour.
 

Well, it hardly mattered. Sophy would marry some peer before the Season was out and that was that. He would probably never see her again. It was ridiculous, pathetic even, that he had shared more of his hoarded memories with her than with anyone else.
 

When one was Miss Rushford, one could lay abed as late as one pleased. Sophy didn’t. Sleep eluded her, bothered as she was by a guilty conscience.
 

Unimpressed by the daughter of a viscount, Tom Bagshot seemed to like her person well enough. He had a kind of unflappable charm; whether he was setting her arm or being dragooned into the navy, he faced the world with a smile. A handsome one, if truth be told. He would attract attention, she knew, despite his plain clothes and straightforward manners. And he would lose any respect he had for her, if he discovered the truth.
 

Kicking aside the twisted sheets, Sophy slid out of her giant bed. She made use of the pot and splashed water on her hands and face. The cold water stung, but it was better than waiting until Sarah carried up a can of hot water.
 

All night she had lain awake, trying to think how to hide the truth. Jasper would likely arrive today and managing him would be a delicate business. She had to think, and to do that, she needed to move. She was tired of the painted shepherdess on the wall smirking knowingly at her, making her twitchy and cross. Tentatively circling her arm, she decided she would leave off the sling. Though her muscles protested with every inch, the joint worked fine and having just one arm was getting irritating. She tidied her hair and scrubbed her teeth with the toothbrush and soda her hosts had provided, then left to prowl around the house.
 

Eye-popping, that was the word for it. She had never seen its like. There was an Egyptian salon in black and gold and a ballroom of mirrors and blue silk swathed under dust covers. The long gallery was covered in pictures, all wedged together, with the ceiling a masterwork of plaster and paint. Craning her neck, Sophy counted fourteen cherubs in a single section.
 

“Up all ready?”
 

Sophy spun around. It was Tom, his approaching footsteps muffled by the carpet running the length of the gallery. He was dressed the same as yesterday, in a blue coat and brown trousers, carrying a sheaf of papers in his hand.
 

“Good morning,” she said.
 

“If you need anything, you must not hesitate to ring,” he said. “Were you searching for anything particular?”

“No.” Sophy smiled. “I couldn’t rest and decided to look around.”
 

“You do not take breakfast in your room today?” he asked.

“I’ve no appetite this morning. Perhaps later.” If her stomach stopped churning, that was.

“I’m afraid my mother has not risen yet,” he said. He was edging around her in a wide circle, not quite meeting her eyes, hiding behind his solicitous manners again.
 

“I am amiably occupied. You have so many remarkable pictures.”

Politeness demanded that he offer to show her around. Sophy waited expectantly.
 

“May I show you the house?” he asked. “Or would you like to see the gardens?” His words were correct, but he thinned his lips as he spoke and glanced impatiently at the papers under his arm. Of course he must make things difficult. He’d liked her last evening. Why did she have to begin all over again today?

“I should like so much to see both,” she said. He blenched and she lowered her eyelashes, hiding her satisfaction at scoring a point. Tom acquiesced with a bow and disappeared to dispose of his papers. Returning, he held out his arm. Letting the hand of her injured arm rest on his forearm, she allowed him to lead her to the next sizable painting, a magnificent portrait. The subject was male, with the mustaches, lace, and curling hair of the seventeenth century.
 

“This is a picture of—the Marquis of Blaise—by Anthony van Dyck,” he said, squinting at the label.
 

Yesterday he had confided in her. It annoyed her that today he plainly preferred his own company. “It is a handsome portrait,” she said, and they walked on. Miss Frensham was a great admirer of Mr. van Dyck and Sophy had seen etchings of his famous works, besides the portrait he had made of two long-ago Rushford brothers hanging in the long gallery at Cordell Hall.
 

If she had wanted to discomfit Tom, here was revenge indeed, for he stumbled over the subjects of the pictures and could only give the artist if the name was tacked to the frame. Sophy doubted he had ever looked at them before. His color rose as his ignorance grew more apparent, until he was as red as a sunburned farm hand. After traversing half the gallery, Sophy took pity.
 

“I think you don’t really care for pictures,” she said and smiled.

He relaxed. “Not a great deal, no.”

“Surely you have one favorite?” she said, trying to make it easy for him.

“I don’t think so.” He considered. “I’m afraid I don’t really see them. Which is yours?”

Letting go of his arm, she walked a few steps and sat down on a low settee. “Maybe this one,” she said. “The view of Jerusalem.”

He joined her on the settee, leaning back and staring at the painting in question. “It’s nice enough, I suppose, but I don’t know why you should prefer it to the others.”
 

It was a smaller canvas, with softer colors. Turning her head, she met his eyes and smiled. She needed him in a more malleable state before Jasper came. “For years my governess has been trying to get me to sound less rustic when I look at pictures,” she said. “It’s no good. I like this one because—see that goatherd in the corner? He looks just like a little boy I once knew. His name was Fred.”
 

Tom laughed and Sophy let her eyes fall to her hands, lightly clasped in her lap.
 

“So you see, I’ll be a dismal failure in London. I can’t even be trusted to admire paintings the right way.” Her words were teasing, meant to absolve him of his failure and poke fun at the foibles of society. But when she raised her eyes, his warm look smote her, making her hesitate. Earning his friendship only to hoax him . . . she was heartless. He must never be allowed to know.
 

The thought sent a chill down her arms, and she resolved that in London she would not fail. She would marry before the Season ended, and never see Tom or Suffolk again.
 

“Well I’ve never seen Jerusalem, but I’ve seen goats,” Tom said. “And they looked just like these.”

“We agree then,” Sophy said. “The painting is very well executed.” She realized they were sitting very close, the skirt of her habit touching his trousered leg. And again, with just a few words, a spell of confidence and intimacy was cast around them, just like last evening. Well, she had wanted that, hadn’t she? Best get it over with.
 

“I am indebted to you so much already . . .” she began.
 

“What do you need? Ask.” he said.
 

Yesterday Mrs. Bagshot had assured her she would keep Sophy’s accident and her unplanned visit secret. Tom had made no such promise. She needed to extract one, but guilt over her duplicity made her look away. “I know my foolishness can’t be kept from Jasper, and of course I will tell my parents the truth. And the servants at Cordell know what has happened.” Too many. How would she ever keep this hidden?

“It will be a great embarrassment to me, if my mishap becomes known. . . if the neighbors knew and spoke of it. I am trying not to disgrace Lady Fairchild too badly this Season, and—”

Tom stopped her accelerating speech with a raised hand. “No one will hear it from me or my mother.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Who would we tell? You know my mother and I don’t mix in society. We’ve lived here for nine years and you and I have never met before.”

Sophy blushed, ashamed. “I would have liked to have known you.”

“Now you are flirting with me,” Tom said. Sophy’s cheeks flamed hotter, her shoulders rising with indignation, but Tom cut off her outraged reply. “Don’t worry. You do it perfectly. You’ll be the success of the Season.”
 

Her tension left in a laugh. “Flatterer,” she said. “But I will repay your compliment by excusing you from showing me the rest of the house. No doubt you have matters demanding your attention.” She smiled, letting him know he was forgiven for preferring business to her company.
 

“Well, about that . . .” Tom stretched his legs and rotated his neck, relaxing at last. “I don’t mind showing you the house and the gardens, so long as you don’t expect me to tell you anything about them.”
 

He wasn’t going to take her offer?
 

“It’s a deal,” said Sophy.

*****

To hell with it, Tom thought, looking sideways at Sophy as she took in the view from the terrace. He may as well enjoy this. She was leaving soon enough, within hours probably. He would spend a few uncomfortable days and nights and then he would forget her. Infatuations always wore off.
 

She wasn’t the loveliest girl he had ever met. Not ugly though; not with that translucent skin, fiery hair and her eyes melting and snapping by turns. She looked merely pretty to the passing eye, her beauty improving on acquaintance. He was not immune to her—he memorized each new expression that crossed her face—but he could not remember being this besotted with a girl who wasn’t incomparably beautiful. No, it was the roguish humor that had caught him this time. He couldn’t help himself from falling in with each absurdity she came up with. She probably didn’t fit easily into her own world.
 

Her family obviously thought her a sad romp. They must be quite hard on her, he thought, for her to be this anxious about her debut. It was too bad. If they knew how charming her outrageousness could be, they might not censure her so badly. Still, it wasn’t his concern.
 

“You are not always at Chippenstone?” Sophy asked, and he stopped trying to count how many colors were in her hair.
 

“Hardly ever,” he said. “My father chose this house, not me. I keep busy with my work.”