Fairchild (32 page)

I will eat and not think about Tom, she thought, breaking off a piece of crust and putting it in her mouth. And she did try.
 

She tried not to remember his hand clasping hers at the park—only yesterday, but it seemed years ago. She tried not to remember laughing with him, acting in his mother’s drawing room. She tried not to remember how happy she felt, when he had looked up at her from the pit at the opera house and winked. Mostly, she tried not to remember what he had said to her last. That one was the hardest of all.
 

The gravy in the pie was thick and tasteless as paste. She tucked it in her handkerchief and set in on the bench beside her. An inn ought to be an interesting place to wait and watch. With so many people coming and going, there should be plenty to divert her attention. All those hours in Tom’s office, she had passed the time watching the street below. She was closer at hand now, not separated by a window. Here, there were chickens, an irate publican bellowing at his lazy ostlers and a rumpled looking man wearing a belcher neckcloth whose chain was missing a watch.
 

Evading the tipstaffs, no doubt, she thought, glad she had absorbed some of Jasper’s worldly wisdom.
 

Yet none of it was very interesting. Leaning back against the stone wall, she closed her eyes and tilted up her chin to let the sun fall on her face. Sunlight was always reassuring. Next to riding, she liked nothing better than to lie in a quiet place with the sun on her face. She felt a pang, thinking of Hirondelle. How much better it would be if she could fly away on Hirondelle’s back to somewhere far and safe and new. Certainly it would be better than lumbering across the country in a late running stagecoach. But there was the matter of the bandbox. She could not ride and carry at the same time. And she would have work enough feeding herself, never mind a horse.
 

Besides, Hirondelle had been her father’s gift. Inside her, a stubborn child’s voice piped that she refused to take her.
 

She heard wheels. It wasn’t the stagecoach, only a light chaise, so she closed her eyes again. The chaise stopped and she heard a pair of boots jumping down to the cobbles and crossing the yard.
 
A shadow fell across her face. She opened her eyes.
 

It was Tom, barely visible with the sun directly behind him. Sophy stiffened, her face falling into an unbecoming squint. Lady Fairchild did not permit squinting, but as Sophy was no longer a lady, she decided she might do it as much as she pleased.
 

“May I sit?”

“No.” Sophy shut her eyes again. In spite of herself, her heart was beating fast. Fool, she scolded herself. But how had he found her? Why had he come? Not, surely, to flay her again with words. Behind her eyelids, hope burst, bright and dazzling. He’d come to apologize, to beg her forgiveness. How long should she make him grovel, before relenting?
 

Feeling the beginnings of a smile, she turned down the corners of her mouth. The shadow vanished and she frowned in earnest. Peeking under her eyelashes, she saw him calmly buying a ticket for the coach. This wasn’t what he was supposed to do! He should be begging her pardon and swearing to love her. She shut her eyes before he could catch her peeking. She ought never to forgive him. What he had said was unpardonable—but was it as bad as lying for weeks?

It was worse, she decided. She had never meant to be insulting. She felt him sit down beside her.
 

“I did not invite you to sit,” she said.
 

“You don’t have to. I don’t think rules apply when you’re sitting in a dirty inn yard waiting for the stage.”

“That’s what you think.” She glared at him. He ought to be more repentant.
 

“Going to Herefordshire to visit friends?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. “Did you really buy a ticket?”
 

He nodded.
 

“Whatever for?”
 

“I thought I might be needed.”
 

“Good heavens, why?” she asked.

He fiddled with a loose button on the cuff of his coat, taking time with his answer.
 

“Because you are going, and I hoped I might be of assistance.”
 

Sophy bridled indignantly. “You don’t think me capable?”
 

“Of getting there? Certainly. But what then? What are you going to do?”
 

“I don’t see that it’s any of your concern,” she said, wishing he would insist that it was. She let her head turn a fraction so she could see his face. Immediately, she wished she hadn’t, feeling herself color under his steadfast gaze. She could not read his intent, yet she felt his eyes unearthing every secret of her soul.
 

“I hope it will be,” he said. “Can you forget what I said?”

Her lip trembled. No, she could not. In his anger, he had known precisely how to cripple her. The words smarted still, even under the balm of his steady eyes.
 

“I knew you would be angry with me,” she said. “That was one reason why it was so hard to tell. And I have often wished that my lies were true. It is not pleasant, being what I am.”

“I was angry,” he said. “I wish you had told me sooner.”

“So do I. But seeing your reaction, I think I was right to be afraid.”

His mouth twisted into the self-conscious, wry smile she liked best. “What is this?” he said, picking up the bundled half-pie between them. “Were you eating this?” He flipped back the white linen and wrinkled his nose.
 
Breaking off a piece of crust, he tossed it to the nearest chicken. Instantly, the birds gathered at his feet, pecking and flapping their wings.

“Does no one feed them?” he asked, hastily retracting his boots and hurling the remains of the pie to the other end of yard. The chickens followed, a noisy flurry of beaks, scratching feet and feathers. He didn’t take his eyes off them as he wiped his fingers with the crumbly handkerchief.
 
“I saw your brother and your stepmother today. You aren’t going to marry Beaumaris?”
 

“I’d rather starve,” Sophy said loftily.

Tom rolled his eyes. “Obviously you’ve never gone hungry. Look at those chickens. People aren’t any different.” He tilted his head, forestalling her forming retort. “There’s no need to be melodramatic. This isn’t one of my mother’s books. Take me instead.”

Never had an offhand remark caused such violent joy, but caution overtook Sophy with her next breath. “Why?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Because I need someone to care for me?” Of course he would offer for her, knowing she was nearly destitute.
 

“That’s part of it, I suppose,” Tom said. Under her skirt, Sophy’s right hand closed into a fist. “But I’m a selfish man. Mostly, it’s because I need you to care for me.

“Will you? If you can forgive me, Sophy, I swear I’ll never again be such a clunch. I’m not normally mean, you know. Egad! If you knew how your face has tortured me.”

She stopped him with a light touch on his arm. Had she thought the sun warm? It was nothing to the warmth inside her. Her mouth seemed made only for smiles, her feet for nothing but dancing. “You were sorely tried. But I shall accept your promise nevertheless, and absolve myself of all blame,” she said. She grinned, but the humor around her mouth was not as catching as the shine in her eyes.
 

He caught her hand, squeezing it hard. “I’ll take that bargain.” Pulling her close, he shut his eyes for just a moment, breathing her in, testing the air. Despite all that had passed, it was warm and unshadowed. When he spoke, he whispered, low. “Must we go to Herefordshire, or can I marry you out of hand?”

“No one there is expecting me,” Sophy began slowly.

“Good.” Without waiting, he picked up her bandbox and brought her to her feet, pulling her to him with the force of a lodestone, crushing the brim of her bonnet. All they achieved was a rough brushing of lips, yet his left behind such a burning tingle Sophy had to touch hers with her fingers, to verify they were still the same shape.
 

“Hate that hat,” said Tom. “You’ll have to burn it.”
 

“Kiss me again,” she said, tugging at the ribbons.
 

The bonnet dropped to the ground and rolled away unheeded. Kissing Tom did no good to her hat or her hair, Sophy belatedly realized, but it filled her from top to bottom with rightness and belonging. This is what she’d been seeking. This was the pearl worth trading all she possessed.
 

“Where are we going?” Sophy asked, when he lifted his head and lowered her heels to the ground, turning her towards his waiting chaise.
 

“To see your father. You are still underage. So unless you want to go to Gretna, we must have his permission if we are to wed.”

Ah. Her practical Tom. “I think our chances are better for Gretna,” she said.
 

Tom took the reins from the waiting ostler and climbed to the seat. “I’ll try, nonetheless. It would take us two or three days to reach the border.”
 

Conscious of her glowing lips, Sophy met his eyes. Swallowed. They could not travel all the way to Scotland without kissing, wanting everything that came next, in serious danger of making every scandalous elopement story true. Even here, under the curious eyes of the ostler and the waiting passengers, she wanted to stretch her arms over his shoulders and bring her face to his. The look in his eyes told her he wouldn’t mind. Ears scorching, Sophy looked away.
 

“My mother would be horrified,” Tom said. “We’ll elope to Scotland if it can’t be helped, but I’d rather not. Our marriage will cause hailstorms enough. You deserve better.”
 

“Oh.” Primly, Sophy donned her damaged headgear, peeking at him from under the broken brim. “I suppose we must, though I think my father is likely to suffer an apoplexy. There’s a good chance Lady Fairchild will have the servants lock me in a cupboard.”
 

Tom looked at her, his eyes grave above his smile. “If you do not want to tell them, it’s your choice. I’ll not let them take you from me.”

“No, we should go,” sighed Sophy. If Lady Fairchild had come to question Tom, she must be worried. She could not leave them wondering, or let them find out third-hand. Despite the flint faces they had given her appeals, they did love her. She could not give them obedience, but she must not let them think she did not love them in return. Straightening her back, she folded her hands and hardened her nerve.
 

“Are you afraid?” Tom asked.
 

“Terrified. It will hurt them dreadfully. They will not forgive me.” She smiled to hide her wobbling lips.

Freeing one hand for an instant, he put his arm round her waist, scooting her right to his side before grasping the reins with both hands again. “You will not regret it. I promise.”

The drive to Rushford house passed far too quickly.
 

“There’s always Scotland,” Tom said, when she drew her hand back from the door.
 

“No,” she said, pacing back and forth across the step. “You do not think it, but they love me, in their way. I must tell them.” It would be easier to tell them after she was back from Scotland. In a month or two, even. Easier, but craven and she was not a coward. She had Tom beside her. Drawing a deep breath, she turned the handle and stepped inside.
 

Jenkins came into the hall and froze. “What, am I the Medusa?” Sophy asked. “Is my father home?”

“He’s in the library,” Jenkins said, making heroic attempts to smile. “Would you like me to walk with you?”
 

“All right,” Sophy said, wondering if Jenkins’ offer had come to buttress her flagging courage or because she was no longer considered a member of the family. Quickly, she put her hands together to still her trembling fingers. Whatever she lost, she must count it small, for it was no small thing to be loved by Tom.
 

“And who is the gentleman?” Jenkins asked, trotting along beside them.
 

“Thomas Henry Bagshot,” Tom spoke squarely. “Of Chippenstone, Suffolk.”

Never had she seen the house so helter-skelter. Jenkins winced as a kitchen maid stumbled past them in the hallway. A table of Sèvres ornaments was swept bare, the shattered remains littering the floor. Her father’s voice rang through the house loud enough to rattle the windows.
 

“Stop talking at me and find her!” he shouted. Two men in brown tweed coats scrambled out the library door. Spying Sophy, they halted.
 

Jenkins cleared his throat. “Ah, my Lord . . .”
 

Sophy took Tom’s hand and stepped into the library.
 

Her father was facing away from them, his hands braced on the top of his desk, his head down. Lady Fairchild and Jasper stood by the mantlepiece. Jasper was holding her hand. Lady Fairchild saw them first. She gasped, ready to fall on Sophy and clasp her like the returned prodigal. Then she saw Tom. Her hand tightened on Jasper’s, restraining him.
 

“William,” she said, motioning him to turn around with a nod of her head.
 

“Sophy!” Instantly he was beside her, seizing her shoulders. “Thank God! Where were you?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Tom. “Thank you for finding her. You have my unending gratitude—”

“William,” interrupted Lady Fairchild. “You are speaking to Mr. Bagshot.”

He stilled, his hand only half extended. “Ah,” he said at last. Clapping his hands behind his back, he settled back on his heels, squaring his stance.
 

“Tom has asked me to marry him,” Sophy said. “I have accepted.” She meant to sound assured and bold, but her voice was small and feeble, dwarfed by the towering bookcases and her family’s outraged eyes. “I want your permission, father.”